Chapter Five
It seemed Jerome Bardoux, the director of Insomnia, was just as eager to get Dimple on set as she was to be there.
There was no time to waste before throwing herself into preparations, writing journal entries as her character until her wrist ached and reciting lines until her voice went hoarse.
It was the only way to build the muscle memory in her brain that would allow her to call upon this fictitious woman as though she was a fragment of Dimple’s subconscious.
It didn’t scare Dimple how easily she adopted the mentality of a woman losing her mind.
She herself had never been better. There could be no nightmares if Dimple dreamed of nothing but her own face, immortalized on the silver screen.
There would be no time to ruminate in guilt if she worked herself until she passed out from exhaustion.
Dark circles were easy to conceal. Bloodstained hands, less so.
She’d been so fixated on her preparations that she hadn’t realized Insomnia’s cast had been released to the public until she met up with Priyal one week after accepting the role.
It was her first day on set and her last day of peace.
Priyal trailed behind her through the maze of what was easily the biggest and busiest studio Dimple had ever seen, an unusual stiffness in her steps.
Dimple pulled her aside where there wasn’t anyone around to overhear.
“You seem upset,” Dimple remarked.
“Not at all,” Priyal said, her tone clipped. “I’m really happy for you.”
“If this is your best performance, I have a few notes.”
Priyal sighed. “I’m sorry. I just hate that you have to work with Bardoux after he manipulated you like that.”
With the news of Irene Singh’s death also came the inevitable revelation that Dimple had been coerced into accepting this role under false pretenses and Priyal was beyond livid on her behalf.
Dimple had known all along that “scheduling conflicts” couldn’t have been the true reason she’d been offered the job, but Jerome Bardoux didn’t need to know that.
If news that she’d taken a dead woman’s role leaked, Dimple’s career would never recover.
But, then again, neither would that of Bardoux’s.
It was at least reassuring that their interests lined up, but Dimple wasn’t satisfied leaving it at that.
While the rest of the world began the long process of mourning Irene Singh, Dimple was busy setting the stage of her innocence.
Priyal had been standing anxiously over her shoulder as she wrote out the email.
The response she’d gotten would be enough to solidify her position as a victim of Jerome’s manipulations if the other shoe were to drop.
Dear Ms. Kapoor,
While I am touched by your concern for the late actress, Irene Singh, she has nothing to do with our production.
It would do you good to keep this in mind.
Please understand that a project of this scope cannot be halted on such short notice.
There are investors and people’s jobs to consider, yours and mine included.
The stipulations in your contract are clear. So long as we can trust each other, know that there is not much we cannot achieve.
See you on set.
J. Bardoux
For now, it would sit in Dimple’s inbox for her to revisit as needed. Still, knowing how smug Bardoux must be weighed heavy on her mind. Even if she hadn’t been the one who’d killed Irene, she still would’ve ended up tangled in this mess, thanks to him.
“Can I ask you a question?” When Priyal nodded, Dimple continued, “How does one win in a world that favors the cruel?”
Priyal seemed taken aback—their conversations had rarely ventured beyond the general film industry and Dimple already regretted asking.
She was so young, of course she hadn’t thought about something like that.
But instead of brushing the question aside, Priyal had a thoughtful expression on her face that Dimple couldn’t bring herself to interrupt.
“You can’t,” she said eventually. “You just have to make sure you can live with yourself.”
It was an answer, but not to her question, and it betrayed Priyal’s naivete.
That wasn’t how you won, it was how you survived.
Dimple would know better than most—she’d been pushing through, just trying to make it one more day for the better part of twenty-six years.
She was the same age now that her mother had been when she’d died in labor.
It seemed an insult to waste the life that had been gifted to her.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t be doing this—”
“That’s not what I meant,” Priyal said immediately. She chewed her lip before deflating. “I’m sorry. I’m being horrible, aren’t I? This is your big moment.”
“How can you be so certain this is the right thing to do?”
“Because you know that if you quit, they’ll just give the role to someone else.
And you and I both know nobody else can do it as well as you can.
” Dimple stiffened. That was almost exactly what she’d been thinking days prior.
As far as signs from the universe went, this felt like a big one.
Especially when Priyal added, “You have to do it for Irene.”
Dimple felt something churning deep in the cavern of her heart, but it wasn’t as simple as guilt anymore.
“Let’s go. I’m done sulking,” Priyal said, looping her arm through Dimple’s. “Did I tell you how many new followers you have now?”
Dimple didn’t know—nor care—what the baseline was, so she nodded absentmindedly. Everyone revered the Mona Lisa, but what did they care what Da Vinci had done in his spare time?
Movie sets were always chaotic, and yet everyone looked up when Dimple approached. Almost as if they could sense her presence. Her days of floating through a room unnoticed, half-certain they’d all forgotten about her, were long gone.
Priyal stifled a yawn into her fist and Dimple gave her an amused sidelong glance. “I’m sorry, is this boring you?”
She’d expected Priyal to be a bit more excited, having never been on a movie set before.
It was just three months ago that Julie suggested Dimple hire the girl, so she’d only ever accompanied her to auditions and commercial shoots thus far.
If Dimple was going to be carrying a latte instead of her usual iced coffee to the most important day of her life, Priyal could stand to be a little more reactive.
“Sorry,” the girl said sheepishly. “I’ve been up all night replying to your new fans.”
Dimple frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”
She didn’t know much about social media, but she did know that she wouldn’t have bothered had she been in Priyal’s shoes.
No matter how much she was being paid. It felt a bit egotistical to talk to strangers as though they were friends—or even worse, fans.
Dimple had always subscribed to the idea that her work should speak for itself.
Although, that was why Julie had implored Dimple to hire Priyal in the first place.
“Of course I did. Your newest fans are the most temperamental,” Priyal insisted. “We need to keep them engaged at least until the trailer comes out or they’ll get bored.”
Before Dimple could respond, something in the expansive hustle and bustle of the studio seemed to catch Priyal’s eye.
She practically dove toward a table stocked with food, leaving Dimple to trail after her.
Admittedly, the craft services setup left even Dimple feeling impressed.
It was odd to see fresh fruit and sandwiches laid out with aesthetics in mind rather than granola bars thrown haphazardly across the most atrocious tablecloth.
“Is all of this for us?” Priyal asked, leaning closer to inspect her options.
Someone perusing the fruit selection shot her a look. “For actors, actually,” he said, making Priyal flush and retract her hand.
He was blond, muscular, and a few inches shorter than Dimple.
It didn’t take long to place him as her co-star and on-screen love interest, Chris Porter.
If he recognized Dimple, he didn’t show it.
Thankfully, he left this interaction much less obtrusively than he arrived.
Apple in hand, whistling to himself as he went.
Having been on-screen since he was a child, Chris was the only truly well-known name among Insomnia’s cast. Dimple didn’t even want to know what he was being paid to be here. Her compensation was surely pennies in comparison, despite being a co-lead.
The lanky man working the craft table gave Priyal an apologetic look and Dimple had a sudden inkling that she’d seen him somewhere before as well.
He turned to Dimple, giving her such an intense stare, it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames.
Was he expecting her to say something? She looked down for a name tag and found none.
It was all Dimple could do to turn away and pray he didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation.
She could still remember her first day on a film set, terrified of being kicked off for breathing wrong.
Actors often had egos far bigger than the quality of their work warranted.
Some took it out on anyone they deemed lesser than.
Dimple’s version of Chris Porter had been a bit older, perpetually upset he was no longer the heartthrob of the era.
Under the guise of mentoring, he’d nitpicked all of the extras’ work even more than the director.
But none more so than Dimple’s. Perhaps it had been because the others had broken long before her, all clenched fists and hastily dried tears.
But Dimple wasn’t so easy. In the end, it was the acting he’d called stiff, the nose he’d called distracting, the expressions he’d called dead, that had landed her this role.
Priyal needed to see that too—that it would be worth it in the end.