Page 74 of Let’s Make a Scene

“No one actually likes sparkling water,” Cynthie grumbles, the second Suzy leaves the room. “It’s just normal water full of tiny knives.”

“What are you babbling about now?” I ask, shifting in my seat in front of the enormous A Lady of Quality poster. The photograph they’ve used is a still from the film, Cynthie looking up at me, with her hand on my sleeve. Her expression is melting. It’s very different from the look she is currently giving me.

“I’m just saying, who would think, you know what the experience of drinking water is missing? An element of pain.” She crosses her legs, pulling the skirt she’s wearing down to cover several more centimeters of thigh. The short, designer leather skirt that they put her in, paired with knee-high suede boots, is giving me heart palpitations every time she fidgets.

“What can I say, Taylor?” I say, offhand. “I guess I’m just a masochist with a thing for bubbles.”

“More like you’re a pretentious twat who always orders the fanciest thing available. Why didn’t you ask Suzy if she could bring you up a plate of caviar, too?”

“Because the caviar is a garnish,” I say, almost automatically, slipping into an American accent.

Cynthie looks like her head is about to explode. “Don’t you quote You’ve Got Mail to me!” she hisses, quivering with indignation. “Don’t you dare. You leave Meg Ryan out of this.”

I can’t help the choked laugh that escapes me. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was bringing Meg Ryan into it.”

Cynthie just glares at me and moves in her seat again. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that she’s nervous. She’s been needling me in increasingly bizarre ways in between every interview, presumably to let off some steam. It’s been a delightful way to keep my blood pressure elevated to a dangerous level.

The hotel where the press junket is taking place is a smart location in central London, and—not that I’d ever admit it to Cynthie—the frantic pace of the thing has my head spinning too. Each reporter has had about ten minutes to fire rapid questions at us. The majority of the questions have been the same thing over and over, so it’s been difficult to maintain an appearance of interest and make our answers sound warm and spontaneous.

I will grudgingly admit that Cynthie has actually been doing a good job, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—she’s perfectly capable of being charming with anyone who isn’t me. I don’t want to think about why that hurts my feelings.

Hurts my feelings.

This woman is reducing me to the emotional state of a thirteen-year-old girl doodling in her diary. I hate that I’m still into her… more into her than ever, but I’ve given her plenty of openings to show me anything but vicious animosity, and she’s turned away from me every time.

I thought after what happened at Alveston things might be different, but after we slept together, she just… shut down. I don’t know what the hell there is between us besides animosity, but at this point, I’d love for it to disappear because it’s making everything much more difficult than it needs to be.

Suzy sticks her head round the door. “You guys ready for the last one?”

Cynthie and I both make noises of agreement, and Suzy comes in with two bottles of cold water (still for Cynthie, sparkling for me, and I can practically feel the woman beside me roll her eyes). A young guy follows behind her, looking cheerful and enthusiastic, which must be easy when you haven’t been at this for five long, long hours.

“I’m VJ from the Observer,” he says, shaking our hands.

We all exchange pleasantries while VJ gets comfortable in the chair across from us and sets up to record our answers.

“So,” he says brightly, diving in. “A Lady of Quality. Tell me a bit about the film.”

We go into our usual spiel about the pair of starstruck lovers we play, passing the conversational baton between us with ease.

“But if you want to know what happens, you’ll have to watch the film,” Cynthie finishes with a cheeky grin.

VJ chuckles. “Fair enough.” He looks down at his notes. “Jack, this is your first film, but you’re no stranger to the world of movie-making. Did your parents have any helpful tips or guidance for you stepping into the role?”

“I’m lucky that my parents are so supportive,” I say, and I’ve repeated the words so many times I almost believe them myself. “Actually,” I hear myself saying, “the person who gave me the best guidance was Cynthie.”

“Oh, really?” VJ perks up.

Cynthie flashes me a look of suspicion. I can’t blame her; I’m deviating from our script.

“Yes,” I carry on, not sure why I’ve brought this up. “Cynthie reminded me that making a film is about the joy of creating, that this job we do is supposed to be fun. I think maybe that’s something I’d lost sight of.”

Cynthie’s eyes narrow, and it takes me a moment to realize why: that particular conversation took place the night of the bonfire, and she thinks I’m bringing it up to mess with her. She assumes I’m making fun of her, when the truth is that the words just spilled out of me, and what she said that night has been ringing in my ears for all these months.

Not that I’m going to tell her that. She’s spent every interview so far hiding clever little barbs toward me in all her answers.

“I don’t think I’d take my advice over Caroline Turner and Max Jones,” Cynthie says lightly, “but it’s kind of Jack to say so.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love picking Mum and Dad’s brains when it comes to work. They’re the best.”