It's windier after the explosions and extras are letting makeup assistants wipe fake blood off their faces and a helicopter flies noisily over the scene and an actor who looks like Robert Carlyle shakes the director's hand and dollies are dismantled and stuntmen congratulate one another while removing earplugs and I'm following Jamie Fields to her trailer, where an assistant hands her a cell phone and Jamie sits down on the steps leading up into the trailer and lights a cigarette.
My immediate impressions: paler than I remember, still dazzling cheekbones that seem even higher, eyes so blue they look like she's wearing fake contacts, hair still blond but shorter now and slicked back, body more defined, chic beige slacks stretching over legs that seem more muscular, br**sts beneath a simple velour top definitely implants.
A girl from Makeup wipes strategically placed smudges off Jamie's face, forehead and chin with a large wet cotton ball and Jamie, trying to talk into the cell phone, waves the girl away and growls "Later" as if she really means it. Trying to smile, the girl slinks away, devastated.
I position myself on the sidelines, leaning sexily against a trailer parked across from Jamie's so she'll have no problem immediately spotting me when she looks up: me grinning, my arms crossed, coolly disheveled in casual Prada, confident but not cocky. When Jamie actually does look up, irritably waving away another makeup girl, my presence-just feet away-doesn't register. I take off the Armani sunglasses and, simulating movement, pull out a roll of Mentos.
"Been there, done that," Jamie whispers tiredly into the cell phone, and then, "Yeah, seeing is believing," which is followed by "We shouldn't be talking on a cell phone," and finally she mutters "Barbados," and by now I'm standing over her.
Jamie glances up and without any warning to the person on the other end angrily snaps the cell phone shut and stands so quickly that she almost falls off the stairs leading into the compact white trailer with her name on the door, the expression on her face suggesting: Uh-oh, major freak-out approaching, duck.
"Hey baby," I offer gently, holding my arms out, head tilted, grinning boyishly. "Like, what's the story?"
"What the hell are you doing here?" she growls.
"Uh, hey baby-"
"Jesus Christ-what are you doing here?" She's glancing around, panicked. "Is this a f**king joke?"
"Hey, cool it, baby," I'm saying, moving closer, which causes her to move up the stairs backward, grabbing onto the railing in order not to trip. "It's cool, it's cool," I'm saying.
"No, it's not cool," she snaps. "Jesus, you've got to get the hell out of here-now."