Chapter 30
Intentions
A week later, my voice has returned, but even though I’m over the flu, I’m feeling miserable. A fistful of deadlines looms, ready to pound me into misery.
Time left until the Syrenka docks in Cape Town: three days.
Time left until Beast wraps and Logan leaves town: ten days.
Time left until my university prison sentence starts: two months.
Time left until the family dinner to which I’ve invited Logan and at which I’ll have to pretend there’s no romance between us: six hours.
Time left until I smack Britney Vaux upside the head: any minute now.
Following the excellent reaction of her audience to her birthday dinner speech, Britney has set herself up as some kind of eco-expert and is doling out tidbits of information about the species of shark that live in False Bay and how surfers look like seals to a shark. She’ll soon have to do some research of her own if she intends maintaining the pretence, because she’s running out of my material.
I’ve said nothing — for the first few days because I couldn’t, and afterwards because what’s the point? I’d only look petty. Besides, I want the message about shark-finning out there, don’t I, so does it really matter who says it? You can accomplish lots if you don’t mind who gets the credit. And anyway, people will be more likely to listen to her than to me.
Britney’s smugger than a cat swimming in cream because reports of a romance between her and Logan continue to circulate. The rumours have been fuelled by the pictures of her clinging to him that were taken the night of the birthday dinner by the studio’s own photographer and ‘leaked’ to the press. Cilla has also released stills of “Chase and Fern” from the smooch shoot — of Britney in his arms, them kissing, him gazing at her with what looked a whole lot like love in his eyes. There’s even a new name for the Logan-Britney hook-up that fans are shipping online: Logney. Logney!
I try to stay away from the celebrity news sites — these days they only make me miserable. But when I’m with Logan, I’m blissed out, happy, content. I feel like I belong by his side, like I’ve come home to myself in some way.
My parents keep asking me why I’m in such a good mood, why I seem so happy. I credit the job — “I’m working in the movies. I’ve got stars in my eyes.” That makes them worry even more, like I might run off to become a Holly-gofer.
I still haven’t ruled it out. I haven’t ruled anything out, but I haven’t made any decisions, either. Should I please Logan, my folks, or honour my dream? What am I waiting for? A burning bush? Writing in the sky?
Zeb says he’s worried about my sanity, but he offers no advice, only support. “Whatever you decide — and it is your decision — I’m on your side.”
I’ve invited him to tonight’s dinner, too, to help smooth any atmospheric rough seas. My parents approve of Zeb, who’s unfailingly polite and respectful towards them. My Nana adores him — I suspect because he always flatters her wildly.
“Just help keep the conversation flowing, okay?” I give Zeb his last-minute instructions. “Crack a joke now and then. And distract my father if he starts giving Logan a hard time. Sidetrack him with talk of Mozart — you know he always likes that.”
“You don’t ask for much.”
“I will reward you, Zeb. I’ll take you as my companion to the wrap party, and you can try and sway the Austrian ox from the straight and narrow.”
“Take me as your disguise, more like, so no one catches on to the fact that you and Logan are …” He twists his fingers together.
Zeb is up to date on (most of) the details of my relationship with Logan. He understands the reasons we’re keeping it hush-hush, but he also worries that I’m being used by a Hollywood player in search of a little fun while out on location.
“He loves me, Zeb. He said so.”
“Sweetie, saying it don’t make it so.”
Don’t I know it?
Dinner starts well enough. Logan is charming, friendly, and polite. He calls my parents “sir” and “ma’am,” praises my mother lavishly for the delicious food, and Nana is won over from the moment Logan kisses the back of her hand with a whispered “Enchanté.” He delights her with spicy little stories from Hollywood, and she winks and nods at me repeatedly to show her approval. Lobster sits on top of Logan’s feet under the table, devouring the bits of roast beef he manages to sneak in her direction. Another female heart is conquered.
My father, however, is determined not to be charmed. He interrupts an anecdote to ask Logan about the business and financial aspects of movies.
“Shucks, sir, I guess I don’t know much about that side of things. I’m concerned with what goes on in front of the camera. I never did want to be a bean-counting accountant.”
Crap. I’ve never mentioned to Logan that while my father is now the head of Poseidon Industries, he originally qualified as a C.A.
Nana cackles and Zeb hides a grin behind his napkin, but I can tell the comment has put my father’s back up. He immediately goes on the offensive, as if trying to prove to me how pathetic the movie industry is — just in case I have any ideas about creating a career in that world.
“I see. Not arty-farty enough?” my father challenges, his head lowered between his shoulders like a belligerent turtle.
I glare at my father. He ignores me.
“So what are your intentions, then?” he demands.
“Dad,” I say, in a warning tone.
With the merest flicker of a glance towards me, Logan says, “My intentions, sir?”
“Yes, your intentions. What do you intend to do with your life?”
“Um, act?”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t it enough?”
“I would think that there comes a time when a man gives up play-acting and make-believe, and settles down to something more secure.”
“Dad!” I’m getting angry.
Under the tablecloth, Logan gives my hand a squeeze to let me know he’s okay. From over the table, Zeb watches the interchange between my father and Logan like a spectator at Wimbledon, delighted by the volley. I frown at him and aim a kick at his shin but crunch my toe on the chair leg instead.
“Well, sir, after the movies I’ve completed, I find myself in the fortunate position of being financially secure.”
“Yes, but for how long?”
“Dad!”
“For life, I guess. Unless I start throwing my money around like a complete fool.”
My father seems stumped for a comeback. I frown at my mom, telling her with a hard look to stop my father’s rude inquisition, and she rushes to fill the silence.
“Tell us about your dive in the predator tank, Logan. Romy says it was fascinating. Was that the first time you’ve seen a shark up close?” she says, offering him second helpings of baked butternut.
“Yes, ma’am. Romy here was determined that I learn more about the creatures I portray in my films. But I gather you’re the real expert?”
Logan deflects the attention from himself and allows my mother to wax lyrical comparing raggies to hammerheads. Nana nods off, having heard all this before, but Logan is either truly fascinated by the informative little lecture, or he’s delivering an Oscar-worthy performance.
That’s the thing about dating an actor — you never can be entirely sure.
Over dessert — home-made custardy milktart — Logan engages Zeb in a discussion about computer-generated technology, describing how the graphics artists use actual footage of sharks as the basis for the effects. Zeb, who’s probably been suppressing the urge to ask all evening, finally pops the question.
“And do they ever do CG effects on, um, the actors’ bodies? I’m just asking because they don’t always look real.”
“Zeb!”
I want to find a sinkhole, preferably twenty thousand leagues under the sea, and disappear into it. I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life.
Unoffended, Logan laughs and says, “Yeah, sometimes they do.”
“See?” Zeb says to me.
“But not mine,” Logan adds.
“See?” I say to Zeb.
Logan grins at me. “Have you been defending the existence of my abs?”
My mother, who’s been watching the exchanges between Logan and me intently all evening, now looks positively worried.
“Logan, tell us about Britney Vaux,” she says bluntly.
But I’ve had enough.
“That’s it. Logan’s got to go now. He’s got an early call time tomorrow, and he needs his beauty sleep. The transport to take him back to the hotel is probably already waiting outside.”
I hustle him away from the table amidst many thank yous and you’re welcomes and even a nice to meet you from Zeb.
The hotel transfer car is indeed already waiting in the street in front of our house, and as soon as we step outside, Thabo climbs out and opens the rear door for Logan.
“I’m so sorry about all that. You must think my family’s insane. And so rude!” I apologise to Logan.
“Don’t worry about it. They love you. They’re not wrong to be suspicious of some smooth-talking stranger from the other side of the world.”
I glance back at the house, just in time to see a curtain at the front window twitch.
“You look so lovely tonight, I’m battling to keep my hands, and my lips, off you. But if we’re trying to keep this secret, I’m guessing I’d better save my goodnight kiss for tomorrow,” Logan says.
“I think they may already be on to us,” I say glumly. They’re probably already lying in wait, preparing to give me a lecture. “See you in the morning.”
“See ya.”
I wave forlornly at the disappearing car, then notice that Zeb has come outside and is standing next to me.
“You know, I think he might be okay. The real deal,” he says.
I give him a hug for that.
“Do the right thing, Romy. The right thing for you,” he says, before heading off home.
I trudge back to the house.
“Well, that was an enlightening evening!” my father says crossly as soon as I’m inside.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mother tells me that you and he … that you are romantically inclined towards this Logan Rush. Is that true?”
“Thanks for that, Mom,” I say.
“He’s going to break your heart,” my father says. “He’s just amusing himself with you until the circus leaves town. He’s probably already tried to get you into his bed.”
“How dare you? You don’t even know him!” I can feel an angry flush rising up my neck.
“And he’s much older than you.”
“Two years, Dad. One and a half, actually.”
“Are you sure he hasn’t lied about his age? They do, these actors.”
“Rex, dear, please. Romy, what your father means to say, is that he’s worried you’ll wind up getting hurt, because there can be no long-term prospects for this relationship.”
I’ve thought the same thing more than once myself. But hearing them say it makes me furious.
“Why shouldn’t there be?” I turn on my father. “Why do you immediately assume he only wants one thing from me? That he couldn’t possibly really care for me? Am I such an unappealing person?”
“I never meant —”
“He likes me. He. Likes. Me! And he’s a good guy, alright? He’s kind and genuine and talented.”
“Oh, he’s a real prince alright. And you can bet he intends to marry a princess, not you.” My father flings himself into his recliner chair and swallows a large gulp of his brandy.
“Marry! Who even mentioned marriage? I’m only eighteen years old, for fu- for fudge sake.”
“It’s all over the papers and the Net that he’s going to marry this co-star of his,” my mother says.
“Those are just stories invented to generate publicity for the movie. They’re not true. The ‘romance’ between Logan and Britney is not real.”
“Are you so sure? Are you so certain that what’s between him and you is real?” my father demands. “You should settle down with someone of your own kind, like Zeb.”
“He’s gay.”
“Good Lord!”
“We’re just worried that this is going to end in heartbreak, sweetie,” my mother says softly.
“Why can’t it work? Why shouldn’t it?” There’s a catch in my voice when I say the words. Tears aren’t far off.
“You’re not from his world,” Mom says.
“I could join it. I have joined it.”
I feel beleaguered, the more so because they’re giving voice to my deepest fears.
“You don’t belong there. It’s all acting and faking and partying,” my father says dismissively.
“You don’t know anything about it!”
“I know it’s all smoke and mirrors, show without substance. I know that you’re an intelligent person who wants some purpose in her life.” My father sounds almost weary now. “You’ll never be satisfied with make-believe, Rosemary, with a life where there’s nothing real or significant for you to do, and no way for you to make a difference.”
This, too, resonates with me more than I like.
“We just want you to choose your course wisely, love,” Mom says, giving me a hug which I’m too angry to return. “Time’s running out and you haven’t yet decided what you’ll be doing next year.”
I haven’t told my parents about the Syrenka offer. Initially I wanted to avoid my mother’s inevitable protests about safety and my father’s lectures about the need to settle down and study. Now I’m too afraid to mention it in case they urge me to go as a way of prying me away from Logan.
Zeb is right. I need to make a decision based on what I want. I need to choose a world not because other people want me to fit in there with them, but because it’s where I truly belong.
“I’m going to bed,” I tell my parents.
Upstairs, I close my bedroom door. I want some privacy. Not to think — I’m sick and tired of thinking. All my conflicting thoughts and feelings are jumbled and tangled up inside my head like wet washing in a tumble dryer.
I send Logan a goodnight text, with three kissy faces. Sometime in the silence afterwards, while waiting for a response, I fall asleep and dream I’m running and running, in shoes that are too small. And I can’t tell if I’m running from, or running to.