Chapter Nine: Fiction vs. Reality

Alexander Finnegan Robertson

  By seven in the evening, I arrived at the filming set at Rockefeller Center.

  The look Kevin Thomas, the director, gave me could have curdled milk. He didn’t say a word, but he hardly needed to. His expression made his opinion of me perfectly clear.

  Six months earlier, when I received the casting call and submitted my audition tape, I’d been chosen almost immediately. Despite my rather eye-watering charge, I’d landed the role over a sea of other actors. According to the casting director, he hadn’t even bothered watching the remaining tapes after seeing mine. The moment I appeared on screen, he apparently knew he’d found his Ryan Wilson—the male lead.

  The producer and screenwriter were equally pleased with my audition clips.

  Thomas, however, was another kettle of fish entirely.

  At the final table read, his permanent scowl had made it painfully obvious that he wasn’t singing from the same hymn sheet. I’d even overheard him arguing with the producer and screenwriter, accusing them of having no eye for talent and claiming they were only impressed by me because they were women who’d fallen for my face, completely ignoring my Oscar last year.

  Honestly, I should have walked away there and then. Anyone with enough self-respect would’ve.

  The producer and screenwriter nearly did exactly that after his little tirade. Being insulted like that was hardly an insignificant blow, particularly to people with years of experience behind them. But my thoroughly useless manager and PR team practically begged me to stay.

  It was my first major romance role, after all. My fans had been clamouring to see me in one for ages, and there was no guarantee another major romantic project would come knocking anytime soon.

  Besides, they argued, working with Thomas could give my career another shove in the right direction. He was famous for his art films, had collected several awards over the years, and apparently that was meant to make putting up with his personality worthwhile.

  Apparently, trophies didn’t come with personality upgrades. Nor did they guarantee the critical thinking skills of a reasonably functional human being.

  I told myself I was doing it for the fans. Three more months. That was all.

  I’d already survived two months of Thomas’s moods while filming in Ibiza. Surely I could drag myself across the finish line.

  My makeup was perfected, my hair was in place, and Thomas had just given us the abridged version of the scene we were about to shoot.

  Compared with most of my roles, the storyline was almost laughably straightforward: a sultry office romance packed with drama, secrets and enough intrigue to keep everyone glued to the screen.

  My character, Ryan Wilson, was a billionaire businessman. The female lead, Yvonne Jones, played by Hillary Cromwell, was a humble employee working beneath him.

  Hillary was primarily a fashion model and a newcomer to the film industry, making her big-screen debut with this project.

  And, if I was being honest, the woman had both talent and an undeniable presence.

  I was a couple of years younger than her, but my experience in the industry dwarfed hers. She acknowledged that without the slightest hint of embarrassment, openly admitting that she was eager to learn from me.

  I respected that.

  She wasn’t intimidated by my achievements or quietly bitter about the difference between us.

  Unlike Thomas.

  As it happened, Hillary’s boyfriend, Paulo Castillo, was someone I already knew. We’d crossed paths years ago at a fashion show in Paris when we were both teenage models, although he hadn’t met Hillary then. Later, I was signed to the same Spanish modelling agency as him, and we naturally became closer.

  Eventually, when he met Hillary, I got to know her as well, albeit briefly.

  According to her, they’d now been together for more than three years. Not a bad innings.

  I’d never spent enough time with Hillary to know her particularly well, but I thought highly of her. There was certainly no temptation on my part to blur the lines, unlike some of my other co-stars might have been inclined to do.

  She was devoted to Paulo, and Paulo was a good acquaintance of mine. Best to keep things cordial and professional.

  Judging by her own behaviour, she seemed perfectly happy with that arrangement too.

“So, Alex, what do you think of the plot?” she suddenly asked as the crew busied themselves adjusting the camera angles.

“The plot?” I repeated, half-smiling. “I suppose it’s the sort of thing people are obsessed with these days.”

  She laughed.

“Yeah, absolutely. Billionaire dark romance, a few risqué scenes—the sort of fantasy young women dream about.”

“Well,” I said, managing a faint smile, “that’s precisely why it’s fiction. Stories like this are lovely when they stay inside your head, but they rarely translate particularly well into real life. It strikes me as wildly unrealistic.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll have to disagree with you there. When I was younger, I had those exact fantasies.” She smiled. “And honestly, Paulo is rather close to the man I imagined in all those daydreams. So I’m not entirely sure what you’re getting at. Don’t you feel that way about your girlfriend?”

  Her question caught me off guard.

  I managed an awkward smile. “I. . . don’t have a girlfriend, Hillary.”

“What?!” She looked genuinely stunned. “You think I don’t know? The media might be clueless, but I’ve seen you with Sarah Popkins more than once. Paulo’s mentioned her a few times, too.”

  Bloody hell.

  I silently cursed myself and tried to work out how to steer the conversation away from the cliff edge.

“Sarah is. . .” I paused. “It’s not quite what you’re imagining. It’s complicated.”

  Her eyes widened with sudden interest.

“Wait. Don’t tell me it’s one of those friends-with-benefits situations?”

  I hesitated. Dodging the question would only confirm whatever conclusion she’d already reached. Hillary was far too sharp for that.

“Well. . . something along those lines,” I admitted.

  Her eyes widened further.

“Oh, I see.” She shifted slightly in her chair. “But seriously, she’s gorgeous, successful and one of the most famous supermodels around at the moment. Why settle for something casual with a woman like that?”

“As I said, it’s complicated. Neither of us is looking for commitment.”

“Oh. . .” She nodded slowly, as though a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place. “So that’s how it is. Talk about being young and wild.”

  She said this despite being only three years older than me.

“Honestly, though, I think commitment has its perks,” she continued. “Paulo and I have just as much fun as people who aren’t committed. Probably more, actually. I just don’t understand why people feel the need to leap from one fling to another. Doesn’t it ever leave you feeling empty afterwards? Once you’ve. . . got what you wanted?”

  Her words landed harder than they should have. Like a punch straight to the gut.

  She wasn’t wrong. And somehow, that made it worse.

  Hillary knew almost nothing about me. Very few people did. Only my family and Max knew the broad strokes of my past.

  Actually, even my family didn’t know everything.

  Max was the only person who had witnessed all of it—the ugly parts, the disasters, the things I’d rather have buried six feet under. He’d been there since childhood, cleaning up after my messes and somehow finding enough patience to comfort me afterwards.

  He knew every version of me that nobody else had ever seen. He also never hesitated to remind me of the worst ones, either. He’d curse me out, call me every name under the sun and push me towards becoming someone better.

  He knew what the word love meant to me. He knew how deeply I loved when I actually fell. And, more importantly, he knew exactly how badly it had broken me.

  Love had left scars so deep that I’d convinced myself I no longer had the capacity for it.

  I didn’t do love anymore. Not because I didn’t understand it. Because I wasn’t brave enough to risk losing anything else.

  Casual flings, however?

  Those were easy. One-night stands were even easier.

  They’d earned me plenty of names back in my school days.

  I never cared. Still didn’t. And I certainly wasn’t going to lose sleep over what Hillary thought of me. If she judged me based on what she knew, so be it.

  Hell, I’d probably judge me too if I were standing in her shoes.

  But.

  Whatever existed between Sarah and me was different. And I couldn’t tell anyone about it. Not even Max.

  This was mine. Something I had to carry alone until it was over. And I knew it would be soon enough—once Sarah got what she wanted from me.

  I exhaled slowly, trying to shake the thought loose.

“Well, to each their own, I suppose.” I attempted to steer us towards safer waters. “Anyway, when did you meet Paulo?”

  She smiled. “About four years ago, in Milan.”

  Then she tilted her head.

“But let’s get back to you. How long have you and Sarah been. . . seeing each other?”

  Goddamn it. Why won’t she bloody stop?

“About six months,” I replied, surrendering. “We met at a fashion show in Paris.”

  Hillary’s eyes widened. “Wait. . . don’t tell me you two slept together the first time you met?”

  I could practically feel a headache assembling itself behind my eyes. Hillary was wandering into territory I had no intention of discussing, yet she seemed blissfully unaware that she’d crossed the line.

  Thankfully, Thomas intervened and called us to set. For once, his timing was impeccable. Probably the first useful thing he’d done for me without even knowing it.

  Of course, he didn’t make our lives any easier once we started filming. He had us redo take after take after take until every tiny detail met his impossibly high standards.

  By the time he was finally satisfied, the entire crew looked ready to collapse.

  I barely had time to breathe before my phone rang.

  Sarah.

  Well, speak of the devil.

  About bloody time she called.

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