Page 10 of Lights, Camera, Love

Mike chuckles, then he starts making fast clicking noises with his tongue, signalling to what could be a cat, a dog, a rabbit—who knows.

Mike’s always rescuing something, humans included.

An image flashes in my mind of him peering closely at my bruised cheek when I was nine, then at my three-year-old brother’s scratch-covered back.

I force the memory away, my fingers groping for the leather strap around my wrist.

‘You still enjoying the manager gig?’ he asks. ‘Working with Austin?’

I stare out at a distant herd of cows feeding on the grass like living lawnmowers.

‘I think I’m actually pretty good at this manager stuff,’ I say.

‘Last week, I got him a major endorsement deal with his favourite cologne brand, and I negotiated him a better contract than he could have hoped for with this movie, too.’

‘Impressive.’

We both know I didn’t really answer Mike’s question, but he doesn’t repeat it.

‘Have you found time to do things for yourself since you got back?’ he asks gently. ‘Hiking? Hip-hop?’

‘I found a dance school near home for some drop-in classes—can you believe the hip-hop teacher there is also the woman who was cast in this movie?’

‘Really? That’s a funny coincidence.’

‘No shit. Anyway, Austin found out about the classes and—’

‘He gave you a hard time about doing something that doesn’t involve him?’ Mike finishes; he can’t help himself.

‘You know it. He suddenly set up a bunch of evening meetings.’

‘Oh, Kye,’ Mike sighs.

It’s really not a good time to get into this, so I reach for a subject change, asking him about his wife and kids.

With a chuckle, he tells me about the latest case his wife is caught up in—she’s a family lawyer—where a custody dispute over a budgerigar has led to the involvement of a pet psychologist. My lips tilt up as he then launches into a proud-dad gush about his teenage sons—one ready to start his own culinary business and the other a master of avoiding effort.

When Mike has another call come in, we say goodbye, and I stroll back towards the stables.

It looks like filming is already in progress.

I expect to find Austin on set, but all I see is Evie immersed in a scene with Cassie, the first assistant director, who’s standing off-camera.

Inching closer to listen, I hear Evie performing Constance’s heartfelt admission to Jamie, telling him that she has developed feelings for him …

except she’s making the confession to Cassie .

What the hell? Even if the camera is recording Evie’s close-up, why isn’t Austin performing his own lines?

I turn my ear to hear Cassie’s delivery of the male lead’s words—they’re meant to draw flushes of longing to Constance’s face, but Cassie is far from a thespian.

Her delivery is more wooden than a forest.

The scene ends, and Buzz yells ‘Cut!’ from beneath a canvas tent shading a table of monitors. He tugs off his headphones and springs towards Evie to, I assume, give her feedback.

I walk up to Cassie. ‘Where’s Austin? He was just here.’

‘I think he went back to his cabin. I’ll ring him when he’s up next.’

‘But he has to deliver his lines to Evie. So her performance feels real, not like … whatever that was we just watched.’

‘Austin told me that he doesn’t deliver lines if he’s off-camera.’ Cassie’s bottom lip disappears between her teeth as she thumbs through her call sheet.

‘He what ?’

Buzz strides back over to the monitor tent, his brow furrowed.

I glance at Evie, who’s blinking down at the ground with her cheeks flaming as if she has just been told off by a teacher at school.

Obviously Buzz isn’t happy with the scene, but how is she supposed to give a convincing performance with a piece of timber to act against?

I follow Buzz to the tent. ‘Before you start shooting again, can you give me a sec to ring Austin?’

He frowns at me, then at the cloudy sky. ‘The light’s gonna change soon, so snap to it.’

Stifling a scowl at his tone, I press my phone to my ear. My eyes flicker to Evie, who’s standing frozen with her eyes pressed shut, like she’s trying to tap into her character’s emotions in the scene.

Austin answers on the third ring.

‘Get your fucking ass back here,’ I say sharply. ‘What’s this about not delivering lines like you’re too good for it?’

‘I asked Cassie to do it,’ he protests with a yawn. I can hear the crunching of his boots as he walks. ‘I assumed they’d shoot my close-up first, but they were all set up for Evie and refused to change the shot. I tell you what: they’re not exactly the sharpest cookies in the jar back there.’

I pace over to a quieter spot, hissing through my teeth.

‘It’s sharpest tools in the shed, not cookies in the jar.

And you chose to work with Buzz. You picked this film because you thought it was the perfect vehicle to relaunch your career.

But even if you play your role like Laurence fucking Olivier, if your co-star is shit, the movie is gonna be shit.

And right now, I’m watching poor Evie screw up this scene because she’s acting opposite a tent pole. ’

‘A what?’

‘Just get your ass back here,’ I repeat, and end the call.

Cassie gives me an impatient frown as I stride back over to her. ‘Austin’s coming back now to read his lines with Evie,’ I say.

Evie’s brows jump as she overhears. ‘Really?’ she says. ‘Oh, thank you; that’s brilliant. I was finding the scene really hard to do without him.’

This time, her genuine, lit-from-within smile feels so fucking hard not to return. But I have a rule against smiling at women who Austin is even vaguely interested in. It’s gotten me into too much trouble in the past.

‘No problem,’ I murmur, and I ask Cassie if I can borrow her script. ‘Until Austin gets here, I’ll deliver the lines to Evie,’ I say. I’m hardly an Oscar winner either, but I can put more into this scene than Cassie did. And Buzz is right: the light is changing fast, and we need to keep going.

‘Oh, that would be fabulous,’ Cassie says as she exhales. She pushes the script into my chest and darts away, speaking into her lapel microphone.

Evie scoops up her own script off a stool, her nervous, fast-blinking eyes darting over the page and her gnawed-off fingernails brushing against her lips.

A tiny spot of warmth blooms in my chest. She might be overwhelmingly upbeat at times, but I don’t envy her being in this situation.

Rather than freaking out, she’s handling it like a pro.

While final checks of Evie’s hair and makeup are made, I shift into position opposite her, silently reading the lines I’ll need to perform.

JAMIE

I’d rather dance with you than dance with anyone else.

CONSTANCE

I thought you didn’t know how to dance.

JAMIE

(Suggestively) Oh, I know how to dance.

CONSTANCE

(A nervous pause) Show me?

JAMIE steps close to CONSTANCE.

JAMIE

(Speaking in Constance’s ear) The thing is, I usually dance when no one’s watching.

Cheesy-as-hell lines, but I’d expect nothing less from Jakob.

‘Thank you for doing this. You’re sweet.’ Evie’s voice comes out so soft that it catches me off-guard and sends my face flashing up to hers.

Sweet? Really not a word I’d use to describe myself.

Before I can formulate a reply, a clapper is shoved between us. It bangs shut, and a crewperson calls out, ‘Rolling’, followed by another saying, ‘Speed!’

‘And … action ,’ Buzz directs.

Evie’s face lifts back up and her crystal-blue eyes burrow into mine as she transforms into the character of Constance.

I force myself to hold her gaze, just as Jamie would.

But as I deliver the first line, a strange, buzzing warmth erupts over my skin.

I allow myself a quick glance at the ground, then turn my focus back to Evie, saying a silent prayer that Austin turns up soon.

After a week of us all living off barely digestible catering, Buzz makes a snap decision to take the principal cast members to dinner in the nearby wine region, at a restaurant that, as he mentions multiple times, his Uncle Harold recommended.

I relish the fact that I’m not invited and convince Austin not to force my attendance on Buzz.

Cardboard burger patties and days-old lettuce are a small price to pay for an evening to myself.

Plus, our location manager, Kiara, must’ve conjured up some magical juju to boost the wi-fi signal, because now I’m getting three bars.

It’s worth breaking open the decent bottle of bourbon that some poor sucker left behind in my cabin.

The van containing Buzz’s VIPs shuttles off down the dirt road, sending up a dust cloud, and I settle into one of the chairs on my cabin verandah, hoping I don’t get rust stains on my jeans.

With a nip of bourbon in one hand, I use the other to tap on my tablet, googling the name ‘Evie Scott’.

I need to know if there is anything shady in Evie’s past that Nadia could dig up and use against her.

If there is, at least I can get ahead of it.

The image results are not where I should be looking, but that’s where my eyes become trapped for a moment.

It’s not hard to see why Austin is interested in her … Focus, Kye.

Fortunately, the pictures quickly run out. Unlike Austin, Evie doesn’t have much of an online presence, but that may change after this film is released.

I scroll through multiple articles about other Evie Scotts—the real estate agent, the corporate finance lawyer, the Pilates instructor.

But there isn’t much about the woman I’m researching other than a few music videos she’s choreographed, a TV credit for a guest role in a police drama, and a web page listing dates for a past tour with a hip-hop artist. Nothing Nadia can sink her teeth into. Good .

I’m about to call it a night when my eyes snag on a result near the bottom of the list; it’s a partial sentence from an old Reddit thread:

… went to primary school with a girl called Evie Scott, and she told my friend that her dad is the movie …

Yawning into my fist, I click open the random post about celebrities’ children and begin scanning the comment thread. When I find the post mentioning Evie, my jaw slowly falls open.

I went to primary school with a girl called Evie Scott, and she told my friend that her dad is the movie star Gabriel Dean. Her mum is the Australian actress Angela Scott, who used to star in Sandy Street, that sitcom he was in before he became really famous.

There’s nothing more, other than a string of replies saying things like ‘Wow, r u serious??? I didn’t know he even had a kid!

’ and ‘I remember that show! Omg what!’ I hurriedly swipe out of the article and google ‘Evie Dean’.

Nothing comes up that has anything to do with the Evie I know, so I change my search to ‘Gabriel Dean daughter’.

No images appear of Evie, but a run of tabloid articles about a ‘mystery child’ flood my screen.

I click on the first one and read that the world-famous Oscar winner is alleged to have had a kid more than two decades ago, whom he has never acknowledged.

Holy. Fucking. Shit .

I lean back in the chair and stare out at the barbed-wire fencing cutting across the horizon, but all I can see are the pieces fitting together …

Evie’s age, which has to be late twenties …

her surname, ‘Scott’, the same surname as Gabriel’s former co-star …

the way she spoke up at the script read-through when we were discussing the farmer abandoning his daughter …

and how closely her features—piercing blue eyes, chestnut-brown hair, heavy brows—resemble Gabriel Dean’s.

It has to be.

My entire body hums like the engine of an Audi R8 Spyder. Being the daughter of Gabriel Dean is like being the child of Tom Cruise, Jack Nicholson or Harrison Ford. My father is, apparently, a drug addict, whom I’ve never even met. Evie’s father is an international megastar .

I toss back another nip of bourbon and try to wrap my head around this revelation. On film sets, gossip spreads faster than fire, so the only reason I can think of for not having heard about this is that Evie has chosen to keep her father’s identity a secret.

Not many people would understand that, given the doors it could open for her career, but I get it.

Few things cut deeper than the realisation that your parent doesn’t want you.

Suddenly her excessive cheerfulness feels more impressive than irritating.

The fact that Evie has turned out to be so warm and pleasant, despite being denied the birthright of parental love, makes my lungs constrict with a feeling I can’t explain.

At first, I think it’s envy, because I’ve turned out to be the opposite—cold and broken. But then I realise it’s more like … protectiveness. An urge to safeguard what Evie clearly wants to keep private—a truth that wouldn’t be too difficult to uncover, if someone were to look hard enough.

Someone like Nadia.

The question is: what would Nadia do with this information if she discovered it?

And should I tell Austin who Evie’s father is before he finds out from his ex?

He’d expect me to, not only as his friend but as his manager.

The problem is, the guy can’t keep his mouth shut—the entire crew would be whispering about it by morning; Buzz would be unbearable, making it all about him, and sales and marketing would be drawing up strategies to make the most of Evie’s celebrity connection.

Without knowing what to do, I decide on doing nothing, at least for now.

I down two more drinks in a futile attempt to settle my thoughts, then shower and climb into the squeaky double bed. For what feels like hours, I gaze up at the cobwebs coiled around the cabin’s high wooden rafters, unable to find sleep.