by Clara Leigh
“Actually, I don’t want to spend the evening with Tyler. I see enough of him on set. I’m certainly not interested in conducting a relationship with him, fake or otherwise.”
“Flicka, this isn’t a request. You’re required to be seen with Tyler. You will attend, and you will allow him to kiss you as you get back into the car that’s provided to bring you back here.”
After the scene we’ve just shot, I’ve no desire to kiss Tyler ever again. This whole arrangement is stupid anyway. The public won’t be fooled, and trusting journalists to report the story you want printing is blindingly naïve. I can’t imagine there’s a single reporter out there who would miss the opportunity to work Dare into an article about Tyler and me, and hence reinvigorate all the speculation that the three of us are engaged in some sort of epic love triangle.
“This isn’t about what you desire. It’s business, and you’re an actress. Fake it if you’re not feeling it.”
I’d seriously like to slap the smile off his face.
“And Tyler’s agreed to this, has he?”
Dandy stops his irritating posturing. “We’ll be speaking to him presently. His compliance won’t be an issue.”
“Is that so?” As far as I’m aware, Tyler made a clean break from Chinchilla when he bowed out of Mirror Girls. He’s under no obligation to do anything they ask, but then when it comes down to it, nor am I. Sure, there’s a whole lot of ridiculous clauses in my contract, but nowhere does it say I’m obliged to fake a relationship with a co-star. Of course, Tyler might consider doing it simply because he’s as controlling as Chinchilla when it comes to my image and what he thinks I should and shouldn’t be doing.
“Do we need to get your agent on the phone?” Dandy asks. His compatriot immediately gets out his phone and starts swiping through his contacts list hunting for Warren’s number.
I laugh. “This is stupid, guys. Why can’t you just let me get on with the job I’m being paid to do and stop creating crises that don’t exist? If the corporation bosses are worried because I’m on set with a bad boy surrounded by other people, maybe the problem lies with their overactive imaginations and the solution should be that they stop heaping blame on my shoulders for crimes that aren’t even real. I’m nineteen. I’ve been a good girl all my life despite being surrounded by showbiz shit since I was seven. I think if I was going to go off the rails I’d have done it by now, don’t you?”
“Wilde –”
“Wilde, what? Is a womanizing playboy, with a rather high opinion of himself? Yes, he is. Why would I want to associate myself with him? We’re making a film together, that’s it.” I cross my fingers as I spit out all this vitriol. “Now, may I go back to work, and can we drop all this nonsense about me faking a relationship with Tyler? I’m sure the Chinchilla viewers would rather I remained chaste than have sordid tales about my love life thrust upon them.”
Apparently, it’s not so hard to stand up for myself after all.
The pair exchange glances, seemingly thrown by my refusal to comply and uncertain what to do next. I leave them to work it out. If there’s a problem, then they can get back to me with it. For now, this is me making it clear I’m not going to be walked all over anymore. With any luck, that’ll make them think twice about commissioning another series of the Caine Chronicles. Then they can let Flo and I go, and everything can end amicably.
“Seriously, fake dates with Tyler… they’re crazy if they think I was ever going to just go along with that.”
I bump into Trisha as I head out the door. She’s waiting outside with a file of paperwork. “Jace isn’t in there,” I tell her.
“Oh, right. I’ll just bring these back later.”
I stomp back to where we were doing the shoot. The set is deserted; everyone’s decamped to another part of the Abbey. They’re probably deeply into another section of the script by now, a part that doesn’t require my participation. I find myself a deck chair and sit in it. My refusal to do the company’s bidding probably won’t go down well with the high ups, but I’m not sorry that I stood up for myself, even if I am now jittery as hell because of it. If I’m going to have the career I want, then I’m going to have to continue being assertive.
Five minutes later Dare finds me and hands me a polystyrene cupful of lukewarm tea. “We’re not needed for the rest of the day. Still up for hitting those crash mats?”
I peep up at him, shielding my eyes from the sun. His face is drawn, particularly around the eyes. He’s concerned about what happened.
“I stood up to them. They wanted me to be seen dating Tyler.”
“The fuckers,” he sputters. “No way.”
“That’s more or else what I said, if more politely.”
The tension lines disappear, and warmth suffuses his eyes. “Good.”
I allow myself a moment of glory while I sip the tea, which it turns out is at exactly the right temperature. “I just wish I’d had the guts to tell them the truth about us instead of lying.”
“It’s none of their business.”
“They’ve heard rumours.”
“Yeah, and rumours don’t mean shit.” He tugs me back onto my feet. “Come on, I want to practice falling with you.”
“You mean for me.”
He steals my drink and swallows a too big mouthful. “Nah, I’ve already aced that.”
-28-
Dare Wilde
It’s after dark by the time I retire to my trailer, aching all over after spending two hours falling onto a mat and picking myself back up again. Still, the pain is worth it as it was time I got to spend mostly alone with Flicka. I shower and pull on some loungewear before flopping onto the empty king-sized bed. It pretty much takes up the entirety of the bedroom. There are a few inches either side and at the bottom so that I can shuffle around it, but there’s no other furniture. Normally, I love the fact it allows me to spread out. Tonight it feels too big for one person.
“You’re not having second thoughts about me, are you?” Flicka asked me earlier. How can she doubt? Has she no idea how changed I am because of her? Growing attached to a woman I’m dating is unheard of, but Flicka makes me crave that closeness. I don’t precisely know why. I’m not given to analysing friendships in such a manner, but I like what she is and how she makes me feel. We’ve more in common than people might suppose too. We’ve both been chewed up and screwed over by this business. Our backgrounds are different, but showbiz has been part of our lives right though childhood and into the present day. Most of all, though, I like that she’s prepared to look beneath the outward mask and try to understand the man hiding beneath. I don’t regret revealing Arrietty’s existence to her. It was necessary for the level of closeness I mean us to share.
Not sure what else to do, I pick up my phone. Everly’s sent me an update on the state of Arrietty’s wrist. The bandage is off now, and the pair of them seem to have spent the day dressing up and recreating various music videos. I’m particularly impressed by the clip she sent of them rocking out to some classic Bowie.
I forward it to Lorne, then call him a minute or so later.
“Have you watched it?”
He sighs in that world weary way he reserves just for pictures of Arrietty. I know he loves her really. “Yeah, really cute.”
“What are you up to? Are you busy?” Lorne’s never busy, or leastways never too busy.
“I’m chillin’, sprawled on the sofa, drinking beer, and eating popcorn while I watch your brother’s latest effort. Need to know any more than that? I can check the exact beer brand and let you know the colour of my joggers if you like, depending on your level of boredom.”
He has me sussed out and we’ve barely exchanged a handful of words. “Which film is it, the one about the rogue agent?”
“No, a skiing accident.”
I don’t recall Chase mentioning that one, but it’s sometimes hard to keep track of who is doing what in our family. “When did he film it?”
“Presumably some time
last year.” I hear Lorne shuffling, and figure he’s reached for the DVD case to check the release date. “Yeah, I think it was last spring.”
“Okay,” I fall silent, as does Lorne. Maybe his attention is captured by the screen. Maybe I should turn something on. I could watch the action with the sound turned down until I drift off.
“I take it you ran out of Caine Chronicles episodes to watch?”
Ages ago. Anything from before the last season and she’s way too young to perv over.
“Can’t you orchestrate a secret rendezvous?”
I run my tongue over my teeth. I wish. “It’s probably best not to chance it. There are a couple of dudes from Chinchilla hanging around the set.”
“Ah, right. I get it. So, I’m expected to entertain your miserable butt.”
“You’re the best at it.”
Lorne’s rumbling laugher is like a purr in my ear. “That’s right, and don’t you forget it. So, entertainment, eh? Dare Wilde needs some stimulation. It might just be that I have the very thing for such an occasion.” Glass clinks against the table, as he puts his beer down, then I hear the rustle of papers. “I have here a mag your sister left behind, which just so happens to have the quiz of the century in it.”
I physically cringe in anticipation of what that might turn out to be.
“Which Chinchilla star would be your ideal BFF?”
It’s so bad, it’s fantastic. “Hit me.”
The sad part is that the ten or so questions he grills me with, I’ve only to answer honestly to be matched up with Flicka. I think she’d be my ideal something else as well as my best friend, but there doesn’t seem to be a quiz to determine your perfect soul mate and bed partner.
“Bonus question,” Lorne announces having confirmed what I already knew, that my mostly C’s has delivered me Felicity Caine. “Which celebrity do you both most want to fuck?”
“Yeah, cause that’s a real question that got printed?”
“It did. Shut up,” he lies. “Now you might have to think hard about this one. Here are the options: A: Tyler Beauford.”
He’s got to be fucking kidding. Fuck him up, maybe. I can’t believe Chinchilla are trying to force her to go on a date with him.
“B: Dare Wilde.”
She can have me anytime she likes. Not sure how I’m supposed to fuck myself… Actually, I guess I’m an expert at it.
“C: Lorne Everett.”
“You’re real cute, honey.”
“Yeah, and I swallow.”
I refrain from commenting on that. I try not to analyse Lorne’s sexual proclivities too thoroughly; it only results in a headache.
“D: That dude out of Paradise Kiss that everyone is talking about.”
Paradise Kiss are some band of bad boy rockers who’ve hit it big over the last couple of months. I doubt I’d even manage to recognise them if they were lined up in front of me, but there are apparently plenty of girlies wetting their panties over their awesomeness. Poor bastards. Maybe I ought to send them a postcard full of advice.
“E: All of the above, or F: None of them.”
“Flicka would definitely choose B. Are we only true BFFs if I pick the same?”
“Reckon so.”
“B, then.”
“Well, at least it’s accurate. You are forever playing with yourself.”
“Not out of choice,” I mumble. “Not out of flippin’ choice.” If there was a way to hook up with her right at this minute, I’d be working on it, but as I’ve promised Jace I won’t shag her in either my trailer or hers, and I’m fairly certain the slimeball gestapo have binoculars fixed on both of us, I’ll be chilling my butt here for the rest of the night.
“You realise you could call her and then delete your history afterwards.”
“She’s probably already asleep.”
“Yeah, right. Sounds to me like you’re scared of having a conversation with her that you can’t side-track with smoozy stuff. Are you worried she’s going to ask you awkward questions about the Borrower?”
“I already told her everything there is to know.”
“And how does she feel about dating a single dad?”
“I don’t know, but she hasn’t dumped me so I’m taking that as a good sign.”
“Guess she must like cute kids, unlike me. I hate them.”
He so doesn’t.
“Look, I’m going to finish watching this film. It’s not half bad and it’s all getting very dramatic.” He holds the phone towards the TV so that I can hear the rising crescendo of background music. For a skiing film, it has a decent score. “We can talk some more tomorrow if you’re still lost in no nookie land. Otherwise I’ll expect a call from you in a few days to consult over what to buy for the Borrower’s birthday. I’ll grill Everly on your behalf tomorrow. Sweet dreams, mate.”
I can pretty much guarantee they won’t be. Flicka’s not sweet, she’s saucy, and in any case, the last two nights I’ve woken with the sweats having been hounded into a corner by a gang of aggressive and wily fanged journalists who are determined to suck every scrap of personal detail from me and then regurgitate it to the masses. It’s not pretty watching someone spew up your life as streamers of newspaper print. I opt for pre-emptive self-medication and pour myself a drink or three.
It’s gone midnight when a text arrives from Flicka. I guess she couldn’t sleep either. I read it, hit reply, and then immediately erase the evidence from my phone.
Dare: Goodnight xx Wish I was cuddling you.
-29-
Dare Wilde
Another two days pass before Flicka and I properly get the opportunity to chat. It’s Friday morning, and I’m still yawning into a bucket of builder’s tea when I slope into the make-up trailer and find her already present.
“I had to swap the order around today,” Summer explains, while she flaps around the brightly illuminated space like a mother hen. “Apparently you’re required to be shirtless. Therefore, all your ink needs covering up.”
“Okay.” I’m still blinking in delight over Flicka’s presence as two of Summer’s underlings rob me of my shirt and start daubing me with camouflage cream. The stuff has a weird scent, but hopefully I’ll stop smelling it after a while.
Meanwhile, the chief of make-up sets to work on Flicka, who yawns sleepily as she’s draped in a black poncho and has her hair pulled back off her face and secured out of the way. She looks cute. There are still crease lines from her pillowcase pressed into her skin, and I realise she’s still wearing her pyjamas.
“How’s your sister’s music coming along? Any more progress?”
The make-up artists are all listening in, so I can’t talk about anything too intimate.
Flicka nods as best she can without lowering her chin too much from the position Summer’s asked her to adopt. She unearths her phone from beneath the poncho and plays a few snippets. It’s good stuff, heavy on the drums, mind.
“I think she might have a bit of a crush on the drummer she’s working with,” Flicka says once the bulk of her make-up is done. The only thing she seems to be missing is her lipstick.
“Who is he?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He wasn’t there the time I went to the studio with her recently, and I forgot to ask his name.”
“Could be she just likes drums,” Summer remarks. She’s working awfully speedily this morning. I’m not sure what the hurry is, but I actually wish she’d slow down. Having completed Flicka’s transformation in under ten minutes, she turns her over to one of the assistants to style her hair, and comes at me with her palette of skin-toned paints. So far, my tattoos are merely covered with an off white base layer. “Still ticklish?” She wafts a large fluffy brush before me.
“Are you ticklish?” Flicka asks, interest magically perked.
I push my tongue into my cheek. “Depends who is doing the tickling.” If she tickled me, I can virtually guarantee I’d be incapacitated. However, I manage to hold myself together and refrain fro
m squirming as Summer erases my tattoos and then adds a layer of shading to the ridges of my abs. Yes, it’s cheating, but considering there are more Facebook posts and blog column inches dedicated to my physique than there are to my performances, it pays to emphasise what nature blessed me with.
One by one, as her assistants finish up tasks, Summer sends them away to perform errands, until she’s left with no one around and is forced to go and hunt down the tattoo stencil she requires to create whatever body art it’s been decided my character sports.
The moment she’s gone, Flicka leaps out of her chair and smooches her lips against mine, which leaves us both with lipstick where it shouldn’t be. “Um, sorry about that.”
I never want her to apologise for kissing me.
“Here let me get that bit,” she removes the smudges of pink from my lips with the edge of a damped tissue. “I’ll have to blame the cuppa for the mess I’ve made of my lips.” To back up her story, she presses her lower lip against the side of the mug. “There.”
“Come and give me another.”
She leans in but stops short of actually making contact. “It’ll cost ya.” She vampishly flutters her eyelashes.
“What’s the charge?” I daren’t risk pulling her into my arms for fear of rubbing off all the foundation I’m painted with, even though I’m desperate to hold her.
“A secret. Tell me something I don’t know about you that I ought to.”
“I have size 10 feet and a thirty-two-inch waist.”
She shakes her head. “Something I can’t Google.”
She’s digging but unlike when other people do it, I don’t mind. I want her to know me. “You do realise I’ve told you my biggest, darkest secret already?”
She lifts her chin an inch, so that we’re making direct eye contact. “You told me part of it. The part you felt you had to, but it’s really only half the story. I don’t know how you felt about any of it. I don’t know what it did to you as a person, or how it changed you.”
I reach out and stroke the soft golden strands of her hair where they fall against her shoulders. “Honestly, I’m not sure I know what it is you want me to share, Flicka.”