Page 2 of Stolen Hearts
When I exit the trailer, the humidity from the late-summer heat makes my T-shirt, worn underneath a black zip-up sweatshirt, cling to my body. The full moon makes Rob cast a long scary shadow against the wall of stage four here at Albuquerque Studios, where tonight’s scene will be shot. My heart races more the closer we get to set.
The set is abuzz with action as we enter. Various people tinker with props on the set; others adjust the lighting. Two stand-ins occupy the space that Brian and I will be in shortly.
The set is eerily similar to the ballroom at the Landmark Hotel where I’d kissed Christopher. The grand chandeliers. The gold curtains. Half a dozen round tables with white tablecloths, eight chairs at each. The LED dancefloor. All of them are almost exact replicas—recreated to stage a scene for the film that will make the leaked footage from June believable.
“Move the third table in the background two steps to your right,” shouts the cinematographer, who is sitting by one of the playback monitors and directing various crew members to get everything in frame. I head over to Erica, who is waiting in a small space to the right of the set. Having someone I know other than Rob here has been a godsend.
Her makeup kit is laid out, impeccably organized, on the table in front of her. I wince when I see myself. The mirror’s bright lighting is not the kindest when I look like this.
“You might want to be a little more discreet,” Erica says, wiping remnants of coke from my nose with a wet wipe.
“Shit. Do you think anyone noticed?” My gaze darts round the set before returning to meet Erica’s.
“No, you’re good. But they’d have picked it up on camera. And given your history, it’s probably not the best thing to have another scandal right now.”
Erica rests her hand on my shoulder as my head drops. I know she’s right, and I know she means well, but I feel like I’m being reprimanded rather than being looked out for.
I flick through the latest script for the upcoming scene. The numerous markups, of which there have been many, create some distance between what we’re about to shoot and what happened between Christopher and me on that fateful night.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight. What’s up?” Erica’s green eyes study me while she lifts my chin up to apply foundation to my face.
A cold shiver washes over my body.
There’s no hiding from Erica. She’s one of the few people able to see beyond the facade I put on.
“It’s the scene we’re about to shoot. It’s the one about Christopher,” I say, before returning my attention to the script.
Erica bends down to meet my eyes. Her loose-fitted Pat Benatar T-shirt gets caught on the wooden arm of the chair.
“I know it’s been hard for you these past couple of months, but think of this as a way to rewrite your story. To channel all those feelings you have about Christopher and what happened into your performance.”
She’s right. I can use all the emotions I’ve been trying to numb, but I can’t help but feel guilty about everything. How I left him high and dry. How, just like the title of this film, he must have felt disposed of. How I distanced myself from him and what our relationship was during the interview. How I’m the one who now feels disposed of, because no matter what I try to do, he won’t let me explain or apologize.
“We ready over here?” Alfonso, the director, asks as he strides toward us.
“Almost,” Erica says, applying the last of the concealer under my right eye. She dabs at it, evening out my skin tone to hide the dark circles underneath.
“Great. Al, I just want to talk through the scene with you before we begin shooting.” Alfonso’s smile widens as he rests his arm on the back of the wooden chair.
When I stand, I’m instantly reminded that he is slightly shorter than me, although he compensates for his five-foot-six frame with an energy and charisma that makes him seem over six feet tall. His ever-present black leather jacket adds a youthfulness that is offset by his salt-and-pepper hair, which has grown out slightly since I first met him in London last June.
Stepping over the cables that run across the back of the set for the lighting, he leads me onto the set, where the prop department is making final tweaks.
“We’ll begin the scene here.” Alfonso points to the black dot on the floor by the entrance to the ballroom. “The camera will pick up on you pulling Brian in through the door, and you’ll make your way to that marker.” Alfonso points ahead to another black dot and motions me past the tables to the dance floor.
“You’re both giddy, like lovestruck teenagers engaging in something forbidden. Convey the emotion on your face, but I want your eyes to show that you haven’t lost sight of taking revenge on the Emerson family.”
My body jolts and then freezes when Alfonso places his hand on the middle of my back.
I have a sudden flashback to me at fourteen years old, being pushed down on a hotel bed.
A wave of nausea rises up my esophagus and my throat constricts.
He can’t hurt you now.
My mind replays the phrase over and over, trying to snap myself back to reality.
“Al?” Alfonso stands in front of me, his head tilted to one side. His brows furrow.
