Page 27 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugs her slender shoulders. “First day.” She flashes me a careful look. “We mere mortals are entitled to be a bit nervous. I’m sure you slept like a baby.”

My jaw tightens, but I’m certainly not going to correct her or share my own nerves—you don’t show a predator your vulnerable underbelly, do you? I bet she’d just love to know about the nightmares I was having all night, the ones that featured me running down endless spiraling staircases, all my teeth falling out, and my parents turning up on set where I was naked and forgot all my lines. You don’t exactly need a degree in psychology to see what was going on there.

Instead of answering, I put my headphones back in, and turn the volume up, pointedly ignoring her until she leaves, the angry stomp of her feet audible even over the blast of the music. It takes a long time for my pulse to settle, and I know I can’t blame it all on the workout.

This is an untenable situation.

Which is why—I remind myself—today, before we actually start filming, I need to suck it up and make peace. It’s not going to be a good look if the two leads on the film actually murder each other. One of us needs to be mature, and clearly that person is going to have to be me.

Decision made, I finish up another two sets and replace the weights, throwing a towel over my shoulder before leaving in search of coffee and Cynthie. Preferably in that order.

My phone pings with a text message and I pull it out of my pocket.

LEE:

Good luck today. Gran and I are thinking of you

LEE:

Gran says she would text you herself but she’s lost her phone again.

LEE:

Gran says that makes her sound senile. She hasn’t lost her phone. She’s left it at the home of one of her many loverrrrs.

LEE:

She rolled all her r’s like that. It wasn’t great for me.

Despite my mood and lack of coffee, I smile. My sister, Lee, is eighteen, and while we aren’t precisely close (a six-year age gap feels pretty insurmountable when you’re a kid), like soldiers on the battlefield we have trauma-bonded over having Max Jones and Caroline Turner as parents. Our gran is the one who undertook the practical aspects of raising the pair of us, and I can absolutely hear her voice in Lee’s message.

I send Lee back a quick thumbs-up emoji and head for the kitchen. Cynthie has clearly had the same idea because she’s already there, leaning against the counter, cradling a cup of tea. When she sees me, her face falls, but neither of us says anything.

I move past her around the kitchen island and flick the kettle on. A strained silence falls as I scoop an irresponsible amount of instant coffee granules into a mug and add a splash of water. It looks like mud and tastes like petrol, but does the job. My brain lurches slowly to life.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say, mirroring her stance and leaning back against the counter so that we’re facing each other, the kitchen island between us like a safety barrier. “I wanted to talk to you before we start filming.”

“I’m sure you did,” she says wearily. “Time for another one of your little pep talks about how I’m going to single-handedly bring down this entire production?”

I take another fortifying sip of coffee. “I just want the shoot to go well,” I say.

“And I don’t?” Cynthie’s voice is sharp. “I’m absolutely sick of this holier-than-thou attitude from you. You’re the one who started all this.”

“If you’re trying to claim some sort of moral high ground,” I say, “then I’ll direct you to our conversation of”—I look at my watch—“ten minutes ago, when you called me a tiny-brained little narcissist.”

She has the temerity to snort with laughter. “I think I was referring to a parakeet,” she says, schooling her face into the picture of innocence.

“I think you were comparing the parakeet to me, so the point is moot,” I snap. My temper is fraying already. I came here to try and make peace, but it’s useless, just useless, trying to have a civil conversation with this woman. “Anyway,” I continue, drawing in a deep breath and thinking calming thoughts, “I think you know that acting like I’m the problem and you’re just a poor innocent is disingenuous at best.”

“Disingenuous at best,” Cynthie drawls. “No one knows how to pull out those sick burns like a private-school boy.”

“You seem very hung up on my education,” I reply coldly. “I can’t imagine why.”

She stills, but temper leaps in her eyes.

“At least you can draw on all your repressed, uptight bullshit when you’re playing Edward,” she says, and she takes a slow, dangerous step toward me. “It’s just a shame you don’t have any of his charm. Not sure you’re going to be able to pull it off, are you?” She sighs, affecting sympathy. “I don’t blame you. And you seem pretty desperate to have a scapegoat in place if things go badly. But do you know what I think?”