Page 5 of The Austen Affair
Hugh’s eyes widen as I plow on. “And look, I know you don’t want to be working with someone as unpedigreed as me, but here’s the thing: I can conjure up chemistry with a brick wall.
I’ve won two Teen Choice Awards for chemistry, and I wasn’t exactly working with the words of the English language’s greatest romance writer on Chuck Brown.
If I can get those results on a cheesefest melodrama but not on the set of an Austen film, the problem is you. ”
This is an allegation Hugh will not stand for.
He shoots to his feet so that he towers above me, his already substantial height exaggerated by his costume’s black top hat.
“And maybe I think the problem is that we’ve cast someone with a Teen Choice Award to begin with.
More urgently, perhaps the problem is that we’ve cast someone who brings their baggage to work and throws everything off schedule with their unprofessionalism. ”
I don’t even think. My hand shoots up to land a slap on Hugh’s cheek.
Not a dainty slap, I’m afraid. My hand actually stings from the force of it, and when I pull away, the side of his face is already pink.
I hear the crowd of crew members gasp. Dominic buries his face in his hands, muttering, “Bloody hell.”
I whirl away from Hugh, jumping from the gig and storming out of sight of the camera.
I don’t exactly know where I’m headed, but I do know I want away from him.
My feet lead me to the craft-services tent.
I pull off my gloves, stuffing them in my pocket, and start warming my chilled fingers on one of the freestanding heaters.
Just at that moment, I hear a distant clap of thunder, and the rain picks up again.
How dare he! This total snob didn’t know a thing about me. If he had to slog through the grueling Chuck Brown shooting schedule of sixteen-hour days, all while mourning his best friend, Hugh probably would have brought his mess to work, too.
God. I let out a brief sob. I’m probably about to get canned again, from my dream job this time. Because Hugh’s right. I am unforgivably unprofessional. Who slaps a coworker? Thank God Mom can’t see me now—about to lose the most important role of my life.
The field fills with the sounds of the crew getting the gig and horses back under cover and wheeling the cameras away. I’m so livid, with Hugh and myself, that I don’t even register the sound of footsteps behind me. And then he’s there. Arms crossed and looking more righteously indignant than ever.
“Are you going to apologize, or are Americans really as uncivil as all that?”
I spin to look up at him, my chin jutted out stubbornly. Maybe I would have apologized in my own time. But now I can’t. Because that would be losing. “I make it a rule to never apologize for anything that feels that good.”
Hugh rolls his eyes. “Oh dear. Being childish again, are we?”
I scoff. “Oh, can it with the royal we. You think you are just the most magnificent actor of all time, don’t you?
You think the sun rises and sets with Hugh Balfour.
And yeah, maybe I’ll get in trouble for today.
Maybe I’ll even get fired. But the movie won’t get any better for dropping me.
Because I’ve got news for you, buddy: if anyone in this film is miscast, it’s you. ”
Hugh’s jaw actually drops. “And how”—acid drips off his tongue as he poses the question to me—“do you make that out?”
I raise an eyebrow, triumphant in my rightness.
“I may not have some pretentious process, but at least I understand my character. And you can do all the research you want, but that won’t make up for the fact that you don’t get Henry Tilney one bit.
He’s fun. He’s warm. He’s not some pompous asshole who wouldn’t deign to share a makeup trailer with me. ”
Hugh laughs out loud. “He’s a clergyman, the son of a gentleman! He would be bound by propriety, no matter the situation.”
I match his derisive laugh and then some. “You think you’re so smart. But better to be entirely without sense than to misapply it the way you do.”
At that, Hugh freezes, his handsome face going slack with shock. “Did… you just quote Emma to me?”
“I can read, you know.” The rain pounds harder than ever now. Water has begun to pool beneath the tent, running in as the whole field grows muddy and flooded. We won’t be getting this scene done today.
Hugh’s mouth quirks in a funny, smug way. “Or you can memorize Gwyneth Paltrow’s lines, at the very least.”
White-hot rage brings a flush to my cheeks. He is such an asshole! Yes, he’s right, I’ve seen the films (many more than a hundred times), but that doesn’t mean I haven’t also read the books. Elitist bullshit.
I decide to storm off—better that than hitting him again. But my dramatic exit is quickly undercut by my boot catching on the heater’s electrical cord. I tumble face-first, landing in a muddy puddle. I shriek in frustration, knowing that now I’ve completely spoiled my costume.
A shadow of something like human decency makes its way across Hugh’s face. He extends a hand to me just as disaster strikes. I see it in slow motion. The heater has also fallen into the pool of water. It sparks up like the Fourth of July.
And just as Hugh’s hand closes around mine, a terrible burst of pain travels through my body, up first from my feet, closest to the sparks, and whistling mercilessly through my bones, to the place where our hands have touched.
And then the world goes black.