Page 14 of Love At First Fright

R osemary had been relieved to find out that Ellis, along with Lance, had been given rooms on a different floor of the Gatehouse from hers. She didn’t need to be bumping into him first thing in the morning or last thing at night.

After the tour was finished, Vincent had been pulled into a meeting with the ADs, and Ellis had gone to his hair and makeup trailer for additional costume fittings.

Rosemary wasn’t needed on set in an official capacity until the following day—not that she had much to do other than observe her movie beingmade and offer occasional advice—so she went back to her room and unpacked.

There was a beautiful writing desk under the window, looking out onto the supposedly fairy-infested woods.

She’d sat down and attempted to write, managing one line, then another.

For the first time in a couple of weeks, Rosemary felt something inside her brain begin to buzz, the door to the creative part of her mind opening inch by inch.

Then an email popped up on screen, from her U.S.

editor. They were just checking in. Did she think she would be able to send the full first draft over next month as planned?

Rosemary stuttered in a breath, the door in her mind slamming shut.

The cold ooze of anxiety slicked over her, weighing her down again.

No, it’s not ready, she wanted to scream.

She needed time. Time to breathe and write at her own pace, to create a novel she could feel truly proud of.

But, up until now, she’d always delivered on time.

She didn’t want her editor to think there was something wrong—either with her or with the book.

She knew they had other, more difficult, authors they worked with, and she didn’t want to become one of those.

Rosemary would just need to find time to finish the draft in the next month.

There was no other option. That had been her mantra for a while now: if it needed to get done, she would simply do it.

However many sleepless nights or stress-induced panic attacks that would involve.

She’d tried to write a little more, but the words were impossible to find after that. There were food trucks on set, and she went to grab something quick for dinner, carrying it back to her room so she could try to write again.

As she walked back, the afternoon dipping into evening, the woods around her came to life with an orchestra of birdsong: robins with their melodic trills, jackdaws and their throaty calls, and dunnocks with their charming little cheeps. Some of the weight shifted from her shoulders.

She should come out to the woods, tomorrow morning maybe, before any of the filming started, and do some bird-watching.

In all the craziness of the last two days Rosemary had forgotten one of the things that had most excited her about coming to the English countryside.

She was exceedingly glad to have packed her binoculars and book about British garden birds.

—

An hour later, Rosemary heard a soft rap at her open door.

“Darling, I am holding a little soiree downstairs, as promised. Will you come down, or”—Lance looked past her to her open laptop with its half-empty Word document—“do you need to work some more tonight?”

Some time away from the white dread of the screen would likely do her good.

“I’ll just change and come down.” She smiled, earning a nod of approval from Lance.

She changed and looked herself over in the en suite bathroom mirror.

She was wearing a green and white polka-dot dress that hugged her cleavage in a delicious way, though left some room for the imagination with its flowing skirt. It was a little chilly in the house, though, so she pulled on a cream cardigan.

She thought she looked quite pretty, with her flushed pale skin, red-painted lips, and ginger hair.

Rosemary used to hate wearing glasses, and for so many years had thought they hid her face, but one day she was in a boutique store in Savannah and the optician helped her find frames that fit her face shape.

Two pairs of cat’s-eye glasses later and she never looked back.

Now she used her clothes and her glasses as a weapon against the world. Her tattoos, too, she supposed. If she presented a confident front then maybe her mind would be tricked into thinking she was actually confident. Rosemary took some deep, steadying breaths as she looked in the mirror.

“It’s nothing to have anxiety over,” she told herself. “This is just a little gathering of colleagues. There’s no pressure. Be yourself.” Her reflection seemed unconvinced. At least Lance would be there, and she could just avoid Ellis.

Oddly, avoiding Ellis didn’t hold as much appeal as she thought it would. Rosemary conceded that perhaps she enjoyed bickering with him. The issue was more whether she could hold a conversation with GQ ’s sexiest man of 2022 without recalling the scorching heat of his hand on her lower back.

Just as she was about to leave, her phone beeped.

It was a message from Immy on their group chat, Weird Sisters.

How many ghosts have you spotted? the text said.

Two Regency women, but no others yet.

Ooh cool, Dina chimed in. Will you speak to them?

Not sure yet. They seemed to be having an argument when I saw them. And don’t want anyone to spot me and think I’m crazy, she replied.

They will all think you’re crazy anyway, Immy replied, with several heart emojis to make sure that Rosemary understood she was joking. On occasion, Rosemary admitted that she struggled to grasp some of their deadpan British humour.

What’s the house like? Dina texted.

Gorgeous. Spooky. Exactly what it should be. I can already tell there are going to be so many cool birds here too. I’m going to head out for some bird-watching tomorrow.

You’re insane, I love you, Dina said. Any more interactions with you know who? Dina texted.

The feeling of Ellis’s hand smoothing the skin on her back came back to Rosemary in a flash.

Nothing out of the ordinary, she replied. He’s dating Jenna Dunn. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t tell her friends already. Perhaps she just didn’t want to give it too much thought, because if she did, she’d end up in an aroused and confused Rosemary-shaped puddle.

Immy sent several angry face emojis, followed by Who even IS she???

Are you sure? Dina sent, because my mum read his cards and she said he’s single. And the cards don’t lie.

If you say so, Rosemary replied. She didn’t want to tell Dina her magic wasn’t right, given how many times it had been proven otherwise. But she had seen them together, confirmed they were dating. Maybe the cards aren’t right about everything, Rosemary thought, as she headed downstairs.

She could hear Lance tinkling on the piano keys as she made her way, and Ellis’s deep chuckle at something Lance must have said.

How did she fit into this world? And how was she meant to experience all of this, staying in this beautiful place and seeing her own book come to life, and then go back to living as she always had?

The idea of her going home to a small apartment had always filled Rosemary with joy, but now it felt suffocating.

She missed being in the same country as her friends, knowing that they were only ever a drive or a train ride away (England really was so small).

Taking in a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the living room.

The air was warmer inside, likely because an oakwood fire crackled away in the fireplace, giving the room that sweet, woodsy smell.

Lance was playing a duet with an elegant, petite man, who was resting his head on Lance’s shoulder as they sat on the piano stool.

It took Rosemary a moment but she recognised him as Arthur, Lance’s husband, who had waved at her briefly from the back of the Zoom call, wearing an apron that read “Kiss the Cook,” when she met with Lance a few months before filming began.

Ellis was sat on the floor, leaning back against a sofa arm.

A goofy smile was plastered on his face as he watched Fig wrestling with a chew toy.

He couldn’t see it, but Fig was trying to wrench the toy from the ghost dog’s mouth, who was putting up a good play fight.

So, the two dogs could see each other—interesting.

Animals, as well as young children, were good at spotting ghosts in general, but Rosemary wondered if Fig had known the ghost dog when it was alive.

“Rosemary, darling, I almost thought you weren’t coming.

Wondered if that good old jet lag had got the better of you.

” Lance beamed at her from the piano, and immediately dove into singing “Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes” — seemingly in her honour.

She couldn’t help but smile back; her mama used to sing that song to her when she was little.

“Sorry, I just needed to freshen up a bit,” she said, and moved over to the sofa. She felt Ellis’s eyes on her, even as he played with Fig. Christ, it was getting warm in here with that fire roaring. She pulled off her cardigan, placing it on the sofa beside her.

Arthur left his place beside Lance and came to sit down beside her.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet our scriptwriter extraordinaire. How does it feel to be the most important woman in the room?” Arthur smiled, his blue eyes crinkling in the corners.

“You can’t flatter me like that, I’m not adept at handling compliments offered so openly,” Rosemary joked.

“You’ll have to get used to it, darling.” Arthur patted her hand, as if they were old friends. “When this movie comes out, everyone is going to want a piece of the Rosemary pie. Go on, Ellis, give our girl a compliment to make her feel at home.”

“Oh no, he doesn’t have to…” She turned to face Ellis. “You don’t have to—”

“I like your dress,” Ellis said in a hurried whisper, almost as if he hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“And those tattoos ! My goodness,” Arthur said. “I want to get one with Lance but he keeps refusing.”