4
I rapped on Chloe’s trailer door, ignoring the sting to my knuckles.
Chloe appeared a few seconds later and her greeting smile was immediately replaced with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?”
She nodded, so I climbed into the trailer and made my way unsteadily over to the sitting area.
“You don’t look well, Lena. Is everything OK?”
I shook my head and held up a hand while I took a few fortifying breaths. I’d just had a heated discussion with Tania, who wouldn’t even consider raising the issue of Marc with the production manager or producers. Apparently the arrangement was a done deal and if I didn’t agree to go along with it, I’d be in breach of my contract. When I’d raised the fact that Marc hadn’t been stipulated in the contract I’d signed, she’d highlighted a clause that dealt with keeping the cast and crew safe. If I wanted Marc to go away, the only way to do that would be to break my contract—and that meant not starring in this film.
Chloe sat down opposite and waited for me to speak. She wore a deep blue shift dress, short like mine. It was made from thick linen and the color set off her auburn hair, which had been styled into a neat bob. If I weren’t so distressed I would have smiled at our 1960s outfits.
“Marc Romero.”
Chloe frowned. “What about him? I saw him briefly earlier but he seems to be keeping out of your way.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“What?”
I held up a hand again. “Sorry. That came out wrong. He’s pretending to be my boyfriend.”
“Why? Don’t take this the wrong way, Lena, but he could get any woman he wanted. I don’t think he needs to pretend.”
I sighed. Chloe was young and I wasn’t doing a very good job explaining. “I’ll start again . . .” I did my best to outline the situation to her, including production’s stance on the arrangement.
“Let me get this straight,” she said when I was done. “He’s not just pretending to be your boyfriend while we’re on-set? He’s going to go places with you? Like to premieres and stuff? So the whole world is supposed to think you’re in love?”
I winced a little at the rapid-fire questions. It sounded even worse when she said it out loud. “Yes. Until he finds the person responsible or until we finish filming, whichever comes first.”
Chloe leaned back in her seat, looking thoughtful. “Damn. Why can’t he pretend to be my boyfriend?”
I shot her a sharp look.
She grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I can think of worse guys to be your pretend boyfriend, that’s all.”
“I can’t.”
“He’ll look good on camera,” Chloe pointed out helpfully.
“Oh my God.” I leaned on the table and put my head in my hands. “There’ll be interviews. This is a disaster.”
“You’ll have to come up with a story about how you met,” suggested Chloe. “And how you fell in love.”
I groaned. It was either that or cry. “It’s bad enough I’m just getting over my disastrous marriage, now I’ve got to deal with this.”
“Your marriage wasn’t a disaster, Lena.”
She was right. My marriage to Duncan Moore, a Hollywood producer twenty-five years my senior, hadn’t been a disaster—at least not initially. Despite derogatory coverage in the media that Duncan was a cradle snatcher and I was an ambitious young actress trying to take advantage of him, our marriage had lasted five years. We’d been happy and in love, until I’d worked out Duncan’s love for me was grounded more in Hollywood than me as a person. But I wasn’t going to think about it at the moment. I had Marc to worry about now.
“I know,” I told her. “But this is a disaster. You and the producers are the only ones who know Marc’s real identity and they want us to keep it that way.”
“So what’s your boyfriend’s name then?”
“Nathan.”
“Nathan?” Chloe frowned. “Nope. Doesn’t suit him.”
“I’m not certain he can act either, which could be a serious problem.”
“You never know. Didn’t he do undercover work before becoming a security specialist?” she asked.
I straightened in my seat. “You know, I actually have no idea.” It was the first time I’d realized Marc knew practically everything about me whereas I knew almost nothing about him.
“Or maybe I heard he used to be a detective or something,” she pondered. “I can’t remember.”
“I don’t know. I guess I should find out.” I gave her a pained look. “Seeing as he’s my boyfriend.”
Chloe giggled. “You might even have to kiss him in public.” I must have paled because she put her hand on my arm. “It could be worse.”
“I know I’m the older and more experienced one and therefore should have more perspective, but I’m really not sure I see the bright side.”
Chloe grinned. “You never know . . . he could be a good kisser.”
*
I managed to get through the rest of the day on-set avoiding Marc to the best of my abilities. As much as that was possible when a person was your boyfriend, anyway.
We hardly spoke on the return journey in the car later that night, which was a blessing. I was exhausted and not up to our usual adversarial banter. It had been a sixteen-hour day all up, and there’d be plenty more of those in the coming weeks. The schedule of a feature film could be punishing and bordered on insane when you considered things from a logical point of view. From a creative perspective, I understood it though. When I was in character, I lived and breathed the story, so I didn’t really mind. Plus I’d get a few days off here and there because I wasn’t in every scene.
If I’d thought Marc had a sensitive bone in his body I would have suggested he was giving me my space, but he was more likely working through the details of the case. Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less and left him to muse.
When we pulled up at the gates to my house, I moved to get out of the car, but he grabbed my arm.
“This is a full-service investigation, so stay where you are.”
I was too tired to argue so we waited while the gates opened, then drove through. When we arrived at the front porch, I reached around to retrieve my bag from the back seat. By the time I’d done that, Marc was already out of the car and opening my door.
I got out of the car, careful to avoid eye contact. I was still annoyed at Marc’s and the production team’s underhanded methods of ensuring my personal safety, but I was too tired to start a fight.
As I went to walk past him, he reached out and squeezed my hand. “Goodnight, Princess. Or should that be sweetheart?”
I glared at him and batted his hand away, determined not to say anything.
“Or babe? Would that be better?”
I stomped up the front steps a little louder than I had intended, but still said nothing.
“Doll? How about doll?”
I could hear laughter in his voice and it made me want to respond with something particularly rude, but I restrained myself.
“No? Alright. Have it your way, Princess. I’ll be here again tomorrow at six am.”
I opened the front door and stepped inside.
“What? No goodnight kiss?”
To this day, I swear a breeze caught the door and it slipped from my fingers, slamming shut loudly.