Page 6 of Lights, Camera, Love

Austin’s thigh nudges mine beneath the conference table. ‘What do you think, bro?’ His sleepy eyes blink at me.

I glance at him, then at the fourteen other actors and producers dotted around the stark-white boardroom of Village Pictures, a space better suited to spreadsheets and budget meetings than creative discussions.

Those who aren’t frowning down at their scripts are watching me expectantly—even Evie, three seats to my left.

She’s gone with a different look for today’s script reading—dark, smoky eyes and glossy lips—but even with all the makeup, she still looks bafflingly wholesome …

Kye. You’re staring.

I angle my ear to Austin. ‘Give it to me again,’ I say, to cover that I wasn’t listening.

‘Do you think the line gives away too early that the farmer wants to fuck the dance teacher?’

The biggest reaction that Austin gets for dropping an F-bomb in front of twelve-year-old Marcia—who’s here to play the mute daughter—is a couple of held breaths, one of which is Evie’s.

Despite Austin’s absence from the local film industry in recent years, he’s still much too famous to be criticised, even by his so-called peers.

After pinning him with a subtle ‘pull your head in’ look, I re-read the line he’s underscored with three hard strokes of ballpoint pen.

JAMIE

The strange thing is, it’s my breath that’s taken away when you’re the one dancing.

Christ, this is corny. I scowl in the direction of Jakob, the head screenwriter, who’s scratching his chest with his meaty fingers. It’s practically snowing in here with the air-conditioner cranked to an unhealthy chill, yet his bald head glistens with sweat.

‘Yes, I think the line is too strong,’ I say, not bothering to lower my voice. ‘In fact, the whole script feels a bit heavy-handed if you ask me.’

‘He didn’t ask you,’ Jakob snaps at me. ‘We’re only discussing the line.’

‘Which is, as I said, a bit heavy-handed,’ I retort. Jakob huffs and glowers at the ceiling. I get why he’s annoyed by my criticism. I’m not a writer or even a cast member. I’m only here because Austin requests his manager’s presence at everything, and Austin’s word is gospel.

‘Of course the farmer wants to fuck her,’ Buzz cuts in, and Marcia’s eyes widen. Buzz waves a hand at Evie. ‘ Look at her.’

My lips part as Evie glances down at her script, her hoop earrings brushing against her scarlet skin. Austin spins his pen in his fingers and gazes at the wall clock like it’s the only thing that can save him.

Buzz fists a clump of his poodle hair. ‘How about we change it to something like: “I love how you dance like no one’s watching.”’ He sits up with a start, his eyes growing round.

‘We could shoot it from outside, through the shed’s dusty window, as if a silent, unseen observer—perhaps one of the farmhands—is indeed watching this conversation play out. ’

I scrape my hand across my jaw as Austin’s lips purse into an unconvinced pout. He knows as well as I do that Buzz’s dialogue edit is as cliché as this day is long.

‘I think we should keep the line as it is,’ Jakob argues, dabbing his perspiring forehead with a tissue.

No one says anything. After an agonised silence, Evie sits forward and begins to speak, her voice coming out soft and uncertain.

As soon as she walked in, I could tell—she’s a lot less comfortable in here than she is in her dance studio.

‘What if … what if Jamie asks Constance what it is that she loves about dancing?’ she suggests.

‘Constance could reply with something like: “When I’m lost in the music, it’s the only time I don’t think about my real life.

” And that could prompt Jamie to think about his difficult situation with his daughter. ’

Evie’s spot-on explanation of why I occasionally dance knocks some of the air from my lungs. Maybe she’s not quite as na?ve as I thought. As if she can sense the effect her words have had on me, her gaze skips to mine, and I quickly blink away.

Buzz aims a finger at her. ‘That’s just the sort of line my uncle, Harold Winter, would go for.’

I roll my eyes at his umpteenth name-drop as Austin makes a big show of looking at his watch. ‘We gotta move on,’ he says. ‘I’ll pencil in Evie’s idea, and we can workshop it on the day. It’s no skin off my teeth.’

No skin off my nose , Austin .

He strikes out the original line and scrawls in Evie’s alternative.

All the minions in the room follow suit, including the film’s director.

Shouldn’t Buzz be the one deciding when it’s time to move on?

Jesus, Buzz, grow a pair. If he’s got the balls to wear that leopard-print knit jumper, then surely he can stand up to his leading man and show him who’s in charge in this room.

The read-through continues, and I do my best to follow along while playing with the thin leather strap around my wrist to keep myself mentally alive.

The actors aren’t meant to perform at their optimum during a read-through—that can create a false sense of victory and mask genuine problems in the script—but the straightforward delivery of this drivel is making the film seem more and more like a mistake.

When the offer for Moving first hit my inbox, the film studio pitched it as ‘ The Man from Snowy River meets La La Land ’, which sounded intriguing until I read Jakob’s script. I advised Austin to ask for significant rewrites before accepting the part, but like always, he refused to listen.

It may not have been the worst decision in the world.

This was Austin’s first major offer since getting clean, and he was lucky to land it.

He had the Aussie film industry at his feet when he became the star of the locally made Tate Hunter movies in his early twenties.

But after his life went to shit a couple of years ago (his messy divorce led to a drug battle), I stepped in to become his manager and help him straighten out.

I’d already spent years working for a high-profile Sydney PR firm that mostly handled celebrity clients, so the role wasn’t too much of a leap.

The first thing I did was to shield Austin’s addiction spiral from both the media and his fans—successfully, I might add—with some creative diversionary tactics.

But his breakdown spread like wildfire among industry insiders, so we both felt it was best if he left Aussie shores for a while.

I agreed to move to LA with him to help restart his career there, but after two years of doing the Hollywood grind without anything to show for it, he came back home to take the offer for Moving .

Even so, he’s already itching to get back to LA, more determined than ever to crack Hollywood.

I refocus on the scene being discussed. In this one, Constance is counselling Jamie over the fact that his young daughter, whose name is Angel, won’t speak to him.

‘I think it’s important that Constance doesn’t come across as implying that it’s Angel’s fault and that she’s just acting out,’ Evie says, blinking nervously as she looks around the room.

‘Her father has never pursued a relationship with her before now. It’s up to him to …

to make amends for abandoning her and build back her trust, which, realistically, could take years. ’

Another bang-on comment that makes me shift in my seat. Some mistakes can never be forgiven.

‘We don’t have years,’ Jakob says gruffly. ‘We have ninety minutes.’

Buzz chortles. ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before a picture with my name on it runs for anything less than a hundred and eighty—ask any of my editors.’ He throws his head back with another throaty cackle.

Oh, fantastic, now this shitshow of a film is going to run for three hours.

Austin taps his foot against the chair leg a little madly, darting glances at the exit door, while the other bigwigs around the table have their say.

His obvious boredom sends his attention drifting to Evie, who appears to be trying to keep up with the discussion while offering Marcia the occasional supportive smile.

I subtly watch Austin watching Evie, his gaze burning a trail over her lemon-yellow puffy-sleeve shirt, up to her loose chestnut hair and across the heavy brows that frame her blue eyes.

Of course he can’t tear his gaze off her. I love my best friend, but he’s utterly predictable.

As soon as the read-through is over, Austin and I escape into the lift leading to the underground carpark.

A woman strapping a toddler into a carseat whips her face around as Austin and I pass by, her attention fixed on my famous friend.

She hurriedly rummages through her handbag for what I assume is her phone, and I cross over to Austin’s other side, creating a wall so she can’t take clear pictures of him.

‘So, do you think this film is gonna be the one to bring me back?’ Austin asks me, as if he’s a ghost lost in the afterlife and yearning for resurrection. ‘What do you think of it?’

I raise a brow at him. ‘You really want an answer to that?’

He scratches the blond stubble peppered over his jaw. ‘I know you think the script could use a bit of work.’

The script could use a blowtorch, but he’s committed to this thing now, so I keep that to myself.

‘An actor of your ability can make anything sound good,’ I reply honestly. Austin may have the striking looks of a leading man, but it’s his genuine talent that earned him this second chance.

His expression brightens as if someone has shone a torch over his face, reminding me of the rosy-cheeked twelve-year-old I met when I was nine. Even back then, he’d light up whenever someone gave him a compliment.

‘Should we try out that new vegan tapas place around the corner?’ he suggests as I unlock the Audi Q3 I bought when we moved back to Sydney. ‘Bit of salt and pepper tofu or some creamy cashew dip? Yummo.’

‘Tonight? Uh, I can’t. I’ve, uh … got somewhere to be.’

Austin’s brow crumples as we climb into the soft leather seats. ‘Where? We only just got back into town. Don’t tell me you’ve already got some sexy knockout hidden away somewhere.’

I feel him stare at me as I twist around to reverse. ‘I’ve got a class tonight.’

‘A class ?’ he parrots. ‘Oh, you mean the sambahhh.’ He presses a hand to his stomach and wriggles his hips back and forth in the seat.

‘Hip-hop, actually.’

I’ve dabbled in plenty of dance styles—samba, Afrobeats, contemporary, salsa—but I always come back to hip-hop.

I’m not a pro by any means, but I’ve been doing drop-in classes for years, and I have fuzzy childhood memories of hiding in the bathroom with my baby brother and listening to 50 Cent on my iPod to block out the terror of our mum and her boyfriend launching beer bottles at each other.

I swallow tightly, shaking off the thought.

Austin blinks out at the gleaming office buildings rippling past the car window. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were doing that shit again? I thought that ship left the station long ago.’

‘It’s not your thing,’ I say. ‘Didn’t think you’d be interested.’

His brow pinches as his eyes flick to mine. ‘I’m always interested in what you’re doing.’

I’m not sure how to reply to that, so I just leave it.

He clears his throat and stretches out his long legs before drawing his knees in and out a few times. ‘Fuckin’ traffic.’

The fidgeting’s already started, so I switch on the radio and flip through stations until I find one playing classic rock. Austin’s limbs settle, and he bobs his head to the music while scrolling through his phone.

A sharp breath cuts through his lips. ‘The fuck ?’

‘What?’ I say, pulling the car to a stop at the traffic lights.

He holds up his phone, and I squint at the social media post. The text says something about ‘a very famous celebrity showing his true colours’ and ‘inside knowledge that may be revealed’.

Fucking Nadia .

‘What are we gonna do?’ Austin huffs. Like everything else, this is up to me to manage, especially because this whole mess with his ex-wife is my fault. ‘What if Nadia goes ahead and posts the video?’ he says.

‘She’s just bluffing,’ I reply, although an alarm is reverberating in my chest. If Austin’s ex posts the years-old video she has of him jerking off to his own image in a mirror, the public humiliation could reawaken his old addiction issues.

It could also be a big problem for the film studio, given he’s working on a PG-rated picture.

‘Nadia’s only doing this because she wants your attention,’ I remind him. ‘If she sees that she has it, she’s got no reason to make any further moves.’

I resist the urge to add that, no matter what role I played in this, a big part of why Austin’s ex hasn’t coped with their divorce is because he completely cut her off as soon as he decided the marriage was over. He can be incredibly ruthless.

‘Keep viewing her Stories,’ I encourage, ‘because she can see you’ve done that.

But don’t even think about replying to this post.’ I make a mental note to take screenshots of Nadia’s latest rant when we get to our beach rental in case I ever need to show them to the police.

There are obviously deep mental health issues driving this obsessive behaviour, but threatening Austin’s public image like this isn’t okay.

He returns his gaze to the window, a slimy feeling of discomfort settling between us the way it always does whenever the topic of Nadia comes up.

‘How about dinner after your class, then?’ he eventually murmurs. He shifts to face me and rests his temple against the seat.

All I feel like doing tonight, after emptying my mind the only way I know how—with some raw hip-hop—is making a date with a hot shower and some clean sheets.

Maybe a takeaway pad thai thrown in with a generous squirt of siracha.

A few hours with a sexy knockout wouldn’t hurt either, but we can’t have everything.

‘Sure, man,’ I reply, forcing a tight smile. ‘Anything you want.’