Page 3 of The Unknown

It helped, of course, that he was gorgeous. One of those rare directors more handsome than most movie stars. James Dean hair, Monty Clift smile, eyes a cool Paul Newman blue that he pretended to downplay by wearing glasses with thick black frames. Like always, he was dressed in his standard uniform of khakis, crisp white oxford shirt, and neckerchief the same color as his eyes. A pretentious look, to be sure, but on him, it worked.

As did his style of directing, which involved totally immersing his actors in the world of the movie they were making. “Method directing,” he called it. And while one or two actors had complained about the intensity of a Ronan Peters shoot, even they conceded that their performances were better because of it.

“Yes,” I said, surprised I could summon even a single word in his presence.

“You’re nervous.”

Even though it was a statement and not a question, I found myself answering with a nod. No point in denying the obvious.

“Don’t be,” Ronan said. “The reason you weren’t given any pages is to eliminate the potential for script leaks. Call me paranoid, but I don’t want anyone knowing any details about this movie until I’m ready to reveal them.”

“Is that why you’re looking for an unknown?”

Ronan arched a brow, seemingly impressed by the question.

“It’s one reason, yes. Another is because movie stars come with expectations. Audiences see them and immediately assume what kind of character they’re playing, if they’re a hero or a villain, if they’ll die or live happily ever after. With this role, I don’t want any of that. I want someone new. A discovery.”

He smiled then. A warm, patient smile that created butterflies in my chest.

“I’m sure you’ve heard that my way of working is unorthodox,” he said. “So don’t even think of this as an audition. I’d like it to be more of a conversation. Just you and me getting to know each other. Does that sound good to you, Marin?”

“It does,” I said, although I have never felt comfortable in my own skin. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always wanted to be an actress. So I could be someone other than my plain, boring self, if only for a little while.

Still, Ronan looked at me like I was the world’s most interesting woman. Leaning forward, he switched on the camcorder and said, “Where did you grow up?”

“Pennsylvania.”

“What was your childhood like?” Ronan’s voice was gentle to the point of soothing. Within seconds, my nerves were gone, making me feel comfortable enough to provide an honest answer.

“Lonely.”

“No siblings?”

I didn’t have a quick answer for that one. To say no would have been a lie. As would saying yes. I ended up splitting the difference with a simple, nonexplanatory “Just me.”

“I’m also an only child,” Ronan said, a misunderstanding that I was all too happy not to correct. “But I always wanted an older brother or sister. Was it the same way with you?”

I gave a small nod, even though I had an older sister. One who was never there except for the times when I didn’t want to see her.

“Growing up, I longed to have another person in the house,” I said. “Someone capable of distracting my parents away from me.”

“Interesting,” Ronan said, sounding like he genuinely meant it. “Most children crave their parents’ attention. Why did you want the opposite?”

“Because I was their sole focus, which was great when I was little, torture when it became clear I wasn’t the daughter they wanted or expected.”

That’s another reason I went into acting. The only time I ever felt like my parents approved of me was when I got cast in a high school production ofThe Sound of Musicmy senior year. I wasn’t Maria. That was never in the cards for mousy little me. No, I was Louisa, the von Trapp child with the fewest lines, no solo, and zero personality. Still, on the drive home after opening night, my father looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, “You did good, Mare.”

I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

“What do you think they wanted?” Ronan asked.

“Someone prettier,” I said. “Someone smarter and more popular and more outgoing. Someone like—”

I snapped my mouth shut before I could finish the sentence.

My sister.

I couldn’t believe I’d almost mentioned Molly. To a world-famous director, no less. I reversed course, trying to cover the abrupt pause. “Someone without an overactive imagination.”