I can’t bear to stay and watch once they start filming the scene — it’s one in which they kiss passionately. I’d rather be outside, even if it is raining, so I palm the repulsive reptile off on Polyp and head out. I walk around the lot for a bit, tidy Logan’s room, and worry about that letter again. I wish I’d never read the damn thing.
When I return to the soundstage in time for the lunch break, I stay outside, leaning up against the warehouse wall, studying the pillowy grey clouds overhead, and enjoying the feel of the soft, cool rain on my face.
Our day in the sunny vineyards — laughing, kissing, talking freely — now feels far away and long ago.
Time is running out fast. In two and a half weeks, on the twenty-first of December, filming in Cape Town will wrap so that the US contingent of the cast and crew can be back stateside well in time for Christmas with their families. The week before that, the Syrenka will arrive in Cape Town, and depart two days later. I want to be on it. But I also want to be with Logan.
I know he wants me to join him in L.A., but as what? He’s made no promises about our relationship. What if I go to the opposite end of the world only to discover I’ve merely been a passing fling for him? He can have his pick of any woman on the planet — why would he possibly want me? Every ounce of logic says our relationship won’t, can’t, last.
Even if I risk the wrath of my parents and the uncertainty of a relationship with Logan, I don’t know what I would do for a career in L.A. any more than here. Will I just continue to trail around after him from set to set, watching him kiss Britney Vaux, all the while doing nothing that matters with my life?
Something about that seems like a betrayal of myself.
Captain Murphy is holding a berth open for me on the Syrenka. “If you don’t take it, we’ll put out the word and somebody else will. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, and I’ve learned that it always works out somehow.”
A gentle touch on my arm interrupts my troubled thoughts. Logan leans against the wall next to me. His arms are folded across his chest, but the fingers of the hand underneath caress my arm where other eyes can’t see.
“You shouldn’t be standing in the rain like this — you’ll catch a cold.”
I stare down at my sweater. I’m pretty much soaked through.
“Better out here than in there.” I jerk my chin back at the soundstage.
“Sorry about that,” he says softly, staring straight ahead. “It’s just acting. It’s part of the job.”
“I know that. But I didn’t want to watch.”
After a while, he asks, “Still up for watching the scene I wrote?”
“Has Cilla put it into the schedule now?”
“Yeah. When I confronted her, she said the omission was just an administrative error. She’s put it for tomorrow afternoon. We’ll film scene sixty-five at the docks, as scheduled, then my scene at the same location afterwards.”
“I’ll be there, but I’m taking this afternoon off, if that’s okay with you,” I say.
I have no desire to hang about while he films the rest of the lovemaking scene with Britney all afternoon.
“Sure — it’s a closed set, anyway. Britney insists on it for those scenes.”
“Oh, I somehow don’t think she’d mind me watching.”
“Are you okay? You seem … upset.”
“I need to do some thinking.” I push off from the wall. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hey,” he says as I start to walk off. “There’s a cast dinner tomorrow night, at the hotel, for Britney’s birthday. Will you join us?”
“As your date?”
“If you’re ready to go public, Romy, then so am I. But once the story’s out, there’s no going back.”
“Fine,” I say grumpily. “I’ll be there. As your not-date.”
My crabby mood lifts the next afternoon as Becka and I stand together, watching Logan act the section he rewrote. In the scene, Chase Falconer passionately begs a bunch of poor fishermen to stop the practice of finning sharks. He speaks of understanding their hardship, but warns them of a greater poverty — a poverty of the soul, a poverty that follows in the wake of killing their mother the earth, a poverty which will leave us all orphans to empty oceans and sterile fields.
The new dialogue is beautiful, poignant, almost musical in its rhythm. And Logan’s acting is incredible. He disappears into the character so completely that I forget who I’m watching, forget that these are lines in a script, that this is all make-believe.
When he finishes speaking, there’s a long moment of stillness before someone yells, “Cut.” Then everyone — cast, crew and extras — break into applause.
“He was actually crying — did you see the one perfect man-tear?” Becka says, clearly impressed. In a whisper, she adds, “And he didn’t even use a cry-stick! Britney always has to.”
I’m choked up myself. My voice is a little croaky when I tell Logan afterwards, “You can act!”
“Um, yeah. It is my job.”
His hand strays as if to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, then falls. We’re not alone.
“No, I mean you can really act.”
He grins at that.
I already knew that Logan was a good actor, but I hadn’t, until today, known exactly how good. He’s astonishingly — bewilderingly — good. Suddenly I get it. This is his craft and his passion. This is what he needs to do. There’s no way I could ever ask him to give this up, even if it would make it easier for us to build a real relationship. Losing this would damage and diminish him. And the world would be the poorer without his gift, especially if he’s able to do better, more complex projects.
The selfish and the loving parts inside of me are at war.
I want to yell, “Run away! Give it up. Get a normal job — something where we can stay together and go public.”
I need to urge, “Go for it, live your dream. Be the best damn actor you can be!”
And another part of me urges me to put myself first. “Letting your life revolve around a guy is crazy-stupid. If you sacrifice your own dreams, you’ll regret it forever.”
Perhaps my throat can’t decide what I want to say and settles for a choked, confused silence, because by the time the cast dinner rolls around that night, I have full-on laryngitis.
Chapter 29
Losing voice
“Gotta say it, Romy. I prefer you like this. It’s a huge improvement,” Cilla says at the party that evening.
I’m not sure if she’s referring to my appearance — black cocktail dress, stiletto heels, full-hair-and-make-up — or to my lack of a voice.
“Hey, Cilla,” Logan greets his director with the usual air-kisses on either side of her cheeks. “I had a look at the rushes from this afternoon, and I think they’re pretty good! Have you had a chance to see them yet?”
“Oh yeah. Not too shabby at all. Maybe we can use that scene in the extended edition, or as a bonus feature when the DVD is released.”
“What do you mean? Are you cutting it?” Logan’s face is neutral, his voice polite, but there’s anger in the tensing of his shoulders, and in the stillness of his hands.
“Oh come now, Logan, get real. I can’t put that in the film, it’s way too much of a downer. It slows the action right down. We can’t change the winning formula now. That would not make the producers happy. Besides, the Screenwriters’ Guild would have my guts for garters if I included a scene written by a non-member.”
I try to protest, but only manage to croak a few words. “But … ’portant message … Art …!”
“The Beast audience don’t want to see art. They want to see action, romance, and of course” — Cilla chucks Logan under the chin — “eye candy.”
Logan jerks his head back. “I thought we could do something deeper, maybe make them sit up and think for a change.”
“They don’t come to sit up and think! What part of this don’t you understand? They come to kick back, stuff their faces with popcorn, and b
e entertained.” She shakes her head at Logan and completely ignores me.
“Ah, here’s Britney. Britney, darling, happy birthday!”
Britney wears a scarlet Dior dress that clings to her curves, and killer heels by Jimmy Choo. As she turns from side to side to accept good wishes, her blonde hair swings in waves around her face, and her laughing voice tinkles like wind chimes. I suddenly feel very plain. Nana’s earrings pinch my ears, and my feet are already aching.
Our party is escorted to a secluded section of the hotel’s dining room, and I find my place card at the corner of one end of the long table. Britney is seated at the other end, with Cilla on her right and an empty chair on her left. A dozen actors fill the spaces between us, including the hunk that Zeb thinks is drool-worthy. I’m going to have to break the news to my friend that his crush is Austrian, speaks almost no English, and looks to be as straight as an arrow.
Logan comes to sit next to me at the foot of the table, but Britney’s having none of that.
“Logan, your seat is right here,” she coos, patting the empty chair beside her.
“But —” Logan begins, flicking a glance at me.
“That’s the assistant’s end of the table, Logan. Becka and Philip and Ronnie can all chat together quite happily without you. Well, perhaps not Ronnie, who’s lost her voice, poor thing.”
She gives me a dazzling smile of utterly false sympathy, then comes over and tows Logan back to the seat next to her. No doubt she’ll have her hand on his leg under the table before long.
I wish I was at home, in bed, drinking hot water with lemon and honey. My throat hurts, my head throbs, and I can do nothing but nod or shake my head at the conversation swirling around me.
To my right, two of the actresses in supporting roles are debating the ideal size for boob jobs, and comparing names of plastic surgeons.
“Not Lobos, Sherry, you’d be loco to go to Lobos! He positively botched Lindsey’s nose, and he left Keira’s eyes uneven. Which is not something you want at her age.”
“Isn’t she only, like, twenty-four or five?”
“As if! She’s pushing the big three-oh — maybe even older. Mindy has a friend who worked on that last period piece of hers that bombed, and swears she saw a passport proving she’s over thirty.”
“No way!”
Across the table, Zeb’s hunk and a starlet are chatting about where in Cape Town they might be able to “score a line.” They look at me hopefully, perhaps hoping I can give them some local tips. I turn my back on them and face Polyp, who is telling Becka about his plans to travel to London the minute the production wraps.
“I cannot wait to get back to civilization. This continent is not for me.”
“Are you crazy?” Becka says. “It’s beautiful!”
“Nope, it’s way too wild.” He drinks deeply from a goblet-sized glass of red wine, and smiles slyly, showing teeth stained red. “Have you heard the latest? They’ve given the next Beast movie the green light. Pre-production is slated to start in February, and first filming in March.”
He carves a slice of nearly raw meat off his slab of a steak, places it in his mouth and chews. A drop of bloody juice trickles down his chin.
“What’s it called?” Becka asks.
“Beast: Mars.”
“What?” I squawk.
“Yes.” Polyp nods at me and takes another gulp of his wine. “Bit of a departure. Chase Falconer gets to travel into outer space and fight alien lizards, or something like that.”
Becka laughs. “I reckon Cilla fancies the idea of giant chickabiddies trying to kill the talent. This movie would be her dearest fantasy come to life.”
I push my plate away from me, food untouched, as Polyp describes what he knows about the plot. The movie sounds awful. It doesn’t have anything to do with the original books, and there’s no deeper message about nature and conservation. A brief vision of Logan at age forty, still spouting Chase’s clichés in an umpteenth sequel, flashes through my mind.
“Sounds like complete crap on a cracker,” Becka says. “Wonder if Britney will still be in it?”
“Well of course! She’s the main star, she’s the one who signed on first.”
“Forget that! Listen, Phil, Logan may have been an unknown when he first signed on, but if you think she’s still the bigger star, you’re fruit-loopingly delusional.”
At the head of the table, Britney chats animatedly. She has the rapt attention of everyone around her and keeps them spellbound as she speaks — in an intelligent and informed way — about sharks!
“They are such beautiful creatures. Far too many people don’t understand that they’re the most perfectly designed predators on the planet.”
My mouth falls open.
“But they’re terrifying and dangerous,” says Pete from the pay office, who’s hanging on Britney’s every word.
She pats his hand playfully.
“Honestly, we’re more of a danger to them than they are to us. Entire species of shark are at risk because of the practice of shark finning. The poor sharks get their dorsal fins sliced off, and then they’re tossed back into the ocean to drown. The fins are used in the East, mostly to make shark fin soup for banquets because it’s such a fabulously expensive dish, that it shows everyone how rich and successful you are when you order it.”
What the hell!
I glare at the faces of those listening to her. The accountant is entranced, and Cilla’s nodding like this is vitally interesting to her. Even Logan looks dead impressed.
“Entire shark populations are being decimated just so some fat cat in China can show how prosperous he is. It’s outrageous! That creatures who’ve been around for millions of years should now be threatened because of mere vanity. It makes me so mad!”
She thumps a fist on the table to emphasise her last line — my last line — and the clique around erupts in a little burst of applause. With a self-deprecating laugh, she says, “I’m sorry, I’m probably boring you. I know I get a little crazy about this, but I’m just passionate, you know. Not enough people get it.”
Logan says, “I never knew you cared so much about them, that you even knew so much about them, Britney. You put me to shame.”
Bitch stole my lines! I try to scream. All that comes out is a loud, raspy squawk which turns everyone’s attention to me.
Britney looks me straight in the eye and smiles sweetly. “Don’t strain your voice, Ronnie, I know exactly what you want to say. And thank you so much.”
Chapter 30
Intentions
A week later, my voice has returned, but even though I’m over the flu, I’m feeling miserable. A fistful of deadlines looms, ready to pound me into misery.
Time left until the Syrenka docks in Cape Town: three days.
Time left until Beast wraps and Logan leaves town: ten days.
Time left until my university prison sentence starts: two months.
Time left until the family dinner to which I’ve invited Logan and at which I’ll have to pretend there’s no romance between us: six hours.
Time left until I smack Britney Vaux upside the head: any minute now.
Following the excellent reaction of her audience to her birthday dinner speech, Britney has set herself up as some kind of eco-expert and is doling out tidbits of information about the species of shark that live in False Bay and how surfers look like seals to a shark. She’ll soon have to do some research of her own if she intends maintaining the pretence, because she’s running out of my material.
I’ve said nothing — for the first few days because I couldn’t, and afterwards because what’s the point? I’d only look petty. Besides, I want the message about shark-finning out there, don’t I, so does it really matter who says it? You can accomplish lots if you don’t mind who gets the credit. And anyway, people will be more likely to listen to her than to me.
Britney’s smugger than a cat swimming in cream because reports of a romance between her and Logan continue
to circulate. The rumours have been fuelled by the pictures of her clinging to him that were taken the night of the birthday dinner by the studio’s own photographer and ‘leaked’ to the press. Cilla has also released stills of “Chase and Fern” from the smooch shoot — of Britney in his arms, them kissing, him gazing at her with what looked a whole lot like love in his eyes. There’s even a new name for the Logan-Britney hook-up that fans are shipping online: Logney. Logney!
I try to stay away from the celebrity news sites — these days they only make me miserable. But when I’m with Logan, I’m blissed out, happy, content. I feel like I belong by his side, like I’ve come home to myself in some way.
My parents keep asking me why I’m in such a good mood, why I seem so happy. I credit the job — “I’m working in the movies. I’ve got stars in my eyes.” That makes them worry even more, like I might run off to become a Holly-gofer.
I still haven’t ruled it out. I haven’t ruled anything out, but I haven’t made any decisions, either. Should I please Logan, my folks, or honour my dream? What am I waiting for? A burning bush? Writing in the sky?
Zeb says he’s worried about my sanity, but he offers no advice, only support. “Whatever you decide — and it is your decision — I’m on your side.”
I’ve invited him to tonight’s dinner, too, to help smooth any atmospheric rough seas. My parents approve of Zeb, who’s unfailingly polite and respectful towards them. My Nana adores him — I suspect because he always flatters her wildly.
“Just help keep the conversation flowing, okay?” I give Zeb his last-minute instructions. “Crack a joke now and then. And distract my father if he starts giving Logan a hard time. Sidetrack him with talk of Mozart — you know he always likes that.”
“You don’t ask for much.”
“I will reward you, Zeb. I’ll take you as my companion to the wrap party, and you can try and sway the Austrian ox from the straight and narrow.”
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