Crazy Scripted Love

Chapter One

London

There were very few acceptable reasons to be woken up in the early hours of the morning after a heavy night before, and the shrill blare of my work phone was not one of them.

I waved an arm, reaching for my bedside table, only to meet empty air.

Oh. I wasn’t at home. I squinted through the gloom to look at the man gently snoring beside me, out cold despite the unwelcome noise.

Yes, he was just as hot as I remembered.

Stylish and expensively well-manicured, with a slick Bermondsey flat overlooking the Thames, he was the sort of boy any rational, red-blooded girl who was into men would be happy to take home.

He’d been a perfect gentleman too, right up until the point I’d told him not to be.

And although I was certain names had been exchanged at some point, in these murky morning hours, his was escaping my memory.

It was something classic like James or Joshua. Jonathan?

My phone buzzed again from somewhere in the room and my senses sharpened.

Sliding out of bed so as not to wake … Jim?

I followed the subdued glow of my phone, skin pimpling in the cool morning air.

Tripping over hastily discarded clothes from the night before, I found my phone lurking underneath what felt like a very expensive rug.

Lin Temper calling.

Of course. 6 a.m. on a Saturday and my boss had something so pressing it couldn’t wait until Monday.

Definitely not the done thing to answer her completely naked, so I muted the call and cast about for my clothes.

I soon found my knickers, bra and camisole in a little pile in the center of the room and quickly pulled them on, but my jeans were not with them and so I patted around on the floor.

I glimpsed something under the bed, and I crawled commando style towards it in a desperate bid not to disturb the man sleeping above me, only to find the shadow under the bed wasn’t my jeans but his Valentino shirt smeared with my lipstick.

Just as I tried to edge back out, my phone buzzed yet again and in my haste to silence it, I whacked my head on the solid iron bed frame, letting out a pained curse.

“Lucie?” Two feet hit the floor and the light clicked on.

Shit. I lowered my throbbing head to the ground, acutely aware of the fact that my bare legs and knickers-clad bum were sticking out from under his bed. “Morning.”

More footsteps. “Looking for these?”

I scooted out and sheepishly rose to my feet, my torso covered in dust bunnies. There he was – Jake? – clad just in his boxer shorts, showing off a suspiciously deep tan for March in England. He handed me my jeans with a curious smile. “You all right?”

I pulled on my jeans as my phone continued to buzz from the floor by my feet. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

He stifled a yawn. “Yes, someone yelling chuffin’ hell at the crack of dawn will do that.”

I grabbed my phone off the floor. Lin had so far called four times and there was what looked like six text messages waiting. “Sorry. I banged my head.”

He chuckled. “It’s fine. I’ve been woken by far worse,” he assured me, then considered what he’d just said. “That doesn’t make me sound good, does it?”

“I am now questioning what you get up to on a standard night out,” I said.

“What happens on a rugby tour stays on a rugby tour,” he said with an impish grin. “I’m a massive fan of the game. Union, of course, not league.”

I frowned. “There’s a difference?”

“Now, that’s adorable,” he said, pulling on sweatpants.

“Um, thanks?” I wasn’t sure if I was being patronized at this point, but I thought politeness was the best response either way.

“Coffee?” He was out of the bedroom door, still chuckling to himself.

“I’m not sure I …” My voice trailed off as I glanced down the messages from Lin.

Call me

Tristan needs some help

Where are you Lucie FFS

Call me right now my pilates starts in 20 minutes

What on earth are you doing call me rn

I let out a deep breath at the sight of the texts, especially the last one.

What might I be doing on a Saturday morning?

Aside from attempting an Irish exit from my one-night stand?

Sleep? Have a life that didn’t revolve around the whims of pampered film directors?

“Seriously … er …” Oh God, what was this guy’s name?

After an agonizing pause, his amused voice filtered through from the other side of the door. “Jack.”

“Jack. Sorry.” The error felt even more humiliating given he’d been inside me mere hours ago.

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you off.”

I shoved my feet into my heels then chanced a look in his mirrored wardrobe door and cringed.

My hair was a shagged, snarled mess and the shadows under my eyes only highlighted the bloodshot whites.

I ran my fingers through my dark waves, wrangling them back into a tidy-ish top knot, then dabbed on some concealer in the hope of hiding my exhaustion, although it was a losing battle.

I then emerged out of Jack’s bedroom into a minimalist living area to find him in the kitchenette wielding a milk-frother with true zeal.

Oh God, if he was planning cosy morning-after coffees I really needed to get moving. “I have to go. Sorry, it’s work.”

“Right.” Jack shook his head ruefully. “Sure. Okay. You know, you really don’t need to make up some excuse if—”

“It’s not an excuse.” Although it was convenient.

“If you say so.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out a mug. “Just what is it that you do that requires a 6 a.m. wake-up at the weekend?”

I was pretty sure I’d explained my career last night, but then again, the bar had been loud, and neither of us had really been interested in conversation.

I glanced down at the barrage of instructions my boss had texted.

“I have to meet an 8 a.m. flight at Luton to collect a look-book from a stylist on layover to Argentina and hand-deliver it to a director in Croydon so he can prepare for a commercial pitch to Hyundai due Wednesday.” The phone beeped again.

“And also help the same director dial into a call with his producer as the director’s astrologist has told him to minimize his interaction with technology this weekend. ”

“Fucking hell,” Jack remarked, freezing mid milk-froth. “That’s your job?”

Not entirely, I wanted to say. I wanted to say that I was out networking with production companies, brands and studios, sourcing scripts and clients and matching them with the right directors, that was I was bidding on interesting projects and sourcing funding.

But six years as Lin Temper’s assistant and I was little more than a low-paid skivvy while Lin did most of that fun stuff.

“I’m an executive assistant to a director’s rep.” I brought up the Uber app on my phone. “Which means I do a lot of things that perhaps won’t make any sense to you.”

“Oh, I remember now, you help film directors book gigs, right?”

Maybe he had been listening last night. “Yeah. Films, sometimes, but we also find them work in commercials, music videos, TV … help them negotiate deals and network and stuff.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said politely. “You a film buff then?”

I tapped at my phone. “You could say that.” Which is why being stuck as EA was an unsatisfying place to be after all this time.

I wasn’t where the decisions were made, where art was created.

I was usually outside those meeting rooms, booking lunch or picking up dry-cleaning.

But the creative industries were all about climbing ladders and paying dues.

Networking. My chance would come and, after six years as Lin’s assistant, I was more than ready for it.

“But seriously.” His tone made me look up from my screen. “What are you, thirty?”

I paused my hasty Uber order and glared at him. “Thirty-one, what’s your point?”

Jack’s eyes widened, sensing danger. “It’s just, I dunno, hand-delivering stuff? Dialing into conference calls for someone else?”

“What does my age have to do with that?” I demanded.

He sighed. “You just seem like someone who should be doing bigger things, that’s all. Don’t these directors have their own assistants to do that sort of thing?”

I refrained from pulling a face. To be fair, he was only echoing the thoughts that usually ricocheted around my head most days.

“Some do. But some don’t. And most of them understand that Temper Media’s main source of income is from the cut we take from their fees and so their happiness is our number-one priority.

Which means if hand-delivering stuff on a Saturday morning provides that happiness, then … that’s what we do.”

Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe that’s how you earn a living.”

“Not much of one,” I muttered. The salary was, alas, still not that great. But it was reliable and that was critical.

“Then what’s the point?” Jack said. “You’re running around like a dogsbody on a weekend and the pay is shit?”

The almost universal reaction to my career choice.

What an idiot I was, to do something that asked so much from me yet gave so little in return.

What a fool for turning away from known, lucrative quantities such as medicine or law or finance.

What kind of adult in their early thirties and of sound mind would put up with what I did?

The truth was the path to becoming an executive film producer was a long, uphill road with just as many exit routes as there were entry points.

It was difficult and competitive, but I loved films and I wanted to make them.

Any other career was simply not an option to me.

I had to bide my time, build my experience and seize every opportunity, no matter how hard it was or how long it took.