Siren

by Kuli Roberts

  In their scenes together, Siren had to help him more than she ever had before, feeding him lines, giving him physical cues when in the middle of a scene he’d seem to lose his way. Everything was taking longer to shoot and the schedule had to be constantly rejigged.

  It actually came as no surprise to anybody when Heritage regained the number-one spot, knocking The Trigger off its perch. ‘These things are bound to happen,’ Vusi told the assembled cast and crew. ‘It’s a constant battle. But this only pushes us to work harder, to ensure that we get back to number one. We’re still a quality production, and it is important that we work hard to maintain standards.’ It was perhaps significant that Sipho was not working on the day of Vusi’s pep-talk.

  For Siren, her husband keeping quiet about his gambling past more than justified her own deception. Without telling him, she opened a bank account and placed a percentage of her earnings into it. Although she was almost sure he was no longer gambling, it was important that she take steps to protect herself.

  Chapter 22

  ‘GREAT NEWS!’ BRENDA Archer exclaimed.

  Siren was curious: rarely had she seen her agent so animated. ‘A firm offer from Keenan Thompson’s production company to co-star in his latest project, to be shot in and around Cape Town and also Namibia. It’s a big one, high profile.’

  ‘Keenan Thompson?’ Siren screwed up her face. ‘I’ve heard of him, right?’

  Brenda bristled at her client’s ignorance. ‘He’s only the fastest-rising action star in Hollywood right now. His last three movies, the numbers have gone through the roof. You bet you’ve heard of him, and you’re going to be hearing a whole lot more, hopefully with your name in the mix somewhere.’

  ‘Sounds great, but why does he want to see me?’

  ‘Apparently he has some kind of holiday home in Cape Town. Saw a couple of episodes of The Trigger and was immediately interested. Got hold of me yesterday.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘He wants you to do a screen test, but here’s the kicker – he insists on reading opposite you.’

  The morning before the screen test, she was a bundle of nerves. The sides she knew off by heart, and she had the part down – a low-level CIA operative in Cape Town, one of Keenan Thompson’s contacts as he scoured the city looking for the mole, the traitor. It was a straightforward scene. A few minutes later she was killed in an explosion, but that was neither here nor there.

  Soon after her meeting with Brenda, she went online to find out about Keenan Thompson, and there was a lot to get through. A man with a military background, he had graduated from Special Forces to Hollywood, taking acting lessons and being noticed in small parts before forming his own production company and developing roles for himself. And he’d been remarkably successful in a relatively short space of time. Strong box-office returns made Hollywood take notice, and he was rumoured to be the highest-paid black actor in the world. He was also married to Theresa Fox, an African-American actress who’d been nominated for an Oscar in the Best Supporting category.

  He’d already played the role of John Green, a rogue CIA operative, in two hit movies. The first one had been set in Thailand, the second in the US, and this one, The Edge of Everything, would be in Africa. It had the potential to be his greatest box-office smash so far.

  In person, Keenan Thompson was everything he appeared to be on screen, only smaller. Not short, but not tall either. Well-built, compact, a constant energy source. A smile that could melt butter, the epitome of charm.

  ‘It’s really great to meet you,’ he said, shaking Siren’s hand in an almost formal way. ‘Thank you so much for doing this.’

  ‘Only a pleasure,’ she replied, looking into his hazel eyes.

  ‘These things can be a hell of a chore, but let’s just muddle through it somehow. They always make me nervous, so I’m going to need you to hold my hand all the way.’

  That immediately put her at ease, and she found herself looking forward to the audition, if indeed that was what it was.

  Everything went well. When they got to the end of the scene, Keenan asked if they could do it again, even though Siren was sure they’d nailed it the first time.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Keenan said after they’d completed the scene for the third time. ‘I have to talk to a few other people, but as far as I’m concerned, the part is yours.’

  It was another two months before she started shooting on The Edge of Everything. Brenda negotiated a good deal. ‘The money they offered wasn’t that great, but I got them to bump it up. I told them they were dealing with South Africa’s top actress, so they better pay top dollar.’

  The schedule for The Trigger had to be reworked to accommodate her absence, but Vusi managed a wry smile. ‘It’s a good break for you. Could be the start of bigger and better things. And if it’s good for you, it has to be good for the show.’

  Sipho was less enthusiastic, although Siren was glad that he was able to voice his concerns. ‘How will we manage without you?’ he asked, reaching for her shoulder and gently massaging it as they sat at the kitchen table eating dinner. She’d just finished feeding Bongani, and he was sitting quietly in his high chair.

  Siren put her hand on his, glad for the physical contact. ‘You will manage. Nokwanda is here to help with Bongani. It’s all arranged. And it’s only for three weeks. I’ll be back before you even notice I’m gone.’

  ‘Not true. I will miss you every day.’

  As nice as it was to hear, a part of Siren couldn’t help doubting his sincerity. In the six months since he’d returned from rehab, they’d been anything but close. There had been a few attempts at having sex, but somehow he seemed removed from the situation, as if he was somewhere else operating his body via remote control.

  There will be time to sort everything out, she told herself. We have our whole lives to get it right.

  Chapter 23

  ALMOST IMMEDIATELY UPON arrival in Cape Town, she felt intimidated by the size and scope of the production. Everything was bigger and better, classier and more professional.

  A driver picked her up from the airport. Malik was a rather talkative man of Asian descent, and an avid fan who wanted the lowdown on everything to do with The Trigger. It was actually the last thing she needed, but she answered his questions as politely as she could, not wanting to alienate him.

  She checked into the Marriott Hotel, and there were her sides for the next day’s shoot waiting at the desk. In the afternoon, Malik took her to a nearby block of offices, where she had a clothes fitting. Everything was conducted in a friendly but businesslike fashion, and less than two hours later she found herself back at the hotel.

  Before going down to the restaurant to eat dinner she FaceTimed Sipho, and there he was, bouncing an animated Bongani on his knee, looking happier than she had seen him in a long while.

  ‘Not much happening down here,’ she told him. ‘Costume fitting this afternoon, shooting tomorrow.’

  ‘Much the same here,’ he replied. ‘Nothing really to report. All is well.’

  ‘I’m missing you both. It’s more than a little lonely. You know how it is with hotel rooms.’

  He smiled at this. ‘You’ll be fine. Hurry back.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, looking at him now, really looking. ‘You look fine.’

  ‘I feel fine,’ he said, with Bongani chiming in to exchange a few words with his mother.

  The warmth of the FaceTime exchange gave her the confidence to eat alone in the restaurant. Not feeling particularly hungry, she had a salad and some mineral water. The other diners left her alone, but some of the waitrons asked for photos and autographs. Back in the room, she went over her sides in bed and watched CNN before falling asleep.

  Her alarm woke her at five, and after a quick shower she was just about ready when the phone rang to tell her the car was downstairs to pick her up.

  Malik was in fine form, talking non-stop, but when he tried to quiz her further about The Trigger she
told him she needed to go over her lines, that she would be shooting soon and had to be on top of things.

  On the set it was all business. The whole top floor of one of Cape Town’s office buildings had been gutted, then transformed to look like another set of offices. ‘It’s all in the details,’ the production designer said when one of the other actors brought it up.

  And there was Jacques the director, a bearded, fiery ball of French energy who ruled the set like a general over his troops. A crazy general at that, who justified every decision in a language all of his own, strewn with expletives. His last three movies had made close to a billion at the box office, which evidently meant that he knew what he was doing, but when he came over to Siren to issue his thoughts on the scene, she could not help having her doubts.

  ‘OK, so you are in serious shit, but you don’t want him to know it. You want to fuck him, of course, but the mission comes first, so no fucking time for that. But he needs information from you, so you are thinking of hiding that until he gets to fuck you. Which of course he doesn’t, because a few minutes later you are going BOOM! Big explosion. You got it, sister?’

  He had to call her ‘sister’ because up to that point he had not introduced himself, had not even asked her name. And then he was off to talk to Keenan Thompson, who in his battered suit looked just like a handsome but world-weary CIA operative. She just caught the beginning of their conversation: ‘OK, so Keenan, remember, you want to fuck her but you also want some fucking information ...’

  The scene went off without a hitch, or at least would have if Jacques had not insisted on seeing more lust in her eyes. ‘There is not enough there, only something faint. I need more, my sister, so much more.’ In Siren’s opinion, a glimmer of lust was what the scene required, but she was hardly about to voice that, and Keenan seemed to view his director’s admonitions with a certain amount of humour.

  If the camera really had a way of measuring the level of lust in her eyes, surely it would have been off the charts, because being in such close proximity to Keenan Thompson, it was really all she could think about. He had an easy sexuality that radiated confidence. He was not a great actor, but a generous one, staying around for her set-ups, feeding her lines from behind the camera.

  After their scene, she was done for the day, but he had another two or three to shoot, depending on how things went. ‘I have to rush off, but thanks for doing this, really. There’s a few more scenes we have together, earlier in the story I think, so hopefully we can chat then.’

  She wanted to ask him about recent press reports that he’d split from his wife, but the time wasn’t right. Maybe it never would be, she thought. ‘Good luck with your scenes today,’ she said instead.

  ‘Thanks.’ A flash of that smile, and then he was gone, to another location, another set.

  Things went well for a while. In their scenes together, Siren established an easy rapport with Keenan that translated well to the screen. Accustomed to the multi-camera set-up of The Trigger, she adapted quickly to the quirks and demands of cinema, which required a different approach.

  Only during a brief scene with the well-known African-American character actor Walter Fairweather, who was making a cameo appearance as a corrupt politician, did the wheels threaten to fall off. Something about the actor’s brusque demeanour put Siren off her stride, and for the first time she found herself fluffing her lines, causing Mr Fairweather to throw up his hands in despair. ‘Sweet Good Jesus, did you ever! Keenan, why have you hired amateurs? Is it to save money, because I am here to tell you it is not working.’

  And there was Keenan somewhere behind the camera, managing a smile. ‘Walter, if anybody comes off looking amateurish, it’s only because they have a hard time measuring up to your professionalism.’

  This seemed to mollify Walter the Wonderful, whose shelves at home were full of awards but who possessed not a drop of the milk of human kindness. Siren was able to get through the rest of the scene, with Walter barely managing to flash a patronising smile at the end.

  And then came the news, delivered in person by Stan the line producer: the production was falling badly behind schedule. The script was being rewritten, which meant that she was now in some of the scenes being shot in Namibia.

  This puzzled Siren. ‘You mean I didn’t die in the explosion?’

  ‘It would seem that way,’ the mild-mannered Stan muttered.

  Telephonic conversations with Brenda in Jozi were chaotic yet vaguely constructive. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, sweetness. It means more work, I know, but it also means more money. You’re going to get major screen time, and that means major exposure. The Americans are going to be eating you up at the box office. Hollywood, here we come.’

  The really difficult conversation came during her daily FaceTime conversation with Sipho. ‘But I don’t understand. I thought you were done. I thought you were coming home.’

  ‘I was, but the schedule changed. You know how it sometimes happens on The Trigger? Try multiplying that by ten and you may be getting close to what I’m dealing with.’

  Was it her imagination, or had he been drinking? Was there a slight slurring, or was that just her paranoia kicking in? A part of her wanted to ask, but she decided that now was not a good time. Better to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  She was just about to ask about Bongani when she saw Sipho’s hand move forward to tap a key, and then the screen went blank.

  Chapter 24

  THE WARM TRANQUILLITY of the Namib desert was a welcome change from the hustle and bustle of Cape Town. Here even the mercurial Jacques seemed to respond to the sense of peace that descended on the film crew once a day’s shooting was concluded.

  What was disturbing was Sipho’s absence. He seemed to be avoiding any form of communication. During FaceTime sessions with Nokwanda, she would hear that he was OK, that he returned home at a reasonable hour every night, played with Bongani, watched TV and went to bed. Of course, Siren knew that he was angry with her for not returning home when she said she would, but he was an actor, he needed to understand these things; it was something they needed to talk about, get it all out in the open.

  Their location in the heart of the desert meant that connectivity was sporadic, so she could only talk to Nokwanda and Bongani at odd hours. It was all about the work, as The Edge of Everything continued to find its legs and get up to speed. The rewritten script gave her a whole lot more screen time with Keenan, including a kissing scene that didn’t seem to have much relevance to the arc of the story, but which director Jacques was now insisting on: ‘These two characters, they have wanted to fuck each other from the beginning, so it is only fair they let some of it out, even if it is just a little bit.’

  Perhaps he was responding to the sexual chemistry that was in evidence whenever Siren and Keenan were on set together. The gossip among the crew focused on the breaking news that Keenan’s wife had filed for divorce and custody of their three kids.

  His main love interest in the film, a willowy French blonde named Camille, was embroiled in a frantic fuck-fest with Jacques, who entered some kind of trance-like state whenever she appeared on set, fawning like a love-struck puppy. And she responded by treating him with utter contempt, insulting him in both French and English, presumably for the delectation of all within earshot.

  Siren knew that Keenan was definitely interested. He showed it in small ways, massaging her shoulders between takes, making sure she was constantly supplied with water to keep her hydrated through the long, dry Namibia days. And there was the way he would try to catch her eye, then quickly look away when she caught his.

  It was the night before her last full day of shooting when he made his move. ‘Have dinner with me,’ he said as he handed her another bottle of cold water.

  ‘Dinner? Where?’

  ‘Come out to the lodge where I’m staying. I’ll have my driver pick you up.’

  She could always have said no but, after all, he was the star of the show, and who sa
id no to Keenan Thompson?

  Of course, all of that was rationalising. She wanted to go, of that she was sure. Not that anything was going to happen – after all, she was happily married, or at least that was what she told herself.

  Her patterned dress was sexy without being slutty, with the merest hint of cleavage, its medium length showing off her legs to good effect. Before she left, she tried to get hold of Sipho. She left a message on his phone: WHERE ARE YOU? PLEASE CALL. LOVE YOU. She told herself that if he answered she wouldn’t go, but then berated herself for playing such petty mind games. And what was she doing anyway, besides having dinner with a friend who’d shown her kindness, compassion and respect? At the end of the day, he was just a colleague – albeit one who would seduce his way into her panties if she gave him half a chance.

  Keenan’s driver picked her up just after six, and in marked contrast to Malik spoke very little during the half-hour journey to the lodge. It was a balmy night, but the air conditioner cooled her as she thought of what was to come, how it would go – a quick dinner with Keenan, maybe chat about the experience of making the movie, then back to her hotel for an early night.

  He was waiting in reception for her, looking casual but smart. He kissed her on the cheek, his aftershave distinctive but not overwhelming. An electric golf-cart took them down a tarred path to his chalet, where on the balcony a table was laid for two diners.

  So this is how movie stars live, she thought as he pulled out a chair for her to sit down. A uniformed waiter was on hand to pour the wine, and there was a more than adequate choice. ‘I didn’t know what you would like, so I stocked up on both red and white,’ he said, almost sheepishly.

  She chose a mild Merlot and he had the same. A candle flickered between them, with a little artificial light to heighten the atmosphere. ‘The perfect choice, if I may say. I tell you we’ve got some fine wines in California, but you guys might just trump us on that score.’