Page 7 of His Cruelest Moves

“A couple of years,” Alex lied, flicking a quick glance at Isard.

“I can’t wait till we get onto the fight sequences. It’s going to be exciting!” Valentí enthused. “I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can do!” He winked at Isard, before slipping off the bench and heading over to another group of actors who were just finishing lunch.

The three of them, Alex, Isard and Dolors all breathed out at the same time.

“Well, we can’t disappoint the director,” Alex deadpanned. “We have our work cut out.”

“Thanks for getting caught up in our lie,” Isard said.

Alex made a wry face. “Well, sometimes you just have to… do what you have to do.”

five

Alex and the taxi driver had been waiting for ten minutes outside the hotel that evening when Isard finally appeared, dragging the huge suitcase Alex had seen in his caravan on set.

“Sorry, guys,” he huffed. “I couldn’t seem to fit everything in and get my case closed. It’s like all my stuff has multiplied since we’ve been here.”

“But why do you need so much? Weren’t you just coming for three days of filming?” Alex asked.

“This is my first film,” Isard shrugged. “I wasn’t sure what I should bring. So I brought pretty much everything.”

Alex just raised an eyebrow, swinging his own small backpack off his shoulders to give to the driver. He’d only brought a change of underwear, his toilet bag, and his workout gear. He didn’t understand people who insisted on carting everything plus the kitchen sink with them wherever they went.

“OK, are we ready?” the taxi driver asked, swinging Isard’s heavy suitcase into the trunk, and settling Alex’s backpack in beside it. “Hop in.”

It was strange seeing a black-and-yellow Barcelona taxi up here in the mountains. Perhaps hiring a city taxi had been the production company’s cheapest option for transporting the actors to and from the Pyrenees. Alex opened the back door and waved Isard in. As the slim actor passed him, he got a déjà vu of the time he’d welcomed him into his caravan: Isard’s pine and earthy scent, whether it was a cologne or his natural odor, washed over him, rendering him momentarily helpless. He scrambled into the back seat after Isard. As he shut the door, he felt the other’s gaze on him and turned to meet those large bovine eyes.

“What?”

Isard shrugged. “Nothing, I…”

Alex looked out the window, a lump in his throat too. It was… how long would they be sat here together on the trip down to Barcelona? Three, four hours? Isard’s presence on the seat next to him seemed to be calling to him in a way he didn’t understand… and certainly hadn’t expected when he took on this gig. He wondered how they’d fill that time.

As the taxi rolled down out of the small alpine village they’d been staying at, and started negotiating larger roads in its quest for the freeway, Isard felt wistful. It had been fun being cocooned in this tiny cinematic world up here in the mountains for a few days. Film worked to its own schedule. There were no set days of the week, or office hours. You might find yourself working a Monday, a Thursday or a Sunday and have no idea which day it was. The working day started at four a.m. and finished at eleven p.m., sometimes later. Actors and crew slotted in and out of that schedule according to when they were needed, not dependent on any fixed hours. About the only time the whole production came together was lunchtime, which could be served at any hour from midday till five o’clock. Then director, actors, and crew all sat down to eat and talk together in a communal activity where rank and status became blurred.

The filming was continuing in Barcelona, but he’d be sleeping in his own apartment for that, just turning up on the set every morning at the required time. It felt like he’d been away on summer camp, and was now returning to the real world, where responsibilities and trials awaited him. His mind turned to the tasks he had lined up. Dolors had him booked for an audition later that week. An Australian production, The Swan, was coming to Barcelona later that year, and its director, Kim Delatour, was an up-and-coming international bigshot. From what Dolors had told him of the production, he didn’t quite see it as a good fit for him, but hey, he’d said the same about Relentless, and here he was shooting it.

He also had to find some time for Cap Goss Sense Llar (No Dog Without a Home), the animal rescue organization he was volunteering with. Since he was an actor but not really famous, they had tasked him with finding celebrity ambassadors who might be interested in collaborating with the NGO. They reasoned, since he was in the mundillo, the community, he must have contacts he could ask. Perhaps he could approach Valentí, or the star, Daniel Crespo? The thought of it put his stomach in knots. He’d have to get better at public relations if he was going to be any sort of actor.

He looked over at Alex, who was gazing out the window, watching the scenery. The guy was absolutely stunning, his vigorous black hair framing a straight nose and gently curving jaw, peppered sparsely with fine stubble. His eyes were delicate, almond-shaped, and quite heavily lidded, giving the sense that he was often shielding his thoughts or hiding smoldering passions. At that moment, perhaps feeling himself observed, Alex glanced over, and their eyes met. A few seconds passed before either of them spoke. Finally Isard croaked out:

“Tell me more about Wing Chun. How did you get involved?”

For once he seemed to have said the right thing because Alex didn’t snap or sneer at him.

“It was at high school in Barcelona. My friends and I, a few of us joined a local club. We’d been playing other stuff, basketball, football, as you do. And then, I’m not sure what sparked it… Maybe we’d seen a Bruce Lee movie or something, but it was Dani, Albert, and me—my mates—we joined a local club. From the first day, I totally loved it. It just felt like that was what I was meant to do, I can’t explain it. Albert went along for a few sessions and then dropped out, but Dani and I went all the way: club competitions, regional, national…. He’s still competing at regional level. I made it international! The World Wing Chun Competition in Hong Kong.”

He laughed like he still couldn’t quite believe his luck, as if everything that had happened had been some massive fluke.

“Wow, that’s phenomenal!”

“Yeah, I have a bronze medal to show for it. That was in 2018, when I was eighteen. Wing Chun isn’t an Olympic sport yet, but when it is, I’ll be there.”

“It must feel amazing to have been successful so young.”

“It’s left me wanting more. Always more mountains to climb… I guess that’s both the good and the bad of early success.” Then Alex looked at Isard, aware he’d maybe been talking about himself too long. “But you aren’t doing too badly, starring in a film already. How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. Yeah, I don’t really understand it. It’s just kind of happened.”