Page 22 of Hollywood Crush (West Wales Romance #2)

Daniel

Filming was not going well. It was drizzling lightly, which had put paid to a certain director’s idea to shoot all the stunt work in big, sweeping vistas.

A fog was creeping in over the sea despite the summer heat and risking visibility on production.

A local had also refused to move their boat from the beach so set dressing had to be hastily arranged, restricting the possible camera angles even more.

I could see Roland screaming at some poor secretary on the other side of the beach as another held an umbrella over him.

Stacey was attending to mine and Patrick’s make up. She and her team had one of the hardest jobs of the shoot today as the stunt work required meant she had to replicate my look identically with that of my double.

We were in the midst of filming the last episode, and there were small explosive charges under the sand as my character’s cliffside prison was to be destroyed, freeing him and bringing a satisfying conclusion to the series.

We still had studio work to do in Cardiff on various episodes, but it was minimal as there had been such an emphasis on location shoots throughout the miniseries.

“There we go, looking lovely,” said Sandra.

She had added a pretty nasty scar to Patrick’s cheek, the same as she had applied to his double earlier on in the day.

It was hard for me to learn my lines with the cosmetic contacts in, but I had perched my glasses on the end of my nose to get a better view.

Where we stood in the tent we were visible to paparazzi to some extent. I guessed it was deliberate on Patrick’s part when he took a step closer in and put one hand on the small of my back. I heard cameras click.

“Look, Patrick,” I started. I was determined to let him down gently as I knew how good this fake romance was playing for his career, but before I could finish I was interrupted.

“Daniel Ellison, over here now!” I heard from across the beach, cutting me off.

If Roland was shouting at the actors, things were really bad.

He’d started off the production as a complete arsehole to all the production crew whilst worshipping the land we walked on.

But now he was almost as bad toward us. I almost hoped the show wouldn’t become successful in the ratings, as I couldn’t imagine another few years of coming back here to shoot under these conditions.

I looked up to where I could just see the hotel perched over the cliff. What I wouldn’t have given for an extra long stay in Tudor’s bed rather than spending my day in the pouring rain being shouted at by a very sad little man.

“C’mon, you might as well come with,” I said to Stacey. Roland was gesturing emphatically at my stunt double who was bent over and rubbing at his own ankle with one hand.

“What’s up?” I asked, jogging over to where the two stood.

“Bastard thinks he can’t run over sand with a twinge in his ankle,” snorted Roland. “A stunt double who doesn’t even want to run!”

“You OK, mate?” I asked. I was embarrassed to admit I didn’t know the stunt double’s name, but he nodded up at me.

He was new, as Roland had fired the last lot over something trivial.

No one should ever have given one man such power over production, and not for the first time I wondered whose dick he’d had to suck to get given free reign over a project this big.

Normally, there’d be a director per block of one or two episodes with producers and editors overarching the whole series.

Roland seemed to be doing it all himself, and morale on set was suffering for it.

“It’s not just my ankle, anyway,” said the stunt double. “I have concerns over the size and placement of the charges in the sand too.”

“Maybe we should take a quick break, yeah? Calm things down, see if we can discuss this all with the stunt coordinator.” Stacey had stepped forward so that she was in line with me. Her tone was conciliatory, calming, but didn’t seem to have the intended effect.

Roland’s eyes widened with rage as his face turned an ever darker puce. “Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that? Makeup? I have a hundred people who want your job, a hundred who could do it just as well as you. Go back to your tent and do your fucking job.”

Cowed, Stacey turned and slunk back toward the makeup tent. I watched her go and could feel the anger rising up within me.

Before I had chance to say anything myself, another figure stalked past me and poked Roland in the chest. All four-foot eleven of Dani, the first AD, was squaring up to Roland.

“I swear to God, if I hear you speaking to the crew like that one more time, I call the union in. And you won’t like it when I do that.

They will crawl over your arse and dig out your deepest shit if you think you’re going to keep running the show the way that you are. ”

She was intimidating despite her stature and slight size, but Roland didn’t seem bothered. “Call the union, then. See if I care. The studio will defend me to the ends of the earth.”

Dani stalked back to the tent from which she had come.

“Come on then, we have to get to filming,” said Roland. “We only have so many hours left in the day. We’re going to film the stunt doubles running from the explosion, and then film the close ups on Patrick and Daniel on the ground.”

He was barking orders at the crew to get ready for the scene. The explosion could only be rigged once due to complexity and it was imperative that Roland got the shot he wanted from the doubles.

They took their places next to the boat that had been disguised as a pile of rocks, but the stunt double that looked like me had to limp to get onto his spot.

The clapperboard was ready, cameras focused, and Roland was dancing a little jig just out of shot, like he just couldn’t wait to blow shit up.

He was holding a little remote in hand, which I was sure wasn’t standard protocol.

Where was the stunt co-ordinator, VFX manager or other producers? Where was the responsibility?

“Wait,” called the man who looked so eerily like me in the make-up. “I can’t. I won’t be able to run on this.” He pointed at his ankle again.

“Fine. Fired.” Roland’s tone was short and clipped, and oh-so brutal.

“What?” asked the stunt double. It sounded like he couldn’t hear his ears and frankly neither could I.

“Get out. You’re fired. Done. Finito.”

The poor double became the third person to walk away from Roland in as many minutes.

I looked around me, but it seemed that there weren’t all that many people around.

The set felt quiet, under-staffed. I wondered how long Roland’s behaviour had been going so completely unchecked with me just chalking it up to a diva-ish director like so many others.

“Right,” he said. “Get in place.”

I gestured to Patrick, and we both walked toward the spot we’d previously rehearsed. On the ground, post explosion. It wasn’t my business if Roland couldn’t film the actual stunts today.

“No, not both of you. We have a stunt performer for Lord Kazran. It’s the Elf King we’re missing.”

I turned to Roland in shock as what he had said sunk in. “You want me to do stunt work? Without proper training? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“I’ll add the explosion in post. You’re in no danger. All I’m asking you to do is run as if you’re running from it.”

“So all you’re asking me to do is run? No explosion, no risk?”

“No worries. Just run across the beach and we can do all the dangerous stuff with the stunts later.” Roland was being suspiciously reasonable and fair and I wasn’t sure how he would achieve what he wanted later when he’d fired one of his stunt actors.

I took my place on the sand next to Patrick’s stunt double. It was still eerie on set looking between the actor and the double, no matter how many years I had been doing this job.

Cameras were readied and the camera assistant ran into shot with a clapperboard. “When I call Action, I want you to run forward toward the camera. Do you understand?”

I nodded. It wasn’t like I hadn’t run on sets before. It was just swords, moving vehicles and explosions I didn’t particularly like getting involved with. They were for the experts to deal with.

“Action!” Roland called out, and several things happened very quickly.

On my first step, I noticed Roland was still holding the explosives remote firmly in one hand.

Before I could stop, on my second step, I noticed the heavy anchor chain of the parked boat running along the sand.

My foot connected with the chain, I heard a sickening crack as I started to tilt forward.

The last thing I saw before my face hit the sand was Roland’s stubby little fingers pressing the button. And then everything went black.

◆◆◆

There was a horrible ringing in my ears that just wouldn’t go away.

I vaguely swatted at the air in front of me to get rid of it, whatever it was.

Opening my eyes felt painful so I kept them shut.

But that bloody ringing just wouldn’t go away.

I felt around me. Cold sand, but then - a warm leg, a hand stroking my head.

“Tudor, is that you?” I asked. The hand stroking my forehead and moving damp hairs back felt strong and assured.

I tried pushing myself up but a burst of pain in my ankle stopped me from making any kind of significant movement.

“Hurts,” I muttered. Another hand, a softer one, took my hand and squeezed it gently.

I tried once again to open my eyes, just so I knew what was going on. I managed to, and everything seemed so bright. But it all seemed to dim a little again when I realised it wasn’t Tudor stroking my hair, but Patrick. And there was a gaggle of press and photographers taking pictures.

“It’s OK, we’ve got you,” said Patrick. “Ambulance on it’s way.”