CHAPTER 39
REID
No answer. Awesome. F*cking awesome.
I feel as though I could electrocute someone with a single high-voltage touch. For me, anger is something I release in short bursts, to lessen it before the rest is swallowed. I learned that living with my patronizing father. I never let myself get this furious, because I can’t hide it. If I can’t hide it, I’m vulnerable.
I throw back another tequila shot at the bar—the bartender quirks an eyebrow because the stuff I’m throwing back is old and expensive and meant to be sipped, respected. It might as well be shots of the cheapest shit available for how I’m ingesting it. Just then, a hand falls on my shoulder and I turn, too quickly, and nearly knock a girl down.
“Oh!” she says, stumbling back on her stilettos.
I grab her before she falls, one arm encircling her waist and the other catching her wrist. “Oh,” she says again, hands on my chest. She’s pretty, in that dark hair, big eyes, trying a little too hard with the makeup sort of way. I recognize her from the set.
“You’re one of the extras.”
“Yes.” She’s breathless, her eyes dilated—though from alcohol, club drugs or the fact that my arm is wrapped around her, I can’t tell.
“What’s your name?”
“Blossom?” She says her name like a question, as though if it isn’t good enough for me, she’s willing to change it. I press my lips together. Smile down at her.
“Would you like to dance, Blossom? I can’t do anything strenuous, since I’m still recovering from surgery…”
“Oh, yes. Slow works for me.” Her breath is coming in little gasps. After trying to seduce Emma for the past several weeks, I forgot how easy it usually is.
“Does it now,” I say.
She smiles a wicked little smile as I lead her onto the floor, and it isn’t long before I’m whispering in her ear, drawing out her acquiescence to go back to the hotel, as effortless as it ever was.
*** *** ***
Emma
After a restless night, I send Graham a text saying I’m not running this morning. He’s probably still with Brooke anyway. I ignore the prickly twinge that thought causes.
I know I can’t avoid filming, though I seriously consider faking laryngitis. Or a killer migraine. Or a heart attack. The whole day—the rest of the week—will be full of scenes with Reid. I wonder what his explanation will be. I wonder if I’ll accept it, if I can believe that what happened between him and Brooke was immaturity and not callousness.
“Emma, what happened last night?” Meredith asks in the car on the way to the Bingley house location. The others have already left, so it’s just the two of us. “I looked up and you were gone, Brooke was gone, Graham was gone… and then when Reid came back to the hotel with one of the extras. I thought you guys were going out, or hooking up?” I feel my mouth hanging open, but I can’t seem to snap it closed. “Oh God,” she says. “You didn’t know. Oh shit.”
“No,” I say, blinking. He brought a girl back to his room? Last night? “No, we, uh, it’s okay. We’re… over.”
“Wow. That was quick.”
She could say that again.
“Jeez, they don’t waste any time. Look at this,” she says, holding out her phone. One of the fansites is on the screen, and suddenly here in my hand are surprisingly clear photos of Reid and some girl getting cozy at the club, climbing into a taxi together, exiting at the hotel, his arm slung around her shoulder, his mouth near her ear. There are also photos of Graham and me going into the hotel, my face hidden by his arm.
The theories are all over the place, from almost rational: Reid and I had a fight over Graham, or over Reid’s New Girl, to mind-boggling: the whole thing is a ploy to throw the public off the truth—that I’m actually pregnant with Reid’s baby, or is it Graham’s?—cue the close-up of my supposed baby bump (my tummy in this photo looks as though I may have eaten half a slice of bread or missed one freaking day of crunches last week, Jesus H. Christ).
I hand it back. There’s no way I’m reading any more, certainly not the fan comments. I’m enough of an emotional wreck, thanks. “What a load. We just decided… that we didn’t match up so well.”
“That’s so weird, I thought things were going well the last time we talked. Are you okay? You’ve seemed kind of depressed lately.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.
***
While I’m in makeup, I’m doing what I can to get into my character zone so I can face Reid. I’m unsure whether the antagonism of these scenes between Lizbeth and Will is going to be to our benefit or the reverse; how Reid will play it is the only indeterminate factor. Unfortunately, it’s a freaking important factor. We don’t even make eye contact on set until Richter calls, “Action.”
INT. Bingley house – Night
Bingley party. CHARLOTTE and LIZBETH observe the other guests. WILL approaches them.
CHARLOTTE
(aside to LIZBETH)
Don’t look now, Will is coming this way.
WILL
(to LIZBETH)
Wanna dance?
(He’s either perfectly in character or he’s angry over my desertion last night. I might have listened, if he’d have explained, given me a chance to understand. No chance of that now.)
LIZBETH
(glancing at CHARLOTTE)
Sure.
Cut to:
CHARLOTTE shrugs at LIZBETH as WILL leads her to the open space where people are dancing.
Reid takes my hand and presses into the crowd of minor characters and extras, pulling me behind him. They make room for us as we pass, and we settle into the middle of the floor, Reid’s arms encircling me, holding me as close as he had when we danced last night. When Richter calls, “Cut,” his arms drop and he turns from me without a word.
Someone from makeup runs up to push a lock of my hair behind my ear and spray it in place. Over her shoulder I see Graham in his goofy Bill-wear, which makes him look like an unfashionable dad. He glances up, sees my bemused look and smiles, adjusting his glasses and waggling his eyebrows, coaxing a reluctant smile from me.
“Places everyone,” the assistant director calls, and I turn back to Reid, who’s whispering in the ear of the girl from the paparazzi photos. She scampers back to her scene partner; as I’m watching her, he’s watching me.
His arms go around me again and mine return to his shoulders. “Good morning, Emma,” he says, his expression glacial. “Did you sleep well?”
Before I can answer, Richter readies us and calls action. We dance in silence for five minutes as close-ups are shot of the two of us avoiding each other’s eyes. This will undoubtedly be the easiest five minutes of filming with Reid today.
During the break, Brooke takes my elbow and we move apart from everyone else. “Graham told me you came back to the hotel last night without talking to Reid.” She looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect… I mean, your relationship with him isn’t my business.” She’s hesitant and concerned, and I’m struck by the fact that I have no idea who she really is. One thing is clear: the Brooke I thought I knew is a facade. “I know I said not to fall for him. But… maybe that’s just how he was with me. Maybe he’d be different with you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, glancing at him talking to the extra, Blossom. “But it doesn’t matter, now.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her gaze direct.
I shrug and glance away. “Don’t be.”
The dialogue of the next scene is too close to reality in reverse, the proximity and eye contact made more awkward by the words.
“Action.”
WILL and LIZBETH dance.
LIZBETH
A few days ago, you told me that your opinions about people can’t be changed.
WILL
(curious)
Yes.
LIZBETH
I hope you’re careful when you make up your mind about people, then? That you’re never so close-minded that you’re prejudiced from the start.
WILL
I hope not. Why?
LIZBETH
I’m just trying to figure you out.
WILL
And?
LIZBETH
I haven’t.
This is the point where the song on the soundtrack will end, and we stand looking at each other for ten seconds. His eyes are cold, and the chill between us twists in the pit of my stomach. It’s all I can do to keep from shivering. Ten seconds can be a very long time. It feels like an hour before Richter calls, “Cut!” and we turn and walk in opposite directions.
Filming breaks are like coming up for air after being under water for a few seconds too long, but breaks are their own sort of misery. Everything we do is being scrutinized by everyone on set. They all know that last night, whatever was going on between us ended. Unpleasantly. Speculations fly, buzzing near but never landing; no one knows exactly what happened, only that something did, and they probe for clues to what.
This goddamned day is never going to end.