Page 4 of The Austen Affair

But Hugh isn’t listening to Lea. His phone, still gripped tight in his hand, starts ringing. He glances up at Lea and asks, “Do you mind?”

“Not at all!” Lea puts her headphones back on to give him a bit of privacy but continues fixing his curls as Hugh answers the call.

“Florence,” he says, putting the phone to his ear. “How’s everything?”

He’s silent for a long time, hanging on the caller’s every word. My stomach does a weird flip-flop. Florence. That must be his girlfriend.

“Right,” Hugh mutters, nodding along with the woman on the call. “Right. Well, we expected that, I suppose.” I can see the muscles of his shoulders tense. “No, I’m fully aware you can handle it. I just wish I was at home with you. Doing my part.”

He allows a long pause as Florence tells him something, before saying, “You know I’m not on social media. Nothing more vapid.”

I roll my eyes. He’s so pretentious.

“She what? All right, send me the link.”

Extended silence again as Hugh’s phone vibrates and he begins to scroll through whatever he’s been sent. I have a sinking feeling I know what it is.

“ Jesus Christ, Floss,” Hugh exhales. “I mean, it was obvious she’s insufferably cheery and annoying, but being sacked is on another level. This job is my personal curse.”

All the blood curdles in my veins and my cheeks flush with rage.

He hears one rumor and now he’s just going to assume the worst of me?

And as a nice little bonus, he thinks I’m annoying?

The man who refuses to act like a goddamn twenty-first-century civilian instead of a Regency gentleman thinks I’m the annoying one?

I’m ready to push my way out of my closet hiding space and slap him around the head when I realize that a stunt like that might prove his point a bit… and so I stay hidden.

Hugh laughs darkly into his phone. “No, I will not ask her about it, Floss. If you want the gory little details, you’ll just have to keep glued to your gossip blogs.

No—I’m not a snob. And I’ll tell you why: we’ve got enough going on without her complicating it further.

Attach yourself to someone like Tess Bright, and the mess creeps in. ”

Tears sting the corner of my eyes, and I brush them away roughly, furious with myself.

I am losing my mind. This movie should be the high-water mark of my career, but here I am, crouched in the dark, listening to someone who hates me outline in detail exactly why he finds me so repugnant.

And what’s worse—he might just be right. I need to get a grip.

Another long pause from Hugh, then a farewell. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I’ll call tonight after we wrap. Give them my love. Yes, talk later. We’ll work it all out. I’ll be home before you know it.”

When he hangs up, Lea lays down her comb and waves him out of the beauty trailer. “You’re all set!” Hugh stands, puts his top hat back on, and bids her adieu.

I wait, breathing deeply like I’m in a meditation class, until sixty seconds have passed from Hugh’s departure before I step out of the closet.

Lea shrieks, tossing her comb in her terror.

I give her a fake cheery smile. I’m not even sure she heard the damning things Hugh said about me on that call.

“Lea,” I tell her, “you listen to enough true crime to know you gotta check the closet. Take this one as a lesson learned.”

Lea lets out a baffled laugh and then orders me to sit down in the chair to have my hair reassessed. I take the next few minutes to shove the rage I’m feeling at Hugh (and not in small measure, at myself) down deep below the surface.

Instead, I focus on the work. The work is what’s important, not some judgmental British dickhead. I try to close my mind to everything except the crucial scene our director, two-time Oscar-nominee Dominic Lawrence, is intent on shooting this afternoon if the weather holds out.

In my opinion, the scene we’re about to film is among the most important in the entire script.

Our heroine, Catherine Morland, is a habitual novel reader who often lets her imagination run away with her.

Up until this point in the script, Catherine has been lapsing into extended fantasy sequences, which Dominic assures me will be conveyed on film in lush, oversaturated colors and overlaid with a sweeping, romantic score.

But in this scene, for the first time, someone is engaging with Catherine’s imagination outright.

Henry Tilney teases Catherine while they ride to his father’s estate about the gothic misadventures she’ll surely find there.

The true appeal of Henry is established here, more plainly than anywhere else.

He is sardonic, yes, but never rude, and also flirtatious and warm.

He meets Catherine at her level. The chemistry between me and Hugh in this scene has to be electric.

The believability of our romantic arc depends on it.

Soon, a PA arrives to rush me back to set, and I go with a new, razor-sharp intensity to make this scene incredible whether Hugh cooperates with me or not.

I reach the field where we have positioned our camera on a moving dolly, preparing to capture the banter between me and Hugh, who has trained extensively in order to drive an open carriage for this role. I can’t fault him his dedication. Not many actors are this skilled at working with animals.

All I had to do to prepare for this role, contractually speaking, was promise to not so much as trim my trademark black hair in the months leading up to shooting.

Apparently Dominic liked the idea of Catherine having a flowing ebony mane for all of the nightgown-clad fantasy sequences—even though it’s always up in Regency-style curls when we’re in her “reality.”

One of the crew members helps me up into the gig (Regencyspeak for “two-person horse and buggy”) beside Hugh, and I take a deep, steadying breath, centering myself in Catherine’s headspace, which does not despise him. Not the most natural shift to make for me right now.

Dominic calls out to us, “Ready? Let’s make every take count. The weather won’t hold out forever.”

Hugh gives a curt nod, while I throw Dominic a thumbs-up.

“And, action!”

Next to me, Hugh dons a wry smile totally unlike any expression he’s ever worn in my presence while the cameras are off.

We take up our conversation smoothly, carefully toeing the line between easy familiarity and nineteenth-century propriety—but in my gut, I know we’re leaning too far toward the latter.

This electricity is not palpable enough to sell our characters’ growing infatuation.

I feel my real anxiety leaking into my line delivery, poisoning the scene further.

Hugh seems to notice my discomfort, but he plows on with the scripted dialogue anyway. He glances sidelong at me, commenting, “You have formed a very favorable idea of the abbey.”

I sit up straighter, my eye catching on his cravat, which is slightly askew.

Inspiration strikes me. Bestowing a brilliant smile on my costar, I say, “To be sure I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like one reads about?” And then I improvise, bending to the flow of my inspiration.

I lean in toward Hugh, adjusting his cravat so that it lies better.

It might not be what a proper Regency woman would have done, but sometimes these little indiscretions in Austen adaptations make for movie gold.

Just look at what that iconic hand-flex scene in the 2005 Pride & Prejudice did for Matthew Macfadyen.

If only my costar was willing to cooperate, to play along with me just for a second.

But Hugh does not play along.

Instead, he goes rigid and directs the horses to stop with a flick of the reins. They halt as he fixes me with a scorching glare.

“Cut!” Dominic wails. “What the hell was that, Hugh? This is not the time for you to look at your Catherine that way.”

Hugh sighs, obviously irritated beyond belief. “She can’t just do that. No unmarried woman in this time period would.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Just how are you trying to portray Catherine?”

I snort, barely able to believe him. “Well, not as the town slut, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Hugh gives a harsh laugh. “You know, sometimes I think…” He pauses. “Never mind.”

“No,” I say, my voice dangerously cheery. “Why not go on? You clearly have something you want to get off your chest. So, please, regale us.”

It’s not as if he can say anything about me that I haven’t already heard.

Hugh turns back to me with his jaw set, a vein jumping in his temple.

“Fine. I will. I was going to say that I suspect you didn’t do one speck of research before joining this production.

You don’t have any respect for my process, which is no surprise, because you clearly don’t have one of your own. ”

My fists clench so hard I worry I’m about to bust the seams of my gloves and ruin all of Katie’s hard work.

“How dare you,” I tell him, rising to my feet in the carriage and glaring down at him.

“How dare you talk to me like that when I’m the only one trying to salvage the romance between our characters.

If the audience doesn’t believe Henry and Catherine are attracted to each other, then the entire movie collapses.

And it’s not my fault we don’t have chemistry. ”

I look out at the assembled crew, who are standing open-mouthed at this growing train wreck.

They probably all read the news today. They probably all think I’m the asshole.

So I suppose I might as well keep going.

I give a wild laugh and continue on my rant, shaking a finger at Hugh.

“I’ve been perfectly pleasant to you this entire process, whereas you treat me like garbage.

And I’ve heard what you said about me behind my back, by the way. You’re a real dick. And you’re mean.”