Page 3 of Lights, Camera, Love

‘Yes, hi! I’m coming.’ Beaming to mask my nerves, I collect the dog-eared pages of my script and trail the woman into the studio while trying to slip into the character of Constance.

But I’m still drawing blanks as to what the director wants from me for this part other than my dance skills.

When I ran the lines with Mum, she was brutally honest: ‘Evie,’ she said, ‘this script is so terrible that it’ll be a miracle if this movie ever gets made. ’ I’m not sure she’s wrong.

Inside the dimly lit studio, a makeshift performance space has been set up beside a long table with four chairs and a monitor. My eyes shoot to a man hovering near one of the free-standing lights, his golden curls barely contained by his fedora hat.

My jaw drops. Holy shit. Is that …

‘Austin Reynolds,’ I blurt through a stunned laugh.

One side of his mouth kicks up, mirroring the smirk that was pinned to my wall throughout my adolescence.

In high school, my friends and I used to have fiery spats over ‘who loved Austin Reynolds the most’.

We would dare each other to risk suspension by skipping school so we could be the first to see the Aussie heartthrob in his latest Tate Hunter spy movie.

I was obsessed with this guy in high school, but after he stopped doing those Australian thrillers, he fell off the radar.

I vaguely remember reading that he’d gone over to the States a couple of years ago to have a crack at the big time, but I haven’t seen him in anything coming out of Hollywood.

Except now, he’s right here, standing in front of me with—my eyes slip south—no wedding band. Eeep! Perhaps he’s been waiting to meet the one woman who makes him forget all the rest. Is it so ridiculous to imagine that could be me ?

I mean, I’m just throwing it out there. This whole moment feels like a meet-cute from one of his movies. My stomach fizzes hotly at the thought.

A stout man with a mop of frizzy auburn hair steps into my view and stretches out a clammy hand.

‘Thank you for coming in, Evie,’ he says, giving me a limp handshake and telling me his name is Brian, but that I can call him Buzz. Ah, this is the film’s director. With a ripple of nerves, I thank him for inviting me.

‘I’m the nephew of Harold Winter,’ he says out of nowhere. ‘The dance video that your agent sent in was incredible .’ Buzz’s eyes sweep down and up my body.

My skin prickles against his intense gaze. ‘Thank you.’

Buzz heads over to the monitor desk, and the woman with the glasses introduces me to the rest of the casting team while I try not to gawk at Austin-freaking-Reynolds .

He also shakes my hand (I lose breath from the physical contact) and says, ‘How you doin’, darlin’?

’ His electric-blue eyes rake over my purple dance leggings and white crop top.

Even though I won’t be dancing today, Mum told me I should dress like my character.

That always worked well for her when she was a young actress working in LA.

It finally clicks why Austin is here: he must be playing the part of Jamie in Moving !

That means if I win this role, we’ll be co-stars.

We’ll fall in love on-screen, and then maybe, just maybe , real life could imitate art …

My cheeks heat up as I imagine the moment we get to kiss each other for the first time and realise that what we’re feeling isn’t just for show, and that the true love story being told is—

‘Rightio, she’s got the part!’ Austin blurts over his shoulder, addressing the crew. Buzz chortles as he leans against the desk, arms crossed over his thick, knitted jumper of swirling rainbow colours. What is Austin talking about? I haven’t done any acting yet.

The actor glances at his watch. ‘Can we get started, Buzz? I’ve got a shit-ton of stuff to do.’

‘All right, get into your positions,’ Buzz directs from the desk. ‘Not those positions,’ he adds with a snort, and one of the camera guys chuckles through his nose. It takes me a minute to register the innuendo; I’m too nervous to think about anything other than the lines I’m about to perform.

Austin steps in beside me, a crew member flicks a switch, and light floods the face of my teenage crush.

He can’t be any older than thirty-five, but thin lines sprout from the corners of his eyes, and his skin has a slightly leathery look like he’s spent too much time in the sun.

He’s staring back at me just as intently. ‘You’re seriously stunning, Evie. Has anyone ever told you that you look like—’

‘Brooke Shields,’ I finish with an awkward blush; it’s been said to me at least a thousand times. I point just above my eyes. ‘It’s the brows.’

‘It’s the everything ,’ he replies, and my knees buckle. Is this how I meet my soulmate?

Buzz smacks his palms against the table. ‘Okay, let’s get set!’

Another round of jitters whips up my stomach, and I mentally sink into the mindset of Constance.

Suddenly, the double doors behind me push open with a thump, jerking me back to reality. A deep voice apologises for being late.

I hear an irritated huff—I think it’s from Buzz—and Austin gives the intruder a bright-eyed smile over my shoulder. ‘You’re good, bro. We’ll be done soon.’

The late arrival steps through the beams of light, shooting me a quick glance. He does a double take while my brain takes a moment to register the familiar, strikingly handsome face.

Oh my god, it’s Groucho from dance class!

‘Hey,’ I say with a big smile of recognition.

All he offers me is a curt nod. He turns back to Austin to tug the fedora off his head, then ruffles up the actor’s curls, styling them.

What on earth is happening right now?

‘Can we move that light a little closer to Evie?’ I hear Buzz mutter to someone. ‘It’s casting some interesting shadows, which I’d like to play with.’

Groucho continues to preen Austin like a show dog while a crew member steps between us to jerk one of the lights closer to my face. I notice again how well Groucho is dressed—this time in tapered black jeans, a grey hooded T-shirt and a pale denim jacket. Is he Austin’s stylist?

Groucho’s furrowed eyes flash to mine for a second before he walks over to the black-painted wall and rests against it, pushing his hands into his pockets.

Honestly, the slouchy poses and the eternal frown—it’s like this guy thinks the whole world is a high-fashion shoot in which he’s required to look hot and tortured.

‘Hey, Kye?’ Austin twists to face Groucho. ‘Can you book me in for a hot stone massage after this? My back’s going to hell in a hen basket.’

Wait, shouldn’t that be hand basket?

Austin rolls his shoulders while Groucho—who’s apparently named Kye—obediently pulls out his phone and thumbs through it.

‘We ready?’ Austin barks impatiently.

Buzz scurries into place behind the monitor. ‘Let’s do it.’ He cues the camera and sound to roll, then dramatically cries, ‘ Action! ’

Panic steamrolls through my body, and all I can see is Kye standing with one foot up against the wall and his arms folded, watching me with that same sulky stare he had in my dance class.

Right from the first line, I fumble the whole damn scene.

I forget a critical moment entirely and get several lines wrong, and when Austin summons real tears while talking about the daughter’s refusal to utter a word since her mother’s death, my face may as well be one of the stones he’s about to be massaged with—utterly devoid of expression.

I’m terrible , and a big part of that is because this Kye guy is standing right in my sightline, glowering at me like I just stole his girlfriend. Blood rushes to my cheeks. I need to do the whole scene again.

‘Cut!’ Buzz calls. He hunches over the desk and sets his chin in his laced fingers, his brow tight with thought. After three ice ages and several yawns from Austin, Buzz announces, ‘I think we’ve got everything we need.’

My stomach pitches. ‘You don’t want to run the scene again?’

‘Nope. We’re done.’

My eyes flicker to Austin, who’s exchanging a brow-raised glance with Kye that I’m pretty sure says: Did you see how bad she was? OMG, what a joke.

‘Okay.’ I mumble my thanks to Buzz and the casting directors while trying to force my gut out of my throat.

I may not be the world’s most experienced actor, but it’s not like this was my first time performing lines.

It’s in my genes if nothing else—my mum was a professional actor for years, and my biological father has won three Best Actor awards at the Oscars, for goodness sake.

I can do much better than I did today, but there were too many distractions throwing me off my game, like my future husband being here and this Kye guy’s standoffish, hostile energy.

‘Right; I’m outta here,’ Austin grumbles, snatching his fedora off a stool. ‘All the best to you, darlin’,’ he says to me. His words are the kiss of death.

I force out a grateful smile. ‘Thanks. You, too. I hope to see you again.’

‘Only if you’re LA-bound.’ He tosses me a wink. ‘I’m heading back there right after this gig.’

‘Ah, okay. Well, best of luck in Hollywood.’

My stomach sinks as I drag my feet to the doorway, halting to glance back at Kye.

‘Might see you at hip-hop class,’ I call out to him a little saltily, which isn’t like me. Austin’s head whips towards Kye, whose brows snap together like I just exposed a secret.

So, he doesn’t want people in this room to know he dances hip-hop—I can’t bring myself to feel bad about that.

There’s nothing wrong with men dancing, and anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Groucho’s steely stare is what cost me this job.

Not only could I have used the money to help bail my mum out of her financial mess, but this film could’ve opened doors for me as a performer that will now remain bolted shut.

Not to mention all the on-screen kissing I would have done with Austin Reynolds, or the fact that it could’ve led to more. My heart actually stings at that realisation.

Groucho’s dark eyes shift back to mine across the room, and I give him a long, final, farewell stare. I’m generally easily won over by people, and I like almost everyone I meet. But I just don’t like this guy, and I really hope I don’t see him in my dance class again.