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)
“I’m filming?” Great!
“No.”
Shit.
“They’re going ahead with Stan and Leah’s scenes today but want you here at four AM tomorrow to go early.”
I can’t help huffing. “Right. Sure.” Briefly, I contemplate staying. Getting involved, watching the takes behind the monitors, sinking my teeth into backstage stuff. It’s what I’d usually do. It’s what I love to do. But…I’m feeling too pissed off.
“Do you want to grab lunch, seeing as I’m here?” Andy asks.
“Naw.” I’d only be miserable company. “I’m gonna wait for those eyedrops off the medic then get Silv to gimme a lift back to the hotel.”
That piques Andy’s attention. His back stiffens, neck straightens. “Silvio’s back? I thought he was in France.”
Putting it politely, Andy doesn’t like Silvio. I don’t know why. We’ve known the guy for years, on and off. He started out as a driver for one of the first major studios I ever filmed with, and he’s worked his way up to where he is now – the boss of his own chauffeuring business. I don’t employ my own personal driver. I leave that to either Andy or the studio I’m working for. But since the relationship changed to chauffeur-with-benefits a couple of years ago, it’s always a welcome surprise when I spot Silvio sitting in that driving seat.
“Job’s finished over there,’ I tell Andy, repeating what Silvio said last night. “Studio have hired his firm while we’re down here.”
I only receive a stern look in response. A piercing gaze of warning.
“You got a problem with Italians, Andy?” I ask, laughing.
He rolls his eyes, annoyed. Even tuts. Calling him Andy probably didn’t help. He hates that. I don’t particularly like being referred to as ‘kid’ when I’m thirty-fucking-four either, but we both suck it up.
“The bloke’s…smarmy. I don’t trust him.”
My eyebrow rises involuntarily. “Smarmy, aye?” Silvio is one of the few people I do trust, at least on an intimate level. It’s a rather depressing reality that I’m always anticipating the juicy details of my sex life being bandied around the gossip sites after sleeping with someone new. It happens too often. It’s happened to my friends. Colleagues. People I admire. People I despise yet still don’t deserve that. Andy has a lot of pull over what gets leaked, but he's not infallible. His fingers have cracks between them.
Still, two years since the first time I pulled Silvio into the back of the limousine he was driving and there have been no photos of my dick trending on Twitter. No demands for money. No tell-all stories. Not that I think it would be such a great deal if it happened. Not anymore. When I first started out, I was told by a previous manger that being gay couldn’t happen. That I’d lose roles, or be constricted to comedies or the gay best friend in chick flicks. I’d like to say it’s different now because the world has changed and attitudes have evolved but, in reality, the only reason it wouldn’t affect me is because I’ve already established a career. That makes me sad when I think about it, so I don’t think about it. Rightly or wrongly, I carry on as I always have and enjoy Silvio for what he is. Fun. Simple, reliable, fun.
“I’ve been around a lot longer than you, son,” Andy continues to ramble. “I can see these things.” Frustrated, he waves a hand through the air, gets to his feet and plucks his cigarettes from inside his jacket. He removes one from the pack, twirling it between his fingers, eager to light it the second he leaves the building. “You won’t bloody listen to me anyway. You never do.”
That’s not true. “Now you’re just sulking.”
Andy’s by the door now. “I’ll be at le Toit Sucré, one PM, if you change your mind about lunch.” And then he’s gone, adding a firmer slam than necessary to aid in his dramatic flair when he shuts the door behind him.
Looks like I’m having lunch with my manager. If I don’t, I’ll only imagine him sitting alone at his favourite rooftop table, cursing me for being a self-entitled prick who doesn’t appreciate all the opportunities he’s given me…which is bullshit. I do appreciate the whiny old bastard. That’s why I’ll be sitting opposite him eating some French shit I can’t pronounce come one o’clock this afternoon.
My eye kept me out of action less than a day and things soon continue as they should. Filming’s going well, the schedule is on track, and everyone is in good spirits. Especially Leah, who’s developed a habit of bombarding me with surprise selfies for her Instagram. It’s only a matter of time before the headlines start saying we’re dating.
I’m taking a break after watching Stan shoot a scene when I see my new friend outside, face buried in a crumpled map of the studios. I say friend, but I’m still not convinced he likes me. I’m still not sure why I care, either. Nonetheless, the concentration twisting his expression intrigues me, compels me to go over.