Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  “We’ll be done in an hour,” Ed says.

  “Can I get you some tea or coffee, Mr Rush?” I ask.

  “Please, call me Logan. Everyone does.”

  Logan grins at me in the mirror, and for a few moments I stand like an idiot staring back at him, struck dumb and immobile by the wonder and wattage of that smile. Sweet mother of all things beautiful, but he’s hot.

  Ed clears his throat loudly. Jerked out of my daze, I see that Lindy and Mindy are watching me with knowing, pitying smiles.

  I run to the soundstage refreshment station, but I’m brought up short by the bewildering array of options on the hi-tech coffee machine. Filter coffee? Espresso? Cappuccino? Americano, Turkish, Viennese, Jamaican — it’s like a United Nations of coffee beans. Maybe one of the reasons movie stars are so pernickety is that they’re given way too many choices.

  I settle for a double shot of espresso and a separate cup of filter coffee. I’ll finish off whichever one he doesn’t want — I could use a charge of caffeine. I know from our meal in the hotel coffee shop that he takes his coffee black, but I toss some packets of sugar and artificial sweetener in a paper bag to be safe. Maybe he’ll want a snack, too? I add a giant blueberry muffin and a glazed donut to the bag and then, Cilla’s strictures about shirtless scenes ringing in my head, chuck in a low-calorie protein bar for good measure.

  Back inside the hair and make-up room, Mindy — or perhaps it’s Lindy — is slathering Logan’s hair with styling mousse and pulling it into a high, emo-vampire style at the front.

  I catch Logan’s eye in the mirror and hold up first one and then the other cup. “Espresso or filter?”

  “Espresso. Tell me it’s a double.”

  “It’s a double.” I hand him the cup and fish the paper packets out of the bag. “Sugar or white death?”

  “Neither, just as it comes.”

  “Delicious pastries or chemicals not worth eating?” Again, I weigh the two offerings in my hands.

  Pulling a face, he reaches for the protein bar. He downs the espresso in two gulps, shudders, and sighs. “Ah, you’re an angel, thank you, Romy.”

  I can feel a blush rising. Not wanting him, or either of the two sharp-eyed make-up ladies, to notice, I quickly exit the room with a casual, “See you in thirty minutes,” and set off to sort out the one item I’ve already written on my to-do list.

  Chapter 16

  Up and running

  Half an hour later, I’ve completed my errand and I return to collect Logan. I’m not generally into guys wearing make-up, but he looks fabulous — the subtle make-up enhances his eyes like nobody’s business. If Zeb was here, he’d change his crush, no question. With my inexpertly applied eyeshadow and blusher, I feel like a clown beside Logan. Maybe I can get the miracle workers to give me a few lessons sometime?

  My star’s next stop is the wardrobe department. Hanging on the rail marked with his name are five of every single item of clothing — duplicates, in case the costumes get damaged while filming, I guess.

  After his fitting, I try to hurry Logan to the soundstage, but he never moves faster than an unhurried stroll. All his movements — and I am very aware of all his movements — are leisurely, almost lazy, yet somehow we make it to the set with thirty seconds to spare before his official call time. Britney’s already waiting with Becka beside her.

  Cilla, who’s inspecting the fake boat, checks her watch as Logan and I arrive, and nods at me. Logan grabs a canvas chair and drops his long frame into it. It’s eight o’clock — any second now they’ll start filming his scene and I’ll finally get to see Logan in action. I stand a little behind his chair, fidgety with anticipation.

  For the next forty-five minutes, nothing happens.

  I mean, Cilla barks orders at her minions: the cameramen fiddle with different positions and angles; lighting specialists adjust the illumination of the body doubles who stand on set in place of Logan and Britney; sound technicians rig up a microphone on a boom; and the set artist makes touch-ups to the boat. But not a frame is filmed.

  Trying to make good use of the down time, I perch on a stool next to Logan, run through a list of questions to check all his preferences, and ask whether he has any special requests.

  “Just some chipotle-smoked barbeque ribs, a little N’Orleans jazz for my iPod, a Dr Pepper and a couple of Moon Pies, the Atlanta Daily Mail every morning, and a big tub of Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Walnut Fudge — but you’ll need to remove the bits of nut. I like the taste they give the ice cream, but not the feel of them in my mouth. You can just pick ’em out by hand.”

  I can feel my eyes growing wide — I have no idea what half those things are, let alone where to get them.

  Then Logan winks at me, slowly and deliberately. “Only kidding. Though I wouldn’t say no to a bottle of water.”

  It takes me only half an hour to realise that I’ve landed on easy street. Apart from the joy to be had from simply staring at Logan — how his lips move when he says “Dr Pepper” and “bottle,” the way his fingers run through his raven hair and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs — I also discover he’s friendly, polite, and completely reasonable in his requests.

  Cilla, on the other hand, keeps her assistant, Phillip, hopping. As soon as I see him, I understand why the crew calls him Polyp — he’s short and slight, peculiarly colourless, and has an elongated, stalk-like neck above which his pale face seems to float. He scampers about fetching and carrying for Cilla, screening phone calls, and plying her with vitamins. At least, I think they’re vitamins.

  While Cilla and the chief cameraman debate whether to use a pan or a tilt in the opening shot, Polyp sidles up to me so silently that I jump when he speaks into my ear.

  “You’re the local girl?” he whispers, standing too close.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know where I can source baby crickets?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Or fly larvae, or butter-worms?” His breath is unpleasantly hot in my ear.

  I only hope my face shows confusion rather than revulsion. “I’m sorry, I don’t …”

  “For the chickabiddies. They need protein!”

  “Ohhh. No, I’m sorry, I’ve never needed to buy goggas.”

  Now he’s confused.

  “Sorry, goggas are insects. Perhaps you could try a pet shop in town?”

  When he creeps away, I resist the urge to wipe my ear on my shoulder.

  Poor Becka doesn’t have a moment’s peace from Britney.

  “Becka, where’s my Chinese weight-loss antioxidant herbal green tea?”

  “Becka, Charlie hasn’t called yet. Make it happen, will ya?”

  “Becka, fetch someone from wardrobe. They’ve taped my boobs up too tight again.”

  They tape up boobs?

  “Becka, fetch my bag from my star room, will you?”

  “No, I meant the other bag.”

  There’s an awkward moment before filming starts when Britney tries to rope me into running errands for her, too.

  “Ronnie,” she says, looking at me, “just run along to the writing department and get my new pages for tomorrow, will you? Becka’s gone AWOL again. I swear I don’t know how I put up with her!”

  “Um …”

  I don’t know what to say. I have a feeling that if I do this one thing, it’ll be the start of me running for her, too. But Becka’s instructions had been clear: no saying ‘no.’ And Cilla had told me to keep my mouth shut and not talk back. I’m about to cave when Logan rescues me.

  “’Fraid I can’t let you have my PA, Britney. I need her by my side all the time.”

  My heart goes warm and fuzzy at this, but then he adds, “For my exclusive use, at my beck and call, twenty-four seven.”

  I open my mouth to protest — though, to be honest, being at Logan’s side 24/7 sounds like something I’d like. A lot. But Logan tips his head back at me and, with the eye that Britney can’t see, winks again.

  Thi
s time, I wink back. I do. I wink at Logan Rush! I want to run around giggling and squeeing, but I play it cool. Perhaps there might be a future for me in acting after all.

  “Right, clear the doubles. Places, please,” somebody calls.

  The technicians and operators take up positions behind their equipment, Lindy gives Logan’s face a final dusting of powder, and Mindy reapplies Britney’s lipstick. Cilla settles herself in a chair behind a small video monitor streaming the feed from the cameras.

  Logan and Britney walk to the trawler and stand on the small crosses of masking tape stuck to its deck. The lights dim, and suddenly it’s as if the two are standing on a real boat in the middle of a moonlit ocean. Apart from the bright green screen behind them, that is.

  “Picture up!” the assistant director yells.

  Logan cricks his neck one last time, and Britney practises pouting and smiling.

  “Quiet, please!”

  It’s as though a spell is cast over everyone. Front of camera or behind, cast or crew, everyone goes still and silent. A thrill of excitement ripples through me. In this dark space of make-believe, anything is possible. Anything could happen. In the next moment, a story will be brought to life, something enchanting will be crafted — not analysed or researched, or bought or sold — but created. I lean forward, holding my breath

  The roll call of mysterious signals sounds across the stage.

  “Roll sound!”

  “… sound speed.”

  “Roll camera!”

  “… speed.”

  An assistant holds an electronic clapper board with Scene 27, Take 1 on its red display in front of Logan and Britney. She snaps the clapper shut and ducks out of the shot.

  “Action — background!”

  A few extras, playing sailors on the boat, start moving about, silently pulling in a net and cranking a winch handle. The boat rocks gently. Looking down, I see that the hull is cradled in a complicated piece of machinery designed to simulate wave action. A gentle breeze from the wind machine ruffles the actors’ hair. Britney adjusts herself so that her hair blows back from her face, rather than onto her lipstick.

  “And … action!” Cilla calls.

  And it begins.

  Logan’s unhurried chill has totally evaporated — he’s now the tense, terse, primed-for-action man that is Chase Falconer. He grabs Britney by the arm and says urgently, “We have to do it, you know that. We can’t let them get away!” There’s no trace of his Southern accent in his voice.

  “But, Chase, you could be killed!” Britney’s face is softer, kinder, more animated than it is in real life, and her voice is huskier.

  “That’s a risk I’ll have to take. If I don’t stop them, it’ll be a massacre.”

  “Oh, Chase, don’t go!”

  Britney throws herself into his arms and hugs him tightly.

  It’s magical. I forget that I’m in a largely empty warehouse; that the boat, the wind, and the moonlight are all fake; that the two people in front of me are actors rather than lovers in mortal peril. It’s gripping and intense — more vital, in some crazy way, than my real life back at home. I’m utterly absorbed and enthralled.

  “Cut!” Cilla yells harshly, breaking the spell.

  Logan (all at once Logan again), and Britney (“Becka, water!”) turn expectantly towards her.

  “Not bad, let’s do it again. But on the embrace, push your hips together for more intimacy,” Cilla says, smacking her hands together and pressing hard to demonstrate the intense level of pelvic smooshiness required.

  “Places, please,” the assistant director yells, and the whole process starts over.

  They film several takes of the scene. Each time I learn a little more of the craft and science behind the illusion. And each time it’s a little less captivating for me. I have no idea how the actors can say the same lines over and over again and still keep it fresh, but they do. Even Britney — credit where it’s due — never sounds rehearsed or forced or bored.

  After the twelfth take, Cilla calls a break. I’m sure they’ve finally captured the scene, but it’s only to reset the lights, and change the camera and mike setups. Logan dozes in his chair, and Britney orders Becka to give her a neck massage while they wait. And then they film the scene all over again, first from over Logan’s shoulder, with the camera focused in close-up on Britney, and then the other way around. It takes over three hours to shoot a scene which lasts, in real time, maybe two minutes.

  “Well, now that you’ve seen your first scene, what do you think of moviemaking?” Logan asks me when they finish.

  “I think it’s one-part action and three-quarters hurry-up-and-wait.”

  Chapter 17

  Rules of the game

  Finally, the assistant director calls the lunch break, and most of the cast and crew troop off in the direction of the canteen.

  “Do you mind bringing my lunch to my room? I’ve got some calls I need to make,” Logan asks me.

  “Sure. What would you like?”

  “Anything, as long as it’s high in protein, and low in carbs. If there’s steak, I take it medium rare.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m back at Logan’s room, food in hand. He’s on his bed, surrounded by papers, talking on the phone.

  “Will they consider me at least?” Logan asks whoever’s on the other end of the line.

  I search the cupboards in the kitchenette for a table setting, transfer the steak and salad from their polystyrene container to the plate, place the sachet of low-fat salad dressing and a pair of salt and pepper shakers beside it, and pour mineral water into the glass.

  “I’m ‘too commercial’? How is that possible? What does it even mean?”

  I wave to get Logan’s attention and show him the food. Then I tap my watch, mouthing, “Two o’clock,” point a thumb back in the direction of the soundstage, and make to leave. But Logan holds up a hand to stall me.

  “Ah, for Pete’s sake! Work on them, Nick, wear them down. I want this one. I’m right for it, I can do it … Yeah, sure … Chat later. Bye.”

  He tosses the phone onto the bed and strolls over to the table.

  “Looks great. Thanks.”

  “Sure. I’ll come fetch you just before two, okay?”

  “Wait.” He takes my arm. His fingers are hot where they touch me, and when his hand falls away, my skin tingles a protest at the absence.

  “I noticed my nameplate — the one outside — has been changed to Logan Rush. Was that your doing?”

  “Uh-huh.” I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

  “Thank you,” he says, tilting his head a little. “That was real thoughtful.”

  “Sure, uh, no problem.” The words stumble on their way out my mouth. “It’s just a little reminder — people seem to get confused between you and the character you play.”

  “Sometimes I do, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Join me for lunch?”

  “No. I mean, thanks, but I don’t think I’m supposed to fraternize with the cast. I’ve got …” I lift the bacon and brie baguette I got from the canteen for myself.

  “Come on, sit yourself down. We’ll share. If y’all don’t tell Cilla about me having some bread, I won’t tell her about your … fraternizing, did you call it?” He grins.

  That grin — it’s wicked. It does things to the core of me. Melty, liquid things.

  Mentally shaking myself, I fetch another setting and sit down at the table. Hey, no “no,” right?

  Logan slices his steak and slides one half onto my plate; I cut my bread roll in two and put one chunk on his. He takes a big bite and moans in pleasure.

  “Ah, this is so good. I’m more tired than I can tell you of broiled steak and broiled fish and broiled skinless chicken.”

  “Hey, happy is a five-letter word. So is cheese, and so is bacon. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  He laughs but adds, “Just do not tell Cilla you fed me fried bacon, bread and full-fat cheese.
”

  “Is she really that strict about what you eat?”

  “I can’t really blame her. She just wants what’s best for the movie. It’s the role. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of the movies?”

  I give a non-committal shrug.

  “I’m supposed to be this cut and ripped beast, so I can’t be carrying any spare flesh. Plus, the camera always puts on five pounds.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “It’s true. Tomorrow I’ll be on protein only and reduced liquids, because Monday we’re shooting transforming scenes and I’ll be half naked.”

  I’ll make sure I’m on hand for the filming of that scene — purely in case Logan needs anything, of course.

  “What’s on my schedule this afternoon?”

  I check the call sheets. “Pickups for scene fifty-one, on soundstage two. Then a gym session with your trainer. You’re free after seven-thirty.”

  “Don’t believe it — we always run over.”

  I want to ask why. I want to ask a hundred questions. Why did he become an actor? Does he like playing the role of the Beast? Does he ever miss playing in a band? Who was he talking to on the phone earlier, and about what? Does he have a girlfriend, how did he get that small, silver scar on the back of his hand, who babysits Toffee while he’s on location, and what will he be doing tonight after filming wraps for the day?

  But I think about how he’s been ordered around all morning — how people have powdered his nose, tugged at his hair, physically shifted him into position, demanded he play the scene louder, softer, gentler, crazier — and I swallow my questions.

  We eat in comfortable silence, with me sneaking covert glances at his wrists, his eyes, the place where the muscle begins its curved bulge under the sleeve of his T-shirt. When I give him some more of my baguette, he looks pathetically grateful. He pushes some more salad onto my plate and squirts dressing onto it. When he licks his fingers, my mouth drops open — literally — but I cover the moment by popping a chunk of carrot into it.

  When we’re done, I put the plates in the sink and hunt for dishwashing liquid. Logan flops onto the bed and picks up the paperback I noticed him reading earlier, between takes on set: Method Acting — Lee Strasberg and the Actors Studio.