Chapter 4
Then
It had been a whirlwind since I arrived in South Carolina two weeks ago—though truth be told, it had been a whirlwind since I got The Call.
I hadn’t known what to expect when I left that audition room.
I knew I’d done well, and I felt confident that Nate and the casting directors agreed, but that was where my certainty ended.
Who knew how many other actresses were still in the running?
The next girl they saw could’ve blown my performance right out of the water.
Maybe Ryder had told all the girls it was their part to lose.
After all, he had “flirt” written all over him.
The rumors about his lack of chemistry with all the other actresses he’d screen-tested with seemed ridiculous to me now that I’d met him. He’d have chemistry with a brick wall.
But then I got the call from Joanne with the official offer, and all my insecurities flew out the window. I screamed so loudly, my landlady filed a noise complaint. But who cared about that cranky old crone anyway—I was starring in a movie!
I immediately went back in to meet with Nate again, as well as several producers and studio execs, and did my best to absorb all the information fired at me like a water cannon.
The shoot would last four months and was set to film on location in a coastal Carolina town called Seafolly.
My casting was the final piece of the puzzle, and since it had come down to the wire, I only had a couple of weeks to get my affairs in order before we were all due on set.
So I threw my meager belongings in a storage unit, broke my lease, and told my landlady exactly where she could stick her noise complaint.
She refused to return my security deposit in retaliation. Worth it.
Upon arriving in Seafolly, I was immediately whisked into preproduction meetings, ferried from one department head to the next with barely a moment’s break in between.
There were sessions with the screenwriters to discuss detailed character notes; with Nate to review the script and shooting plan; with the prop master to get a lesson on how to drive one of the pricey vintage cars rented for production; with a piano instructor to make a scene where I play look halfway believable; with the hair and makeup teams to test historically accurate hairstyles and makeup looks.
And speaking of the “glam team,” one meeting with them was all it took to kick off a mutual love affair.
“Your cheekbones are to die for,” Francesca, the head makeup artist, gushed, taking me by the chin and tilting my face this way and that to catch the light.
She was a bubbly, energetic gem of a woman with corkscrew curls who dressed in a rotating array of Hawaiian shirts because she said they made her easier to spot on set.
“And your face is so symmetrical! I’d kill for your bone structure. ”
“You sound like my sister,” I said wistfully, wishing Kendall were here. She’d love every second of this. “She says I’m her favorite blank canvas. She’s an aspiring makeup artist,” I explained. “She’s in cosmetology school right now, actually.”
“Well, if she ever plans on visiting the set, just let me know,” Francesca says, pumping the foot pedal on the makeup chair to raise me up a bit. “I’d be happy to let her shadow me.”
“Really? She’d love that!”
“Of course! I can always use an extra set of hands. In the meantime, you’re going to become my favorite blank canvas,” she said with a wink, and it was official: I loved Francesca.
I felt the same about my hairstylist Philippe. A soft-spoken man in his forties with scrupulous attention to detail, he worked quietly and methodically, his silver rings clicking against his comb, his expression serene, as if styling hair were a form of meditation.
“Right out of the gate, I need to apologize,” I told him, wincing as I climbed into his chair.
“Whatever for?” he said, already raking his fingers through my thick waves in that soothing way all hairstylists can’t help but do.
“This humidity is going to wreak havoc on my hair. It’s going to make your job so much harder,” I fretted. I hoped he had plenty of tricks up his sleeve, because keeping my mane looking sleek and polished instead of like Monica Geller on a Caribbean vacation was going to be a Herculean task.
“Oh sweetie, the forties were all about curls! Women used to spend hours every night rolling pin curls in the hopes of getting half the natural volume you already have. Your hair is perfect for this, trust me.” He leaned in like he was sharing a secret.
“In fact, it’ll steal every scene if I have anything to say about it. ”
Have I mentioned my ego grew six sizes after meeting with the glam team?
Philippe loved the natural shade of my strawberry-blond tresses, though he did give me a rinse to bring out a slightly more intense reddish hue that he promised would look more vibrant on camera.
And I hadn’t even gotten to the wardrobe fittings yet. Oh, the fittings.
Since the film was set in the 1940s, my on-screen wardrobe included a mix of actual vintage pieces as well as reproductions designed and handmade by the movie’s head costume designer and her team.
While much of my character’s attire had already been selected prior to my casting, every article of clothing had to be tested against my coloring, photographed, fitted, shortened, nipped, and tucked, with several pieces created entirely from scratch and sewn to my exact measurements.
With only a couple of weeks until shooting was set to begin, the costumers had their work cut out for them.
Meanwhile, I spent my days pretending to be composed and professional when all I wanted to do was find an empty room and squeal like a character in some cheesy sitcom. Was this really my life?
Oh and did I mention—I had my own assistant?
! Lainey’s job was to ensure I got to set on time and had everything I could possibly need at all times.
There were even supplementary assistants waiting in the wings should I ever need additional help, I don’t know, holding my own umbrella or blowing my nose or something.
Don’t get me wrong, getting so much of the minutiae off my plate was a sweet perk—and frankly, necessary with how many directions I was being pulled in—but I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel comfortable being catered to like this.
My sudden change in circumstances was enough to give any sane person whiplash.
Just last week I’d been researching how to purchase an IKEA couch on layaway, and now I was being asked about my preferred brand of bottled water and if my coffee was heated to the right temperature. Impostor, party of one.
All my prior guest-starring roles had required just a few days’ work, so this would be my first time on location for an extended period of time, and I was both excited and terrified by the prospect.
While I recognized how lucky I was and was determined to enjoy every minute, I was also petrified that my inexperience would show, that Nate would regret ever hiring me, that Ryder and I wouldn’t be able to re-create the magic we’d made in that audition room.
I was so desperate to prove myself that I walked around in a perpetual state of low-grade anxiety.
I could only imagine what Ryder must be feeling.
As the only one of us with even an ounce of name recognition, there was a lot riding on his shoulders.
Speaking of Ryder, I used what little free time I had to try to get to know him better.
Even without Nate’s not-so-subtle urging, I think we both came to the same conclusion: The more camaraderie we built off-screen, the stronger our on-screen chemistry would be.
So a couple days after I arrived in South Carolina, we made a date to stroll around downtown Seafolly, get to know our adopted home for the next four months, then grab dinner at one of the handful of restaurants dotting the town’s main drag.
It took me all of about thirty seconds to fall head over heels in love with the town of Seafolly, which was every bit as charming as its name.
The seaside city was adorably quaint and surprisingly uncrowded, an undiscovered jewel hidden in plain sight among its flashier, higher-profile neighbors.
It gave off more sleepy small town vibes than vacation destination.
There were no tourist traps selling trinkets and tchotchkes, no beach vendors hawking cheap jewelry.
Instead, the businesses sprinkling the town’s main street catered to the locals who lived there year-round.
There was a coffee shop and bakery, a hardware store, a deli, a fishmonger, an upscale clothing boutique, and an old movie theater with a classic wraparound marquee.
A cedar-shingled bookstore, the aptly named Sandy Pages Bookshop, sat next to Winston’s Drug & Soda Fountain, a retro-style pharmacy-slash-soda-shoppe with a row of squealing children crowding the counter, licking ice cream cones and spinning wildly on vinyl barstools.
There was an old-timey, vintage quality to the historic storefronts that made me feel like I’d been transported back in time to an idyllic 1950s.
It’s as though the town was designed to be a film set—which is probably why the location scouts chose it.
We popped into a few stores as we wandered, ducking into a surf shop where the scent of coconut sunscreen clung to the air in a thick haze.
My attention snagged on a display of locally sourced shells—sand dollars, scallops, and sea glass in every shade the ocean could dream up, iridescent oyster valves glimmering under the lights.
I skimmed my fingers over the picture frames edged in crushed shell mosaics and clamshells repurposed as jewelry dishes, charmed by the Capiz wind chimes tinkling dreamily in the summer breeze.