Super for You, Bad for Me

by Asta Idonea

  Barry emerged from behind the cameras and gave Kane a few notes before waddling over to me.

  “It looked good, kid. You did well.” He patted me on the back, careful to avoid the slime that slopped slowly down my face, shoulders, and chest. “Go get cleaned up. We won’t need you again until the disco scene this afternoon. Oh, and tell my assistant your name before you head off. If we use the scene, you’ll get a credit.”

  How my heart soared! For one blissful moment, a swell of pride and satisfaction eclipsed the discomfort and lingering tenderness from my fall. But then some of the gunk oozed into my eye, sticking the lashes together, and my back twinged, reminding me that I probably wouldn’t walk right for a week. Cleaning up sounded more appealing by the second. Nevertheless, I paused on the way to spell out my surname to Terri, Barry’s PA, watching with a broad grin as she tapped the letters into her tablet memo pad. Oswell Outterridge. It was pretty memorable and catchy, wasn’t it? Such a snappy name surely wouldn’t look out of place gracing the top of a movie poster one day. Oswell Outterridge and Kane Teague in….

  This important task accomplished, I limped to the trailer in good spirits. Though there was no guarantee I’d make the theatrical cut, I was quietly optimistic. The shot must have looked damned realistic, considering I’d not been acting for most of it, so I thought I stood a decent chance of getting to see myself on the big screen, in full frame, in a few months’ time.

  A pleasant young woman in the wardrobe department—Maria, my memory supplied only after she’d gone—helped me peel off the slime-caked layers and directed me to a compact but functional shower. I turned on the taps, full and hot, and stepped beneath the spray, sighing as the water rinsed away the remaining goo and the steam eased my aches and pains.

  Eyes closed, I let my mind drift back to the set. The action had occupied me at the time—not to mention the shock of the slime attack—but now I was at liberty to dwell on the wonderful warmth of Kane Teague’s hand in mine, and the sight of those beautiful eyes, all the more stunning in person than they appeared in even the most flattering of Susanne Bier-style extreme close-ups. For a few short minutes today, Kane Teague had acknowledged my existence. He’d spoken to me. He’d touched me. Regardless of whether or not my scene ended up on the figurative cutting room floor, I would always have that memory.

  By the time I emerged from my de-sliming session, it was already lunchtime, so I hurried to dress for the nightclub scene, happy to beat the crowd to the clothing rails for a change. Thus attired in all my fake clubbing finery, I shuffled to the catering truck. I surveyed what victuals remained following the descent of the locust-swarm of extras but found I wasn’t hungry. The taste of slime, sticky and unpleasant, remained in my mouth despite having twice run my finger over my teeth and around my gums while in the shower. I snagged a bottle of mineral water and downed that. It eased my parched throat but did nothing to dispel the strange tang. Whatever they’d used in that mixture, it was certainly potent! I had no fears of poisoning—health and safety regulations were strict these days—but I guessed I might have to wait a few hours for it to fade. By tomorrow, everything would be back to normal, no doubt. In the meantime, I didn’t have the luxury of time to ponder a few inconveniences like a sore back and a sour taste in my mouth. Not when we still had a full afternoon of filming ahead.

  Chapter Two

  I EXPERIENCED mild discomfort all afternoon, but I got through the rest of the day, skipped dinner, and decided to make the most of an early night. I puffed the pillows and burrowed beneath the covers, eager for some shut-eye. However, it wasn’t long before sharp agony destroyed all my hopes of a healing sleep.

  I woke in the dark, clutching my stomach, wracked with pain. My scream hung in the air, loud and shrill. One of my fellow lodgers banged on the wall and yelled, “Keep the fucking noise down!” The voice sounded distant and muffled, as if a Barney covered the speaker. More than just the dividing wall separated us; I inhabited a strange cocoon that cut me off from the rest of the world. My breaths were heavy pants, and sweat beaded my forehead, the occasional drop trickling into my hair as I fought to still my shaking body. I couldn’t stop trembling. If I hadn’t been conscious of my surroundings, I might have thought I was having a seizure.

  Freezing one moment, my teeth chattering, I yanked the covers up to my chin and huddled beneath them, only to throw them off in the next instant, so hot I feared my skin would blister and peel, stripping away layer after layer, like a scene from a horror movie. What the hell was wrong with me? Was it food poisoning? Yet I’d hardly touched a bite all day.

  I glanced to the left, to the bedside table where my mobile phone rested, alongside an ancient radio alarm clock and a grotty landline telephone—a relic from the last century. I wanted to call for help. However, the numbers on the digital clock face blurred, illegible, and when I tried to reach for the mobile, my weak and fumbled attempts to lift it sent it crashing to the floor instead. Who was I going to call, anyway? My mother? There was little she could do from up in York. An ambulance? I’d feel a prize idiot when they told me it was only a stomach bug and implied I’d wasted their time. Although, this wasn’t like any incident of food poisoning I’d ever encountered. What if I was actually dying? Not a stage death or an exaggerated man-flu but a real end-of-the-line expiration. My final close-up.

  I rolled onto my side and dangled over the edge of the mattress, stretching my hand toward the phone. All I accomplished was to nudge it farther out of reach, and it took all my remaining energy to drag myself back into a prone position, staring at the ceiling. I slumped, exhausted, my growing terror rendering my already-erratic pulse all the more frantic as it beat a syncopated rhythm in my ears.

  The spasms in my gut gradually subsided, but I barely had time to appreciate the respite before the tingles commenced. Starting in my toes, they crept up my body. As they spread down my arms, my fingers jerked, the pads becoming unbearably hot. With supreme effort, I raised my arms high enough to peer down the length of my body to view them, and as I watched, tiny flames erupted from the tips of all ten digits.

  I emitted another panicked shriek and gathered my remaining strength to wave my arms, trying to snuff out the flames. However, the fire refused to extinguish. Meanwhile, all the loose objects in the room rose into the air and flew in every direction, some narrowly missing my head as they whizzed and swooped. Had consciousness lasted any longer, my fright might have led to a heart attack. As it was, blissful oblivion chose that moment to yank me into its oh-so-welcome embrace.

  THE INSISTENT beep of my phone alarm mingled with the cheery chorus of a pop ballad from the radio alarm clock, the cacophonic blend dragging me once more into a state of wakefulness. Coming to, I remembered the fire in my hands and flailed my arms, trying to jump out of bed. The top sheet, tangled around my legs, was the only thing that saved me from dive-bombing the threadbare carpet headfirst. This entrapment also forced me to pause long enough for my mind to register that I was no longer spontaneously combusting.

  I looked about me. Early-morning sunlight filtered into the room through the gap in the wonky curtains, highlighting the layer of dust across the top of the bedside table. Everything was in its proper place, with no sign of damage or disruption. Neither the crack in the ceiling nor the strange white stain on the peeling, faded wallpaper had changed from the day I’d moved into the temporary accommodation. All was still. All was quiet (save for the increasing traffic outside). And nothing was burnt. Indeed, there was no sign of fire anywhere in the room—no lingering smoke, no scent of scorched fabric, no piles of ash—and when I fought my way into a sitting position and studied my hands, my fingertips were pale pink as usual, the skin unblistered and unbroken.

  A dream.

  I laughed aloud at my foolishness. It had been nothing but a dream from start to finish. As real as it had felt at the time, that was the sole plausible explanation for flaming fingers and flying phones. I didn’t live in a fantasy film, after all. Clear
ly I needed to stop taking my work home with me.

  My confidence in my assessment of the situation grew as I scrambled to my feet and stretched. Last night I’d believed myself to be in agony, yet this morning I woke as fresh and limber and strong as if I’d slept undisturbed for a year. Despite the nightmare, it must have been the best sleep I’d had in ages, for I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been this bouncy before an early call.

  Thought of the time recalled my attention to my twin alarms, which still blared. I switched them off, grabbed my toiletries bag, slid my feet into my slippers, and hastened to the shared bathroom, thankful to find the cramped space empty.

  Between the stained toilet bowl and the chipped, equally dubious sink, nothing prompted me to dawdle over my ablutions, so I relieved myself, brushed my teeth, and ran a comb through my hair with all possible expediency. Normally I’d have needed to tend to my morning stubble, but today my chin felt smooth to the touch, and there was no hint of a shadow when I peered into the grimy glass. Likewise, there wasn’t any sign of the zit I’d noticed blossoming on my forehead, and my hair looked silky rather than oily, despite its slimy encounter the previous day. Perhaps the concoction had included shampoo and conditioner. That was an added bonus. It almost made up for how foul the slime had tasted sliding down my throat. Deciding to take such pleasant surprises in the humor they deserved, I whistled a jaunty tune on the way back to my room.

  “Mr. Outterridge!”

  The toiletries bag slipped from my hand. I managed to grasp the corner, but the zipper wasn’t done up all the way and my toothbrush slid out. Instinctively, I stretched my other hand toward it. The catch should have been impossible. However, I experienced an odd tingling in my fingertips, and the next thing I knew, the toothbrush rested safely in my palm. I was clearly more dexterous than I gave myself credit for. Yet that was presently the least of my concerns.

  I turned to face my landlady, clutching the toiletries bag against my chest like a makeshift shield. “Good morning, Mrs. Pearse.”

  “Don’t you good morning me. Not when I’ve had two complaints already.”

  “Two complaints, Mrs. Pearse?” I adopted my most innocent expression. It was rom-com dream fodder; however, it failed to penetrate Mrs. Pearse’s dragon-tough heart.

  “About the noise you made last night, hollering and carrying on.”

  I bristled. “I was not ‘carrying on.’ I had a nightmare. I must have cried out in my sleep. It was unintentional, I assure you.”

  “It won’t be happening again, then.” A statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

  “I certainly hope not.”

  Mrs. Pearse harrumphed, and I took that as my cue to beat a hasty retreat. Within the safety of my room, I tossed my toiletries bag and toothbrush onto the bed before stomping to the chest of drawers and rummaging to find what I needed for the day ahead, my former good mood thoroughly broken.

  Insufferable woman! The way she carried on, anyone would think she operated a five-star establishment rather than a run-down guesthouse. I’d chosen this place for my two-week tenure because it was cheap and an easy commute to the studio. At the time of my initial bad impressions, immediately upon arrival at the front gate, I’d repeated to myself that age-old adage: you get what you pay for. Since then, however, I’d decided that was too generous when it came to Mrs. Pearse’s Guesthouse. Run almost exclusively as accommodation for actors and crew involved in productions at the studio or the local playhouse, the place had a dismal appearance that left me in no need of additional reminders of just how far I was from movie stardom. In my mind, Mrs. Pearse had taken on the role of the she-devil that guarded the crossroads between extras hell and top-billed heaven. And she wasn’t willing to let anyone pass.

  A glance at the clock revealed that my brooding had threatened to make me late, so I dressed in record time, gathered a few essentials, and made a halfhearted attempted to straighten the covers on the bed. In doing so, I noticed a small black smudge on the thin, ratty blanket. For a split second, I thought it could be a scorch mark from the previous night. I shook my head. Stuff and nonsense! This blanket was probably decades old and had certainly graced the beds of countless other guests before me. The idea that someone had burnt the fabric while sneaking a forbidden cigarette was far more likely than my dream of fiery fingers proving to be true. Amazed once more by my overactive imagination, I palmed my keys and set off for work.

  Chapter Three

  I’D NEVER been so lively. Being an extra involves a lot of time spent standing around, waiting. Sometimes it can become tedious, no matter how excited you are about the production. However, for once, I didn’t tire. Mrs. Pearse’s obliteration of my good humor proved short-lived; I’d perked up again as soon as I’d arrived on set. Since then, I’d been jittery with excessive energy. Honestly, if someone had suggested an impromptu marathon, I would have whooped with delight and knocked it out of the park, despite the fact that long-distance running has never been my forte, nor something I particularly enjoy. An unfamiliar—but not unwelcome—vigor buzzed through me, and a faint yet constant hum rang in my head, low and soothing. Had I not been certain that no exotic or banned substances had passed my lips, I might have assumed I was riding a chemical high, I was that hyper.

  “How come you’re so chipper today?” My fellow extra, Brad, an obnoxious Mancunian with the look of a thug, turned his sullen countenance upon me. The dark circles under his eyes, coupled with a furrowed brow and constant squint, suggested that he’d been out on the town last night and was paying for it now.

  “Don’t know.” I shrugged and grinned. “Perhaps I’m just enjoying myself.”

  “Yeah, it’s okay for you, ’cause you got the slime gig.” Brad huffed. “Though your fall looked totally fake and you went overboard with your lines, so I doubt they’ll use the scene. It reeked of am-dram.”

  Brad, not unlike Mrs. Pearse, certainly knew how to bring down the mood. I considered turning the other cheek and claiming the moral high ground. I opted to poke out my tongue instead.

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice was eerily familiar, but in that moment, I couldn’t quite place it. Nor did I pay much attention, never suspecting its owner was addressing his words to me. It was only when a hand came down on my shoulder that I turned… and found myself face-to-face with Kane Teague.

  “Uh.”

  The power of speech abandoned me. It took all my willpower and concentration to stop my jaw from dropping in a gormless manner. A smash cut had abruptly yanked me out of one scene and plunged me into another, rendering me utterly disorientated.

  “Uh,” I said again, the second take no better than the first.

  “Listen.” Kane greeted my sudden onset of imbecility without any sign of horror or annoyance. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay. You took a solid hit yesterday. Those slime guns pack quite a punch, don’t they?” He flashed a hesitant, pearly-white smile.

  Speak, I urged myself. Say something, anything, before Kane Teague concludes that you’re a complete dimwit and walks away.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, it did take me by surprise.” Kane’s fingers still rested on my shoulder, the warm, heavy touch so distracting, it was difficult to focus on what I was saying. “But it’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. I’m not injured. It’s all good. I’m… good.” I brought my rambling monologue to a close and forced my lips tight together, lest I be tempted to spout yet more nonsense.

  “Well, that’s great. I thought you were excellent, by the way. The fall looked really convincing. I reckon they’ll keep it in.” He paused. “I didn’t catch your name before.”

  “Um, Oswell. Oswell Outterridge.”

  “Oswell Outterridge.” He cocked his head, then straightened. His grin was nearly enough to stop my heart. “Cool name.” He removed his hand from my shoulder and held it out to me. “A pleasure, Oswell. Kane Teague.”

  I shook his hand on autopilot, doing my utmost not to shiver at the firm press of his pa
lm against mine. “Yeah, I know.”

  What the hell was I saying? I cursed myself for a fool. Kane Teague—the Kane Teague—was talking to me, of his own volition, and all I could come up with were inane, obvious statements. Kane didn’t seem to mind, however. His smile widened even further and he laughed.

  “I guess you do at that.”

  Another pause. Our eyes met. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, I thought he was leaning in toward me. But then he released my hand and drew back, and I realized it was only my wild imagination at play again.

  “Well, Oswell, I hope to see you around before the end of the shoot.”

  With that, Kane Teague departed, and I stared after him, my brain as yet unwilling to return to reality after such an idyllic interlude. Had I been alone, I might have wallowed in my blissful dream state for hours. As it was, I had company.

  “I’m Oswell. Ooh, can I suck on your big, meaty cock, Mr. Teague? Can I clean your arsehole for you?” Brad demonstrated the latter with an obscene wiggle of his tongue. Then he guffawed, joined in the action by a couple of bystanders. “Smarming up to the celebs isn’t going to land you a role, you know. Those tactics only give the rest of us in the business a bad name. Speaking of which, what kind of poncy name is Oswell, anyway? It doesn’t suit you. Pig Swill. That’s what we should call you, you effing wanker.”

  Brad stepped closer, with menacing mien. However, at that moment Barry arrived and called for order. The crew separated us into two clusters for the scene, and I ended up on the opposite side of the set from Brad. It took a few minutes, but eventually the distance allowed me to restore my equilibrium, and I concentrated on the task at hand, responding to explosions and looking horrified as crew members waved plastic balls that represented future CG monsters over my head.