by Lissa Bilyk
I took the opportunity to sit down because my feet were killing me. I couldn’t do too much longer in these too-small boots - my toes felt like they were getting crushed. I had to act quick or my night would be over.
The entire team sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Juliet, and beside me Ellie gave me a thumbs-up as she effortlessly added a soprano trill to the simple tune.
Although we were clearly all a team tonight, all equals, you could tell who belonged to the backstage crew and who the onstage cast was. The backstage crew all wore black - through some subconscious uniform, I suppose, or at least from those who didn’t come straight from the theatre. The actors wore more colourful clothes, like Juliet’s pink party dress and Cameron’s lime green 70s style shirt paired with faded blue jeans. On anyone else, that colour would look ridiculous, but Cameron had the golden tan to pull it off. I tried not to make it obvious I was watching him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Juliet made a quick speech to thank everyone for coming and then started handing out cake slices. With Cameron standing only two steps away from me I was very nearly too nervous to eat a slice – what if he didn’t see me because I was fat and so far beneath the hotties he normally dated?
The music started again and I stood to go to the bar. Juliet threw herself in front of me and shouted over two of the backstage crew’s warbling.
“What?” I shouted back, miming that I couldn’t hear her.
She put her mouth closer to my ear and yelled, “Let’s sing something!”
“Oh no,” I shouted. “I would need to drink a lot more to get up on that stage and make a fool of myself.”
Juliet grabbed my arm and marched me to the bar where we proceeded to down shots in an attempt to loosen me up.
“What’s the big deal, it’s just karaoke!” Juliet said as we both downed our third shot, a banana cream liqueur. “No one cares if you’re good or not.”
That was easy for her to say, I thought to myself as my gaze wandered over to Cameron standing with his back to us, laughing and joking with some of the other guys. His ass looked so great in those snug jeans. Juliet followed my gaze and her mouth snapped open.
“No way! Do you have a thing for Cameron?”
“Shhh!” I hissed, thrusting another shot at her. “Don’t be so loud!”
“Why not, Tori?” she said, handing me a fourth. “He’s a handsome young man, and you’re obviously in need of a good shag.”
I felt my face burn from a combination of embarrassment and alcohol. “There’s no way someone like him would even look twice at someone like me. I’m a nobody.”
She grabbed my hand. “Then it’s time you got his attention.”
She hauled me off the bar stool and we wormed our way to the stage just as the crew members finished their song to a smattering of applause. She bent her head close to the DJ and made a request while I stood there fiddling with the low shoulders on my dress. The DJ nodded, smiled, and started the search for Juliet’s request.
“What have you done?” I asked Juliet as she handed me a microphone.
“Just follow my lead,” she said with a coy smile as a familiar upper register piano tune started over the speakers.
Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush.
I swallowed hard, the butterflies exploding in my stomach. This was not a song for amateurs.
Juliet started effortlessly. She covered the first two lines as the rest of the crowd quietened to watch us.
I was still nervous, but the alcohol had removed the ‘what if’ part of my brain that normally held me back. So what if I screwed up, or my voice cracked, or I lost the tune? It was only a bit of fun. The big question was, what if I could actually pull it off?
I joined Juliet for the third line and the rest of the verse. With each word and each note I felt my anxiety leaving my body. I felt relaxed and happy, which always happens to me when I sing. The audience responded with whoops and yells. By the time we got to the chorus the whole crowd burst into drunken cheers - this cheesy 80s pop song was the show’s obvious anthem, our signature song.
I was halfway through the chorus when I realised Juliet had stopped singing along with me. That was my voice and mine alone I heard on the speakers. I didn’t sound terrible – I had the strength and training to pull it off in my head voice, but my voice, as always, sounded distorted, strange to my ears. I was far too used to singing just for me, in my head. Juliet motioned for me to sing to the crowd, not to her, so I turned to my adoring fans and addressed them.
That’s when we locked eyes. Across a crowded room, a piercing blue gaze pinpointed me, struck through me, saw straight to my soul. A half-smile played on dangerously sexy lips.
And for the first time, Cameron Campbell noticed me.
Chapter Three
Early the next morning, John paged me from front of house when I was upstairs in the lighting booth ironing out some issues with the follow spotters. I left a script I’d scribbled instructions all over and raced back down the stairs, through the auditorium to John’s side by the sound desk.
“Yes?”
“I need you to go pick up Cameron, love,” he said to me. “His car’s broken down.”
Pick up Cameron Campbell? Alone? Me and him, alone in my car?
No. What if I threw up on him from the sheer nerves of being so close to sex personified? What if I made a complete arse of myself in front of him? I didn’t trust myself not to keep cool, and that was enough for me.
“I didn’t bring my car,” I lied to John. “I caught the train.”
A few of the production crew sniggered because I said ‘train’ instead of ‘tube’.
“Take mine, then.” John threw his keys at me like he’d done a dozen times before: to pick up some late-night catering, retrieving bits and bobs he’d forgotten while he was in ‘the zone’ – which is what he called it when he was watching the play in his head and no one was allowed to bother him – and to ferry other cast members’ children around while their parents were trapped at the theatre under John’s tyrannical reign.
“Why can’t he catch a cab?” I asked. “I don’t know where he lives.”
John told me the address, then added, “a cab, in this traffic? They’ll make him late to turn a profit. Now go on, off with you! We’re going to re-block some scenes now we’ve seen how the costumes work.”
He didn’t need to justify kicking me out of the theatre – his words were to inform the production crew the plan while they waited for the most important cast member to arrive.
I punched the address into my phone’s GPS as I stomped back through the auditorium to the front of house foyer, and pushed open the heavy side entrance door. Outside it was chilly, a crisp November morning with the threat of impending snow.
My first winter in London. I was quite intimidated by driving through central London already, with all the tolls and crazy cab drivers. I didn’t need a snowfall to complicate things.
John’s car was one of those mid-life crisis red convertibles. With only two doors, it made ferrying cast members’ growing broods around fun and playing designated driver a nightmare. But it was a small car, adept at weaving through the complicated London streets, and it was fuel efficient, which was another bonus with petrol prices so high.
It took me half an hour to navigate the busy London streets and make it out into the quieter - but still busy - outer London. London natives always seemed to be surprised when it snowed during wintertime. The local councils were never prepared and some had even taken to selling off the grit during the summer because they couldn’t possibly imagine needing it during an English winter. Snow? What snow? They would rather dance around in their underwear completely oblivious to the fact that London wasn’t that far from the Arctic Circle.
I pulled up outside Cameron’s apartment. It was one of those swanky Notting Hill gated complexes, all big and clean and imposing, with big black and gold gates and an intercom. It was entirely different to my shabby one bedroom Kensington apa
rtment, which was only just big enough to swing a cat. Not that my cat, Bronte, would appreciate me trying to swing her around in our little home.
John’s car fit right in here, and by association, so did I.
I buzzed for the reception, and was greeted with curt, “Yes?”
Taken aback, I said, “Um... I’m here for Cameron Campbell?” Like it was a question.
The girl on the other end chuckled. “You and everyone else. He’s expecting you, I presume?”
So he had a lot of people over at his apartment? It didn’t surprise me in the least. Before we started working together on Wuthering Heights I’d seen him in all the gossip magazines with a different girl on his arm at each red carpet event. The man had a reputation for never having a real relationship.
“My name is Victoria,” I said, my face burning. “I’m from Cameron’s work. Can you please let him know I’m down here?”
I heard her sigh before the intercom switched off and the big black gates swung open, inviting me in. I gunned the car and edged my way in, being extra careful not to nick John’s car on the walls lining the narrow road. There was one way in, and one way out, and the manicured grounds were impeccably maintained, bright green grass and rich black bitumen set off by waist-high grey stone retaining walls and a clean, manicured flower garden.
By the time I reached the reception – seriously, who had a reception where they lived? – Cameron came flying out the door, one arm in his jacket and the other grabbing at a satchel bag that looked dangerously close to spilling its contents. He clutched a thermos travel mug close to his chest.
Yanking open the door he launched into the car, almost slamming it shut on his own foot, before simultaneously dropping the bag and handing me the thermos. He buckled his seatbelt, still with only one arm in his jacket, and only then did he look at his chauffer. He had a smudge of something dark on the corner of his mouth, marring his perfect full, kissable lips. Nutella?
“Oh, hi,” he said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Um... Victoria, isn’t it?”
“Tori,” I said, tearing my gaze from his mouth and pretending I didn’t want it on my throat, nibbling gently. “What’s this?”
“Coffee. For a thank you.”
I tried to smile. My face heated up and my heart thrummed in my chest.
“Thank you,” I managed to say, “but I don’t drink coffee.”
His mouth dropped open, but he took the thermos back, and I edged the car out of the long driveway.
After a few moments, when we were back on the main road, he said, “Tea?”
“Pardon?”
“What you drink instead of coffee. Let me guess – you’d be the Earl Grey type. No nonsense, practical.”
“Um... I don’t drink tea, either,” I confessed, feeling like I was twelve years old. What grown-up doesn’t drink tea or coffee? “Hot chocolate.” I darted a glance at him and decided to drop a hint. “Milo, when I can get my hands on it.”
He stared at me for a few moments and I thought my heart might stop. “I thought you were Australian. John never said. Where do you find Milo? In Sainsbury’s?”
“I get it delivered off Amazon,” I told him, relaxing at last. “It helps with the homesickness.”
He laughed. “Mine is Vegemite. Cheese and Vegemite on toast. It’s the bomb.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” I said. He looked at me questioningly. “You’ve got a little...” I indicated to my own mouth. He flipped the visor down and groaned. “I forgot to wash my face. I’m not normally this much of a slob, you know,” he continued as he scrubbed at the offending brown smudge, “but when my car wouldn’t start it threw off my morning routine. I missed my run this morning as well.”
“You run in this weather?” I asked, feeling a lot more comfortable. I mean sure, Cameron Campbell sat about three inches away as I drove a cool little car through London, but at least he seemed friendly enough now that he was forced to talk to me or endure an awkward silence.
“I run in all weather, except when it’s icy. My insurance doesn’t cover my own clumsiness.”
And with that simple throwaway remark, I remembered that this wasn’t a simple ferrying job. Cameron wasn’t a regular guy, and if circumstances were different, he still wouldn’t know my name. Cameron was a famous actor who insured his own body whilst I, Victoria Walker, was nothing more than a chubby Australian expat who lived in a shitty apartment and was reduced to driving around celebrities and running John’s errands.
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, which returned with a vengeance. You get what you can take, and if I had half an hour alone with Cameron, I wasn’t about to regret it.
“Nice singing last night, by the way,” he said, taking a sip of coffee, casual.
“Oh... you heard that?” It was a dumb thing to say, but the first thing my brain thought of was to play it cool and coy, so it leaped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“It kind of felt like you were singing it just for me.”
“Ha ha!” I practically screamed. “Whatever would make you think that?”
“Well, because I’m playing Heathcliff,” he said slowly, as if I were stupid.
Oh yeah, that. This coy thing wasn’t working to plan.
“It was Juliet’s idea,” I finally said. Totally lame, Tori.
“Are you close with her?”
What was with all the questions? “Um... Kind of. She’s been very nice to me, while I’ve been learning the job, and she’s a good friend. I get lonely.”
What the fuck? I’d just told the hottest guy in London, one who was known for sleeping around, that the ugly fat foreign girl gets lonely. He must have been about five seconds away from laughing in my face. Lonely? How do you get lonely in London, kid?
“Homesick,” I corrected myself.
“How long have you been here?” His voice was surprisingly gentle. He was an expat, too. Maybe he could relate to my pain.
“Six months.”
“And how long have you been working for John?”
I blinked. Of course he wouldn’t remember that I’ve seen him nearly every day for two months. No, I meant nothing to Cameron Campbell, and I just had to remember that. “I started doing his paperwork about four months ago before the production started.”
“Do you like working for him?”
I smiled. “It’s… interesting. It’s not exactly what I had in mind. I was meant to just be an office assistant and I didn’t know much about theatre, but I did entertain the notion that perhaps they meant ‘assistant director’ instead of ‘director’s assistant’. It was my mistake to make, and there’s no way I’d ever get a paying job as an assistant director with no experience in theatre, not at nineteen years old anyway. But I like the work, it keeps me busy, and I think John’s a genius.”
I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to ramble. I snuck a sideways look at Cameron, checking over my shoulder as I merged the car. He had a gorgeous smile on his lips, thoughtful, as he sipped his coffee.
“I’ve not worked with John before, either,” he said quietly. “But he can be intense. Tyrannical, I’ve heard it said.”
Before long we were back at the theatre.
“Can I see your phone?” he said as I pulled up out the front to let him out.
I handed it to him wordlessly. I would have gladly passed over my left lung if he’d asked for it. He punched in something and handed it back.
“What’s this?” I said, unable to check because I was technically still driving, even if the car was idle.
“My phone number.”
My heart leapt in my throat.
“So that next time this happens – if this happens – you can just call me directly, and not have to go through reception.”
Of course. He was being practical. Of course he wasn’t just giving you his number, you silly, lonely little girl.
Cameron threw open the door and I mostly resisted the temptation to check out his butt in those jeans. I only looked once be
fore I parked John’s car. By the time I made it back to the auditorium Cameron was onstage and in costume, blocking scenes with Juliet and the other cast members. Back to work in his world, while I stayed in mine.
Chapter Four
After rehearsal I quickly packed up my belongings. It was dark out, and cold, and I wanted to go home and snuggle Bronte, who had seen way too little of me lately and might now only think of me as the lady that brings the tuna.
I’d missed out on eating lunch with the cast and crew because John had me running off to make photocopies of tomorrow’s last-minute changed schedule, so I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Cameron. Or even loiter nearby while he talked to more important people. When he wasn’t onstage rehearsing he was backstage having adjustments made to his costumes and discussing wigs and makeup with his entourage. While that happened I was stuck in the auditorium next to John and Christie, the stage manager, making notes and keeping people from bothering John as he went into ‘the zone’ and re-blocked an entire scene. With less than a week left until opening night, that was a risky move, but he felt it necessary, and I had to admit, the scenes flowed better now.
“Tori?”
I gasped in surprise and dropped my bag, the contents spilling onto the floor. Pens rolled under the theatre seats, papers went flying, hair clips scattered, and my tampon case landed at Cameron’s feet. My face burned as I knelt to pick up everything. Cameron hunted for my missing pens and handed them back.
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
“You startled me, that’s all.” I took a deep breath. The theatre was creepy when it was empty.
“I, um…” He fidgeted. “I was wondering if you wanted to catch a cab together?”
I looked up at him from my kneeling position, brushed the hair from my eyes. Tried not to think that his crotch was level with my face. “What?”
