Page 28 of Let’s Make a Scene

She takes another step toward me, and all I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears.

“I think,” she says softly, “that you’re worried that you’re about to fail, that you’re going to be the one who can’t live up to people’s expectations. Me?” She shrugs, a sinuous movement. “They’re not watching me… not yet, anyway. But Jack Turner-Jones?” She exhales a low whistle. “If his performance isn’t good, that would be quite the… disappointment.”

Yet again, she’s throwing darts at me with an uncanny precision. I wouldn’t be surprised to find her words have drawn blood.

There’s a moment of loaded silence while we glare at each other.

“Right,” I say finally, concentrating on getting my breathing back under rigid control. I have a lot of practice in this area, so it’s going to take more than Cynthie Taylor to break my composure. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? Because today the cameras are going to be rolling and there’s no getting away from any mistakes then. Trust me when I tell you there’s no faking it now. So if my performance isn’t good, everyone will know. But, Cynthie,” I pause here, allowing a wintry smile to curl on my lips as I deliver the killer line, “the same goes for you.”

I’ve willed myself to an appearance of calm now, and the words are frigid, even though the argument has left my blood running hot. If Cynthie knew how hard I’m having to work to keep my emotions hidden then she certainly wouldn’t be questioning my acting skills.

As it is she glares at me, but the color has left her face and I know that I’m not the only one with weak spots.

For a moment I feel guilty about it, remember that I was supposed to be making peace, but the insults she flung at me last week are back, ringing in my ears: every insecurity I have is blasting at full volume, and that text message from my dad is in my pocket reminding me that I can’t fuck this up.

“Oh, sorry,” a soft voice interrupts then, and Claudia, Alveston Hall’s housekeeper, comes bustling in, pausing when she sees Cynthie and me locked in a vicious staring contest.

“I didn’t think anyone would be up yet. Can I get you some breakfast?” Claudia continues, and she’s eyeing us warily, presumably because we’re poised like two snakes about to strike out at each other.

I force my shoulders down, turn and smile. “No, thanks, Claudia,” I say lifting my now empty coffee cup, “just needed some fuel to start the day. I’ll grab something from craft services when we arrive on set.” I look at my watch. “Speaking of which, I’d better go grab my stuff. The cars are coming at six.”

My eyes slide over to Cynthie who is still standing rigid, but she forces her own smile.

“That’s right,” she says. “Hannah will probably be looking for me. Don’t want to be late on our first day.”

“Well, good luck,” Claudia beams.

“Thanks,” I say as I duck out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them behind.

I’m fairly sure we’re going to need it.

Chapter 11 CYNTHIE

When Hannah and I step out of the car we are pummeled by a wave of sound so intense that I flinch.

Today, we’re filming exterior scenes outside a huge National Trust property called Darlcot Manor about thirty minutes from Alveston Hall. The sheer number of people involved is mind-blowing—there must be well over a hundred crew members here, and the National Trust volunteers in their green fleeces look as shell-shocked as I feel while electricians and camera operators and sound technicians and goodness knows who else charge about, yelling at one another in front of the handsome building.

I take a moment, standing on the gravel driveway, in the middle of this wild storm, just to let it sink in: I’m really here, this is really happening.

Today we’re planning to shoot a scene where Edward and Emilia talk while walking in the grounds, and I spot Jasmine and Logan in the crowd, but currently they’re little more than fast-moving blurs of activity in designer waterproofs.

After my argument with Jack this all feels even more surreal. If ever there was any dim hope that his opinion of my skills might have changed during rehearsals, that is long gone. He thinks I’m not good enough. He couldn’t have made himself clearer if he’d hired a skywriter to emblazon the words cynthie taylor doesn’t belong here over our heads.

“I’m going to be sick,” I murmur, and Hannah steps up and squeezes my hand.

“I’ve got peppermint tea bags, indigestion tablets, diarrhea-relief tablets, and I found some of my mum’s anxiety medication rolling around in her handbag if things get really bad.” She taps the side of the backpack she’s wearing, which is enormous and straining at the seams. “There’s nothing we can’t handle,” she insists.

“Okay,” I murmur. “But you do know there’s a paramedic on set at all times. You don’t have to carry an entire pharmacy with you.”

Hannah’s eyebrows shoot up. “As if I’m going to trust some Hollywood type to feed you drugs.”

“Says the woman with a sandwich bag full of loose tranquilizers.” I laugh, feeling better.

“Right.” Hannah scans the scene in front of us like a battlefield. “First step: dropping stuff off at your trailer before rehearsal and blocking, then hair and makeup. I think we’re supposed to meet—”

“Hi!” an extremely tall, gangly guy with deep brown eyes and a killer smile pops up in front of us. “Cynthie and Hannah, right?” We nod. “I’m Arjun, the third assistant director. We haven’t met yet.” He holds out his hand and grins down from his lofty height.

“Nice to meet you.” I wrap my fingers around his and shake.