Chapter 17
Rules of the game
Finally, the assistant director calls the lunch break, and most of the cast and crew troop off in the direction of the canteen.
“Do you mind bringing my lunch to my room? I’ve got some calls I need to make,” Logan asks me.
“Sure. What would you like?”
“Anything, as long as it’s high in protein, and low in carbs. If there’s steak, I take it medium rare.”
Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m back at Logan’s room, food in hand. He’s on his bed, surrounded by papers, talking on the phone.
“Will they consider me at least?” Logan asks whoever’s on the other end of the line.
I search the cupboards in the kitchenette for a table setting, transfer the steak and salad from their polystyrene container to the plate, place the sachet of low-fat salad dressing and a pair of salt and pepper shakers beside it, and pour mineral water into the glass.
“I’m ‘too commercial’? How is that possible? What does it even mean?”
I wave to get Logan’s attention and show him the food. Then I tap my watch, mouthing, “Two o’clock,” point a thumb back in the direction of the soundstage, and make to leave. But Logan holds up a hand to stall me.
“Ah, for Pete’s sake! Work on them, Nick, wear them down. I want this one. I’m right for it, I can do it … Yeah, sure … Chat later. Bye.”
He tosses the phone onto the bed and strolls over to the table.
“Looks great. Thanks.”
“Sure. I’ll come fetch you just before two, okay?”
“Wait.” He takes my arm. His fingers are hot where they touch me, and when his hand falls away, my skin tingles a protest at the absence.
“I noticed my nameplate — the one outside — has been changed to Logan Rush. Was that your doing?”
“Uh-huh.” I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.
“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head a little. “That was real thoughtful.”
“Sure, uh, no problem.” The words stumble on their way out my mouth. “It’s just a little reminder — people seem to get confused between you and the character you play.”
“Sometimes I do, too.”
“Right.”
“Join me for lunch?”
“No. I mean, thanks, but I don’t think I’m supposed to fraternize with the cast. I’ve got …” I lift the bacon and brie baguette I got from the canteen for myself.
“Come on, sit yourself down. We’ll share. If y’all don’t tell Cilla about me having some bread, I won’t tell her about your … fraternizing, did you call it?” He grins.
That grin — it’s wicked. It does things to the core of me. Melty, liquid things.
Mentally shaking myself, I fetch another setting and sit down at the table. Hey, no “no,” right?
Logan slices his steak and slides one half onto my plate; I cut my bread roll in two and put one chunk on his. He takes a big bite and moans in pleasure.
“Ah, this is so good. I’m more tired than I can tell you of broiled steak and broiled fish and broiled skinless chicken.”
“Hey, happy is a five-letter word. So is cheese, and so is bacon. Coincidence? I don’t think so.”
He laughs but adds, “Just do not tell Cilla you fed me fried bacon, bread and full-fat cheese.”
“Is she really that strict about what you eat?”
“I can’t really blame her. She just wants what’s best for the movie. It’s the role. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen one of the movies?”
I give a non-committal shrug.
“I’m supposed to be this cut and ripped beast, so I can’t be carrying any spare flesh. Plus, the camera always puts on five pounds.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“It’s true. Tomorrow I’ll be on protein only and reduced liquids, because Monday we’re shooting transforming scenes and I’ll be half naked.”
I’ll make sure I’m on hand for the filming of that scene — purely in case Logan needs anything, of course.
“What’s on my schedule this afternoon?”
I check the call sheets. “Pickups for scene fifty-one, on soundstage two. Then a gym session with your trainer. You’re free after seven-thirty.”
“Don’t believe it — we always run over.”
I want to ask why. I want to ask a hundred questions. Why did he become an actor? Does he like playing the role of the Beast? Does he ever miss playing in a band? Who was he talking to on the phone earlier, and about what? Does he have a girlfriend, how did he get that small, silver scar on the back of his hand, who babysits Toffee while he’s on location, and what will he be doing tonight after filming wraps for the day?
But I think about how he’s been ordered around all morning — how people have powdered his nose, tugged at his hair, physically shifted him into position, demanded he play the scene louder, softer, gentler, crazier — and I swallow my questions.
We eat in comfortable silence, with me sneaking covert glances at his wrists, his eyes, the place where the muscle begins its curved bulge under the sleeve of his T-shirt. When I give him some more of my baguette, he looks pathetically grateful. He pushes some more salad onto my plate and squirts dressing onto it. When he licks his fingers, my mouth drops open — literally — but I cover the moment by popping a chunk of carrot into it.
When we’re done, I put the plates in the sink and hunt for dishwashing liquid. Logan flops onto the bed and picks up the paperback I noticed him reading earlier, between takes on set: Method Acting — Lee Strasberg and the Actors Studio.
It feels curiously domestic — me at the sink washing dishes, him half-reading, half-dozing on the bed nearby. If I’m not careful, this might begin to seem real. I could easily lose my head, and my heart, entirely. I remind myself that while I might be playing house with Logan, in reality I’m no more a part of his world than I was two days ago. He’s like royalty, and I’m like the hired help. Scratch “like.” I am the hired help.
Still, a cat may look at a king, and look at him I do — peeping out from under my lashes at his hands holding the book, at the rise and fall of his chest as he slips into sleep, at the thickness of his hair on the pillow.
Damn. I might be completely new to this world, but already I’m falling for him, hook, line and sinker. It’s only day one, and I’ve already broken Cilla’s most important rule.
I need to set some rules for myself to keep my feet firmly on the ground. As I dry and pack away the dishes, I make a mental list.
Rule 1: Thou shalt not fall in love with Logan Rush.
I draw a mental line through the rule. Too late for that commandment.
Take two.
Rule 1: Thou shalt never expect Logan Rush to fall in love with thee.
Rule 2: Thou shalt not forget that thee and he are from different worlds.
Rule 3: Thou shalt not be dazzled, nor confuse fantasy and reality.
Rule 4: Thou shall enjoy it while it lasts.
Rule 5: Thou job may not be brain surgery, but thou shalt try to do it well anyway.
A knock sounds at the door. Logan lifts his head groggily, but I motion for him to relax.
“I’ll get it, you rest. I’ll be back for you at two.”
It’s Polyp, with revised script pages for Monday’s shoot.
“Thanks, I’ll make sure he gets them,” I say.
When Polyp slinks off, I sit down on the sun-warmed stairs outside Logan’s room, guarding his sleep.
I spend the second half of the afternoon running interference for Logan, liaising with the wardrobe mistress, reassuring the A.D. that I’ll ensure his star memorises the lines for Monday’s scenes, and shuttling Logan from his room to make-up to the soundstage, and then to the makeshift gym set up in a hot, almost airless office behind Stage 3.
Logan has to stoop to get into this room — with his high-rise hero hairdo, he’s too tall for the doorway. I go through his lines with him as the trainer puts him through his paces — cardio on a rowing machine, weights on the bench, and painful-looking Pilates stretches, twists and lifts for his abs. It’s wrong to sexually objectify people, I know that, so I try not to ogle his body. His beautiful, sweat-sheened, hard-muscled, breath-snatching body. I fail.
The piece we rehearse is not a romantic scene — bummer — so I force the breathy desire out of my voice and attempt an American accent when I read the lines of Chase Falconer’s arch-nemesis. I waggle my eyebrows and twirl an imaginary villainous moustache to get a laugh out of Logan, because I adore it when laughs. It makes his face look more open and free, somehow. I also seriously like it when the trainer makes him lie back and bench-press eighty-kilogram weights, because then I can gaze freely at the ab and arm porn without fear of him catching me at it.
When the trainer calls it quits, I lead Logan to the minibus that ferries the cast to and from their hotel. Britney Vaux is already inside, and as soon as she spots Logan, she straightens her spine, thrusting her improbably large and perky breasts out, and pats the seat beside her.
“How about a swim at the hotel, Logan? The water will be lovely, and I bought a new teeny-weeny bikini! It’s adorbs — I know you’ll love it!”
I slide the door shut before I can hear his response. Rule 2: Different worlds. It’s time for me to return to mine.
I slip off my heels and walk to the parking lot. I’m dead tired, my feet ache like I’ve been walking on daggers all day, I long for a shower, and I’m due back on set at four a.m. on Monday.
I’m also happier than I can ever remember feeling.