by M. C. Frank
“How was it?” I shout.
The rock is more than twenty meters high, and although the sea is absolutely calm right now, still he has to bend down to hear me.
“A bit slanted,” he shouts back. “I think your concentration was off.”
I am already climbing back up, my tangled hair dripping down my back, cooling my skin.
I take a deep breath and concentrate. I close my eyes and focus on listening to my heartbeat. At the last moment, I open my eyes and dive, my body a straight line, arms outstretched before my head, toes curled tightly so that there will be minimum splash.
“Perfect,” my dad whoops. “Again.”
The sun is in the middle of the sky.
It’s going to be a long day.
◊◊◊
My dad raised me all alone; it’s been just the two of us for as long as I can remember. He gave me his mother’s name, Ariadne, which I quickly abbreviated to Ari, especially when he tried to start teaching me to speak English before I had a chance to master my mother tongue, Greek. He later explained to me that English was my mother tongue as well, or at least my mother’s mother tongue, and that he felt I should be brought up with the choice of speaking it as well as Greek, should I want to.
Turns out I do want to.
As for her, well, I know little about her and care to learn even less. Not that it’s easy to forget about her, with her face showing up in every gossip magazine almost once a week. But anyway, that’s all I know about the woman. I’ve never met her, if we don’t count the one time I came out of her womb. If I met her even then, which I very much doubt.
I’ve lived on the island all my life, and not regretted one moment of it.
There isn’t a more precious place on earth. I love Corfu, with its fragrant olive branches, brown cliffs that drop into sparkling blue waters, narrow winding roads and salmon-colored houses at the harbor. It’s home.
◊◊◊
We’re driving home at about five in the afternoon, when I get my first glimpse of the ‘star’. The first time I see Wes Spencer, he’s climbing down from his obnoxious yacht.
I know yachts don’t have personalities, but this one certainly does. I mean, who names their boat ‘Laurel&Hardy’, for crying out loud?
Or L&H, as Young People magazine’s column calls it:
Kept very much under wraps, Tim Hall’s new project is said to be in production as we speak at some unnamed destination in the Mediterranean, where one or two of the stars will be arriving on Weston Spencer’s yacht, the L&H, named after celebrated comedians Laurel & Hardy.
The working title has been announced as First Sentences, a play with words on Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice’s original title, First Impressions, is a modern-day remake of the famous literary work.
Elle Burke, the actress who is set to portray the modern-day Elizabeth Bennett next to Spencer’s Mr. Darcy, has been romantically linked with him in the past, mostly during the years of their costarring as Tristan and Kat in the TV series that made them both famous, THE WATER WARS, where Burke was playing Spencer’s love-interest in seasons 6 and 7. Though rumors as to whether these two lovebirds are still together differ, we did hear from a source that an engagement (?!) isn’t far off in the future for these two.
Yep, I read it.
I had to, Coach—smirking—said it was part of my training. How I kept from gagging I’ll never know, but now I am more than sufficiently up-to-date with who my fellow-actors will be. Although I’m pretty sure I won’t be acting in fellowship with any of them, because I’m not a real actress. I’m just the stunt girl.
My part is anything that is too dangerous, unpleasant or unnecessary for the real actors to do. Exciting, isn’t it? If it weren’t for the kickboxing and climbing and snorkeling and diving and driving around in fast cars I would be the saddest person on earth.
But the truth is, I am the luckiest.
So let Wes Spencer climb out of his yacht with his white college sweater wrapped around his manly shoulders and his Ray-Banns balanced on top of his golden curls all he wants. Give me my rock any day over having to talk to him in front of a camera with a crowd of curious fans around.
A few hours later, it’s time for the first ‘event’ with the film crew. It’s supposed to be an informal meeting, just so that we’ll get to know each other. Everyone is dressed to the nines, cocktails and canapés are being served on the roof garden of one of the most expensive hotels on the island, and you can only get in with an invitation. Informal my ass. Anyway, I meet the director and producer, among others.
The famous Tim Something.
He didn’t look as intimidating in person as he does on TV, but still, my knees were wobbly the whole time. He’s this eccentric, incredibly rich man, who loves his job, so he has all this energy emanating from him, like a live wire. He’s short and twitchy, a bit ordinary really, or he would be if it wasn’t for his clear-blue stare that can stop your heart if you’ve done something to annoy him.
He says we will try to fit in the relevant stunt sequences along with the actual filming of the actors, because he doesn’t want the lighting of the water or the sky to change, which would make the scene appear unrealistic. He wants me there every day at six. In the morning.
So basically my work will have to be squeezed in-between the shoots of the actual actors, and I’ll have two directors over my head instead of one. Easy peasy.
Now I get why he is so successful. The guy is a complete control freak. I suppose he has to be, if he wants his film to be ‘perfect’. I’ve never heard of anyone doing things quite like he’s planning to. If it’s not chaos on day three I’ll take my hat off to him.
Then he takes me aside and tells me that his star, Elle Burke, doesn’t do water.
“I beg your pardon?” I say and he winces. Uh-oh.
“I know,” he shrugs.
His thin, suntanned face, gleaming under the lights (he has no hair, like not even one) takes on a what-can-you-do expression. “You’ll have to film all the water scenes for her. But don’t worry, Wes always does his own stunts. You’ll be with him, he’ll show you the ropes.”
Wes ‘does-his-own-stunts’ Spencer walks by right that second, and Tim Something is kind enough to try to introduce me.
“Mate, are you going to introduce me to every gaffer in this place?” The actor dude says to Tim, looking right through me as if I wasn’t there, and turns to ask the person next to him—Elle Burke—in a bored voice where the nearest ‘pub’ is. He’s dressed in a white shirt over tapered trousers. Damn him, I’d swear he was a fashion model, with his golden locks swept back from his forehead and those chiseled cheekbones, but the expression of utter disdain on his face makes him look the opposite of charming.
Tim just laughs and tells him not to be a word that I’m not sure what it means, but it can’t be good, and then Wes curses even more colorfully and asks again about the pub.
Elle Bourke, who is indeed stunning as far as looks go, smirks—and believe me, that is as far as her looks go, because immediately she looks like a weasel. And Oliver Sikks, Wes Spencer’s best friend who, apparently, who will be playing Charlie Bingley in the film, gives me his hand and asks me to call him “Ollie” with a sunny smile.
I look up and the dreamiest pair of blue eyes meet mine. I suck in a breath. How are these Hollywood guys so gorgeous in real life? You always see them on screen and think, well, he’ll be too short or too skinny or too pimply in real life. But this guy isn’t. He is too perfect in real life. He has a fop of dark hair hanging tantalizingly over one eye, and as he runs his hand through it to clear his vision, a muscle bulges on his arm and I can’t take my eyes off him.
He sends another heart-stopping smile in my direction and asks me to ‘join them’. I mumble something intelligible, and then Tim brings over the stunt coordinator and everyone leaves us alone to chat.
I take one look at the guy. And that’s it. Everything is a blur after that.
All I reme
mber is my mouth hanging open and my eyes bulging out of my head. I must have turned beet red, my cheeks flaming, my hands trembling, staring like a complete idiot. The coordinator looked less than impressed. Much less. Not that I blame him.
But . . . I mean it’s him. He’s my idol. I’ve been following his career for years.
His name is Matthew Lee, and he’s been described as the Brad Pitt slash Jack Nicholson of stunt actors. Every single actor, producer or crew member here treats him with so much respect, even though he’s much younger than my dad. But the guy’s a prodigy.
He gives me his hand, and introduces himself as ‘Matt’. Are you for real? I want to say. Am I supposed to work with my idol, and on top of that, just call him ‘Matt’?
Not that I can say any of it out loud. My brain has totally frozen.
He looks impossibly tall, now that I meet him in person, that’s all I can think. He’s towering a head and a half above me. His face doesn’t show in any of the movies he’s been in, but I’ve seen it online in articles. Up close, though, he looks so extremely hot, which is weird. I’ve never thought of him as anything but stunt performer goals.
But this is totally the opposite from how I’d fantasized meeting him. He purses his lips as he looks down at me, and his face is expressionless, observing me in silence. He must not be very happy with what he sees, because he stands patiently next to me for a few seconds, and then, with an abrupt flick of his glossy black ponytail, he’s gone.
I knew he was Korean, but actually he’s Korean American, they tell me afterwards. He’s brilliant, that’s what he is.
Tim Something certainly didn’t skimp on the stunt coordinator, let’s put it that way. Matthew Lee has won everything but an Oscar, since they don’t nominate stunt performers for them. He’s now in his mid-twenties, but he’s been working since his pre-teens, having performed some of the most famous stunts of all time.
That action movie with the blonde guy who jumped on and off trains to rescue trafficked children? Yep, that was him. And the other with the water Olympics where an outbreak of some disease breaks out and they have to be isolated in the stadium? He’s in practically every stunt in that movie, doing just about everything that can—and can’t—be done. Somersaulting, diving, swimming, jumping, holding his breath for ages below water to support the actors who didn’t know how to swim. The film practically shows more of him than of the star. And it won about a billion Oscars.
And now he’s a director.
No, he’s my director. He’ll be directing my stunts.
I can almost see the words forming in his brain as he walks away: ‘Ari Demos, the girl who lost her tongue. My new stunt girl. Can’t wait to start shooting.’
Great.
The next morning, I find myself again at the rock. I’m alone this time. Officially, on the map of Corfu that the tourists buy, this beach is called Glyfada, and the tiny village perched on top of the mountain that overlooks the bay is Pelekas. But we just call it ‘Rubble’.
So the Rubble and I have been having a lot of alone time this past summer, and something tells me that we’ re going to have to get to know each other even more intimately.
The beach is empty as far as the eye can see, because it is still early in the morning and the few left-over tourists of the season will not yet have woken up from last night’s parties. No yacht on the horizon either, which is also a plus, since I would prefer to do my training without an audience, drunk and indifferent though it may be.
Thankfully, none of the crew members are here today.
Bored with the warm-up, I turn on the volume of my iPod, because I know I have to finish it no matter what. Today’s not one of my best days. My muscles feel stiff and there is an annoying headache drumming in my left temple—I wonder if it’s going to build into one of the blinding migraines I have been getting lately.
Not today, I inwardly yell at myself, get it together!
I climb up the rock with slow, steady movements, and when I reach the top, I sit down on the sharp rocks for a moment to catch my breath. I lower my aching head in my hands. Across from me, the villa is almost at eye-level from up here, and I notice for the first time the intricate hedge that conceals its huge terrace from the beach below. The doors and windows are all done in Grecian style, with little elegant columns, and the walls are painted a very light yellow, which gives to the whole place the appearance of perpetual sunshine.
Below me the sea is calm and blue, almost effusing peace. I lift my arms and fall, feet-first, the cold water burning my calves and thighs almost soothingly. Then I begin to swim in a powerful front crawl towards the open horizon with no intention of coming back until the coolness of the blue-green waters has calmed me.
I am tired even before half an hour has passed.
I try to keep my strokes contained to preserve energy, and turn back towards the beach. A slight hint of panic starts at the pit of my stomach as I see that I can barely discern the outline of the shore.
Maybe that’s why I’m so tired? Did I go too fast, trying to outswim my frustration? I check my watch again and yes, that’s right, no more than thirty minutes have passed.
Okay, don’t panic, start treading water slowly and calmly, and you’ll get there. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re doing good.
I try to conjure up Coach’s voice in my head, but my breath is coming short, and it’s all I can do to just float and try to catch my breath.
And then I see it.
I can’t believe I missed it; apparently I was concentrating so hard on my movements that I did, and now it’s only a dozen strokes or so away.
It’s the boat. The stupid M&M or whatever it’s called yacht—I don’t remember its name right now, but it sounded like the candy for some reason. Great.
Man, it looks huge close up. I read that it’s got twin Volvo Penta IPS600 diesels and it’s over fifty-six feet. I have to admit, it looks impressive up close. Pretentious or not, the guy is rich, so why shouldn’t he buy a beauty like that if he can? I know I would. Imagine how it would feel to cruise that baby in open sea.
Its hull is the most elegant thing I’ve ever seen, massive, but still gorgeous. You can see a bit of the wooden floors on deck if you look up, and the rest of it is silver, not white like you’d expect. It looks endless, gleaming in the dull light as though it just came out of the marina. I float on my back and start a slow backstroke, keeping it in my sight, and then I can see a few heads popping above the railing, and that decides me for good.
‘Mate, are you going to introduce me to every gaffer in this place? Wes Spencer’s words from our ‘introduction’ yesterday still ring in my ears. Because looking through me and asking for a ‘pub’ wasn’t enough for him. Oh no, he had to humiliate me with his Oxford accent in front of Tim and everyone.
With his stupid, condescending, mocking voice in my head, I turn around and swim as fast and hard as I can towards the shore.
You just need them for this, you just want to catch your break. Then you’ll never have to see them again.
I am concentrating so hard on giving myself a pep talk, that when my head ducks beneath the surface, I’m taken by surprise. So much so that before I realize it, I’ve swallowed some water.
I try to lift my head above and take a deep breath, but another mouthful of water chokes me. A sharp pain shoots up my leg and I double in two. My whole body stiffens in response to the cramp, and dark spots dance in front of my eyes.
In one huge effort, I push myself to the surface, gagging and gulping in air at once. My heart beats crazily and I can’t catch my breath, and before I know it I’m sinking again. I fight with all my strength, but my brain is fuzzy with pain.
I surface again and force myself to keep my legs moving past the pain of the cramp, just to stay afloat. And then something sharp pierces my head, my headache reaching its peak, and I must black out for a second, because the next minute I’m choking on water and sinking in darkness. The surface is nowhere to be seen.
Today is not the day I die, I think, dazed, as my lungs scream for oxygen.
Well, if it wasn’t today, it would have been tomorrow.
I feel myself slip further down into the water.
The thing about drowning, Coach always used to say, is that it doesn’t look like drowning from afar. You might be visible on the surface, your body vertical, looking like you’re just floating there. And in an instant, you could slip down, out of sight, without warning. That’s why you must always be on your toes, and get to safety or ask for help at the first sign that something’s wrong, especially if you’re training or competing. Or doing a stunt. No one will be expecting you to need help, so you might just quietly slip under and no one will be able to get to you in time.
You must never cross the line of your own endurance, do you understand? You mustn’t wait to ask for help.
But there wasn’t time. There wasn’t any warning. I wasn’t quick enough, I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t vigilant enough.
A last breath escapes my lungs, and more water comes in as my vision goes black. I didn’t know it would hurt so much. Dying. I didn’t know my chest would constrict until my bones would ache. I didn’t know there wouldn’t be enough energy left to open my eyes.
I didn’t know the water would be so calm, so utterly still, embracing me as I fall.
I didn’t know—
Suddenly the water around me is filled with bubbles and a dark shape swims powerfully towards me. My lids have almost drifted closed, but I try to peer at the silhouette with one last effort.
Brilliant shining eyes, filled with panic, meet mine and a hand grasps my chin, lifting my face towards the surface. The face in front of me is yelling something, but I can hear nothing above the whoosh of blood in my veins. Hands encircle me, supporting me, and I shoot upwards, towards the surface. I’m being shaken roughly as though someone’s trying to wake me up. I would like to tell them, whoever it is, that it’s too late.
