Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Take me as your disguise, more like, so no one catches on to the fact that you and Logan are …” He twists his fingers together.

  Zeb is up to date on (most of) the details of my relationship with Logan. He understands the reasons we’re keeping it hush-hush, but he also worries that I’m being used by a Hollywood player in search of a little fun while out on location.

  “He loves me, Zeb. He said so.”

  “Sweetie, saying it don’t make it so.”

  Don’t I know it?

  Dinner starts well enough. Logan is charming, friendly, and polite. He calls my parents “sir” and “ma’am,” praises my mother lavishly for the delicious food, and Nana is won over from the moment Logan kisses the back of her hand with a whispered “Enchanté.” He delights her with spicy little stories from Hollywood, and she winks and nods at me repeatedly to show her approval. Lobster sits on top of Logan’s feet under the table, devouring the bits of roast beef he manages to sneak in her direction. Another female heart is conquered.

  My father, however, is determined not to be charmed. He interrupts an anecdote to ask Logan about the business and financial aspects of movies.

  “Shucks, sir, I guess I don’t know much about that side of things. I’m concerned with what goes on in front of the camera. I never did want to be a bean-counting accountant.”

  Crap. I’ve never mentioned to Logan that while my father is now the head of Poseidon Industries, he originally qualified as a C.A.

  Nana cackles and Zeb hides a grin behind his napkin, but I can tell the comment has put my father’s back up. He immediately goes on the offensive, as if trying to prove to me how pathetic the movie industry is — just in case I have any ideas about creating a career in that world.

  “I see. Not arty-farty enough?” my father challenges, his head lowered between his shoulders like a belligerent turtle.

  I glare at my father. He ignores me.

  “So what are your intentions, then?” he demands.

  “Dad,” I say, in a warning tone.

  With the merest flicker of a glance towards me, Logan says, “My intentions, sir?”

  “Yes, your intentions. What do you intend to do with your life?”

  “Um, act?”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  “I would think that there comes a time when a man gives up play-acting and make-believe, and settles down to something more secure.”

  “Dad!” I’m getting angry.

  Under the tablecloth, Logan gives my hand a squeeze to let me know he’s okay. From over the table, Zeb watches the interchange between my father and Logan like a spectator at Wimbledon, delighted by the volley. I frown at him and aim a kick at his shin but crunch my toe on the chair leg instead.

  “Well, sir, after the movies I’ve completed, I find myself in the fortunate position of being financially secure.”

  “Yes, but for how long?”

  “Dad!”

  “For life, I guess. Unless I start throwing my money around like a complete fool.”

  My father seems stumped for a comeback. I frown at my mom, telling her with a hard look to stop my father’s rude inquisition, and she rushes to fill the silence.

  “Tell us about your dive in the predator tank, Logan. Romy says it was fascinating. Was that the first time you’ve seen a shark up close?” she says, offering him second helpings of baked butternut.

  “Yes, ma’am. Romy here was determined that I learn more about the creatures I portray in my films. But I gather you’re the real expert?”

  Logan deflects the attention from himself and allows my mother to wax lyrical comparing raggies to hammerheads. Nana nods off, having heard all this before, but Logan is either truly fascinated by the informative little lecture, or he’s delivering an Oscar-worthy performance.

  That’s the thing about dating an actor — you never can be entirely sure.

  Over dessert — home-made custardy milktart — Logan engages Zeb in a discussion about computer-generated technology, describing how the graphics artists use actual footage of sharks as the basis for the effects. Zeb, who’s probably been suppressing the urge to ask all evening, finally pops the question.

  “And do they ever do CG effects on, um, the actors’ bodies? I’m just asking because they don’t always look real.”

  “Zeb!”

  I want to find a sinkhole, preferably twenty thousand leagues under the sea, and disappear into it. I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life.

  Unoffended, Logan laughs and says, “Yeah, sometimes they do.”

  “See?” Zeb says to me.

  “But not mine,” Logan adds.

  “See?” I say to Zeb.

  Logan grins at me. “Have you been defending the existence of my abs?”

  My mother, who’s been watching the exchanges between Logan and me intently all evening, now looks positively worried.

  “Logan, tell us about Britney Vaux,” she says bluntly.

  But I’ve had enough.

  “That’s it. Logan’s got to go now. He’s got an early call time tomorrow, and he needs his beauty sleep. The transport to take him back to the hotel is probably already waiting outside.”

  I hustle him away from the table amidst many thank yous and you’re welcomes and even a nice to meet you from Zeb.

  The hotel transfer car is indeed already waiting in the street in front of our house, and as soon as we step outside, Thabo climbs out and opens the rear door for Logan.

  “I’m so sorry about all that. You must think my family’s insane. And so rude!” I apologise to Logan.

  “Don’t worry about it. They love you. They’re not wrong to be suspicious of some smooth-talking stranger from the other side of the world.”

  I glance back at the house, just in time to see a curtain at the front window twitch.

  “You look so lovely tonight, I’m battling to keep my hands, and my lips, off you. But if we’re trying to keep this secret, I’m guessing I’d better save my goodnight kiss for tomorrow,” Logan says.

  “I think they may already be on to us,” I say glumly. They’re probably already lying in wait, preparing to give me a lecture. “See you in the morning.”

  “See ya.”

  I wave forlornly at the disappearing car, then notice that Zeb has come outside and is standing next to me.

  “You know, I think he might be okay. The real deal,” he says.

  I give him a hug for that.

  “Do the right thing, Romy. The right thing for you,” he says, before heading off home.

  I trudge back to the house.

  “Well, that was an enlightening evening!” my father says crossly as soon as I’m inside.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your mother tells me that you and he … that you are romantically inclined towards this Logan Rush. Is that true?”

  “Thanks for that, Mom,” I say.

  “He’s going to break your heart,” my father says. “He’s just amusing himself with you until the circus leaves town. He’s probably already tried to get you into his bed.”

  “How dare you? You don’t even know him!” I can feel an angry flush rising up my neck.

  “And he’s much older than you.”

  “Two years, Dad. One and a half, actually.”

  “Are you sure he hasn’t lied about his age? They do, these actors.”

  “Rex, dear, please. Romy, what your father means to say, is that he’s worried you’ll wind up getting hurt, because there can be no long-term prospects for this relationship.”

  I’ve thought the same thing more than once myself. But hearing them say it makes me furious.

  “Why shouldn’t there be?” I turn on my father. “Why do you immediately assume he only wants one thing from me? That he couldn’t possibly really care for me? Am I such an unappealing person?”

  “I never meant —”

  “He likes me. He. Likes. Me! And he’s a good guy, alrig
ht? He’s kind and genuine and talented.”

  “Oh, he’s a real prince alright. And you can bet he intends to marry a princess, not you.” My father flings himself into his recliner chair and swallows a large gulp of his brandy.

  “Marry! Who even mentioned marriage? I’m only eighteen years old, for fu- for fudge sake.”

  “It’s all over the papers and the Net that he’s going to marry this co-star of his,” my mother says.

  “Those are just stories invented to generate publicity for the movie. They’re not true. The ‘romance’ between Logan and Britney is not real.”

  “Are you so sure? Are you so certain that what’s between him and you is real?” my father demands. “You should settle down with someone of your own kind, like Zeb.”

  “He’s gay.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “We’re just worried that this is going to end in heartbreak, sweetie,” my mother says softly.

  “Why can’t it work? Why shouldn’t it?” There’s a catch in my voice when I say the words. Tears aren’t far off.

  “You’re not from his world,” Mom says.

  “I could join it. I have joined it.”

  I feel beleaguered, the more so because they’re giving voice to my deepest fears.

  “You don’t belong there. It’s all acting and faking and partying,” my father says dismissively.

  “You don’t know anything about it!”

  “I know it’s all smoke and mirrors, show without substance. I know that you’re an intelligent person who wants some purpose in her life.” My father sounds almost weary now. “You’ll never be satisfied with make-believe, Rosemary, with a life where there’s nothing real or significant for you to do, and no way for you to make a difference.”

  This, too, resonates with me more than I like.

  “We just want you to choose your course wisely, love,” Mom says, giving me a hug which I’m too angry to return. “Time’s running out and you haven’t yet decided what you’ll be doing next year.”

  I haven’t told my parents about the Syrenka offer. Initially I wanted to avoid my mother’s inevitable protests about safety and my father’s lectures about the need to settle down and study. Now I’m too afraid to mention it in case they urge me to go as a way of prying me away from Logan.

  Zeb is right. I need to make a decision based on what I want. I need to choose a world not because other people want me to fit in there with them, but because it’s where I truly belong.

  “I’m going to bed,” I tell my parents.

  Upstairs, I close my bedroom door. I want some privacy. Not to think — I’m sick and tired of thinking. All my conflicting thoughts and feelings are jumbled and tangled up inside my head like wet washing in a tumble dryer.

  I send Logan a goodnight text, with three kissy faces. Sometime in the silence afterwards, while waiting for a response, I fall asleep and dream I’m running and running, in shoes that are too small. And I can’t tell if I’m running from, or running to.

  Chapter 31

  A wedding

  Logan, who’s checking emails on his phone, gasps.

  “What is it? Not bad news?” I ask.

  We’re perched on our usual canvas chairs in soundstage two, waiting. This is how I spend half my life these days. Light, sound and photography techies bustle about, and the set dressers add final touches for the next scene — when Chase Falconer weds Fern Lightly.

  Logan is costumed in a deep charcoal tailcoat with matching trousers, a silver embossed satin waistcoat, and a loosely-knotted cravat the precise blue of his eyes. Wardrobe has styled him down to the last detail — silver cufflinks in the shape of a shark. His floppy hair is swept back smoothly, and Ed has threatened him with death if it gets mussed.

  Twenty minutes past the call time, we’re still waiting for Britney. A pair of photographers are set up in prime positions to take stills of the wedding ceremony. The actor playing the priest paces up and down the faux flagstones at the front of the ‘chapel.’ Extras squirm restlessly in the pews — custom built and ‘distressed’ to look old and worn — on either side of an aisle fitted with dolly tracks for the camera.

  “What is it?” I ask Logan again, trying to read over his shoulder.

  “I got the part.” He sounds stunned.

  “What part?”

  “Alan Strang,” he says softly.

  “Equus? In New York?”

  He just nods, apparently dumbstruck. I glance around, see that Cilla is safely on set, shaking the priest’s hand, and no one is within earshot. Still, when I speak, it’s in hushed tones.

  “That’s so awesome!” I desperately want to jump up and hug him. Never has the need to keep us secret chafed as much as it does at this moment, when I have to settle for a whispered, “Congratulations!”

  I’m as relieved as I am excited for Logan. This role will be a wonderful opportunity for him to stretch his talent and break out of the Chase Falconer mould. Logan, however, doesn’t seem as over-the-moon as I am.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t do it. The timing — it conflicts with the next Beast shoot.”

  “You’ve signed for that?” I ask, dismayed.

  An image of Logan in a spacesuit, doing battle with giant lizards, momentarily sears my eyeballs. Even he won’t be able to pull that off and make it look like anything but franchise-milking junk.

  “Not yet,” he says, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, he continues, “but I will. Probably.”

  “Why in the name of all that’s holy would you do that? You told me how much you wanted to play Alan Strang, how hard you fought for this role!” I whisper fiercely. “You said it would give you a chance to practice your craft, to grow yourself as an actor. You could do this” — I sweep a dismissive hand at the current set — “in your sleep.”

  “The series probably won’t go ahead if I’m not in it. I’m not being arrogant, or anything, it’s just that the producers and backers want a bankable name — my name.” Logan fidgets with a shark cufflink, turning it around and around.

  “Just because they want you in the next movie, doesn’t mean you have to do it. Why would you even be tempted? It sounds like a chunk of junk.”

  He says nothing, merely stares ahead at the bustling set. There’s a bleakness to the set of his face, and a tightness around his mouth that worries me.

  “You don’t need the money,” I say. “And it’s not like you need more fame — you’ve already got more than you can handle. Why do you need to keep going with the Beast movies?”

  “Maybe I’m not good enough for anything else, have you thought of that possibility?” he says, finally turning to look at me.

  “No. Because that’s rubbish, and you must know it. You could do so much more with better roles and better material.”

  “No one thinks I can.”

  “I do.”

  “Thanks, but you’re not the one that matters. No, wait,” he says when I wince. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean the people with the power to cast me in a different kind of movie don’t — can’t, maybe — think of me as a serious actor.”

  “Then kick down the doors and show them. You’re Logan Rush, for goodness sake! Write your own screenplay. Make your own movie. Show them what you can do. Let someone else take the Beast to Mars. And take Britney with him,” I add bitterly.

  “I can’t. Britney still wants, and needs, these roles. And I owe her.”

  “Owe her for what?”

  He sighs and looks down at his hands.

  “Back when I auditioned for the role of Chase Falconer, Britney had already been cast as the female lead. She was already famous. Without her signing on, the film wouldn’t even have been made — it was a risky venture, and they needed a big name as a drawcard. I was a complete unknown, with no acting track record, and she chose me. Cilla and the casting director narrowed it down to five actors. Any one of them could have played this role at least as well as me, and three of t
hem were power names in the industry. But Britney chose me. She insisted that Cilla cast me in the role, said she could feel the chemistry only with me.”

  “I’ll just bet she did,” I mutter.

  I can imagine the scene — Britney looking forward to a rosy future in which she could sink her claws into Logan and keep him close to her. Britney knowing the massive appeal Logan would have for the female half of the population, and knowing that if she hitched herself to his star she would rise and rise.

  Speak of the devil and she shall appear — at that moment, Britney glides regally onto the set, staggeringly beautiful and resplendent in a long-trained gown of raw silk the colour of the palest iceberg blue. A collar of realistic-looking diamonds circles her throat, and a tiara glitters in her upswept hair. Glowing with pleasure at the gasps and compliments coming from all sides, she’s every inch the princess to Logan’s prince.

  “I owe her. Without her, I’d be nothing.” Logan’s eyes, like everyone else’s, are trained on the dazzling bride.

  “That’s not true.” I’m not ready for him to accept defeat. “You just might not be Chase Falconer.”

  “But being Chase Falconer is what has allowed me to rescue my mother from working as a waitress in a diner, having to bite her tongue and smile for her tips while she’s hassled by free-fingered perverts and sassed by smart-mouthed trashy teens, living day to day from hand to mouth. Being Chase Falconer is what has allowed me to send my sister to college, so she can be something one day. And anyway, Cilla’s insisting.”

  “So what? Cilla this, Cilla that. It’s like she’s got some kind of hold over you.” I half-mutter the words under my breath, but Logan’s head snaps up.

  “What do you mean?” he says sharply.

  “Does she have a hold over you?”

  He looks away from me and exhales a frustrated sigh. “Britney has asked me — begged me — to sign on for the next movie. She wants to do it, and they won’t do it without me. It’s time to pay back what I owe.”

  “Send her a bunch of flowers and a thank-you card.”

  “Places, please,” the assistant director calls.

  Britney floats over to her mark at the front of the aisle and chats to the priest. The extras in the pews straighten their hats and smooth their hair. I put a restraining hand on Logan’s arm as he makes to stand up.