Page 6 of Let’s Make a Scene

We take our places, sitting behind the cards printed with our names. I’m next to Cynthie, and I watch the way she touches the script in front of her with something like reverence.

I run my eyes over her, still bewildered by her presence. And her god-awful haircut.

She’s not a quiet person, fidgeting at my side, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

I think she’s trying to hide her nerves, but the way her eyes dart around the room gives her away, as if she wants to take it all in, but only in tiny bite-size pieces so that no one guesses she’s looking.

I catch the sweet, citrus scent of her perfume as she leans over to grab a bottle of water, and it hits me like a punch to the gut.

A Lady of Quality is supposed to be the next step on a career path that has been carefully planned since I was practically in the womb, and I’m trying hard not to panic that the whole enterprise is suddenly at the mercy of an untrained, undisciplined wild card.

Even if she smells great and is quite interesting to look at.

She blows at a strand of hair that’s fallen in her eyes and offers me a rueful grin. “It feels like the first day of school,” she says, her voice low as she leans toward me.

I try to shake off the jittery feeling that I get around her—like I’ve just chugged a quadruple espresso and I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. “I need to focus,” I say aloud. The words come out too hard, a reprimand, and from the way she moves abruptly away from me, I know I sounded rude.

“I just… I have a process.” I try again, but my nerves are taking over, mixing with the heady swirl of her perfume to smother me, and I’m flustered, so rather than an explanation, it sounds like another brush-off.

“Oh, sure,” Cynthie replies lightly. “A process. Got to have a process. Absolutely.” She gnaws on her bottom lip, and my eyes linger there, on her pretty mouth.

Pretty mouth?

Jesus, I need to get a grip. I let out a slow exhale.

I can do this; I can use this. It’s got to be a good thing that I find the woman playing Emilia moderately attractive, right?

In fact, that’s probably what this is—me committing to the role.

It’s actually extremely professional of me to be distracted by her mouth.

Sure .

When Jasmine and Logan told me they were going to do open auditions after Mia pulled out at the last minute, I was conflicted.

On the one hand, I know how easy it is for a production to collapse at the eleventh hour, but I wasn’t convinced by the argument that bringing in someone untested would add a “dynamic edge” to the film.

Not when that person had absolutely zero training.

The chemistry read was not a reassuring experience.

Cynthie had come in, crackling with an energy that left me feeling like I’d been struck by lightning.

Or hit by a truck. Or trampled by a herd of wildebeest. Basically, that scene in The Lion King that traumatized an entire generation?

That was what meeting Cynthie Taylor felt like.

We’d run through the pages several times and she was uninhibited, playful—reading the same line in totally different ways.

Some of it was unhinged, some of it worked—I think—but all in all it was like trying to act with a tornado.

It might have been fun, if it weren’t for the fact that said tornado holds my entire career in her hands.

With a sigh, I drag my attention back to the work in front of me, to Edward, and the situation he finds himself in: in love with the woman who is due to marry his brother.

Torn between duty and desire. I close my eyes, let everything else fall away as I sink into familiar techniques, drummed into me over years and years.

Pulling on memories that spark the same emotions, I breathe deeply and let the character settle over me.

When I open my eyes again, Cynthie is watching me. She looks away, a hint of pink crawling along her cheekbones.

I pull the script toward me and take a pen from the bag at my feet.

Both of my parents have been—if not actually impressed—then at least lukewarm about this project, which is a huge improvement on their usual attitude toward my life.

The pen was an unexpected gift from my dad in honor of starting work on my first feature film, and for a moment the weight of it is almost unbearable in my hand.

Glancing up I find Cynthie side-eyeing me again, and something in her expression has me even more on edge.

“You’re supposed to write down the notes they give you,” I say defensively.

Her eyes widen. “I know.” She reaches into the tote bag slung over the back of her chair and takes out a clear plastic pencil case. “I just didn’t realize we needed a solid gold fountain pen to do it.” She pulls out a BIC with a chewed cap, and I feel heat rise to my own cheeks.

I make myself feel better by giving her a look that my sister, Lee, once described as my “Mr. Darcy sneer.” (It’s handy for an actor to have several Mr. Darcy expressions in his arsenal, and I’ve perfected this one. I’m also great at looking standoffish at parties.)

Cynthie’s spine stiffens, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Okay.” Logan breaks in from his position at the head of the table.

He gets to his feet. “Let’s kick things off.

You’ve all met now, but we’ll do brief introductions before we get started.

Obviously you know me. I’m Logan Gallow, codirector.

” He grins and shoves a hand through his streaky blond hair.

If I didn’t already know that Logan and Jasmine were twins, I would be unlikely to guess they were from the same gene pool at all.

It’s not just their appearances that are different, but their personalities also seem almost comically at odds with one another.

Logan is currently wearing a bright red Hawaiian shirt and a pair of board shorts.

He’s a director in his thirties but he dresses like a twenty-year-old Californian stoner.

He talks as loudly as he dresses and laughs easily, head thrown back, always the life of the party.

Jasmine is much more self-contained, hard to read. She swathes herself in black and has the look of a woman who carries a copy of The Bell Jar around and has a lot of thoughts on deconstructionism. Honestly, she makes me nervous. I have a horrible feeling she sees right through me.

“I’m excited to get to work on this film, which is my third full-length feature,” Logan continues.

“But this project also gives me an opportunity to work with my darling sister for the first time and on her directorial debut.” Here, he bats his lashes at Jasmine, who rolls her eyes in response.

“At least,” he carries on, “this is the first official time we’ve made a film together.

Let’s just say there are some epic movies featuring a cast of Calico Critters, knocking around at our mum and dad’s house. ”

When this gets a laugh, Logan’s smile widens. “Listen, those fuzzy little rabbits went through some dark shit. Jassy kept having them bump each other off. There was an entire storyline about their bakery selling poisoned pies.”

“It was a scathing exploration of consumerism and the capitalist agenda,” Jasmine says, and it’s not clear if she’s joking. If any child was going to use fuzzy little rabbits to make stark political commentary, I can believe it would be a young Jasmine Gallow.

“Anyway, back to business. I’m Jasmine.” She lifts her hand but remains seated, and Logan flops back into his chair beside her. “I’m codirecting, but I’m also here in my capacity as the writer.” She places her hand on top of the script in front of her in an unconscious gesture of possession.

The script is brilliant. Subtle, sensitive, romantic.

When my agent, Mike, sent it to me, I knew instantly that we’d found the elusive project that was going to launch the next phase of my career.

It’s tough to find a romance where the male lead isn’t just a prop but a well-drawn, interesting character in his own right.

It was why I agreed to take a risk on a pair of relatively unknown directors…

before that lack of experience extended to include my costar as well.

I glance at Cynthie again, but she’s watching Jasmine with a rapt expression.

We move around the table, everyone briefly introducing themselves.

The world of filmmaking is so small that I know most of the people here already.

The fact that my on-screen parents are being played by Rufus Tait and Hattie Prince is both a blessing and a curse.

They’re great actors, but they’ve also known me since I was in nappies.

Trying to project the image of a capable leading man is more difficult when your fellow cast member can share hilarious stories about your three-year-old self running naked around their garden.

Not to mention that my every move will be reported back to my parents.

Max Jones and Caroline Turner have spies everywhere.

When it’s Cynthie’s turn, she flashes a wide smile.

“I’m Cynthie Taylor,” she says. “I’ll be playing the part of Emilia, and I can’t really believe I’m here.

” She laughs, delighted, and an answering chuckle runs around the table, the rest of the cast emanating goodwill.

I wonder if any of them share my reservations.

She takes a deep breath, “I know I’ll have some serious catching up to do, but I’m going to work very hard to do justice to this amazing character and her story.”

“Thank you, Cynthie.” Jasmine nods. “We’re all grateful that you stepped in at the last minute.”

Finally, it’s my turn. The last to go.

“I’m Jack,” I say, and I’m utterly confident that you’d never know from the way I speak or the way I sit that I’m anxious at all—I’ve been faking my way through things like this for a long time.