by Anna Bloom
"I don’t even feel like a grown woman. Is that even what you see when you look at me?" Does anyone see me like a grown woman?
Those deep eyes of his trace over my face, my lips, my eyes, my throat. His words are the lowest mumble when he speaks. Under them runs a dangerous current. "You don’t want to know what I see."
My eyes shutter and I lean back, my emotions hidden from view behind my closed eyelids.
I repulse him and it hurts.
Later though, as I lay in bed skimming over the scenes on the call sheet for the following day, ready to pick up the pieces of my tattered life, I wonder what my life would be like if I could do what he said. If I could harness the grown woman inside me. Trouble is, I have no idea where she is.
Chapter Eleven
Sophia
"Sophia." A drift of luxurious coffee brings me around. It’s dark.
Flinging my arm across my face and shielding my eyes I groan. It’s four a.m. again. "I don’t want to get up."
"Just get up, you know you have to." A finger prods my arm and I roll away. "Listen, I’ve got to go. I want to check the studio." I keep my eyes screwed tightly shut but my ears pick up as he carries on talking. "Jacobs will be here. Okay?"
"Jacobs?" I muffle. "He drives like a granny."
A pause meets my words which I optimistically hope is filled with a smile, followed by the faint sound of him walking across the thick carpet. I struggle to sit, battling the sheets. "What exactly are you checking the studio’s for?" I ask as he gets to the slither of artificial light surrounding the bedroom doorway.
His face is hidden in shadows. "Bogeymen."
He slips away and I stretch and chuckle. Blake Henderson hasn’t searched out a bogeyman on my behalf in a very long time.
I speed through a basic morning routine—I know I’m a mess and will shortly be attacked by hot wax and tweezers before being sent to make-up so there isn’t much point wasting my downtime trying to fix anything myself.
In the kitchen I find a note next to my mobile phone. How did that end up out there on the kitchen counter? Didn’t I put it under my spare pillow so my alarm would wake me up? Interesting… I’ve taken the locking app off your phone so you can add your friend’s number. I was being a dick. It’s a pitfall of the job. Forgive me.
My heart races in my chest. I need to calm down, it’s just a note for God’s sake. After I read the scrawled lines more times than they deserve, I pick up my phone and head back to my room to hunt out Sarah’s number from deep within a pocket of a jumper I wore in rehab. I know she won’t be awake—let's be real, no one is—so I send her a text.
I didn’t want her to think I forgot about her as soon as I left.
Now I have nothing to do. I’m alone for the first time in months, and I have no idea what to do with myself. I sit on the sofa, then I stand in the kitchen. For three minutes I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling before getting back up again. I pace the small cubic feet of the condo until Jacobs knocks and I make my way out into the dawn as streaks of orange spread over the murky blue sky. In the car I flick through the script and call sheet again, skimming and speed reading. There’s no way I will remember all my lines. I’ll have to have a prompt or ask to be read each scene beforehand. Production hates that because it slows filming. And filming, although it never looks like it in the final product, is a tediously long drawn out affair at the best of times.
One thing’s for sure, the storyline hasn’t improved during my time away. My character spends eighty three percent of the time—a rough guess—mooning at the character played by Johnny. I can’t wait for these ridiculous caricatures to be done with, to move on.
The lot’s full when the car cruises through the gates; it’s teaming with people in various modes of black, skulking about nursing cups of coffee and muttering and murmuring. Johnny Fairweather’s silver Maserati dominates the view, and my stomach drops when I see it. Of course, his car should be one of the first things I see.
Shit.
I can’t do this.
Can I act my way through this, through the memories, through the remorse? A pang of guilt flickers in my chest. We should have spoken more at that insane post-rehab party. Shouldn’t we, as two adults who’d survived a life changing event together have at least mentioned it, even in passing, over canapes, whatever. Instead here I am acting like nothing happened.
I’m hot. My T-shirt sticks to the skin of my stomach as I try to fan myself down with my hands. I can’t do this. I need to do this. But still, I can’t do it. My legs glue themselves to the leather seat.
I need something, just a little something to help me get out of the car. A hand reaches in, white cotton cuffs and dark jacket sleeves. When I don’t move a dark-haired head lowers and pokes inside the confines of the car and I focus on the handsome face staring at me creased with concern. "You okay?"
I stare at Blake in bewilderment. How do I tell him I can’t do this? That I need to dull the edge, that I need a fix, just a small hit to help? "Do I look okay?" I squeak. His eyes drift over me. I’m very far from okay, I’m a sweaty, terrified wreck.
"Breathe, remember."
I’m about to tell him to shove his breathing up his arse but then I notice his chest rising and falling like in yoga, and automatically without intending it, I hook into his rhythm.
I don’t know what my estate is paying him for, but paying him to enable me to breathe seems worth it. My eyelashes flutter open. He’s watching me with a pensive expression, his ultramarine eyes settling along my features. It’s as if he can see everything, there’s nowhere for me to hide. Every crack, every flaw, every lie is laid out for him to see, transparent and exposed, etched within the surface of my face. "Can we do yoga later?" I ask. I reckon I can try to get through the day if I know I’ll be rewarded with a Blake yoga session after. I want my body to ache the way it had the day before when he’d bent and twisted me into a meditated oblivion. If I know the crazy jungle room is waiting for me, then I can get through the day. Maybe.
His lips flicker, the tiniest upturn before he answers a gravelly, "Sure." His hand pulls me from the car and I allow him to coax me from the safe confines out of sight of the crowds. "Come on, Soph," his low words make my stomach flutter like it’s a cage containing rare large winged butterflies. "You can do this, switch it on."
"Switch what on?" Puzzled, I turn and ask, my focus centred on him.
He grins, flashing me a dazzling smile which should by rights have been on the front of a magazine. "You."
I hold his gaze for one long moment, understanding what he’s saying, and then I dig deep within myself, turning to the cavernous space, stretching my lips into a smile. "Where is the make-up, this girl needs some work." I call loudly and laugh. It sounds false, but everyone turns and claps and general calls of ‘Welcome back’ land in my direction.
Armani wafts up my nostrils and I hold in a shudder as the butterflies in my stomach transform into winged demons. "Sunshine, here you are." Johnny throws an arm around my shoulder and leans in to kiss me. The action receives coos and ahh’s and a tightening spasm straightens my back, pulling my shoulder up high near my ears.
"Hey, handsome." I smile at Johnny; all eyes are focused on us. Everyone’s heard the news—everyone thinks they know what happened.
The sensation of his skin touching the back of my neck makes a rising tide of sick swirl in my stomach. Azure blues watch me closely and I stammer and stumble, trapped under an unwanted microscope. Blake's expression is undecipherable.
"There you are," Charlie mooches along, hands stuffed into the pockets of an oversized chunky knit cardigan. Her eyes sweep over my face before lingering on Johnny.
I turn for her, shrugging out of Johnny’s hold. "You look hideous," she says and I grimace. I haven’t exactly been prancing in front of a mirror since I left rehab.
"Says the girl behind dark glasses." I jab her in the ribs making her wince.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch Blake’
s lips flicker into a small smirk.
"Fee, I shall buy you some dark glasses so no one has to see that." She gestures at my face.
It’s bloody rude. She’s chuckling—but I’m struggling to find the funny side.
I step back, my fingers lifting my cheeks. I know I’ve lost weight, the pale of my hair now making my slender figure resemble Casper the Ghost's as opposed to Oscar winner but there’s no need to be rude—she’s supposed to be my best friend. "Jeez, don’t hold back," I grouch pulling at the hoody of my sweater.
She hesitates, her head cocked to the side with puzzlement and then rolls her eyes. "Oh, gawd, you aren’t all super sensitive are you now post therapy? Do we need to hold hands and discuss feelings?" She trills a high laugh. She’s towing me to hair and make-up by the elbow, weaving me through busy corridors, but my feet slow and I pull away. According to Charlie they need to clear the schedule so they can fix me up.
Her words rankle and I shoot her a layered look. "Why didn’t you tell me the other night at the party you’d all been rehearsing together without me?"
Her gaze clouds over as if she’s trying to remember what party, but then maybe she is, Charlie’s probably been to another two since then.
"Oh that." She swings her glossy chestnut curls over her shoulder. Her hair is thick and luxurious, if you wound it into a twist it would be as strong as a rope. "What’s the deal? You’d just been through all that," she lowered her voice, "stuff."
"Charlie, I think most people know where I was."
She points a shrewd glance in my direction. "Well, we don’t need to be airing your dirty laundry on set, do we?"
Is she for real?
I’ve just lived through the most painful three months of my entire existence; I’d been bared and broken before slowly fixed back together so I can make it through a day without filling my body with innocuous substances—and I’m airing my dirty laundry?
"I can’t believe you just said that to me." I push away. "I’ve been through hell, Charlie, and you didn’t even call me."
"For God's sake, Soph, our lives didn’t stop just because you checked out of reality for a while."
"Everything okay here?" His voice washes through me like a magic balm. I wish it didn’t but there is no point denying the closeness of Blake Henderson has a fundamental effect on me still after all these years. He’s close enough I can sense the heat rolling off his body.
I focus on him, remembering my breathing, and the rage which is making my fingers tremble, ebbs a little. "Sure," I send him a smile of the non-fake variety. "Charlie’s just taking me to make-up; apparently, I need it."
Charlie snorts, her eyes growing wide as she measures the distance between Blake and me.
Blake points into the distant corner where the director’s chairs are grouped, and the crew is hanging about, clipboards in hands. "I think I heard someone looking for you, Charlotte."
Charlie frowns and shakes her head. "But, I’m not on the call sheet for another two hours." She turns for me, her lower lip caught between her teeth. "Don’t be so sensitive, Soph. It’s going to make it so much harder for us all to get through this."
Spinning away, mumbling and groaning about the incompetence of admin she wanders over in the direction Blake pointed.
Raising an eyebrow, I turn for Blake. "I didn’t hear anyone calling for her."
He winks. He winks at me and my heart, my damn heart just explodes out of my chest. I can’t help myself. "She’s a dick."
A snort of laughter bursts from my mouth and nose. "She’s my best friend." I scrunch my face. "But, thanks." My cheeks flame a scorching red the longer I stand there staring at him like a love crazy teenager. His fingers lift towards me and I hold my breath waiting to see if he will touch me. He doesn’t. His hand falls back by his side.
"She is an idiot though, best friend or not," he proclaims matter of factly.
I watch her swing her hips over to the directors’ chairs. I can’t say he’s all wrong. "Do you think it’s weird I’ve been home three days and no one’s bothered to try to see me?"
He shrugs but his eyes stay focused on my face. "Would you have wanted to see them? That’s the question to ask."
My eyes roll upwards. "Are you all philosophical these days?"
He rewards my retort with another blinding grin.
My body relaxes every moment it’s anchored near to his. "So, yoga, yes?” Suddenly I’m no longer in a hurry to have my face and hair made into something more camera worthy. I’d rather stand next to him like a slobby mess.
"Sure." He smiles, backing away a step, creating a chasm of space for air to whizz through.
"Blake?" I need to get going, although my feet don’t want to do what they are told.
"Sophia?" His lips curve a millimetre.
"What were you checking the studio for exactly? Am I under some sort of threat here?"
"No, no." his snap response is too quick.
"Blake?" I step up into his space. "Come on. You can’t leave me in the dark, I hate that."
He pulls a sheet of paper out of his pocket and scans it with his index finger, blanking my question. There’s an air of teasing in his posture, the way his head tilts and I revel in it, my poor little heart flick flacking like a gymnast. "You need to get moving, you have the first scene of the day."
I arch an eyebrow. "I don’t remember you being so involved in my filming schedule before."
"You had a bigger team then, now I’m a one man show." His lips turn down.
I want my team small, that way when I fuck up again I’ll have less people to disappoint. Although the thought of disappointing Blake leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. I just hope it’s enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.
My eyes fall over Blake’s shoulder and I groan. Walking towards me, her heels clacking on the cement floor is a member of my team I can do without. "Darling, you should be ready by now. Have you learned those lines? I promised them you would be word perfect." Erica shoulders Blake out of the way, not even a glance in his direction. He flashes me a grin. That’s three grins in one day. Not that I’m counting.
Erica doesn’t pause to take breath. "Now, darling, we have dinner with the Steins tonight, they want to know if you’ve read their new script yet."
She starts towing me for the make-up room.
"I haven’t even opened it yet. How am I supposed to have read it? Anyway, I don’t want to do it."
"Shh, don’t say that, walls have ears." She waves fingers loaded with gems in my direction.
"Good and maybe they’ll have lips and they can tell the Steins it's a no for me," I smart back.
Clearly, I’m not funny because she ignores my response. "You just need to read the script, darling. It will be a wonderful part for you."
I open my mouth to argue, but what would be the point? The Tide of Dawn is looking like a done deal before I’ve even opened the first page.
I allow her to pull me into make-up and slink down on the chair. This is my checking out time, everything from here on in is automatic, the real struggle is going to be resisting my craving afterwards to feel like myself again.
Chapter Twelve
Blake
"How was that, did it help?" We’ve sat in silence on our way home from yoga. Six days into filming and this movie looks like it will take an age to finish. She’s withdrawing into herself and I can sense the cravings are taking their hold. Her fingers shook on her last cigarette on the final scene of the day. Her big scene with Johnny—I had to leave the room. It took hours.
"Yeah, I think." Sophia pulls her key from the leather tote slung over her shoulder and I zero onto her fingers checking for trembles. "This film, though, it’s just shit, isn’t it?" She grins at me in the twilight but my attention is focused on the door. "What is it?" She fumbles and drops the keys. They scatter onto the pathway making a huge din that seems to tear the air apart. Grasping her elbow, I wheel her round and head straight back to the jeep, almost carrying her
as I scoot her feet across the pathway to the garage. Wordlessly I tug on the door and thrust her inside. "Blake, what’s going on?"
"Stay in the car. Don’t get out until I come back to get you."
"What. Why? This is ridiculous, no one knows about this place." Her face pales.
This isn’t true though and I wince with a stab of guilt. "Just do what I say." I could be politer but my pulse is racing a staccato beat. Leaving the door to the garage open so I can see the car at all times, I jog for the front door of the condo. Fine scratch lines etch into the metal of the door. No one else would have noticed, but I did, it’s my job. Someone’s tried to jimmy the lock.
I sense her eyes burning with indignation through the dark glass of the SUV but I ignore her glare and push through the front door. The air hits me. A cloying tang reminding me of burnt breakfast and heady afternoons from my teenage years. Weed. The air is ripe with it, plumes of the bloody stuff just drifting through the atmosphere. What the hell?
The smoke is thickest towards the open planned kitchen. My impulse is to head straight there but I ignore it, centring myself until my instincts take over. Think smart, Blake. I’m guessing the kitchen is where I’m meant to go first so I change course and head for the other rooms. All the bedroom doors are shut, and I know for a fact Sophia wouldn’t have remembered to close hers at four in the morning. I fling my door open first, but it’s just how I left it, bare and monkish, but untouched. Next, I push Sophia’s open. It kind of looks normal as in it’s a mess. I push the en-suite door and see a bath run in the tub. The air is astringent, like Windolene’s been sprayed on the surfaces. Stooping over the tub I dip my fingers in the water. Wine. Someone has filled the bath with wine? I go to pull the plug but then think better of it. There is no way the cops can’t be notified of this development.
With a last sweep through the closets in the bedroom I head back to the smoke den that is now Sophia’s kitchen and lounge. She’s stood with round wide eyes, her hand clamped over her mouth. Her eyes speak volumes, recriminations shout at me from their depths. Her hand drops. "What’s going on, Blake?"
