INT. Bingley house – Night
Bingley party. CHARLOTTE and LIZBETH observe the other guests. WILL approaches them.
CHARLOTTE
(aside to LIZBETH)
Don’t look now, Will is coming this way.
WILL
(to LIZBETH)
Wanna dance?
(He’s either perfectly in character or he’s angry over my desertion last night. I might have listened, if he’d have explained, given me a chance to understand. No chance of that now.)
LIZBETH
(glancing at CHARLOTTE)
Sure.
Cut to:
CHARLOTTE shrugs at LIZBETH as WILL leads her to the open space where people are dancing.
Reid takes my hand and presses into the crowd of minor characters and extras, pulling me behind him. They make room for us as we pass, and we settle into the middle of the floor, Reid’s arms encircling me, holding me as close as he had when we danced last night. When Richter calls, “Cut,” his arms drop and he turns from me without a word.
Someone from makeup runs up to push a lock of my hair behind my ear and spray it in place. Over her shoulder I see Graham in his goofy Bill-wear, which makes him look like an unfashionable dad. He glances up, sees my bemused look and smiles, adjusting his glasses and waggling his eyebrows, coaxing a reluctant smile from me.
“Places everyone,” the assistant director calls, and I turn back to Reid, who’s whispering in the ear of the girl from the paparazzi photos. She scampers back to her scene partner; as I’m watching her, he’s watching me.
His arms go around me again and mine return to his shoulders. “Good morning, Emma,” he says, his expression glacial. “Did you sleep well?”
Before I can answer, Richter readies us and calls action. We dance in silence for five minutes as close-ups are shot of the two of us avoiding each other’s eyes. This will undoubtedly be the easiest five minutes of filming with Reid today.
During the break, Brooke takes my elbow and we move apart from everyone else. “Graham told me you came back to the hotel last night without talking to Reid.” She looks uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect… I mean, your relationship with him isn’t my business.” She’s hesitant and concerned, and I’m struck by the fact that I have no idea who she really is. One thing is clear: the Brooke I thought I knew is a facade. “I know I said not to fall for him. But… maybe that’s just how he was with me. Maybe he’d be different with you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, glancing at him talking to the extra, Blossom. “But it doesn’t matter, now.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her gaze direct.
I shrug and glance away. “Don’t be.”
The dialogue of the next scene is too close to reality in reverse, the proximity and eye contact made more awkward by the words.
“Action.”
WILL and LIZBETH dance.
LIZBETH
A few days ago, you told me that your opinions about people can’t be changed.
WILL
(curious)
Yes.
LIZBETH
I hope you’re careful when you make up your mind about people, then? That you’re never so close-minded that you’re prejudiced from the start.
WILL
I hope not. Why?
LIZBETH
I’m just trying to figure you out.
WILL
And?
LIZBETH
I haven’t.
This is the point where the song on the soundtrack will end, and we stand looking at each other for ten seconds. His eyes are cold, and the chill between us twists in the pit of my stomach. It’s all I can do to keep from shivering. Ten seconds can be a very long time. It feels like an hour before Richter calls, “Cut!” and we turn and walk in opposite directions.
Filming breaks are like coming up for air after being under water for a few seconds too long, but breaks are their own sort of misery. Everything we do is being scrutinized by everyone on set. They all know that last night, whatever was going on between us ended. Unpleasantly. Speculations fly, buzzing near but never landing; no one knows exactly what happened, only that something did, and they probe for clues to what.
This goddamned day is never going to end.
Chapter 40
REID
The scenes with Emma are the hardest I’ve ever had to film. Would it make any difference if I got her alone, begged her forgiveness and told her that Blossom meant nothing? Does it make any difference that it’s true? I needed a distraction last night to numb the emotion boiling under the surface after the confrontation with Brooke, after Emma disappeared and wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. Now there’s a glacier between us, cold and mountainous and lethal. When I see her talking with Brooke, staring at Blossom, glancing at me and away, I know crossing it won’t be possible.
It’s a good thing Will Darcy is sort of a dick, or I’d never be able to pull this off.
I bristle at the idea that I should feel sorry for what happened almost four years ago, when it likely wasn’t even mine to feel sorry for. I haven’t thought about this shit in years. Even seeing Brooke when filming started—sure, I remembered the relationship, but I sought long ago to purge the ending from my brain. The way she was hooking up with another guy, maybe several, while telling me she loved me, while getting me to say it back, feel it back. I adored her, and she betrayed me. So what if that kid might have been mine? Why should I have cared?
Emma probably doesn’t see it that way; she’s a girl. She views my actions as desertion. And maybe it was.
Fuck this. I have enough to deal with—an alcoholic mom and a career to keep on track and build. I don’t need this shit. I’m done. I’m so f**king done.