Page 15 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane: Part 4
‘Don’t worry,’ Fraser said, grinning. ‘We’re called that in the UK too. I’ve learned not to take it personally.’
Zachary pulled up next to an enormous roll-up door that led into a vast warehouse space. ‘Studio Three,’ he said, climbing out of the buggy. ‘They filmedDeath Starin there. Built the whole lost city of Oribi, complete with catacombs and the famous cantina where the final shootout between Lord Ringwald and Endymion takes place. Let’s take a look.’
There was so much to see that before long, everything began to merge in Fraser’s mind. His most vivid recollection was the bejewelled golden sarcophagus in the centre of a studio laid out as a dusty Egyptian tomb. Maura would love the intricate detail; he could imagine her frowning at the urns and jars in professional appraisal, offering suggestions on size and decoration technique. He took special care to chat with the make-up artists and wardrobe crew, which was something a much more famous actor had recommended early on in his career – it paid to be nice to the people with the power to make him look better in front of the camera.
By the time Zachary deposited him back at reception, the early morning start was catching up with Fraser again. He was in need of a substantial caffeine fix.
‘Of course,’ Krystal said when he asked her. ‘Priscilla is here now – she’s in make-up, so there’s time for you to refuel before we get you ready too.’
Fraser didn’t know much about the two actors vying for the female lead in the film, beyond the usual online gossip and bland PR interviews put out to promote past projects. The characters in this film didn’t become romantically involved until the final scenes, but they did need to strike sparks from the first moment they met. He supposed that was why the chemistry screen tests were needed; both actors had a number of high-profile successes behind them but Minelli wanted to see who worked best with Fraser. It was the kind of test that needed to be done face-to-face and, up until now, he hadn’t been nervous. But adrenaline was fluttering in his stomach, despite the fact that the part was already his. Sipping his coffee, he read through the scenes again. He’d done his preparation, he reminded himself. And he didn’t need to impress anyone.
When Fraser finally met Priscilla, he was startled to realise she was even more beautiful in real life than on the screen. Her dark hair shimmered under the lights, her wide, full-lashed brown eyes reminded him of Princess Jasmine fromAladdinand her skin glowed as though lit from within. Where some actors were washed out by the overbright studio bulbs, Priscilla seemed to blossom under them. He could see why the camera loved her. But her smile upon meeting Fraser had been a disappointment – perfunctory and lacking warmth. Perhaps she was saving its brilliance for the performance, he thought. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t liked the look of him. She was used to working with much bigger names, after all.
Minelli was standing behind one of the cameras, muttering instructions to its operator as he peered at the screen. Other studio executives watched from the wings; Fraser had been introduced to the casting director when they’d first entered the studio but he didn’t recognise the others. Apparently satisfied, Marco glanced up to nod at Fraser and Priscilla. ‘We’ll try ActOne, Scene Three first. The one where Bash and Delores meet after the bank job goes wrong.’
Fraser nodded, taking his position beside the X marked on the studio floor, summoning up his opening line. Turning discreetly, he checked his breath in his cupped hand. The last thing he wanted to do was breathe coffee fumes over his possible co-star.
But Priscilla hadn’t moved. ‘I need the script,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘I can’t do this off book.’
Minelli looked surprised. ‘You haven’t learned the scene?’
She tapped her foot impatiently. ‘I haven’t had time. And I’m hardly going to learn the lines when I haven’t been offered the part. Be reasonable, Marco.’
Fraser fought the urge to stare. Plenty of actors struggled with lines, especially when there were a lot to remember. He’d always been lucky – the words had stuck after one or two read-throughs and reappeared like magic when he needed them. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard someone admit they hadn’t bothered to learn them at all, not least at a studio screen test with Hollywood’s biggest director. That took a special level of entitlement.
But Minelli simply nodded. ‘Someone get her a script.’
Krystal hurried over, a sheaf of paper in her hand. She gave it to Priscilla, who glared at it as though it was a personal insult.
‘It’s not open to the scene.’
Fumbling with the pages, the assistant found the right one and handed it back. When she passed Fraser, he saw two spots of colour burning in her cheeks and felt a surge of indignation on her behalf. But this wasn’t the time to rock the boat and he suspected Krystal would not thank him for speaking out. Forcing down his misgivings, he replayed the scene in his head and got into character. Bash was confident, maybe a little arrogant, andhe thought he didn’t need any help. Delores was about to prove him wrong.
After a moment, Priscilla came to stand within view of the camera. She held the script aloft, her gaze scanning the page as she took in her lines. Fraser tried not to let her lack of preparation irritate him further, but it was tough. Had she even read the bloody thing before today?
‘Quiet on set,’ Minelli called. The noise levels dropped. Someone held a board in front of the camera, whisking it away a second or two later. ‘And action!’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Fraser glowered at Priscilla, his lip curling in disdain. ‘Don’t tell me you’re the cleaner.’
Chin jutting in defiance, she matched his scorn. ‘O’ course ah am. Here to sweep up your mess.’
The accent was so unexpected, so different from her American drawl, that Fraser had to battle to maintain Bash’s trademark scowl. ‘You’re going to need more than a dustpan and brush to fix this.’
‘Then it’s a good thing I brung ma team.’
‘Cut!’ Minelli was gazing at Priscilla, his head cocked. ‘Let’s lose the accent.’
Priscilla scowled at Fraser. ‘Why does he get to do one when I don’t? I trained for this, Marco. I can do Scotland.’
Fraser kept his eyes on the floor, determined not to react. If she’d read the script, she’d know Delores was a Londoner. But there was no way he was going to point that out and it seemed the director wasn’t going to mention it either.
‘Fraser gets to do a Scottish accent because he’s from Scotland,’ Minelli explained. ‘That’s his natural voice. So can we go from the top? Quiet on set.’
This time, they managed to complete the scene before Minelli cut them off. Fraser wasn’t sure if the humiliation had heightened Priscilla’s furious performance but she spat thewords at him like bullets and made his ears ring with a slap that had very little stagecraft and a whole lot of venom to it. His cheek burned where she’d struck him and he suspected he now had a red hand mark imprinted on his skin.
Checking the screen, Minelli nodded with what appeared to be satisfaction. ‘Act Four, Scene Four – the elevator scene,’ he instructed.
Krystal appeared at Fraser’s side, holding a small blue and white square. ‘An ice pack,’ she murmured. ‘For your cheek.’
