Typical, my act of generosity, making him coffee, is overshadowed by Harrison. “Let’s not forget that he’s the one doing the bad stuff, too,” I say.
“Progress, Riley. This is progress.”
Eight
Harrison
We’ve been at it for ages, and her voice is starting to sound gravelly as Riley launches into another complaint about me.
“I just hate the way you undermine every single thing I do. If I said the sky was blue, you’d say it was pink just to spite me,” Riley rightly says. She’s surprised when I nod.
“Yep. You’re right.”
When Allan told me I’m jeopardising my job by treating her the way I have, that stopped me cold. I love this role and I don’t want to give it up anytime soon. Even if Riley wants out, at least if I’m seen going through with what the execs want, they can do what they want with her. I’m secure.
Riley’s stunned at my answer and takes a few seconds to respond. For once, I think I have her lost for words.
“Then why do you do that?”
“The same reason you put those steel vice-like thighs around my ribs. To slowly suck the life from you.” Turning to Clara, I lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Look. For me, this has been going for years. You might want to talk to the producers and ask to extend this time out. We are going to be a while. We have years of resentment to work through.”
Clara nods, and her pen never leaves the page. “Great. This is good. Speaking freely is good. So, let’s finish off with your reasoning to be so oppositional with Riley, and then we can hash out one of your issues.”
Shaking my head, I’m struggling to find an answer. “I guess I just said it. This has been our behaviour for years. I don’t know any different. You gave as good as you got, though.” I bark out a laugh. “Often better.”
“Wait? Did you just give me a compliment?” she says.
I watch Riley give a little shake of the head before she stares me straight in the eye.
“I’ve known you for five years,” she goes on, “and this, the fact that I can sometimes insult you better, is my compliment.”
Riley sits back in the seat and is clearly deep in her own head while I observe Clara who just watches on to see my next move.
I shift in my seat to face Riley, and she holds up her hand to silence me.
“Don’t you dare give me the shit sandwich,” she says.
“The shit sandwich?”
Riley still won’t meet my eyes when she talks. “The ‘you give a negative, a compliment, that’s really the shit, followed by another negative’. Example, who cares if she can act because a hot body is what counts and that’s what’s important.” Her voice trails off before she finishes her sentence.
Never once have I seen her cry. There was the occasional time where she’d be irate with me, but never on the verge of crying.
“I’ll tell you why I’m struggling to get past this and play happy friends is because you made it your mission to be the number one soapy star while doing everything humanly possible to run my career down,” she says. “I came back at you because you made me feel worthless every single day. I couldn’t give two shits what you thought about me, Harrison. I worked harder and fought back at you because I didn’t want the people around us to think that you were right. I had to prove you wrong to all of them, and this is where it’s got me. Bitter, twisted, and fucked up in trying to get past all of this. You’ve made my job a living nightmare. Your first words to me were about my body and how it didn’t matter if I could act.”
“No. I distinctly remember my first words to you were: try not to enjoy this, keep it professional,” I correct with confidence.
Riley whispering the word “no” made me look at her again.
“Those weren’t the first words to me,” she says. “The first words about me were ‘who cares if she can act because a hot body is what counts and that’s what’s important’.”
I knew those words sounded familiar. She’s right. When we first started at the academy, I was talking to a couple of mates after Riley had left the stage following a performance.
“Don’t even try to deny it,” she says. “Every day from that moment on, I had this mentality of ‘I’ll show him’. I thought taking the role of that play would make you see. It only saw for you to hate me more.”
She sucks in a deep breath while she rubs her palms over her pants. I fight the urge to reach out and take her hand.
“I think I’m done for today,” she says.
Clara nods, and her pen finally stops. “Thank you, Riley. I’ll be back tomorrow. The studio wanted me to take your phones as of tonight. I think given how progressive this session worked out, you might need a little alone or processing time. You both have some homework to do.” She pulls out two sheets of paper from the back of her notebook and hands one to each of us.
I glance at the page, and it’s a questionnaire.
Riley’s holding the paper but not looking at it.
“I want you to fill it in as honestly as you can,” Clara says. “This is not to store in the backlogs to use against each other later down the track.”
I surmise the questions more intently. They start out okay. Favourite colour. Favourite food. Then it starts to dig. Favourite childhood memory. List five things you like about Riley. Jesus. Just five?
Riley lets out her breath and nods. It’s only just on six o’clock, and I’m surprised when Riley announces that she’s going to have a shower and go to bed.
Allan pipes up straight away, “Oh, we were going to take you both out to dinner.”
Riley shakes her head and gives a little wave without making eye contact with anyone. “Thank you, but I’m fine. Had a late night, long drive. I bought some food if I get hungry. Have a good night, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’m trying to keep scheduled hours here.”
Clara and Allan glance at each other while Riley rises and walks straight to her room without looking back. I’m sure I saw her cheeks glisten as she shut the door behind her.
She was right about one thing, she sure has shown me.
I’ve been a damned fool.
Leaving Riley is the last thing I want to do. It takes all my being not to knock on her door and ask if she’s okay. I even tell Allan and Clara that I’ve forgotten something when we get to the car so I can go back and do just that. After knocking softly and not getting any response, I ease the door open and call out before poking my head through to hear the click of the door leading into the shower. If I didn’t have those two outside, I might have summoned my boldness and knocked on the shower door. This conversation is on pause, and I intend fully on continuing it when I get back.
“What’s scheduled hours?” Clara asks.
We’ve come to a small restaurant that’s thankfully not busy and have been able to get a table right in the back. Everything on the menu is things I can’t have. I once held up production because of gastro and I’ve either cooked my own food, ordered the same thing every time, or just ordered a plate of vegetables.
“It’s the call times for actors to be on set. Some have to be in hair and makeup before others. Riley will be up at four to get a workout in before needing to be on set at six,” Allan says.
“But she’s not on set?”
“Her body clock is, though. She’s been doing this for two years, remember. At home, if she could get off set on time,” he says while giving me a stare to hammer home his point about me keeping her on set for hours when she didn’t need to be there, “she’d be in bed by eight anyway.”
“Thank you for clearing that up. She did really well today. I’m very impressed by her,” Clara says as she cuts into her steak while my plate of vegetables is set before me.
“Excuse me. Is there a supermarket or something around here where I can buy some breakfast supplies?” I ask the waitress who gives me a double-take and stands, staring at me.
Allan coughs when she doesn’t respond. The girl is about f
ourteen years old, blonde hair, big blue eyes. Going to be a real heartbreaker when she’s older.
“Hi. I’m Harrison.”
“Declan.”
Normally, I’d be loving the attention, but for some reason when this stranger says my character’s name, it pisses me off.
“Well, that’s who I play, it’s not who I am. I’m Harrison.”
Another woman pokes her head out of the kitchen, and she doesn’t look happy to see the girl standing there.
“Zoe,” she calls.
On her approach, I can see the resemblance between them.
“Hope you’re all enjoying your meals. If there’s anything you need, just ask me.” The woman takes a hold of Zoe’s arm and quietly chastises her as she pulls her away.
Allan and Clara are in conversation when I excuse myself. Zoe watches my every move when I approach the counter and sit. “Hey, I didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” I say as the other woman reappears.
“You didn’t get her into trouble. She got herself into trouble. Stop staring,” she says and swats Zoe’s arm.
“I’m here for a while, so hopefully you’ll be able to keep my secret that I’m here,” I say.
“This is Zoe. She’s a big fan of Restless Times,” she says. “Got to be the only kid who hates the weekends because that show’s not on.”
“And you?” I ask, and Zoe moves in a little closer.
I honestly didn’t expect her reaction as she screws her face up.
“I’m Tess, and I think the show’s a bit unrealistic.”
“Yeah?” I love the honesty.
“Whoever taught you how to surf needs to be fired.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“We were told you were coming,” Tess says, “so don’t worry about Zoe blabbing it all over town. She’s pretty good at keeping secrets. We have some of the prettiest beaches, great to learn how to position those feet of yours.”
Glancing back to Clara and Allan who are still in conversation, I say, “I didn’t know where we were going so I didn’t bring my board.”
I describe where I’m staying, and Tess nods from my poor description.
“I head out every morning at six, I can bring another board if you like,” she says.
Zoe, who’s been standing silently by her sister’s side, finally finds her words. “You’re brave. Maybe stick to the shallows if you’re going out with Tess.”
I look between them. Zoe beams, and Tess shakes her head.
“Maybe she’s not so good at keeping secrets,” Tess says.
“My sister is world-class,” Zoe says and garners a glare. “She got hit by a drunk driver.”
“Zoe! Hollywood here doesn’t need to hear it.”
That’s the thing. I do want to hear it. I love watching people and hearing their stories and the way they recount them. As much as I’m finding all of this fascinating and I’m definitely going to take Tess up on her offer, my brain’s preoccupied with the one woman I’ve never been able to have a civil conversation with. Riley’s ruined me for other women. I can appreciate their brains and their beauty but I think if my brain heard the words that she couldn’t love me, my heart would be deaf.
Allan and Clara join me, and I introduce Tess and Zoe.
“Tess will be doing the catering, so you and Riley need to advise her of any food issues if they’ve changed from your last form,” Allan says.
“Riley?” Tess looks puzzled.
Zoe scoffs and pulls out her order pad. “That’s his on-screen girlfriend, they had a really rough start, hated each other. Jordan, that’s her character, thought he could never love her, but he’s the only guy for her. They’ve been together from the start, and can you please stop embarrassing me.” She turns back to me with her pen poised. “Now. Food. If you want to tell me any upcoming storylines as you tell me how you like your eggs, that would be good.”
Not tempted by her sweet smile, Allan coughs, and I step in before he loses his mind. He’s super protective of storylines. Even I don’t joke about leaking them.
“Well, one thing I can tell you,” I say. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
Tess takes the order pad and pen before asking, “Allergies for either of you?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Whole foods. Riley’s the same.”
“We’ll drop some food around tomorrow morning,” Zoe announces as Allan pays the bill. “Ready for your surf lesson.”
Tess gives Zoe a glare that makes me laugh.
“I’ll be up at six, ready to go.”
“Tess is pretty,” Clara says from the front seat as Allan drives, and the comment catches me off guard.
Tess is attractive but she’s no Riley. I thought when I got this job on Restless Times it was going to be the last time I’d see Riley. My plan was, go to the auditions and hopefully take home one of the women who auditioned and get Riley out of my system. Well, we all know how that plan was shot to shit. I gave up after going on first dates that never progressed to second. My brain found fault in comparing them to her. My own torment, yearning for her, is going to keep me a lonely man. When Tess asked me if we had any allergies, I realised how little I know about Riley. I know basic things she talks about in interviews. I want to know the real Riley. Her deepest thoughts. Those hidden secrets. I know I have miles to go to for her to even consider me a friend, let alone anything more than that. If she’ll give me a chance, I’m going to take it. I want to know her favourite flower. With all the food, it’s clear she knows how to cook, and I want to know how she learned. What did she do as a kid? The man part of me would love nothing more than to know what turns her on. I want to know that little sigh she makes when I kiss her ear on set—is that a real sigh? Is it for me? What does she look like when she comes? I want to give her another reason to hate me, knowing that I’m the only man who will ever make her feel that good.
“He’s thinking of someone else,” Allan says, and I catch his eye in the rear-view mirror.
Shit. He’s onto me.
Allan tells me that he’ll be around at nine to start our next couple’s session and then we have our solo sessions with Clara. While Riley is having her sessions with Clara, I’ll be off shooting some scenes. I’m hoping Riley’s up and I can talk to her more about what was discussed this afternoon, but only the kitchen light is on. Rapping my knuckles gently on her door, I give her a minute to respond. The handle squeaks as I turn it and poke my head through the gap. The light from behind me outlines her back as she lies motionless on her side.
All the things I’ve been wanting to say will have to wait for another time.
“Goodnight, Riley,” I whisper and pull the door shut. “Tomorrow will be a better day for both of us.”
I haven’t been able to get Riley or her words out of my head. I already know she’s the best in the show. I learn so much from her. She’s certainly not a bimbo. She’s smart. Can be calculating, but easy to see why by the way I’ve treated her. She’s the basis for the play I’m writing. Riley consumes every part of my world. I doubt she’d ever go for it, but this part was written for her. I haven’t planned on doing anything with it—writing a play is just something I wanted to do.
While I walk the short corridor to my room, I realise I can give her all the words in the world, but the only way she’s going to believe me is for me to show her. Kicking the door closed with my foot, I spend the next hour tapping out a couple of scenes for my play. When I struggle to keep my eyes open, I tug on my belt, and my jeans bunch around my ankles. My underwear quickly follows, and I step out while trying to find the light switch on the wall.
Should have looked for that before I turned the kitchen light off and shut the door, I think to myself. During my search, my toe finds the edge of my suitcase, and I fall awkwardly on the bed. Clutching my toe, I hiss out another swear as I squeeze my eyes shut. A whooshing sound makes my eyes spring open. I blink against the bright light of the bathroom, and Riley’s silhouette makes me forget
my toes, and I grab whatever I can to cover myself.
“Oh,” she says and thankfully turns around, while I grab the questionnaire and place it over my crotch. “I heard …” she says, looking around my room, and her gaze stops on my laptop.
“I’m sorry. I kicked my toe.”
She gives me a quick glance followed by a scoff and returns her gaze to the ceiling. “How can you kick your toe?”
“The lights were off.”
“Oh. I thought I heard …” she trails off, but I want to know what she was going to say.
“You heard me yelling.”
“Well, that makes sense now. I thought I heard a girl scream.” So much for not making offensive comments.
“It fucking hurt.” Seeing the light on the bedside table, I reach over to turn it on and I’m highly aware that I’m wearing a shirt and a piece of paper.
She’s spending a lot of time transfixed on an imaginary spot on the ceiling that seems to be holding her attention. This gives me time to take her in. I stare at her in her white singlet and boy leg shorts covered in lipsticks. Her long hair is braided into two plaits and stops just short of the two peaks in her shirt.
“Oh. Well. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” If I could stop staring at your chest straining against the material.
Riley reaches out for the door handle and gives me a nod. “Okay then. Thought I’d check on you.”
“Or the woman screaming?” I laugh as she pulls the door shut till it’s open about an inch.
“And ahh … that piece of paper is my filled-in questionnaire.”
When the click of the door sounds, I’m thankful that I held the paper lengthwise, because if she stood there any longer, it would have moved from awkward to embarrassing. I shift the paper further away and read her words. My head lolls back when I see her answers. I take a breath and run for my jeans. Pulling them over my hips, I reach for the handle and open my door just as Riley closes hers.
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