Bootycall 2 Read online

  “Your personal life is your own business,” I say curtly, raising a hand to indicate I don’t need any more details. Dylan provides them anyway.

  “I didn’t do anything bad when I left you. I really was out walking. I went to—”

  “I don’t need to know the details,” I say, though the way my voice sounds even I wouldn’t believe myself.

  Just before we reach the steps that lead up to the door of the make-up trailer, Dylan gently takes my arm and turns me toward him. I let him.

  “You’re right, Gemma. About a lot of things. Ok? We both need this movie to be a success, so instead of fighting each other, we should be trying to help each other.”

  “I’ve not been anything but helpful towards you, Dylan.”

  “And I’ve done nothing to jeopardize this movie. Look, I’m here, I’m sober, I’m about to get ready to work.”

  I nod and look aside. Knowing that he’s right.

  “I know it’s difficult for you to be in this position,” he says, the humble warmth of his voice soothing my headache like a pill, “but it’s difficult for me too, feeling like everything I do is being watched and reported on like I’m living in nineteen eighty-four.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You read a book?”

  “Hey,” he laughs, “I’m not a total idiot.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I mean, I watched the movie. Isn’t that the same thing?”

  I laugh and he smiles. Jesus, it feels good. I look up at his eyes, letting the gentle silence clear away all the frustration I had towards him.

  “Look,” he says, “shooting starts today, so let’s make a fresh start of it. Here’s the deal. You give me a little more breathing room, trust me a little more, and I won’t play any more games, I’ll put a hundred percent into this project. What do you say?”

  He offers his hand, and I look at it for a second before taking it. “Fine, then.”

  “Thank you.” His hand is so warm wrapped around my own that I force myself to drop it before any inappropriate thoughts start flitting across my mind.

  He takes another step towards the trailer.

  “Wait, Dylan. I didn’t grab a call sheet yet,” I say. “What scenes are you shooting today?”

  He turns to face me again, and there’s a little shakiness in him as he combs a hand through his hair.

  “Nothing big. Just some exteriors, an outside conversation. We’re doing it straight away so we can use the natural light. And later there’s an interior, on the sound stage.”

  “Good,” I say, until I notice the quick shifting of his eyes and the way his breath comes out in stunted waves. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” he says, a little too quickly. He smiles a half-cocked smile, unconvincing and tainted by the almost fear-like anxiety in his eyes.

  “Dylan? Are you nervous?”

  “No! No. Nervous? No. Ah…I’m a professional, right? Come on.”

  He’s not looking at me, one hand continuously combing through his hair while the other clenches into a fist at his side.

  Something’s seriously wrong here.

  I look around, then grab his arm and pull him away from the door of the makeup trailer, around the corner of a sound stage to a secluded area of the back lot.

  “Dylan? What’s wrong?” I say, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  He shifts around nervously, breathing heavily and quickly, trying to catch his breath.

  “Ah…it’s just that, uh…” He shakes his head. He can’t even get the words out.

  “Dylan! Did you take something?” I hiss.

  “No! I’m not on drugs! Why? Do you have any? Haha! No. No drugs. I’m just…acting in a film that’s going to be seen by billions of people…maybe make an utter fool of myself…in front of the entire movie-going world. Everyone’s counting on me to not fuck this up…and…um…I mean, I can do it…it’s just that…”

  He crouches down and struggles to control his breathing.

  “Dylan!” I say, kneeling in front of him, rubbing his back. “Dylan, look at me.”

  He tries to raise his head to meet my eyes, his breathing near hyperventilation levels now. I place my hands on his cheeks and hold his face steady, so that he can see me.

  “Breathe, Dylan,” I say, making a big show of breathing deeply myself. “In. Out. Ok? You’re going to be ok.”

  After a few seconds of trying to follow my slow pattern of breathing, Dylan regains a little more control, his breath still stuttering, but regular enough that his face begins to settle.

  “That’s it. Slowly. Don’t rush, ok? Slow everything down.”

  “Thanks,” he gasps. “I just…I don’t know if I can actually do this anymore. I’m out of practice, and what if I was never that good to begin with? Though I guess either way this project will prove it, right? How can this not be a big deal? What am I going to do?”

  “You’re an amazing actor, Dylan. A natural actor. At your worst you’re still better than ninety per cent of actors out there. This is the hard part. The part where you don’t know. Once you take that step out onto the set, and start doing it, your instincts will take over. Trust yourself, Dylan. Trust your instincts.”

  Dylan smiles a little, his eyes starting to focus on mine. I keep going, not even sure where my words are coming from, but it’s a relief seeing Dylan start to regain control.

  “The part was made for you, Dylan. It’s yours. You can do whatever you want with it. It’s not that everyone’s counting on you, it’s that everyone believes in you. Get out of your head, ok?”

  Dylan nods, breathes a few more times, then stands up. I rise with him, and he puts his arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. For a moment we just stand there, breathing in and out together, and I try not to lean into his touch, desperately wanting him to kiss me but also desperately wanting him to get his ass to work and never take me in his arms again.

  “Thanks, Gemma.” He lets me go and I step back to adjust my shirt, glancing around to check that no one’s seen us here together. We seem to be alone.

  “Do you feel better?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his face. He’s still a little shaky, but I can see him coming back into himself, a look of determination now replacing the panic in his eyes.

  “If you need anything, you know I’ll be around. Don’t hesitate to call on me, ok? It’s what I’m here for,” I tell him.

  “Thanks,” he says, his eyes settling on me with so much appreciation and warmth I feel like I just saved a bunch of kittens from a fire.

  He laughs a little, and so do I.

  “Ok,” I say, “go. I’ll meet you on set.”

  He nods, and starts walking away, turning back to me after a few steps.

  “You know…that’s not the first time I’ve had a panic attack before filming.”

  “Really?” I never would have guessed. Dylan’s the last person who looks prone to anxiety, with his devil-may-care attitude and all that sexy swagger. This is the first time I’m seeing a vulnerable side to him.

  “Really,” he admits. “But no one’s ever talked me out of it before.”

  We smile at each other for a few moments before he turns and I watch him walk off to the hair and make-up department.

  As soon as he’s gone, I almost experience my own panic-attack revelation. I lean up against the wall and sigh to myself. Dylan has more sides than a die. I can barely spend a couple of hours with him without seeing something completely surprising. But still, I wasn’t expecting this. Just as I was getting used to the bad boy, the party animal, the asshole, he turns into a sensitive, real, genuine guy who’s more intimidated by himself and the image he’s built up than I am.

  And I’m right there with him. Riding his rollercoaster of emotions. Peeling away his layers, feeling with each one that I’m getting closer to the source. To the magnetic pull at his center. And the more I do, the more I’m struggling with my own stormy feelings. The more I find myself drawn to his comp
lexity, buried in the middle of his contradictions, desperate to unravel his body and his mind so I can put myself in there. I don’t care that my heart (and my career) could be in danger, that this thing we have is unpredictable, that it goes against everything I thought I wanted – it’s addictive, and I can’t resist the urges that he’s planted inside of me.

  Shit. Now I’m the one who needs to do some deep breathing.

  Chapter 3

  Dylan

  A couple of weeks into the shoot I fall into a rhythm, just like Gemma predicted. I immerse myself in the character, in the scenes. Living and breathing the motivations, stepping out of it only to take an analysis of what I’m doing, how it’ll look on screen. As a director, Christopher is fantastic, and we spend hours off set talking through what will work and what won’t. Both of us driven into an artistic frenzy, lost in the creative high, spurred on by the idea that what we’re making is something special, unique, brilliant.

  I’m not perfect – I never am. Sometimes I find myself alone, pacing up and down my trailer, thinking about having a drink and just running away from all the pressure and the expectations weighing on me and on this project. But I don’t. And when I can’t stop myself, Gemma’s right there with that look in her eyes, the one that says she knows I can do this and I better not fuck it up. So far, I haven’t.

  Then there are times when I’m so imbued with the anger and madness of my character I carry it off camera, shouting at innocent crew members and breaking into a rage over nothing – even though everyone on set knows what’s happening. The energy I’m giving off is starting to rub off on them, and they don’t flinch when I talk to them in character, they even play along when I’m allowing myself to explode.

  Every once in a while my anxiety overwhelms me again, crushing me under the gigantic pressure of the artistic goal I’ve set my sights on. Sometimes the brilliance of everything around me, Christopher, the crew, the script, shines too bright, and I have to shut my eyes and ball up when I begin to let the doubts creep in. When the energy carries me over a cliff, then abandons me, leaving me with nothing but empty space underneath me.

  And that’s when Gemma saves me again, bringing me back to reality, kicking my ass or patting my shoulder as needed, and I realize just how fucking wonderful she is.

  Gemma’s not only got her shit together, she’s got my shit together as well. While I buzz and bounce off the walls in some weird unreality, where the film and my life blur, Gemma’s making sure I get to set on time. Making sure that I know well in advance what I’ll be shooting. Running lines with me, letting me know when my co-stars or crew members have whispered praises about my performance. When I start losing my shit, start panicking and sweating, wondering if it’s not too late to pull out of the entire project and go back to my comfortable life doing whatever I want – there she is.

  With every little bit of help and support she provides, I begin to realize just how much I’m capable of. And just how much I need her.

  But even Gemma can’t help me today.

  I’ve been waiting for this scene since I first read the script, worrying about it and thinking about how I’d manage. Until now – with Gemma’s help – I’ve managed to put it aside until the day came, but today’s the day, and now there’s nowhere left to run.

  “Ok, Dylan, so it’s going to be exactly like the storyboard,” Christopher says, as I nod along, pretending that my head doesn’t feel like it’s trapped in a concrete block. “The camera’s fixed on the door, your brother’s body is in the foreground. You come in, you don’t know he’s dead, you say his name a couple of times as you approach, then when you rip off the covers – he’s bleeding from his wrists, not moving. It’s horrifying, it’s a real blow, you know what I mean?”

  I nod. I know exactly what he means, and it turns my stomach. Christopher goes on.

  “All this time searching, fighting, never losing hope— and when you find him here it’s too late, it’s your worst nightmare, it’s just…this. The body. Ok? Just give me what you’ve got. Shock, denial, tears, anger, confusion, just let it all loose. Feel free to wreck the place, crumple in a ball, whatever you think will work, ok? We’ll see what we get and work from there.”

  I nod a couple more times and breathe deeply, hoping nobody notices how out of breath I seem.

  “Ok,” Christopher says, taking his place behind the monitor. “Places everyone, on your marks. The light ok, Harry? Good. Let’s roll sound. And action!”

  I stand behind the door where nobody can see me for a few seconds longer than I should, Gemma’s words echoing in my mind like a gospel prayer. ‘Let your instincts kick in, Dylan, come on.’

  I push open the door and see the room, the actor lying there, dead still. Is he even breathing? He doesn’t need to really hold his breath. This feels too real. I’m dizzy.

  “Cut,” Christopher says. He leans forward to get my attention. “I think it would work better if you just walk in straight away when you open the—”

  “Yeah,” I say, before Christopher can speak. “I know. Just froze up a little. Let me take that again.”

  “You got it. Let’s roll sound.” He pauses as the camera assistant yells, ‘Take two!’ and claps the slate in front of the camera, kicking my pulse into overdrive. I take a deep, steadying breath as Christopher calls out, “And…action.”

  This is it.

  I push open the door and walk forward.

  “John? John? Hey. John? What you doing in bed, we gotta— Ah, shit. Ok let me go again.”

  “No problem, Dylan. We’re still rolling…and action.”

  I go back to my mark, silently count to three, push open the door and march straight to the bed, pulling aside the covers straight away. Maybe I can just get this scene over and done with. “John!”

  “Cut! Dylan. That’s way too quick. You’ve just made it into the place your brother’s been hiding all this time, you’re thinking he’s asleep, you’re thinking he’s gonna be relieved to see you, to get out of there. But you’re not expecting this. You don’t know anything yet. You get a little nervous maybe when he doesn’t respond at first, but pull it back.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m just finding the right level.”

  “Ok. It’s very simple. Don’t load yourself up with it, ok? Roll sound. Action.”

  I push open the door.

  “John! Hey! John!”

  Christopher jumps out of his chair. “Cut! Dylan. Why are you shouting?”

  I freeze. “Shit. Sorry Chris. I’m just…just trying something.”

  He pulls off his baseball cap and rubs his temples, nodding. “Ok. You’re thinking too much about what comes after. Let’s just get you walking over to the bed and pulling back the blanket. We’ll cut there, then push in and get your reaction in a separate shot, ok?”

  I nod.

  “Ok. Harry, is that light looking good? That’s not going to be a post-production headache, is it? Ok, I’ll take your word for it. Roll sound. And…action.”

  I zone out for the next ten or so takes. Chris’s voice coming from some place over the hills, my head spinning every time I move. My eyes staring into the distance like they’re too heavy to move. I don’t know what anybody’s saying to me anymore, I just keep nodding and taking my place behind the door, hoping that if I do it enough times I’ll somehow get through this, somehow make it all go away. I’m not here, I’m somewhere in limbo, somewhere in the past, looking at Chris’s face and the scene around me, the cameras and the lights, as if they’re the memory.

  “Ok, cut it. Let’s take a short break. Back here and ready to shoot in ten everyone,” Chris shouts, before leaping out of his chair and quickly moving towards me. He waves his hand in front of me.

  “Hey, Dylan. What’s going on today, man? You didn’t take anything before the scene, did you?”

  “No. No. I’m totally sober.”

  He gazes into my eyes, searching for the evidence. Finally he nods, satisfied.

  “It’
s cool, ok? No big deal. You’re probably just a little stressed, a little overworked. It’s been a tough schedule. It’s a tough scene.”

  “Yeah,” I agree, but the last thing I want right now is the director making excuses for me.

  “Ok. Don’t worry about it. Go to your trailer, get out of the character a little, take your mind off the work, call a friend or something. Then we’ll come back and try again.”

  He slaps me on the shoulder as I stumble off in the direction of my trailer, everything still spinning around me wildly. When I step inside I slam the door closed and crumple into a chair, my head stuck in a whirlwind, my heart thumping like an angry tribe.

  “Dylan?” comes a voice from outside. It’s Gemma.

  “Yeah.”

  She steps inside, that tablet still attached to her hand, and smiles. It’s one hell of a smile, and focusing on it helps me push the maelstrom inside of me a tiny bit further away.

  “How’s it going?” she asks, as she settles into a chair opposite.

  “Good. Good.”

  She presses her lips together and then speaks carefully. “I was watching you work. On the monitors.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Gemma eyes me, her gaze searching. “Is something bothering you?”

  It takes a lot of effort to chuckle away her concern and reach for the mini-fridge to pull out a beer, but I do it anyway.

  “No. I’m fine. I just have a splitting headache. I should try to get a little more sleep.”

  “Well the beer probably won’t help.”

  I pull it away from my lips and grin.

  “You’re probably right,” I say, settling it down on the counter.

  She smiles again, and I feel like I’m basking in the warm rays that come from her beautiful face. Absorbing a little of the calmness and order that she projects like an elegant work of art.

  What can I do to help?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, before turning to her and returning her gentle gaze. “It’s just…have you ever lost anyone? Close to you?”

  “I’ve lost people, yeah. My mother.”