Page 8 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Shit,” I say succinctly.

“Er… bit of an understatement. I think you’d better go and deal with that,” Logan replies.

I scrub my hands over my face, indulging in one long, frustrated groan before running out the door to chase after Cynthie.

Unfortunately, there’s no sign of her in the meeting room where the others are gathering their stuff and saying their goodbyes.

“Have you seen Cynthie?” I ask Marion.

“She just left,” Marion replies. “I told her we’d call her a cab, but she said something about the bus…”

I’m on the move before she can finish the sentence, calling my goodbyes over my shoulder.

“Ah, chasing after the girl,” I hear Rufus say cheerfully behind me. “I can’t say I blame him. She’s a looker, isn’t she? Even with the awful haircut.”

I head back through the hotel as quickly as I can and out onto the crowded street. There’s no sign of Cynthie, and I hesitate, unsure which way to turn, but as I glance down the road, I spot the tousled mess of her hair in the distance.

“Cynthie,” I shout, and several heads turn. Not hers, though. I hurry after her and call her name again. I’m a lot taller than she is, so it’s not hard to catch up, and when I’m right behind her I realize she’s not ignoring me, not on purpose anyway—she has headphones in.

I say her name again, and when I get no response, I reach out, gently touching her elbow.

She turns sharply, the tote bag on her shoulder swinging with her and socking me in the stomach with plenty of momentum. Her hands are raised in what looks like a comedy karate chop pose, and if all the air hadn’t just been knocked out of me, I might have laughed. As it is I let out a rusty wheeze.

“Oh,” she says coolly, “it’s you.” She pulls her headphones out of her ears, and I’m hit with a blast of Kelly Clarkson, before she stuffs the headphones in her bag.

“I didn’t hear you over my righteously-angry-women playlist.” She gives me a pointed look.

“Fair enough.” I nod, and I lift my hand to the back of my neck. Now that I’ve found her, I’m not sure what to say. “Er, can we… talk?”

She crosses her arms. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Please?” I gesture to a nearby coffee shop. “Let me buy you a coffee?”

She stares at me, and my gaze drops to her mouth when her lips purse. My body temperature kicks up, presumably because it’s hot as hell out here. Finally, she gives a stiff nod. “You can buy me a cup of tea. Milk no sugar. But only because London prices are criminal and I’m thirsty.”

“Tea, sure.” I agree quickly, ushering her through the door and off the hot, noisy street.

The coffee shop is fairly empty, and—thankfully—hums with the sound of air-conditioning. “You go find a seat,” I say. “I’ll grab us some drinks.”

Again, she hesitates, but then to my relief, she stomps off to sit in one of the booths. I grin weakly at the girl behind the counter and order a tea and a large coffee with an extra shot of espresso. Hopefully the caffeine will inspire me—I currently have no idea what I’m going to say.

Regardless of what I flung at Logan in the heat of the moment, I know that they’re not going to push to recast Cynthie…

not after one table read, no matter how disastrous it was.

I have to work with her, and that’s going to be hard enough without any added animosity.

Given that she’s currently glaring at me across a coffee shop, with enough ice in her gaze to lower the temperature in the already chilled place by several degrees, I’m about to have my work cut out for me.

But, hey, I can be charming.

“One tea,” I say, placing the cup down in front of her with a smile.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, not looking at me.

I slide into the seat across from her. “So—” I start.

“Believe me, I know exactly what you’re going to say,” she interrupts.

“You do?” I ask, relieved, because broaching the subject of what she’d overheard me say to Logan is a bit of a minefield. I’m happy to let her take the lead, then I can add in a bit of groveling and we can leave here on good, professional terms.

“You think I’m a disaster, that I’m going to mess this all up.” She looks into her cup of tea.

“Errr,” I flounder, because actually yes, I do think that, but I’m supposed to be smoothing things over between us. “That’s not—”

“That is what you said, isn’t it?” She looks up then, her eyes boring into mine.

“Well, yes, but—”

“I know it’s tough, having someone so inexperienced brought in,” she continues, as if I haven’t spoken, and her tone is agitated. “But instead of behaving like an arrogant jerk, you could have offered to help; you could have been supportive. We could work together …”

Even though she is basically saying the things I was going to say to her, I find myself bristling at her tone.

“You don’t seem to realize or care that this is actually a huge deal for me,” Cynthie carries on, and there’s a flash of hurt in her eyes. “This part, this opportunity is a dream come true. Do you think I want to mess it up?”

Guilt nips at me with sharp little teeth. “I’ll admit that it was unfortunate…” I begin again, trying to be careful with my words.

“ Unfortunate ,” she scoffs.

“… that you overheard what you did,” I push on, “but we need to be professional about this. Listen, I’m not trying to be cruel, but if you want to be in this business you have to toughen up. Learn to take a bit of criticism.”

I’m vaguely horrified to hear myself parroting my father, but god, if anyone ever needed this advice, it’s Cynthie Taylor.

She has to have a thicker skin than this, because what I said was nothing compared to the shit she’s going to hear.

I could tell her some horror stories about the type of soul-crushing feedback I’ve had—and that’s just from the people I share DNA with.

She’s trying to break into a world of critics and backstabbers, one full of people who would absolutely love to see her fail.

It’s not for the faint of heart. Better she learns that lesson now.

“Oh, sorry.” She tilts her head, with a look of wide-eyed confusion.

“Is this you being professional ? I must have missed the part where professionals bad-mouth their costar to the director and try to get them sacked. That doesn’t sound like a professional to me. It sounds like a spoiled prima donna.”

A muscle in my jaw starts to tic.

“Because, trust me,” she continues, “you’ve made yourself very clear. You want me off this film, but it’s too late. I’m not going anywhere, so you’re going to have to get over yourself and your giant ego and deal with it.”

“I am dealing with it,” I say through gritted teeth. “I tried to apologize—”

“Really?” She cuts me off again. “Because I don’t remember that part.”

“Because you won’t let me finish a sentence!” The words come out too loud, but she only smirks, pouncing on my exasperation like it’s a delicious treat.

“Oh! I’m sorry for interrupting your apology,” she says, sweet as cyanide. “Please,” she gestures with her hand, “carry on. I’d love to hear it. At length.”

And then, she actually bats her eyelashes at me, which I don’t think I’ve seen a human do in real life before.

Any guilt I was feeling is quickly evaporating as the insults pile up and it’s clear that she’s enjoying my discomfort.

I came into this coffee shop perfectly prepared to grovel, but with every passing moment I want to be the one to watch her squirm.

I’d absolutely love to be the bigger person here, but her taunts are enough to demolish all my good intentions.

Two can play this game.

I lean forward, sincerity in every line of my face. “I’m sorry,” I start.

I don’t think she realizes that she’s leaning toward me, too, that her posture has softened, mirroring mine, that I’m reeling her in so easily.

“I’m sorry…” I say again, pausing, keeping my expression earnest and open “… that you overheard a private conversation. I hope you learned a valuable lesson about eavesdropping.”

She blinks as the words settle between us, then snaps back, almost knocking over her tea.

“You— I— that—” she splutters, and I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes like victory.

Cynthie narrows her eyes. “?‘A valuable lesson about eavesdropping,’?” she repeats, finally, each word carefully enunciated in what I would guess is an imitation of my accent.

“Well, that’s quite the apology. I suppose I shouldn’t expect better from an entitled twat who speaks like a Victorian ghost.”

My pulse leaps in my throat. Cynthie’s cheeks are flushed, her hazel eyes glittering.

“I’m just saying…” I sling my arm over the back of the booth and keep my tone deliberately conversational, allowing a nice condescending note to creep in.

“Instead of focusing on a little criticism that wasn’t actually meant for you to hear, you should be focused on the job at hand.

Then you might not make so many mistakes,” I add, kindly, and temper leaps in her eyes.

“I am focused on the job, you tremendous dickhead. I’m not afraid of hard work, which is good, seeing as I’m going to be working much harder than you,” she says.

“Because you’re right about one thing. I am trying to catch up.

I don’t even have an A-level in drama”—she puts little finger quotes around the words and rolls her eyes—“because not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us had to leave school and get a job instead of a full fucking ride to RADA. Some of us had to scrimp and save, and pursue our dreams any way we could. And some of us, some of us ,” she repeats, her voice shaking with fury, “got the part because of raw, natural talent and not because of who our mummy and daddy are.”

“What did you just say?” The words are a growl low in my throat.

“You heard me.” She lifts her chin, the picture of disdain.

“You’re so convinced it’s me that’s the problem, but at least I got here on my own merits.

Can you really say the same? Do you think if it wasn’t for your parents you’d have all these doors opening for you?

Would you be playing Edward? Or could the part have gone to someone else, someone better? ”

It’s like she’s digging her fingers into an open wound. I can only stare at her.

Finally, I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not the one who’s out of my depth, sweetheart.

This isn’t an after-school musical where you can find yourself through the power of performance and discover that the real gift was the friends you made along the way.

There are hundreds of people’s jobs and millions of pounds riding on the success of this film.

You fuck up, and there are real consequences.

You think I’m arrogant?” I run my eyes over her in a lazy examination. “Take a look in the mirror.”

She puts her palms flat on the table and levers herself up so that she’s leaning over, crowding into my space.

Her perfume is a silk ribbon wrapping around my throat, but her expression promises only cold, calculated murder.

This close, I can see the tiny flecks of green in her eyes.

Her chest rises and falls and I can hear the ragged intake of her breath.

She’s not the only one who is furious. Anger is a snarling, snapping thing inside me. I want to sink my teeth into her.

“ You ,” she says, her voice a husky accusation, “are the worst person I have ever met. I can’t wait to shove my success in your boy band–reject face.

” Her laugh holds an edge of mania as she slides out of the booth.

“We’ll see who’s out of their depth, won’t we?

Nepotism can only get you so far, Jack.”

The way her mouth curls around my name makes something tighten in my stomach, but I ignore the sensation, getting to my feet, looming over her. “Good luck with that,” I sneer. “Or should I say break a leg ? Sincerely. Break both of them. Then maybe we’ll actually get to cast a real actor.”

“I’d like to break your neck .” Cynthie’s smile is wide and wicked and she steps in close to me, close enough that I can feel the heat from her body brushing up against mine.

“Well, look at that,” I rumble. “We’re finally on the same page.”

She treats me to one last smoldering look of disdain, then without another word, she whirls away, a tiny tempest about to unleash herself on the streets of London.

My heart clatters. There’s so much adrenaline crashing inside me, I feel like I’ve jumped out of an airplane into crocodile-infested waters.

So much for smoothing things over. We’re going into the first week of the most important project of my career so far…

and it looks like Cynthie Taylor and I are officially at war.