by Claire Adams
“Jones!” someone behind me calls out, and I turn around.
Trey, one of the set’s security guys, is waving Damian over to him.
“Well, uh,” Damian says, “I’ve got to go—I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right,” I tell him. “Thanks for the advice, I guess.”
He didn’t really help me figure anything out, but he did seem to put some effort into trying.
“How much longer do you have to decide?” he asks.
“A little less than two days,” I tell him.
“Okay,” Damian says. “Let’s talk about this more before you make any definite choices here. Until then, see if you can work out a way to see if he has those pictures for yourself. There’s no sense dragging this whole thing on if he doesn’t actually have the goods.”
“Thanks,” I tell him again. “I really do appreciate it.”
“Roxy!” Dutch calls out from across the room, and I walk over to talk to him as Damian makes his way up to the security guy.
“Hey, Dutch,” I say as I come close enough to the director, “are we ready for my next scene yet?”
“Not quite,” Dutch says. “You do know that we’re going to be shooting your big scene with Damian next week, right?”
“My big scene?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Dutch answers, “the intimate scene between your two characters.”
“Okay, yeah, what about it?” I ask.
“I’ve never worked with you before,” he says, “so I don’t really know everything you can do. One of the things that’ll kill a movie like this faster than an outbreak of salmonella in the popcorn butter is a romantic pair that doesn’t look good showing their affection with one another.”
“What are you suggesting?” I ask.
“Jones has been in this business a while, and I’ve even had the chance to work with him a couple of times. He knows what I like to see from a pair,” Dutch says. “The two of you should set up time to go over your mannerisms that way.”
“All right,” I answer dismissively.
“I’m serious,” he says. “I can’t have a romantic comedy where the guy and the girl look like they’re kissing their relatives.”
“Look, I know that I’m not all that experienced in major films,” I say, “but wouldn’t it work just as well if I talk to an acting coach?”
“Look,” he says, “I don’t care about your performances after this movie. What I care about is that the two of you look good kissing and all that other stuff.”
“So what do you suggest that Damian and I do to make sure we’re on the same page?” I ask.
Dutch smirks and chuckles, saying, “I’m sure the two of you can figure something out. Whatever you do, just do it before next week. I really can’t afford to hold up shooting because the two of you don’t know how to look like you’re actually comfortable kissing each other.”
With that, Dutch spots someone else that he needs to talk to more pressingly than me and he runs off after him.
All around, people are going.
Everywhere around me, people are walking with purpose, performing their tasks, moving on to the next one: all of them have something to do.
Me, on the other hand? I’m in between takes and the only thing I have to do right now is figure out a way to make it look like Damian and I have the kind of physical chemistry that will translate onto film.
It’s not hard to fake arousal, but faking intimacy—not just physical or sexual intimacy, but emotional, spiritual closeness? That’s one of the more difficult things an actor can be asked to do, though we’re asked to do it all the time.
Everyone I’ve talked to in the business has their own way of dealing with it.
Some people pretend that whoever they’re supposed to love on film is their spouse or their mistress, or in one rather odd case, a 1994 Honda Accord—I have no idea how that one actually worked, and I have no inclination to change that fact.
Me? I’ve never really been put in a position where that kind of thing would really matter.
You do your best when you’re paying your dues in the B-movies or theater or commercials or whatever you’re doing while you’re waiting for your big break, but a director who’s making a film about a giant shark and a giant leopard doing battle on the streets of Manhattan isn’t going to bother telling you if your attraction for the man who just killed a dozen cultists and decapitated a golden statue doesn’t come across as believable.
Shit, if it were believable, it would probably ruin the movie.
So, here I am, just standing around, waiting for something to happen.
Eventually, I’m going to figure out what to do about Ben, but I have serious doubts that that’s going to happen before my time’s up. I would just call him now and set up a time to see the pictures he’s blackmailing me with, but it shouldn’t be much longer before I’m due on camera and I really don’t want to have to call Ben twice.
For now, though, I’ve got nothing to do, so I just wait for Damian to finish up his conversation with Trey the Security Guy.
I’m not waiting long.
“Hey there,” I say, walking over to Damian as Trey leaves.
“…hey…” Damian responds, staring after Trey.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s just one of those—it’s this…it’s nothing,” he says finally.
Damian’s pale and sweating. Whatever’s bothering him, though, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about it.
“I think you and I should schedule some time to meet up over the next week or so,” I tell him.
“Why’s that?” he asks. “Oh, right,” he says, “the whole blackmail thing.”
“Yeah, I’m probably going to want to talk to you more about that,” I tell him. I shouldn’t be this nervous. “I talked to Dutch, though,” I start again. “He said that he doesn’t want us to…I mean, he thinks it would be best if we looked like we were…”
It’s really not that hard to put into words, but I’m having one hell of a time trying to figure out how to do it.
“I don’t know what you’re asking me,” Damian says absently.
“Dutch wants us to figure out a way to make it look like we’ve got sexual chemistry,” I tell him. “Do you have any ideas?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Damian asks, finally smiling a bit. “We can knock that out in a weekend. Just to let you know, though, this is one of those life situations where transference is a very real possibility.”
“Transference?” I ask. “You mean like when a patient falls in love with their therapist?”
“Same thing,” he answers. “Just try not to fall too far in love with me, though. I have a lot on my plate right now.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “I’ll try to keep a handle on that.”
Chapter Six
The Limitations of Decency
Damian
Tofu.
What that bag whoever left on my driveway was filled with—it was fucking tofu cut to look like severed animal limbs covered in fermented raspberry sauce for blood.
This week on Vegans Attack...
I guess it’s something that no animals were harmed in the making of the little scene outside my door, but that doesn’t put my mind at much ease, either.
The pink cloud I was on, relishing the stalker because she was an indication that my career still had some vitality left, that’s gone now. Ever since yesterday, I’ve been having Trey walk me to and from my car on the set, and Danna called a company that specializes in home security to send out a couple of guys to keep an eye on the house.
So far, there hasn’t been anything else from the stalker, but I’m taking that with a grain of salt.
That’s not what I need to be focusing on right now, though. What I need to focus on is getting Emma to come out of the bathroom.
“It’s really not a big deal,” I call through the door. “Actors do it all the time. It’s called ‘the relationsh
ip weekend.’ It doesn’t mean anything real, it just helps two people connect with each other well enough that they don’t look like novices when it comes time to show some affection on camera.”
“It’s weird,” she says.
“It’s not like I’m telling you we’re going to fuck or anything,” I tell her. “All I’m saying is that this is going to work a lot better if, until midnight on Sunday night, you and I act in every way as if we’re in a relationship.”
“What if someone sees us?” she asks.
“Then the film gets some free publicity,” I tell her. “Now, are you going to come out of there, or am I going to be sending room service to the bathroom for the next three days?”
Every once in a while, I forget that not everyone’s familiar with every trick in the business.
It’s really not that big of a deal. If you get two actors together to practice kissing, you might see some progress, but it’s not going to change the way they look at each other.
If you’ve never shared that intimate moment with someone, you’re never going to look at them the way that Emma and I are going to need to look at each other for much of the rest of the filming.
The trick is simple: you and your costar, whoever it is that you’ve got the onscreen relationship with, you go away together for the weekend, somewhere that doesn’t like cameras where you can act as you will without the scrutiny of the press. While you’re there, for all intents and purposes, you are in that relationship with that other person.
Easy-peasy.
The problem is that Emma doesn’t really seem to like the idea of pretending to be my girlfriend.
At least that’s what I’m taking out of this.
“You’re seriously on the verge of hurting my feelings here,” I call through the door.
“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” she says. “I just don’t think I can do three days of kissing and holding hands and ordering each other’s food and all that.”
“Is there any way we can talk about this in the same room?” I ask.
The door to the bathroom opens and Emma walks out slowly, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t really know why I did that.”
“It’s probably got something to do with that crush you’ve got on me,” I tell her. “Anyway, so are we doing this or what?”
“So there’s no, like, safe zone?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” I return.
“You know,” she says, “somewhere we can go or something we can say to go back to reality.”
“It’s acting,” I tell her. “As it’s your profession, I’m a little surprised to see you so wary of it.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s just—”
“What?” I ask.
“I guess it’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship,” she says, “even a fake one.”
“You’ll fall right back into it no problem,” I tell her. “So, are we putting on our actor’s hats or are we going to keep going back and forth on this until the weekend’s over and we’re out of time?”
“Actor’s hats?” she asks.
“I was trying to speak your language,” I answer.
I’m actually not entirely sure what that means.
“So, Damian,” she says with a bit of a blush.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“You wanted to just start, right?” she asks, already breaking character.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, “sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her.
“So, where would you like to go to dinner tonight, dear?” she asks.
“Just for the record, we’re not an old couple,” I tell her. “You can talk to me the way you normally would, just pretend that you like me a little more than you do and we’re good.”
She shoots me a quick glare, but shakes it off.
“Ah…” she says, shaking out her arms and hands, her eyes closed. Her fingers close into her palm and she opens her eyes, saying, “You hungry?”
“A little bit,” I answer. “I could probably eat. What are you in the mood for?”
“You always do that,” she says. “You always put the decision on me, but if it’s not exactly what you want, you just—”
“Emma?” I interrupt.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“We’re not a dysfunctional couple, either,” I tell her. “We’re just two people getting to know each other in this new way.”
“I still don’t get why we’ve got to spend so much time making out,” she says.
“Really, that makes me feel very good about myself,” I laugh. “I feel very attractive right now.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “I just have a hard time believing that we’re really going to make all of this progress over the next few days and that it’s actually going to stick.”
“Well, we’re obviously going to have a few make out sessions in my trailer when we get back in town,” I tell her.
She sighs.
“All right,” she says. “If this is what I have to do for my art, then I’ll do it.”
“That’s the spirit,” I tell her. “Now, undo your top button.”
“What?” she screeches.
“So far,” I tell her, “you’re not even convincing me that we’re in a relationship and I’m pretending right along with you.”
“How does that translate into me showing more skin?” she asks.
“Glad you asked,” I tell her.
“Oh God, here it comes…” she groans.
“When a man and a woman are going from being single to being in a relationship, there are a few things about not only their mannerisms, their mood, and general demeanor, but there are changes to the way they look as well,” I tell her. “Women will often show a little more skin around their new beau, while men tend to walk with their shoulders back, more confidence.”
“Have you ever noticed how, in every possible situation where men and women have to do something, the men always have it easier?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I have, actually. Doesn’t really seem fair. Anyway, so I want you to think back to the first couple of weeks with your last boyfriend. What changed?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess I spent a little more time on my hair.”
“Great,” I tell her. “Get back in the bathroom and work on your hair a little longer.”
“Excuse me?” she retorts, in a tone that tells me that I’ve crossed some line.
“I’m telling you to do the things that you would normally do if we were actually in a new relationship,” I tell her. “There’s no reason to get all pissy about it.”
If I’d avoided use of the word pissy, I probably could have gotten through that all right. As it stands, though, it takes me a good 20 minutes to talk her into listening to me again.
“I’ll tell you what,” I tell her finally, “why don’t we take the next hour to go over things that we do ourselves at the beginning of a new relationship and see what we come up with. I, for one, start shaving twice a day rather than once, so I’m going to go in the bathroom and do that. If you need to get in there for your hair, I’m sure we can both fit.”
She’s still skeptical, but eventually she agrees to go along with what I’m telling her to do.
I haven’t told her about hump practice yet.
We take some time to get ready the way we would if we were actually dating each other, and the results, while often subtle, are rather striking.
I, for one, am very clean-shaven, wearing a semi-formal dinner outfit, cologne, and enough hair gel for either boy band membership or to choke a walrus, depending on whichever one of those options turns out to be funniest. Emma, along with her hair going from a ponytail to a stunning updo, is wearing a dress and extra jewelry. I actually didn’t realize her ears were pierced until just now.
“Real quick,” she says as we both take care of finishing touches, “I think this is going t
o work better if you pick me up.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Like carry you over the threshold or something?”
“No, I mean, if you come by the room to pick me up for our date tonight. Our characters don’t live together, and it’s not until the end of the movie that they’d be likely to share a hotel room together.”
“Yeah, there is such a thing as going too method,” I tell her. “For one thing, we’re going to have to learn how to sleep together in only two nights, so I don’t think we’re going to want to get separate hotel rooms just yet. For another, we’re going to have to be pretty solid on all the visible aspects of the relationship the movie’s going to cover, so it wouldn’t make much sense to spend any time apart while we’re here.”
“Just role-play,” she says. “Go out into the hallway, walk around for a couple of minutes, and knock on the door. It’ll help me get in the mindset.”
“All right,” I agree. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
We stand there and look at each other a minute.
“Yeah, so any time you’re ready to pop out there, that would be great,” she says.
“Oh,” I answer. “All right, I’ll be back to pick you up in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” she says, and walks me to the door. “Remember to give it a few minutes.”
“All right,” I tell her, and I walk out the door.
You know, this is a pretty good addition to the relationship weekend. In the future, I’m sure I’ll want to figure out something better than just walking around the halls a couple of minutes, but it’ll be good to cover the anticipation of getting picked up or picking someone up.
I walk around the halls for a few minutes and, after knocking on the wrong door and being held captive in conversation with the occupant of that room for what has to be a good 20 minutes, I make my way back to our hotel room door.
I knock.
There’s no answer.
I knock again.
There’s still no answer.
I knock and call out Emma’s name, but there’s still nothing.
Finally, I pull out my phone and punch in Emma’s number. Apparently, I’ve forgotten which room is ours, and I really don’t want to have to knock on every door in this hall to find the right one.