The Promise of Change

by Rebecca Heflin

  He had to know it was her book. Everyone involved in the film, from the set designer to the locations manager, were required to read it. If he knew it was her book, would he have accepted the role if he hated her? Maybe he didn’t think she’d be on the set.

  What would he say when he saw her? What would she say when she saw him? How would he behave? Would he acknowledge their previous time together, or would he pretend they’d never met? Worse, would he bring some leggy supermodel? So many questions, so many uncertainties, many of which would be answered tomorrow at the party.

  She wished they could meet alone first, so she could prepare herself. Then again, maybe a public meeting would be better; no opportunity for him to tell her what he really thought of her. Regardless of his reaction, she was determined to handle herself in a professional manner. No drama on the set. A nervous giggle escaped at her pun.

  The bees in her stomach buzzed again, attacking the honey chicken she’d barely managed to swallow. Ugh. Sleep was going to elude her tonight.

  Sarah planned to meet Lady Clara at eleven that morning at the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The National Gallery, which housed paintings by the world’s renowned painters, including Botticelli, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt, Vermeer, and Monet, among others, was one of Sarah’s favorite London haunts.

  She arrived early at the Square, giving herself time to gather her thoughts before greeting that all too-perceptive lady. Sleep had been long in coming last night, and when it did come, it was fitful. Lady Clara would see immediately that she was troubled. Could she avoid talking about Alex? Not likely.

  Sarah meandered around Trafalgar in the unusually warm weather, admiring the two huge fountains flanking Nelson’s Column. Trafalgar was the fourth most popular tourist attraction in the world, and as she looked around, she could certainly see proof of that claim.

  The Square teemed with both tourists and locals. Among the throng, Sarah heard a variety of foreign languages, from the familiar languages of Europe to the unfamiliar languages of the Middle and Far East.

  She could also detect the various accents of Great Britain, including Irish, Welsh, and Scottish, as well as some of the accents of the U.S. regions.

  She turned back to the north side of the square facing the National Gallery, which had previously been the site of the King’s Mews since the time of Edward I.

  On the lawn in front of the Gallery were two statues: one of James II and the other of George Washington. Washington’s was said to be built on soil imported from the U.S. so to honor his declaration that he would never again set foot on British soil.

  She directed her steps to the main entrance where she and Lady Clara planned to meet. It was cool by comparison inside the Gallery, and it took her a moment to adjust her vision to the relatively dim interior.

  “Sarah, my dear.” Lady Clara walked toward Sarah, arms outstretched.

  “Lady Clara . . . I mean, Clara,” Sarah corrected at her frown.

  “It is so good to see you.” She hugged Sarah close before stepping back just enough to examine her appearance. “You’re lovely as usual, although I must say you look a little peeked dear. Jetlag?” She tilted her head with her inquiry.

  “Yes, jetlag.” Sarah latched on to the excuse she provided. “You’re looking well. I’ve missed you so.”

  “And I you. Come, let’s walk the Gallery. Shall we go to the Sainsbury Wing first for a taste of the Renaissance?” She hooked arms with Sarah, leading the way.

  As they strolled through the understated, intimate rooms admiring the exalted paintings of da Vinci, Raphael, and Botticelli, among others, they caught up in a way letters could never accomplish.

  They talked of Rutherford, Oxfordshire, and Lady Clara’s recent travels to Italy, then moved to discussions of Sarah’s family, the book, the movie, and the enormous changes her life had undergone in a year’s time.

  “Where are you staying?” Lady Clara asked.

  “I’ve been provided a flat in Knightsbridge for the duration of the filming.”

  “Oh! Alex lives in Knightsbridge. What a happy coincidence.”

  Alex lives in Knightsbridge? Was she just being paranoid, or were there too many coincidences involving Alex? Lady Clara had asked another question. What was it?

  “I’m sorry Clara, I was lost in Botticelli’s Adoration of the Kings.”

  “I asked if you were going to see Alex while you were here?”

  The question she’d been dreading. “Um, yes . . . every day on the set.”

  “Why Sarah! He’s in the movie? Why didn’t you tell me?” she scolded. “For that matter, why didn’t he tell me?” Her cheerful expression turned to exasperation. “Wait until I see my grandson. The tongue-lashing I plan to give him.”

  “I learned only yesterday he was in the movie. Besides, he probably hates me, or worse, doesn’t even think about me,” she muttered.

  “Sarah, he doesn’t hate you. He couldn’t. His expression when he asked after you was one of genuine concern, not indifference.” She touched Sarah’s cheek. “From the little I’ve seen of him these months past, I can tell you he’s different. No longer the playboy. He’s very focused on the estate business, and his filmmaking. He’s even managed not to irritate his brother more than necessary.” She smiled. “I think he misses you.”

  Sarah’s heart gave a little squeeze. “Well, I’ll find out soon enough I guess. I’m meeting the cast and crew tonight,” adding, “it will be the first time I’ve seen him,”—in person anyway—“since . . . well, you know, and I’m terribly nervous.”

  “Things will work out as they should,”—she patted Sarah’s arm reassuringly—“they always do. You will see.”

  An elegant Georgian townhouse on Grosvenor Square served as the setting for the Fitzsimmons’ London home, the location for Amelia’s and Christen’s first meeting. It was an appropriate venue to hold the introduction party, since filming would begin there before moving into Oxfordshire.

  Michael escorted Sarah through the home’s carved oak door and into the foyer. Sarah looked around with pleasure. The interior was elegantly furnished in the Queen Anne style, noted for its graceful cabriole legs, and simple fan or scallop shell embellishments.

  From the foyer, she heard the hum of voices drifting from the drawing room and saw the room’s soft, pale creams, roses, and sages common to that era of design. It was indeed a lovely home.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the huge gilt-framed mirror in the entrance. She’d paid special attention to her appearance when dressing for the evening, knowing she would see Alex.

  Tastefully clad in a black sheath dress with pearls at her throat and ears, her now-long hair fell in soft waves down her back. In the months she’d been unemployed and working on her manuscript at home, rarely leaving the house, she’d paid little attention to maintaining her previous hairstyle, letting it grow until it hung to the middle of her back.

  She entered the crowded drawing room with Michael’s arm encircling her waist and immediately saw Alex standing across the room directly opposite the door through which they’d entered.

  His face was an inscrutable mask until his eyes flashed to Michael’s arm. His dark eyes narrowed briefly, before the mask returned. Michael’s once-comforting arm now felt heavy and cloying. As they approached, Alex was as cool and aloof as the character he was cast to portray.

  “Alex.” She couldn’t help the breathless pronunciation of his name, as the bees took up residence in her stomach again. Classically dressed in black slacks and a blue dress shirt that was open at the neck, he was striking.

  She realized her memory had not done him justice. Or was it possible he’d just grown more handsome? He looked tan, perhaps from his recent walking tour of Italy.

  “Hello, Sarah. You’re looking well,” he said with polite reserve. He nodded a curt greeting at Michael. The gulf between them stretched as vast as the Atlantic Ocean, and seemed just as impassable. “Congratulation
s on your success.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled tentatively. Before she could say anything further, a tall willowy young woman joined the group.

  “Ms. Edwards, I hope I’m not being too forward, but I couldn’t wait to meet you. I’m Brooke Bellamy.” She extended her hand. “I recognized you from the book jacket, and I just had to come over and tell you how much I loved your book. When I read it, I knew I had to play Amelia. She is the perfect heroine.” She gushed. “I’m hoping we can sit down together so I can pick your brain and get more inside Amelia’s head.”

  She was even lovelier in person than in her picture. A good four inches taller than Sarah, notwithstanding the stiletto heels she wore. Beneath the lights from the crystal chandelier she virtually sparkled, with her champagne blond hair and gold sequined halter top. The skinny jeans she wore hugged her long gazelle-like legs. Standing next to her in her little black dress, Sarah felt almost dowdy.

  “Yes, Brooke,” Sarah said as she took her offered hand. “I recognized you from your picture. And please, call me Sarah.” She examined Brooke’s face. “Honestly, you are my image of Amelia.” Brooke blushed under the praise, though there was something about it that appeared contrived. Was it possible to fake a blush?

  “And Alex is the perfect Christen. I think we will make a great couple–on screen I mean.” She blushed again as she looked at Alex’s impassive face. Sarah thought she saw a flash of disdain. Was that directed at her? Or Brooke? Or both?

  Michael was saying something about his experience with creating the perfect on-screen couple, but Sarah wasn’t paying attention. She was trying to decipher the meaning behind Alex’s unapproachable demeanor. It was so unlike the Alex she knew. Isn’t it obvious, she thought, he hates me. But even if it was her he hated, he was cool to Michael and Brooke as well.

  After a few more minutes of conversation, Alex excused himself, leaving no doubt that she was the reason. He walked across the room to a bar set up in the corner, ordering something from the bartender. The bees fled, leaving only an empty ache in her stomach.

  “I think it is time to formally introduce you to everyone,” Michael said as he led her over to stand in front of the empty fireplace, the room’s focal point.

  “I wish you wouldn’t . . .” But before she could finish, he clinked his ring against his wine glass.

  Once he had everyone’s attention he announced in a theatrical voice, “Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to introduce the charming, talented and very beautiful Sarah Edwards.” He wrapped his arm around her waist again, pulling her close. “She is the reason we are here engaged in this worthy endeavor.”

  There was a round of applause and raised wine glasses. Sarah could feel the heat rising to her face for more reasons than her aversion to being the center of attention. For one, Michael’s arm felt like he was staking a claim. For another, from his taut expression, Alex had witnessed that claim. He turned on his heel, leaving the room.

  Distractedly, Sarah said her thank yous to the crowd, was inundated by people coming forward to introduce themselves and shake her hand. The only names she managed to remember were those of the actors whose photographs she saw yesterday. The rest were a blur as she tried to monitor the room for Alex’s return.

  The introductions seemed interminable. She thought she’d never be able to escape to look for Alex. He hadn’t come back to the party. Had he left?

  Slipping out the door, she searched the unfamiliar rooms, hoping to find him alone. She was about to give up when she found him standing in the dimly lit study with his back to the door.

  “Alex,” she said so softly that she didn’t think he’d heard her at first.

  He turned, and for an instant, she saw something in his eyes before they were shuttered again. Anger? Warmth? Longing? She wasn’t sure. He took a sip from the whiskey glass he held, but he didn’t speak. She approached him slowly, stopping with a few tense feet separating them.

  “It’s so good to see you.” She hesitated when that didn’t elicit a response from him. “I want to apologize . . . what I did, leaving like that, must have seemed . . . cowardly to you.” That was eloquent, she thought castigating herself.

  “Don’t give it another thought, Sarah. I haven’t.” His voice was flat, but the meaning behind his words made her flinch. She’d wondered if he thought of her with derision. She had her answer: apparently he hadn’t thought of her at all.

  “Well, I’m very sorry,” she finished quietly.

  “It’s late, and I have an early call. I’ll see you on the set.” He placed his glass on the table and stalked past her.

  She stood in the study rooted to the spot. He left no doubt as to his feelings toward her, but why? Why was he so angry? So distant?

  Being on the set together was clearly going to be awkward, but maybe they could reach some kind of detente over the next few weeks. It was obvious a truce was all she could hope for at this point. If that.

  “Sarah.” She jumped at the sound of her name. It was Michael. “I wondered where you’d disappeared to. Are you okay? Did the crush get to you?” he asked in concern, wrapping his hands around her shoulders. She wanted to shrug them off.

  “I’m fine. I was a little overwhelmed by all the attention, and needed some time to myself.”

  “You’re tired. I’ll take you home.”

  The ride back to the apartment was quiet. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but hopefully Michael attributed it to fatigue.

  Michael got out of the car and walked her to the door of the building. “Thank you, Michael. I enjoyed the evening, and I’m eager to see the first scene tomorrow.” Before she could turn to enter the building, he leaned down to kiss her.

  “Michael.” She put her hand against his chest and lowering her face, stopped him from coming any closer. “I think we just need to keep this professional. I don’t know about the movie industry, but where I come from office romances are frowned upon.” She smiled to soften the edge in her voice.

  He pulled back reluctantly, and taking her hand from his chest, he kissed it instead. “Good night then. I’ll send a car for you in the morning. Seven-thirty.”

  What did she mean waltzing into the party with Michael draped all over her? Alex slammed the door of his rented flat. The happy reunion he’d hoped for had been shot all to hell.

  She’d clearly gotten over him, and Michael apparently worked fast. Weeks of leaning over storyboards and locations shots, dinners afterward to discuss ‘business,’ being thrown together on an almost daily basis. What had he expected? Michael had a reputation for this sort of fraternization, didn’t he? But he was also a great director, and Alex wanted him for the film.

  Striding to the kitchen, he pulled down the bottle of whiskey and poured two fingers into a glass. Tossing it back, he let the warmth slide down his throat, flooding his stomach, before scrubbing a hand through his hair.

  He’d have to find a subtle way to warn Michael off without seeming like the jealous spurned boyfriend. His breath left him in a rush. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? Jealousy. Sarah had a way of bringing out never-before felt emotions. Love, despair, jealousy. What was next?

  Well, he wasn’t over Sarah Edwards, and he be damned if he’d let her get over him.

  Chapter 4

  The first two weeks of filming have been a learning experience for me, but to my inexperienced eye, it seemed to go smoothly, she wrote in an e-mail to Ann and Becca.

  It was almost midnight, but she’d been so busy that she’d been unable to do anything more than text Ann and Becca now and then. With BBC News on the TV for company, she finally sat down on the sofa to fill them in on her daily activities.

  I’m amazed how many takes are required to shoot one short scene. Filming more than a few scenes makes for a very long day. In the evenings, we watch the dailies, the raw, unedited footage shot that day. Anyone who thinks actors have it easy never saw the hours of work it takes to shoot a movie.

  I sit quietly in my
chair next to Michael. He occasionally leans in close to explain some point or another to me. Although after his second unwelcome attempt to kiss me the other night, I can’t help but wonder if he’s using his whispered explanations as an excuse.

  Alex had witnessed more than one of these little conferences, which only added to her discomfort. She’d learned that Michael had a reputation for pursuing his leading ladies, but had now apparently turned his attentions to her.

  I am thankful for one thing: other than the occasional glare at Michael between takes, Alex has been too busy to do more than briefly acknowledge my presence, but at least those acknowledgements have been getting progressively less severe. He actually smiled at me today, evidently before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be nice to me. Nevertheless, it is getting a little easier to be around him.

  Overall, I’ve been pleased with Michael’s direction and the actors, especially Brooke and Alex. In keeping with the book, the friction and intensity between Christen and Amelia has been palpable.

  We leave for Oxfordshire in two weeks. Some of us will be staying in a wing of the country house that serves as Wilcox Manor, Christen’s estate. The house is a sprawling 18th century Palladian structure whose owners have turned it into a luxury hotel, but we’ve taken over the entire place for the duration of the filming. Although I’ve seen the photos taken by the locations manager, I’m looking forward to seeing the real thing.

  Tomorrow we skip ahead to Chapter Thirty-Five, where Christen returns to London in search of Amelia. I realize filmmaking is not a linear process–neither was my writing for that matter–but it is a little disconcerting to jump around the story. I’m not sure how the actors manage to get into the mood for such disparate scenes.

  Before she could finish her e-mail, a news story caught her ear. She heard the name ‘Fraser.’ Robert, Alex’s brother, was apparently giving a campaign speech. She recalled what Lady Clara said about Alex not irritating his brother. Likely by avoiding the tabloids.