Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Despite not eating, I’m still energised. Back in my room, I can’t sit down. My muscles are twitchy, raring to go. There’s so much to do before shooting starts. Even more to do once shooting starts. The job is like a constant challenge that needs modifying and perfecting every day. It’s fresh and exciting. I’m going to love it here.
I’m already planning ahead for tomorrow.
Forcing practical thoughts into my brain, I know I need to eat. I also know I’m glad my nose isn’t located closer to my armpits. Shower first, then dinner. Multitasking Mode remains activated, so I order a sirloin and chunky chips from room service, which should arrive once I’m clean, and then I can eat and catch up with Becca before collapsing for the night.
Showering does the trick, the warm water carrying my excess energy with it down the drain. My muscles soften with each steamy inhale, shoulders slumping, chest deflating. My mind calms. Reflects. Things appear sharper, less hectic. I can appreciate the work I completed today, visualise what needs to happen more clearly tomorrow.
When I’m done, I don’t wear anything but a towel until my food arrives, and I lose that as soon as the door is locked for the night. I climb into bed naked, settle the tray on top of my lap above the duvet, and pop a chip in my mouth with one hand while dialling Becca with the other. I hit speakerphone, place it on the tray.
“Heeey,” she answers sweetly, drawn out.
“Sorry I’m so late. Busy, busy day.”
“Good though, right?” She sounds concerned.
“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely,” I say around a mouth full of crispy potato goodness. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten so excuse the chomping.”
Becca giggles. The noise makes me happy. “Meet any more megastars?”
“No. Thank God.” I haven’t updated her on last night’s dinner. I’m not sure why. Perhaps I feel a little guilty about being here enjoying myself while she’s stuck at home living her regular life. “It’s just crew this week. Grips, set dressers, us electricians. Hopefully, I won’t have much to do with the actors at all.”
“They’re just people, Will.” I love how amused she sounds.
“Inhumanly beautiful people worth millions of pounds,” I counter.
“You’re inhumanly beautiful…”
Great end to a great day. Talking with my wife, eating steak, Big Bang reruns on the small TV on the wall. “You know, Becs…I think life is gonna turn out just perfect for us.”
Closing my eyes, I can see the smile I know she’s wearing. “Of course it is. I promised you it would, remember?”
The memory moves through the layers in my mind, twisting and nudging through the years until it reaches front and centre. And there we are. In Becca’s bedroom at her parents’ house. Fifteen and discovering love. Becca’s thumb strokes the bruise on my jaw before she cradles my head and holds it to her chest, making me feel like the most loved and wanted boy in the world.
“You watch, Will. We’re going to live a life they don’t even deserve to dream. It’ll be perfect, I promise.”
It was the same day she told me she’d keep me safe, and that she’d always love me. And she has. I vowed to spend every day of our lives repaying her, though I’ve probably laxed as years flew by.
“I’ll always remember.”
And I’ll always be grateful.
“Goodnight, Becs. Love and miss you.”
Chapter Four
Laurence
Day one. I love the vibe on the first day of filming. Everyone is geed up, excited for the project, eager to get stuck in. It’s been several months since I’ve been sat in the make-up chair and I’m starting to remember how tedious I find the process. I’m in for a long one today because we’re starting with post-injury scenes.
“Could you just…” The make-up artist on my right, Anya, cocks her head up, wanting access to my neck.
I crane it to the left while watching her work in the mirror through my one ‘good’ eye. The other one is welded half-closed between silicone prosthetics and painted to look like I’ve taken a good beating. “Looking good,” I tell her through my ‘busted’ and ‘swollen’ lips. The effect really is extraordinary. Never gets old, seeing myself in such states. Closest I’ve ever been to a real beating is a skelped backside from my Granny Glenn as a wean.
In the mirror, I see the door to my dressing room open. A guy – young, fresh-faced, probably a runner – pops his head around. “I’m putting an order in to the crafties. Can I get you anything?”
Careful not to move my head, my ‘free’ eye strains to see the clock on the wall. I’ve got half-an-hour till my call. “Aye. Coffee, black, four sugars, please…what’s your name?” I always make a point of asking and then introducing myself. It doesn’t matter that, these days, lots of people already know my name, I still tell them. It’s polite, and how my parents raised me.