Chapter 2

Gemma

My nerves are jangling like guitar chords when I arrive on the set early. It’s the first day of shooting, and when I get called in for a meeting with my boss and the producers, that’s exactly what I expect them to do to me. Dylan and I both arrived on set a few minutes ago, barely on time and still exhausted. But even though we made it, something tells me we’re not in the clear yet.

I make my way over to the studio office building and knock on Miss Wiseman’s door.

“Come in!”

I step inside and find myself faced by two of Hollywood’s most respected (and feared) producers, both wearing expensive suits and worried expressions. Miss Wiseman is joined by Michael Colback, who has been checking in with me non-stop about Dylan since we started the project. Do they know about Vegas? I breathe deeply and take the seat that’s been prepared for me like an electric chair.

“How are you, Gemma?”

“I’m well, Miss Wiseman,” I reply, which will probably be the biggest lie I tell all month.

“Good,” she says, though her eyes are tense.

“We need to speak with you about Dylan,” Michael says, leaning forward so I can experience the full force of his over-elaborate hand gestures. “It seems like he’s been getting a little wild, from the reports we’re hearing.”

“Um…” I say, stalling.

“We know that he made an impromptu trip to Las Vegas last night – with you in tow.”

There’s no use trying to cover, and I feel my shoulders slump. “Yes. He did.”

Michael clears his throat and adjusts his tie, obviously uncomfortable. “It sounds like he’s already…how should I say it…‘pulling the leash,’ as it were. This is not good.”

“What happened in Vegas?” Miss Wiseman interjects.

“Stays in Vegas!” I laugh, as I see my joke roll off their stony faces like a rotten egg. “Sorry, bad joke. Uh…”

This is it. This is the moment of truth.

All morning I’ve been considering what to do, what to say. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the ‘right thing’ would be to throw Dylan under the bus, then tell the bus driver to reverse over him a few times. I should detail every aspect of Dylan’s misdemeanors with all the honest directness of a pissed-off judge. It might make me seem incompetent, but it might also mean I get to keep my job. Plus, who could really blame me for not being able to keep him in check? The people in front of me know more than anybody about how much of a handful the Irish actor is. Why should I cover his ass when he’s been lighting a fire under mine?

That’s what I’m thinking, anyway, but the words that spill out of my mouth come from a place inside of me that is in no way controlled by my brain.

“Nothing happened.”

I will blame this on the fact that I haven’t slept much. I will tell myself that this is because I really want this project to happen. I will do my best to convince myself that what I’m saying actually makes sense. But the truth of why I’m saving an asshole like Dylan is much harder to face.

“He decided to meet a couple of friends in Vegas for a few drinks – nothing especially crazy. Just to share his excitement about the role with a few friends. It got a little out of hand, but not because of him. I think he just wanted to have one last hurrah since he knew he’d be keeping himself disciplined for the rest of the film shoot.”

Miss Wiseman and Michael look at each other, and then like magic their disapproving looks changing into reasonable expressions of understanding.

“So you’d say his mental state seems to be in the right place—no danger of going off the rails any minute? You think he’s ready to focus on the project?”

I find myself nodding slowly. “Yes. He seems very focused. Very committed.”

I don’t believe any of it for a second. But if I say it out loud, maybe it’ll come true. Or maybe I’m just tying my own noose. I should really rework my resume.

“I’m not one for repetition, Gemma, and I know you must tire of hearing me say this,” Miss Wiseman says earnestly, “but there is a substantial amount of money invested in this project. Any slip or lapse of judgment by Mr. Marlowe – or yourself – will severely impact a lot of people. We’re really counting on you to keep him in hand.”

The weight of this responsibility is enough to make me dizzy, but I force out a smile and try to appear unfazed. “Of course. I understand completely.”

Michael sighs. “Ok. Well I guess we should start making this movie, then. We’ll see you on set. Thanks, Gemma. Keep up the good work.”

“Thank you,” I say to both of them as I stand up and leave.

My head drops as I step outside, and I take in a shaky breath and rub at the increasing throb of my headache. I don’t even realize my eyes are closed until I bump into what feels like a brick wall. It’s not, it’s just Dylan’s chest.

“Dylan! Were you…waiting outside?”

“Yeah, sort of. I was just looking for you.”

His eyes are soft, his face honest, but right now I’m the only person who knows how good of an actor Dylan really is.

“Did you…hear any of that?”

He nods. “A little.”

He must know I covered for him if he was eavesdropping. But does it matter? It’s not like he’s going to turn into the well-behaved, polite, punctual person I need him to be. “So…”

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s so convincing I almost believe him.

“Sure.” I start walking and he follows me. I glance up at him.

“Look, Gemma—”

“We need to get you to hair and make-up,” I say, pointing the way as I walk toward the trailer. My voice as formal and cold as I can make it. I won’t be sucked in by his games again, and he needs to know it.

“I owe you an apology,” he says, dodging crewmembers as he tries to keep in step with me. I keep my eyes forward and clutch my tablet closely to my chest. “For everything. For dragging you out to Vegas, and leaving you again, and then after—”

“Your personal life is your own business,” I say curtly, raising a hand to indicate I don’t need any more details. Dylan provides them anyway.

“I didn’t do anything bad when I left you. I really was out walking. I went to—”

“I don’t need to know the details,” I say, though the way my voice sounds even I wouldn’t believe myself.

Just before we reach the steps that lead up to the door of the make-up trailer, Dylan gently takes my arm and turns me toward him. I let him.

“You’re right, Gemma. About a lot of things. Ok? We both need this movie to be a success, so instead of fighting each other, we should be trying to help each other.”

“I’ve not been anything but helpful towards you, Dylan.”

“And I’ve done nothing to jeopardize this movie. Look, I’m here, I’m sober, I’m about to get ready to work.”

I nod and look aside. Knowing that he’s right.

“I know it’s difficult for you to be in this position,” he says, the humble warmth of his voice soothing my headache like a pill, “but it’s difficult for me too, feeling like everything I do is being watched and reported on like I’m living in nineteen eighty-four.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You read a book?”

“Hey,” he laughs, “I’m not a total idiot.”

“Sorry.”

“I mean, I watched the movie. Isn’t that the same thing?”

I laugh and he smiles. Jesus, it feels good. I look up at his eyes, letting the gentle silence clear away all the frustration I had towards him.

“Look,” he says, “shooting starts today, so let’s make a fresh start of it. Here’s the deal. You give me a little more breathing room, trust me a little more, and I won’t play any more games, I’ll put a hundred percent into this project. What do you say?”

He offers his hand, and I look at it for a second before taking it. “Fine, then.”

“Thank you.” His hand is so warm wrapped around my own that I force myself to drop it before any inappropriate thoughts start flitting across my mind.

He takes another step towards the trailer.

“Wait, Dylan. I didn’t grab a call sheet yet,” I say. “What scenes are you shooting today?”

He turns to face me again, and there’s a little shakiness in him as he combs a hand through his hair.

“Nothing big. Just some exteriors, an outside conversation. We’re doing it straight away so we can use the natural light. And later there’s an interior, on the sound stage.”

“Good,” I say, until I notice the quick shifting of his eyes and the way his breath comes out in stunted waves. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly. He smiles a half-cocked smile, unconvincing and tainted by the almost fear-like anxiety in his eyes.

“Dylan? Are you nervous?”

“No! No. Nervous? No. Ah…I’m a professional, right? Come on.”

He’s not looking at me, one hand continuously combing through his hair while the other clenches into a fist at his side.

Something’s seriously wrong here.

I look around, then grab his arm and pull him away from the door of the makeup trailer, around the corner of a sound stage to a secluded area of the back lot.

“Dylan? What’s wrong?” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shifts around nervously, breathing heavily and quickly, trying to catch his breath.

“Ah…it’s just that, uh…” He shakes his head. He can’t even get the words out.

“Dylan! Did you take something?” I hiss.

“No! I’m not on drugs! Why? Do you have any? Haha! No. No drugs. I’m just…acting in a film that’s going to be seen by billions of people…maybe make an utter fool of myself…in front of the entire movie-going world. Everyone’s counting on me to not fuck this up…and…um…I mean, I can do it…it’s just that…”

He crouches down and struggles to control his breathing.

“Dylan!” I say, kneeling in front of him, rubbing his back. “Dylan, look at me.”

He tries to raise his head to meet my eyes, his breathing near hyperventilation levels now. I place my hands on his cheeks and hold his face steady, so that he can see me.

“Breathe, Dylan,” I say, making a big show of breathing deeply myself. “In. Out. Ok? You’re going to be ok.”

After a few seconds of trying to follow my slow pattern of breathing, Dylan regains a little more control, his breath still stuttering, but regular enough that his face begins to settle.

“That’s it. Slowly. Don’t rush, ok? Slow everything down.”

“Thanks,” he gasps. “I just…I don’t know if I can actually do this anymore. I’m out of practice, and what if I was never that good to begin with? Though I guess either way this project will prove it, right? How can this not be a big deal? What am I going to do?”

“You’re an amazing actor, Dylan. A natural actor. At your worst you’re still better than ninety per cent of actors out there. This is the hard part. The part where you don’t know. Once you take that step out onto the set, and start doing it, your instincts will take over. Trust yourself, Dylan. Trust your instincts.”

Dylan smiles a little, his eyes starting to focus on mine. I keep going, not even sure where my words are coming from, but it’s a relief seeing Dylan start to regain control.

“The part was made for you, Dylan. It’s yours. You can do whatever you want with it. It’s not that everyone’s counting on you, it’s that everyone believes in you. Get out of your head, ok?”

Dylan nods, breathes a few more times, then stands up. I rise with him, and he puts his arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. For a moment we just stand there, breathing in and out together, and I try not to lean into his touch, desperately wanting him to kiss me but also desperately wanting him to get his ass to work and never take me in his arms again.

“Thanks, Gemma.” He lets me go and I step back to adjust my shirt, glancing around to check that no one’s seen us here together. We seem to be alone.

“Do you feel better?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his face. He’s still a little shaky, but I can see him coming back into himself, a look of determination now replacing the panic in his eyes.

“If you need anything, you know I’ll be around. Don’t hesitate to call on me, ok? It’s what I’m here for,” I tell him.

“Thanks,” he says, his eyes settling on me with so much appreciation and warmth I feel like I just saved a bunch of kittens from a fire.

He laughs a little, and so do I.

“Ok,” I say, “go. I’ll meet you on set.”

He nods, and starts walking away, turning back to me after a few steps.

“You know…that’s not the first time I’ve had a panic attack before filming.”

“Really?” I never would have guessed. Dylan’s the last person who looks prone to anxiety, with his devil-may-care attitude and all that sexy swagger. This is the first time I’m seeing a vulnerable side to him.

“Really,” he admits. “But no one’s ever talked me out of it before.”

We smile at each other for a few moments before he turns and I watch him walk off to the hair and make-up department.

As soon as he’s gone, I almost experience my own panic-attack revelation. I lean up against the wall and sigh to myself. Dylan has more sides than a die. I can barely spend a couple of hours with him without seeing something completely surprising. But still, I wasn’t expecting this. Just as I was getting used to the bad boy, the party animal, the asshole, he turns into a sensitive, real, genuine guy who’s more intimidated by himself and the image he’s built up than I am.

And I’m right there with him. Riding his rollercoaster of emotions. Peeling away his layers, feeling with each one that I’m getting closer to the source. To the magnetic pull at his center. And the more I do, the more I’m struggling with my own stormy feelings. The more I find myself drawn to his complexity, buried in the middle of his contradictions, desperate to unravel his body and his mind so I can put myself in there. I don’t care that my heart (and my career) could be in danger, that this thing we have is unpredictable, that it goes against everything I thought I wanted – it’s addictive, and I can’t resist the urges that he’s planted inside of me.

Shit. Now I’m the one who needs to do some deep breathing.