‘Stop laughing at me,’ I say, two hands glued to the T-shirt’s hem.
He doesn’t stop. He just laughs more.
‘Look,’ I say, when I can no longer bear this entire situation, ‘just because your girlfriend dumped you, and, frankly, I can’t blame her, doesn’t mean that you have to spread your cynicism and misery around to everyone else. So please leave me alone.’
Brandon blinks and then frowns slightly. I blink too. I can’t quite believe I said that. I didn’t even mumble or stutter too. Shit, Kennedy told me not to mention Brandon’s recent dumping in his presence. She said it was a total sore spot. Where did the balls to say that even come from? It actually feels quite empowering. I remember that feeling. I hold his gaze. I don’t feel like backing down. He is horrible.
Brandon’s eyes harden. He stops laughing and clears his throat. ‘Please get dressed properly while you’re staying here.’ His eyes scan my body, his lips curling slightly as they rest on my chunky thighs and rounded belly. ‘Nobody needs to see that in the morning, or any time for that matter.’
I storm past him and into my area, not even caring if he can see my fat bottom as it wobbles away.
He can kiss it for all I care.
When I hear Brandon leave via the slam of the back door, I exhale angrily and pummel my pillow in a bid to get some of this furious energy out of my system. I’ve not felt this sort of rage in a very very very long time. Not even when I think about how terrible the Gossip Girl finale was.
I head to the bathroom for a long cool shower, spending extra time shaving my prickly legs in case my wildest most-out-there dream does come true and Gary is moved to take me right there in his trailer.
Wrapped in a fluffy navy towel, I head into Kennedy’s room and rummage through her closet to find something that might be suitable for the important task ahead. Although Kennedy suggested I could wear her clothes, the truth is that she is at least three sizes smaller than I am. The pickings are slim, even if I’m not. I do find a pretty green and peacock blue paisley maxi dress with an elasticated bandeau top half and a roomy flowing skirt that comes down to the ankles. I pull it over my head, and while it’s a little snug across my boobs, it’s respectable enough. I look in the mirror. The colour brings out the green flecks in my hazel eyes and enhances my best feature – my abundance of dark wavy hair.
I pad back into my bedroom area and start applying make-up. My mostly indoors Brigglesford life doesn’t ever call for make-up and so I’m a little out of practice. I try to think back to what I did when I was out performing gigs every night. I was a dab hand back then, easily managing to get a full stage make-up look done in about ten minutes. I push the image of me all dolled up and singing on a stage, laughing and joking with the other musos, firmly out of my mind because it gives me an odd little ache in my chest.
Taking a deep breath, I start with foundation, hoping that I can cover this extreme redness as much as possible. Hmm. Not bad. It looks a tiny bit chalky, and the peeling on my nose seems not to want to go away. But the redness definitely looks a lot calmer. I frame my eyes with a smudge of grey kohl at the outer corners and dab on some coral-tinted lip balm. Then I open the new highlighter I managed to pick up for cheap at the airport duty-free. All of the models on Instagram wear this stuff. It makes their skin look all dewy and glowing and gleaming and their cheekbones super high and chiselled. My softly rounded cheeks could use a pop of this for sure. I squeeze a blob of highlighter out onto my fingers and dab it carefully onto the high points of my face like I saw the models do in the Instagram videos. Along my cheeks, above my brows, a little on my nose and then I smear what’s left on my Cupid’s bow. There. That’s nice. I turn my head this way and that in the mirror. The highlighter makes me look nice and gleaming and shiny like an Instagram person!
I glance at my phone and notice that it’s already 11 a.m. Eek. I really need to get a move on if I’m going to find my cheese toastie supplies and get to the studio set before lunch. I spritz a little of Tom Ford’s Black Orchid onto my throat and wrists – a perfume that Imogene says is perhaps a little too bold for me, but makes me feel brave. I slip on my ballet flats, grab hold of my favourite turquoise tote bag and then pop a newly obedient Winklepuff into Kennedy’s stylish leather dog carrier, which is fancier than any bag I have ever owned. Winklepuff’s head pokes out of the top of the bag and I make a note to pick up some extra ham on the way to keep him sweet.
‘Right! Let’s go do this, buddy,’ I say to the tiny dog in a confident voice that belies the nervous fluttering in my heart.
I can do this.
Can’t I?
Chapter Nineteen
Gary
Hey.
Today is the day. First day of shooting on Nightcar! I’m so psyched. I’m nervous to meet everyone and wondering whether I’ll be good enough, but I just have this feeling that it’s going to be one of those days I’ll never forget. This is a short journal entry as my call time is in about ten mins and I want to check over my scene lines one more time.
Three amazing things:
I get to do this for a fucking job!!
Tori has agreed to read the first Harcourt Royals book so she can see why I’ve always got my head stuck in one. She thinks that I should probably not be photographed reading a sexy novel with half-naked bodies on the cover, that it wouldn’t be great for my ‘image’. She read the blurb and said it sounded corny. She’s right. Those books are so, so corny, in your face corny. They lean in to the corn. They’re also hilarious and super weird. That’s why I can’t stop reading them.
The best of the three amazing things: Pops texted me this morning. He met a woman at the local farm supply store. Her name is Tammy and he says she is ‘real nice,’ which is about as big a compliment as you could ever get from my father. He didn’t tell me much more than that, but he texted a smiling face at the end of the message and he has never used an emoji before in his damn life.
Chapter Twenty
Nora
Apart from this mental wind that keeps blowing dust into my eyes, everything is going smoothly so far. I like to think that maybe fate is giving me a helping hand, leading me to this day. I remember both my parents used to quote a romantic poet called James Russell Lowell, who said something about fate loving the fearless. I haven’t exactly been fearless since their death, but that’s what I’m doing now, right? I’m trying so hard to be fearless. Will fate help me along? Please, please let it.
With the help of Google Maps, I managed to find my cheeses in a little artisan shop on a road called Abbot Kinney Boulevard. I got a gigantic block of Cheddar and a medium one of crumbly white Cheshire cheese too. They also had a deli meat counter, so I was able to get a massive stack of ham to keep Winklepuff in check.
While I was in the cheese shop, another customer, some guy with a very pointy nose, got mad because Winklepuff was in there, even though he was neatly and hygienically ensconced in his fancy carry bag. Plus, the customer before me took a dog in and that dog wasn’t even in a bag, which definitely isn’t hygienic. As the grumpy customer tutted and grumbled and complained to everyone else in the shop, I had a little daydream about what would happen if I just grabbed a wheel of Camembert and splatted it on his pointy nose. All the other customers would clap me for stopping his mean-spirited ‘no pooches in the cheese shop’ rant and maybe the owner of the shop would gift me free cheese for a year, which Gary and I would eat every night with a little teensy glass of sherry like Frasier and Niles, while telling each other about our days and then making saucy love in our aqua-coloured swimming pool.
By the time my daydream was over, the customer had gone, red-faced and hissing at me. I ignored him, absolutely determined not to let another man wind me up today.
Now out on the sunny street, I order a Lyft which, to my disappointment is not driven by Billy Fever the Adam Levine tribute singer. When the Lyft drops me off around the corner from the movie lot, I thank the driver, climb out of the car and make sure m
y dress is aligned and neat, that my hair is smoothed down and tucked over one shoulder and that I don’t have a ton of mascara under my eyes from where I’ve been constantly rubbing the dust out of them.
I’ve already developed a plan for what I’m going to say at the entrance to the movie lot, if someone asks to see my credentials. I am going to pull out my blocks of cheese and I’m going to say that I am making a delivery for the catering company. Thanks to Kennedy’s internet research skills and her relationship with Andre the Avocado Guy, I know that the studio’s catering company is called Yum Hollywood and that the head of catering is called Julie Pleppi. It has to work.
As I cautiously approach the outside of the lot, I’m surprised by how dull and industrial it looks. I don’t know what I imagined – something more colourful: sequinned showgirls and men with cigars maybe? One thing that is expected is how busy this place is. All sorts of people, mostly wearing T-shirts and jeans, rush around from various outbuildings to other various outbuildings looking harried and distracted, muttering into walkie-talkies and occasionally staring at iPads or clipboards filled with millions of papers flapping about in this hyper wind. No one looks very glamorous at all, so I actually fit right in.
I expect there to be some sort of security people at the entrance gates, but I glance around and there is no one fitting that description nearby.
Fate loves the fearless! I take a deep breath and march into the lot with my chin up and purpose in my step. I have zero clue where I’m going. I just know that I have to find the trailers. Kennedy said that they’re usually labelled with the names of whoever inhabits them.
To my delight, but not to my surprise, no one really pays me any attention as I walk through the lot. I knew my invisibility superpowers would come in useful for this. One woman nods a vague hello in my direction and says, ‘First days are a killer, right?’
‘Oh, yes, uh, such a killer,’ I reply in a shaky voice and hurry past her, happy that this particular first day on set means that no one can spot an interloper, because they’re all probably still strangers to each other. My feeling of achievement at having actually made it onto the lot is briefly replaced by a little dart of worry. I imagine Gary and the other actors wouldn’t be too happy to know that people can just randomly walk onto their set. I mean, at least I don’t have disreputable intentions, but some other person totally could! There are all sorts of stalkery people out there!
Winklepuff wriggles about in his bag. I stroke his head and soothe him with a little ham-based sweet talk. He licks my hand once in response.
I round a corner to find a quieter area housing a long row of grey-coloured trailers, both big and small. They have little name signs taped up on each door, just like Kennedy said they would. I’m almost there!
I walk past a few taped with names of actors I vaguely recognise. The gravel crunches beneath my feet and I use my arm to wipe the sweat from my forehead. I eventually pass by the biggest of the trailers and – oh my actual goodness –there’s a piece of blue paper, tacked up on the door, Gary Montgomery’s name upon it.
Shit. This is it. This is his trailer! There’s a lengthy window along the side, covered by a cream-coloured blind. I spot a shadow move inside. Gary! He’s in there right now. Oh god, that’s him, right there, so close!
My heart starts pounding in my ears and all moisture disappears from my mouth.
Is this it? Is this about to happen?
I think this is it.
This is the moment of truth.
Fuck.
I take a deep, steadying breath and then knock on the trailer door with a trembling hand.
A few excruciatingly nerve-wracking seconds later, the door is pulled open and standing there, staring right at my face for the first time ever is…
… Nicolas Cage?
‘Oh, Nicolas Cage!’ I exclaim because he is very very famous and he is right in front of me and all of my powers of ‘act like I belong’ melt into a big uncool puddle of gormlessness.
Nicolas Cage. Actual Nicolas Cage narrows his famous eyes at me. ‘Who are you?’ he asks, full of suspicion.
Shit. He just knows I am an interloper. He can just tell. He’s probably dealt with tons of interlopers in his time.
‘Um… Um…’ I stumble.
Nicolas Cage closes the trailer door slightly as if to protect himself. He’s going to rat me out. Argh!
And then I get a brainwave and remember my cover story. ‘I-I’m from catering,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from wobbling. ‘Yes. Julie sent me. Julie Pleppi, owner of the catering firm Yum Hollywood.’ I pull out my pack of Cheshire cheese and wave it about for proof.
‘Yeah, I know who Julie is,’ Nicolas Cage drawls in his Nicolas Cage voice.
‘I’ve come to t-take your lunch order,’ I say quickly.
Nicolas Cage smiles then and the full weight of his megawatt charisma and hair plugs almost make me swoon.
My left eye suddenly prickles with the remains of some wind dust from earlier on. I squeeze it shut in an effort to stop the stinging. Then it occurs to me that it looks like I am winking at Nicolas Cage.
He looks slightly surprised before casually winking back.
‘Cool. Lunch,’ he says. ‘Yeah, so I’ll take a poke bowl with salmon, it has to be line-caught salmon, mind you. I’ll have a vitamin water, three oranges, an egg-white omelette, a mushroom coffee with MCT oil stirred in. Not too hot, all right? The last one burned my tongue and an actor without his tongue is severely incapacitated.’
I nod quickly, most of what he’s saying making very little sense to me.
He pauses and frowns. ‘You’re not writing this down?’
‘I will remember,’ I say, tapping my head and knowing that I will not remember a single fucking thing apart from the fact that I am talking to Nicolas Cage.
I’m about to walk away without much more ado when Nicolas Cage asks, ‘What’s in the bag, kid? It’s moving.’
‘Uh…’ I glance down to Winklepuff’s bag wriggling about, thankful that the mesh window that reveals his adorable face is hidden from Nicolas Cage because, although I’m sure lots of people on movie sets have dogs with them, I’m pretty certain that a person in a catering department definitely wouldn’t.
‘It’s a chicken,’ I tell him in a panic, my voice breaking and squeaking like a thirteen-year-old boy. A chicken, Nora? A chicken?
‘A live chicken?’ Nicolas Cage raises an eyebrow.
Shit. He doesn’t believe me.
‘Yeah, um… Gary Montgomery. He likes his chicken fresh.’
Nicolas Cage nods slowly and looks into the distance thoughtfully. ‘Wow. These up-and-comers, huh?’
‘I know,’ I say with a conspiratorial eye roll.
Nicolas Cage leans against the trailer doorway. ‘And you have to uh…’ He mimes a cutting throat motion across his neck and looks at the wriggling bag.
‘Yes,’ I say, shaking my head sadly.
Nicolas Cage purses his lips together for a moment. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t…’
He gives me a hard look. ‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘CJ West,’ I blurt and start quickly backing away, because Nicolas Cage looks very distrustful of me and my live chicken sacrifice story and I feel like I’m about to get busted. I need to get to Gary before that can happen. This might be the only chance I get to meet him. ‘Bye, Nicolas Cage, sir,’ I shout, heading down the lot as speedily as I can before breaking into a jog. ‘Coffee not too hot,’ I call back in a panic. ‘ATM oil! A multivitamin! I’ve, uh, got you covered.’
He watches me take off through narrowed eyes and my forehead breaks out into an almighty sweat. Dammit. Why did Nicolas Cage’s trailer have Gary’s name on it? They must have switched trailers or something. I start to read the trailer signs again, frantically searching for Nicolas Cage’s name. I pass three trailers before I stop and glance up.
And he is there.
Gary.
Not on a movie screen or a laptop or magazine page or in my head.
He’s staring at his phone and slowly heading towards the trailer that I assume must actually be his.
It’s funny: he’s shorter than he looks on screen but still tall enough for me to have to tilt my face up if I were to kiss him. The perfect height. He is perfect. I can only see his face in profile, but there’s a half-smile lifting the corners of his lips and whatever is making him smile like that, I am grateful for.
My heart lifts and that overwhelming feeling I got when I first saw him at the cinema increases by a gazillion percent. That feeling that I know him. My heart swells and yearns as if my entire life, all those thousands of small moments, has been leading to today, to this moment. To meeting him and him meeting me.
Still gazing down at his phone, Gary steps up into his trailer and closes the door behind him. I shake my head to clear the daze that seems to have settled over me, freezing me to the spot. I’m going to go and knock on the door. Holy crap. Please let me be right about this. Please please let me be right about this.
I begin to walk towards his trailer, towards what could be my future, and in that moment I know that even if Gary doesn’t return my feelings that I’ll be forever grateful I was lucky enough to find my one soulmate. And I will love him for as long as I breathe air into my—
‘Argh!’ I yell and jump as someone unexpectedly places a heavy hand on my shoulder. I spin around quickly to see a gigantic, barrel-shaped, shaven-headed man in his late forties, wearing a too-tight black suit and holding a walkie-talkie to his mouth. He looks royally fucked off. The badge on his jacket says ‘Security’.
Oh, this is not good.
I waddle away from this menacing-looking man so quickly that I end up sort of running backwards, the momentum of which means I fall backwards.
He Will Be Mine: The brand new laugh out loud page turner! Page 10