Breaking Character

by Lee Winter

Elizabeth didn’t blame her. This was stressful and difficult, no matter how it was veiled in professionalism and technicality.

  They watched again, and Elizabeth was amazed she hadn’t noticed before how cleverly the doubles manipulated their bodies or the sheet to always shield the other. Teasing but not revealing. Impressive.

  “You see?” he asked.

  They both nodded.

  Jean-Claude reached into a drawer and pulled out a pair of tablets. “There are copies on these for you to study in detail. Learn this until you know it frontwards and backwards. Understand?”

  “It’s like a dance,” Summer said, taking one. “So we learn it like that. Sure.”

  “Exactly. You two are my primas, locked in a partnership and a duel. I need you to make us believe. That’s why I chose lovers. Relationships always have layers, like Lucille and Elspeth. There is love. There is war. Fear and confidence. Above all, longing. Learn your moves. Learn the music changes. Learn the sheets. So tomorrow, when we shoot, the music will be my voice and you will simply… dance.”

  They spent the next three hours, side by side, flopped on Elizabeth’s bed, watching the video on repeat.

  “Why does the music change there?” Summer asked. “What’s different? What’s the transition he’s marking? They’re still kissing.” Well, not kissing. They were mashing lips together until the music changed again.

  “Yes, they’re still kissing,” Elizabeth replied, “if you could call it that, but for the first time, Elspeth initiates a kiss with Lucille, not the other way around. The music shift is hanging a lantern on the fact that Elspeth is worn down and turns the tables on her lover.”

  “Worn down? That sounds like she’s just tired of fighting and is giving in to pressure.”

  “She is.” Elizabeth took a sip of tea. “But it’s her own internal pressure, remember. Lucille is her, too. Elspeth wants this but hates admitting it. So here’s the moment she admits it to herself and finally reaches for her lover.”

  “So she’d look frustrated with herself there?” Summer mulled it over. “Or even relieved that she finally knows what she wants?”

  “A bit of both. Either way, I think Lucille would milk that and look triumphant she’s won.”

  “Yeah.” Good point. Summer made a mental note to play it that way. “Still, though…winners and losers. It sounds like a war.”

  “Because it is.” Elizabeth dragged the video slider backwards. “Listen to the music here. It’s building up the scene like a battle charge. And here, when it changes? It’s saying, ‘And now it begins’.”

  “Wow.” Summer rested her chin on her hand. “How do you know so much about deconstructing scenes like that?”

  “At Cambridge we examined the subtext and layers.”

  Cambridge? Not Grace? So Elizabeth’s glorious mentor didn’t teach her everything she knows after all?

  Elizabeth was looking at her strangely.

  “What?”

  “I sometimes think you have something else you’d rather say.”

  “No. Nothing at all.” Summer arranged her features to innocent.

  A doubtful look crossed Elizabeth’s face. “Hmm. So how are you feeling about all this?” She flicked her wrist toward the screen, showing two women frozen mid-clench.

  “Musical transitions are locked,” Summer said. “I can remember the sheet positioning now too. So that’s the when and the where sorted out.”

  Just not the how. If I act my heart out, will it be obvious? And will I be taking advantage of Elizabeth somehow? It was a conundrum she still hadn’t figured out. She needed to, soon.

  “But?” Elizabeth said.

  “But what?”

  “Again, it feels like you’re not saying everything.” Elizabeth frowned. “Look, I know it’s hard for you…”

  She had no idea.

  “Sex scenes always are,” Elizabeth continued.

  No kidding.

  “I hated my first sex scene too,” she finished.

  “When was that?”

  “Hunt and Mendez. It was so unnatural. I hated being touched intimately by someone I don’t know that well. I survived, obviously. But, still, I know it’s not easy. You just have to push through. Although many actors like to get a little drunk, too, if all else fails.”

  “No thanks.” Summer wanted her head clear.

  “Anyway, I think Jean-Claude’s analogy is excellent. This is a dance. We just have to learn the moves. So, do you want to try for a physical rehearsal?”

  “Uh…” Summer really didn’t. But they should try this a few times before facing the crew. That’d be so much worse. “I guess.”

  “Here’s a blanket we can use to practice protecting my dignity.” She arched an eyebrow. “We must get that right at least.”

  Summer gave a tight laugh. “Okay.” Practical stuff. Right, she could do this. How hard could it be to move at a given time, twist at another beat, and so on? She nodded. It’d be fine.

  Chapter 15

  Make-up was quite an…experience. Elizabeth was presently being examined, top to bottom, in a barely there beige thong, by an elderly Brazilian woman with a perpetual scowl and some sort of bronzing sponge clutched in her hand.

  What was she looking for anyway? A treasure map?

  “Tan lines,” the heavily accented woman finally muttered, half to herself. She waggled a finger at Elizabeth as though the mere thought of such lines was a personal slight. “Terrible on film. I erase. Also freckles and scars.” She finally put down the sponge without using it. “No tan marks. Good.” Her expression was grim. “Not like your co-star.”

  For a pleasing moment Elizabeth imagined, in detail, Summer’s tan lines. Did she get to the beach often? Or was it all those pool parties at her parents’ house?

  After being waved out the door, Elizabeth soon found herself on set in nothing more than a thong and a cotton-weave robe. Thank God for heaters. She looked around, cinching her robe tightly around her waist. Perched on the edge of the bed, also in a robe, script in hand, was Summer.

  She glanced up at Elizabeth’s arrival. Her still expression didn’t look natural in the least.

  Before Elizabeth could approach, Jean-Claude dropped onto the bed beside her, whispering something. He pulled a face and made her laugh. Patting her shoulder, he rose, reaching for the script in her hand as he did, stealing it. “Non, non, you already know this. It is not needed.”

  Summer’s expression was now approaching terror.

  Hell. Was this going to be a train wreck like last night? Every time they’d practiced the transition scene, where Elspeth takes the sexual initiative from Lucille, everything had gone wrong. Summer would lose her place or freeze or forget her next action or do things in the wrong order. By their sixth attempt, she’d actually started stammering.

  Eventually Elizabeth had decided the rehearsals were becoming counterproductive and sent her back to her trailer to spare them both the ordeal, praying it’d be okay on the day.

  Now, here they were. Elizabeth wondered, as she had most of last night, what was up with Summer?

  Summer’s eyes adjusted to the warm orange and red lighting in Elspeth’s shack, which didn’t actually look like a hellscape, despite Elizabeth’s warning. It was soft and enticing. Music played from some hidden CD player, something French and daring to set the mood.

  Elizabeth arrived, somehow managing to make a waffle-weave robe look chic. How does she do that? And moments later, Jean-Claude appeared at Summer’s side, cracked a joke, then stole her security blanket. She watched in horror as her script left her white-knuckled grip. Summer considered protesting, but the man didn’t look in the negotiating mood.

  He turned to Elizabeth. “And how are you? Did you rehearse well? How did it go?”

  Summer sneaked a look at Elizabeth, whose face gave nothing away.
They’d spent hours in rehearsal hell last night, with Summer’s body draped all over Elizabeth’s, and every time, every single damned time, her thudding heart and tingling skin had reminded her just how attracted she was to the woman. Her hyper-awareness kept making her forget what she was doing.

  Every time Elizabeth had tried to practice the power shift from Lucille to Elspeth, she had actually kissed Summer. With lips. Nothing spectacular—just a brush against Summer’s mouth to signify the turning point. But the softness and warmth of those lips was so overwhelming that Summer couldn’t think. So she froze or flinched or stammered out her lines.

  Elizabeth had finally thrown up her hands and called it a night. It had all been terribly British and polite, but she’d effectively kicked Summer out.

  Humiliating.

  “We did a lot of rehearsing,” Summer said, aware Jean-Claude needed some sort of answer.

  Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “That we did.”

  Summer couldn’t work out whether she was being made fun of or not.

  “Good.” Jean-Claude rose. “We’ll do a rehearsal so you can show me. Then if that’s fine, we’ll go straight to shooting.”

  He headed for the small music player on a table out of camera view, stopped what was playing, and hit another button.

  The music from their rehearsal video began.

  Summer took a deep breath and threw herself into the scene. Relief burned through her when she said her lines correctly, hit all the right beats, sliding and turning when she was meant to, taunting with just the right amount of cockiness, and then…

  Elizabeth kissed her. And it wasn’t just a brush of lips this time. It was strong, demanding, and needy. Elizabeth’s aroused look and soft mouth undid her, just as they had last night.

  Summer flinched.

  Shit!

  Elizabeth ignored it and kept going, and they somehow got through the rest of the scene.

  Jean-Claude stopped the music and came back to stand in front of them.

  Sliding a look at Elizabeth’s face, Summer was impressed at the woman’s neutral mask, as though she’d seen nothing amiss.

  Jean-Claude, however, was frowning. He didn’t comment, though, and Summer appreciated him not making a big deal about her messing up.

  “Let’s…try it once more, hmm?”

  They did it again. This time, instead of flinching, she turned away just before the kiss, so Elizabeth’s lips ended up chastely plastered on her cheek.

  Jean-Claude stopped the scene immediately and studied her for a painfully long moment. “Maybe you are over-rehearsed, hmm?” he suggested. “Forget rehearsals. You know the moves. You know the lines. So let’s just do it. Prepare. We’ll shoot in a moment.”

  Over-rehearsed? Over-stimulated, more like. All Summer’s nerves jangled with tension as the lighting techs busied themselves and the hair and make-up women made final touch-ups.

  Elizabeth met her gaze. “You feeling any better?”

  With a sharp look, Summer replied, “We’ll get it done.”

  Elizabeth nodded and shot her an encouraging smile. “We will.”

  “We’re ready.” Jean-Claude glanced behind him and gave a signal.

  A shout went up to clear the set. Before long, almost everyone had traipsed out.

  Summer looked up. A crane arched its neck into the room, over the bed, a remote-head camera twirling on the end.

  “Places everyone. Robes off.” Jean-Claude retreated out of sight.

  Elizabeth slid under the sheet and removed her robe quickly, handing it to the waiting wardrobe woman. Summer copied her, then began draping the sheet as they’d rehearsed. Her mood grew grimmer as the seconds counted down. Jean-Claude scampered over, changed the position of the sheet slightly, nodded to himself, and disappeared again.

  Elizabeth lay on her back, her hands above her head. Immediately Summer scuttled forward, straddled her hips, and leaned forward, clasping her wrists with her hands. It had the effect of covering Elizabeth, allowing her some measure of privacy from the mechanical eye watching them from above.

  Protect the queen.

  What a random saying. Trust her to think of it now. Summer swallowed back hysterical laughter. Okay, don’t lose it. I can do this. Just don’t look down. Don’t notice how warm and soft Bess feels.

  Summer glanced down in spite of herself, and immediately regretted it as her mind blanked at the sight of Elizabeth’s bare breasts. Full, pale, and her rosy-tipped nipples were… Shit! She snapped her head back up. Damn it!

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elizabeth peer up at her, clearly trying to understand what was going on.

  “I’m okay,” Summer mumbled. “It’ll be fine.” Her jaw clenched.

  Before Elizabeth could reply, Jean-Claude called, “Speed. Rolling, and…action.”

  The camera moved over. The music began. And everything seemed to disappear.

  Summer let her fingers drift to Elizabeth’s neck, and Lucille’s first line came to her. “How long has it been? How long since warm hands touched your skin? Hands that weren’t your own?” Her fingers danced against flesh. So soft.

  “Not that long.” Elizabeth stared mutinously into Summer’s eyes.

  “Liar,” Summer retorted. “It’s been four years. Nine months. Twelve days. Three hours.” She tapped each time period out on the delicate skin where base of neck met shoulder.

  Elizabeth gasped. “How can you know that?”

  “You still have to ask?” She tilted her head, meeting Elizabeth’s eye. “You must know. Suspect?”

  “No.” Confusion crossed her face.

  “Then I’ll have to make you understand.” Summer flung herself forward and kissed Elizabeth hard, pressing their bodies together.

  The smoothness of Summer’s skin, the heat, and the press of her bare breasts against Elizabeth’s own burned into her. It was pleasant, extremely so, a detached part of her brain noted. Why wouldn’t it be? Summer was beautiful, after all. But the longer it went on, it was hard not to notice something else. How it was all very…well…mechanical?

  Maybe Elizabeth was being too harsh. That’s what any film’s sex scenes were when you broke them down. Action followed by action until the director shouted “Cut”. This was normal, right?

  What wasn’t normal, though, was the tension emanating from her co-star. The tightness at Summer’s mouth, in her eyes, in the vice-like grip of her hands around Elizabeth’s wrists. Summer rolled when she was meant to, arched on cue, turned at the right moment, shifted the sheet perfectly to protect Elizabeth. But the whole time she looked thoroughly wretched.

  Elizabeth did her best to inject something more into the scene to compensate. She gave Elspeth a pissed-off heat and responded with fervent kisses to show her attraction, but it was like trying to make out with a piece of marble.

  “Cut!”

  Jean-Claude strode across the room and crouched by the bed near Summer, who immediately flung the sheet over them both.

  He shook his head. “You are too tight, Summer, dear. Too…” he clenched his arm muscles in demonstration. “That. The camera, it sees. You will fix it?” He waited for her curt nod and retreated again.

  Summer slowly readjusted the sheet back to the start position, waited for Elizabeth to stretch her arms out again, then aligned herself over her and waited.

  “Speed. Rolling.”

  Staring up into Summer’s detached, distant, hooded eyes, Elizabeth saw nothing familiar. Someone on autopilot. Where was her friend? The woman whose humanity was infectious? A chill skittered through her as she studied those empty eyes.

  “Action!”

  The music began again. The camera returned to its starting position.

  It was even worse this time. Having an acutely self-conscious Summer visibly forcing herself to gyrate against Elizabeth made h
er feel like the worst monster. Elspeth was supposed to experience a well of pent-up lust, but the best Elizabeth could do was desperately push down her pity.

  This had to be so obvious. Even the body doubles’ wooden version of the scene was looking more authentic at this point. She slid her hand through Summer’s hair and nuzzled her neck. Such a nice neck. A shame the cords were jutting out taut as violin strings.

  “Cut!”

  Impatience crossed Jean-Claude’s features. “What is going on?” he asked, coming over to them. “Tell me what’s happening?”

  A redness crawled up Summer’s neck. She didn’t speak.

  “I think maybe we’re just not relaxed yet,” Elizabeth suggested in the soothing tone she reserved for unpredictable directors.

  “Hmm.” Jean-Claude rubbed his chin. “We’ll go again. Maybe this time, you don’t look like you’re off to a firing squad? This is supposed to be hot, exciting. Oui? Focus on each other, forget the characters. Maybe act that heat you feel?”

  Summer tried for a smile, but it didn’t even come close.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  The next half dozen takes were worse than miserable. Elizabeth gritted her teeth each time Summer gathered her wrists into that iron grip, and exhaled only when “Cut” was called. After every take, Summer’s face immediately crumpled into anxiety and frustration. She seemed close to tears.

  Finally Jean-Claude swore in French, then in English, and told everyone else to leave the set.

  His hands were on his hips when he slowly turned and addressed them. “You know why I chose you both,” he began. “Authenticity. And yet on screen, it’s like you’ve never touched each other in your life. It is so flat.” He gave them a suspicious look. “Why is that?”

  Oh hell. Is he about to work it out?

  “Jean-Claude,” Summer began.

  “Non.” His eyes narrowed, and Elizabeth could almost see the cogs whirring. “Do you remember that French lesbian film that won the Palme d’Or a few years back? The Blue color thing?” He tutted. “Personally, not to my tastes. The sex scene? Too long, boring, like watching robots grinding. The director cast two straight women in it. This can work if you find women with chemistry, who can overcome being outside their comfort zone. But in that movie, the actresses admitted later they felt vulnerable and exploited. And the director? He had not known. He declared his film forever sullied by their words.”