Her Leading Man

by Duncan, Alice

“Awful, isn’t it?” she whispered back at him. “But look at Pablo. He’s glorying in it.”

  She was right. The actor, still looking noble, nodded thoughtfully and said, “I see. Where did you say you learned about these burial practices, Christina?”

  “Oh, I love to read about ancient Egypt.” She gestured airily. “I’ve read tons of books about it.”

  “I see.”

  Orozco’s countenance then underwent an astonishing transformation. He still looked noble, but he also achieved a definite air of trepidation.

  Martin shook his head in wonder. “He’s really an amazingly good actor.”

  “Yes, he is. As much as I detest him, I have to give him credit for his acting: skill.” Christina didn’t sound as if she wanted to give Pablo Orozco credit for anything.

  Martin thought she was swell. He knew how much she loathed Orozco, and he knew why. Orozco refused to acknowledge her distaste for him, but continued to pursue her. It made Martin sick to watch him slither and slink around her, offering smirks and smiles and suggestive innuendoes.

  Orozco’s continued chase didn’t sit well with Christina, either. Every day the filming progressed, she grew more short-tempered. Still, she was as professional in her way as Martin was in his, and she did a great job as Orozco’s rescued lover.

  “That’s perfect, Pablo,” Martin, stifling his dislike, called out when the actor struck a pose and held it. Leaving his chair and turning to Ben, Martin asked, “Ready to shoot?”

  The cameraman nodded. “Almost. Let me get the angle right.”

  They’d set Ben’s camera on a tripod and were filming the first few close-up shots in one of the Desert Palm Resort’s oases. Another camera, farther away, would capture the scene, using Martin as the hero, from afar. Martin would edit and splice the entire scene so that it would look as if only one actor was in the whole scene. That was his aim, anyway.

  At this point in the story, Orozco and Christina were supposed to be traveling across the Egyptian desert, fleeing from Paul Gabriel’s character’s wrath. At present, both of Egyptian Idyll’s stars were clad in rags. Neither one of them had a hair out of place or a smudge anywhere, but Martin knew the public wouldn’t mind that. As long as something—in this case their costumes—conveyed a message, there was no need to make either one of them look less attractive. Nobody went to the pictures to see ugly or dirty people; they went for the fantasy.

  Martin thought grumpily that these few scenes were truly fantastic. Even if two slaves had managed to drug a powerful ruler’s brother and escape from him, they surely wouldn’t have made it a hundred or so miles across a barren desert without at least getting a sunburn or working up a sweat.

  The only thing that had happened to these two, however, was that their clothes had managed to get ripped. Christina’s makeup was flawless, her hair was clean and shiny, and whatever thorns had thrashed her dress hadn’t nicked her skin once. It was a fantasy, all right.

  “Move about six inches to your left, please.” Ben made another adjustment to the tripod. “I want to get that short palm tree in the background.”

  Orozco obliged him

  “Okay.” Ben gestured to where Christina still sat.

  “Ready for you, Christina.”

  She got up, patted her rags, and walked over to stand beside Orozco. He waggled an eyebrow as he took her hand, and she looked disgusted. Martin hoped like heck the two actors wouldn’t blow up at each other before the picture was in the can.

  In order to make up for Christina’s displeasure with her costar and for Orozco’s blind conviction that she wanted him to seduce her, Martin went a little overboard with the jolliness when he spoke next. “All right, you two. You’ve been running away for days, you’re not sure where you are or where Moses’s flocks are, or whether you’re being pursued. Of course, you assume Paul’s character is after you and you’re scared to death, but you’re so in love, you’re willing to risk anything.”

  “Even being buried alive and being eaten by bugs after having your tongue cut out,” Christina supplied as if she relished the thought of such a gruesome fate befalling Pablo Orozco.

  “Right.” Martin added quickly, before she could say anything else. “And you’re also worried about your ladylove, Pablo. She’s getting weak from lack of food and water. You love her desperately, and you’re willing to sacrifice your life for her, but you don’t want her to die for you.”

  “Of course.”

  Orozco inclined his head as if such things happened all the time with him. Martin would bet anything the conceited oaf would throw his lady love in front of a speeding train if it would save his own handsome hide. Christina, he noticed, gave her costar a look of distaste, and he sighed, wishing this picture was finished.

  “Ready, Ben?”

  “Ready.”

  “Ready, you two?”

  Both actors answered that they were ready.

  “And . . . action!”

  Orozco and Christina gazed soulfully into each other’s eyes as Ben started cranking and sprockets started chunking out and hitting the ground.

  Christina said, “Is this long enough, Ben?”

  “Not quite. Let me get a few more feet of film shot. We might be able to intersperse them in with some of the other scenes.”

  “Do I look worried enough?” Orozco asked.

  Martin was surprised he’d bothered. Pablo Orozco didn’t often ask if he was doing something correctly, since he always assumed he was the world’s best at whatever he chose to do.

  “You’re fine, Pablo.” He saw the actor’s free hand release Christina, reach for her bottom, and squeeze. He barked, “Stop that, Pablo!”

  Christina hauled back a fist and would have slammed it into Orozco’s noble-looking face if Martin hadn’t leaped between the two of them and stopped her. He heard Ben sigh heavily and stop cranking.

  Martin turned on Orozco in fury. “Damn it, Pablo, stop doing things like that! Can’t you tell when a woman doesn’t want you pestering her?”

  “Fah. She wants me. She’s only playing hard to get.”

  “Why you pompous, arrogant—” Christina balled up her fist again and took a step toward her costar.

  Again Martin stopped her from committing battery. “It’s all right, Christina. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “I wouldn’t ever regret punching that ass,” she declared.

  Orozco laughed. Martin decided to hell with it, and started tugging on his lock of hair. In order to diffuse the tension, he opted to drop the subject, although he, too, would have liked to sock Pablo Orozco, who evidently hadn’t been hit enough in his life to date.

  “Let’s get this oasis scene over with, shall we? And keep your hands to yourself, Orozco.” Glancing at Christina’s furious face, he added, “And you, too, Christina.”

  She chuffed out an angry breath and turned away from him, and Martin knew he’d irked her. He regretted having done so, especially since he knew she had to put up with a lot from Orozco, but he also had to get this picture finished and he couldn’t afford to waste any more rime.

  His next words were directed at Ben. “Where do you want us in the oasis, Ben?”

  The cameraman pointed west. “You’re going to have to stand over there, away from the oasis but close to the trees. The other camera can’t shoot you guys in the shade, because this camera will be in the scene.”

  Great. Now he and Christina would have to stand in the sun and sweat, which would fray their nerves further. Nevertheless, they both trudged out of the scanty shade afforded by the three date palms.

  Christina mumbled, “I hate this.”

  “I’m sorry, darling.”

  She shot him a quick, apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to be cross, Martin. None of this is your fault. I only wish I didn’t have to act in pictures in order to go to school.”

  “It’s not fair,” he agreed. “You should have been granted a scholarship.” Which was the truth. She’d regaled him with her
academic achievements, and he was offended on her behalf by the university’s decision to withhold a scholarship from her.

  Even if she was a woman, and probably wouldn’t really use her medical degree. Especially not if she agreed to marry him one of these days. He’d never say such a thing to her, since she refused to admit the validity of what Martin perceived as only the truth: women couldn’t hold professional jobs and rear families at the same time. Why, it was unheard of.

  The running-away-through-the-oasis scene proceeded smoothly. Christina stumbled and fell as she was supposed to, and Martin knelt at her side, trying all the while to keep his face as little visible as possible so that the viewing audience wouldn’t realize he wasn’t Pablo Orozco.

  “You’re doing a great job, Christina. You’re an amazing woman, and I love you.”

  “You’re so sweet to me, Martin.” Christina’s eyes filled, and Martin was shocked. She blinked back her tears and asked matter-of-factly, “Should I stagger to my feet yet?”

  “Give it another second or two. We want everyone to be worried about you.” He was worried about her; that’s for sure.

  “Good Lord.”

  But he was right, and she understood. She languished, therefore, on the hot sand until he said, “All right. Let me help you to your feet now. Try not to look strong and healthy. Sag a little, okay?”

  “I’ll try. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Sorry” He wasn’t really. If she was worried about laughing, she must be over her teary spell. Thank God.

  She did a fair job of looking bedraggled, considering her makeup remained perfect and she was gorgeous as ever. She leaned against him, and he his arm around her, and they limped out of camera range. Martin gave her a squeeze before releasing her. “Great job, darling.”

  “You, too, sweetheart.”

  Because he loved her and couldn’t help himself, Martin bent down and kissed her lips. So what everyone in the cast and crew knew they were in love? It was certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

  Martin was ashamed that they were carrying an illicit affair, but that was another aspect of the situation entirely. Nobody else had to know about that.

  He tried not to recall all the times he’d worked on other pictures and people around him had succumbed to lust—and everyone on the set had known all about it. Those memories only pained him. He didn’t want to think that he and Christina were the objects of gossip, or, worse, that they were merely indulging in a thoughtless liaison. He loved her. He would sooner hang himself than dishonor her.

  Damn it, he wished he could reconcile their affair with his continued belief in himself as a man of integrity.

  That it was Christina who refused to legitimize their relationship didn’t help ease his conscience. Martin considered it ironic that he, of all men, should be the one who ended up loving a woman with ambitions incompatible with marriage. Hell’s bells, he’d never given a thought to love and marriage until the last few months, when he’d started craving something more in his life than his job.

  And he’d found it—with Christina, who wouldn’t marry him. He wondered if God deliberately played these tricks on people in order to keep Himself from being bored. Martin resented Got a lot, if that were so.

  Seventeen

  “If you lay a hand on me again, Pablo Orozco, I’ll break your other arm for you.”

  It was the third time Orozco had pinched her on the bottom, and Christina was fed up. He’d also managed to touch her breasts once or twice during the day’s filming, and she felt dirty, defiled, and more than a little disgusted.

  “Nonsense. You adore it.”

  “I hate it.” She also hated his complacent smirk and wished she could wipe it from his face, preferably by inflicting a good deal of pain in the process.

  Martin had tried, in his kindly way, to dissuade the beast from pawing her, but Orozco was as thickheaded as he was conceited, and he hadn’t been dissuaded.

  It was now four in the afternoon. Christina was tired and hot, had a terrible headache, and her nerves were as ragged as her costume. Because of the intense heat, Pablo Orozco’s obnoxious behavior, and the fact that each scene had to be filmed twice—once from a distance with Martin and once close-up with Orozco—the day’s work had been excruciating. She was torn between screaming in rage and bursting into tears. Since this was her job and she needed the money it brought her, she did neither, but continued to work as best she could. Fortunately, the close-up scenes were brief, for the most part.

  Martin tried to help her out, but her temper was so frayed, even his wonderfulness failed to soothe her. Patting her face with probably the fifteenth handkerchief she’d used during the filming, she asked Ben, “Is this the last scene?” She prayed it was.

  Ben obliged her. From her perspective, it was the first time all day anyone had. She knew she was being unreasonable.

  “Yeah,” the cameraman said. “Let me get the camera bolted to the tripod, and we can get started.”

  It had gone like that all day long. Because close-up photography was a new technique in motion picture development, every time the scenery changed, Ben had to lug his heavy equipment to wherever the next scene was to be shot.

  Christina tried to console herself with the knowledge that everyone else involved with the picture was going through the same hell she was. Except for the Orozco angle. She was the only person in the entire company who was being pawed and preyed upon by the erstwhile Latin lover from the Bronx.

  She hated him. She wanted to murder him. She wanted to stick poisoned darts in him and watch him die an agonizing death. She wanted to sic her grandmother on him. It was Christina’s bad luck that Gran’s lumbago had kicked up overnight, and she’d had to spend the day resting in bed. Christina wondered why her inconvenient grandmother only showed up when Christina didn’t want her to and stayed away when she might be useful.

  “I’m going crazy,” she growled, still patting at her sweaty brow—she couldn’t wipe the sweat from her face because she’d ruin her makeup. Of course, makeup was thick and hot, and she felt as if her face had been baking in an oven for hours. She must be done by this time.

  “What’s the matter, love?”

  Christina glanced at Marlin. who also showed signs of strain. He’d dragged his fingers through his hair and tugged on his worry lock so many times that his hair looked sort of like a disorderly hayrick, only shorter. Lines creased the skin around his mouth, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Although he was lucky in the sense that he didn’t need to wear the thick makeup required for close-up shots, his job was probably harder than anyone else’s. Poor Martin had to do just about everything. Christina wanted to run her fingers gently over his face and massage out the stress lines.

  Such a pleasant diversion would be denied her for at least another hour or so, however. “Nothing, really,” she answered him. I was just wishing Gran was here to whack Pablo with her cane for me.” She achieved a relatively successful grin. “That’s why t said I must be going crazy.”

  She felt a small surge of accomplishment when Martin grinned, too. “I might have to agree with you if you keep having thoughts like that.” His grin vanished, and he tenderly patted her shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry Pablo’s giving you such a hard time, darling. I wish I could do something more to stop him, but short of shooting him I can’t think of anything to do. Besides, if I shot him, the picture would be ruined and we’d have to do all of this over again.”

  “God forbid.” Christina managed a creditable laugh, but noted that Martin seemed troubled after he’d admitted his reluctance to tackle Orozco for fear the picture would suffer. But Christina understood. She didn’t pop Orozco with a heavy club for the same reason—and for the sake of her education. “It’s all right, Martin. This picture will be in the can one of these days, and then I’ll never have to see Pablo Orozco again. At least I hope I won’t.”

  Another grin on Martin’s part lifted her spirits slightly. “You might have to see him i
f Lovejoy organizes a hoity-toity premiere of Egyptian Idyll.”

  She assumed a pose modeled after one of her costar’s more noble efforts and splayed a hand over her heart. “For the sake of the picture, I shall endure.”

  Martin laughed, and Christina felt as though she’d at last done something worthwhile that day.

  “All ready!” a voice called out.

  Christina and Martin turned and saw Ben gesturing for them to take their places. Christina sighed. “That’s awfully far to walk, isn’t it?”

  Another chuckle from Martin gratified her. “It sure looks like it. But this is the last scene. Well,” he corrected himself, “the close-up shot will be the last one, I guess, but this one’s next to last on today’s schedule.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Amen.”

  The scene captured from a distance by the long-range camera was one intended to depict the last hours of the two lovers’ perilous journey of escape from Egypt. Christina’s character would collapse on the desert, and Martin would pick her up and stagger off into the distance with her. With luck and skillful editing, the audience would be left with the worrisome feeling that the two of them might not make it.

  Scenes featuring Paul Gabriel and his army, ostensibly in pursuit of the escapees, would be filmed the following day. Martin intended to intersperse snippets of the pursuing army with the escape scenes, thereby conveying the enormity of the problem facing Christina’s and Orozco’s characters. If the editing went as Martin wanted it to, Egyptian Idyll wouldn’t be a mere spectacle, but would also be a gut wrenching emotional experience for the audience.

  Christina had infinite faith in Martin’s ability put the whole picture together eventually. She found her faith in herself had slid a good deal during the stressful day.

  But the day was almost over, and then she could bathe and relax, take a headache powder, go to bed early, and have the pleasure of watching Paul Gabriel endure the ghastly sun on the morrow.

  She and Martin took their places.

  Martin glanced at the far-distance cameraman, who signaled that he was ready. “You set to go, love?”