Page 36 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Oh no,” Cynthie says, solemn and wide-eyed. “What happened here?”

“You,” I growl, starting toward her, and she dances back.

“Uh-uh.” She waves her finger at me. “Don’t come too close. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but it’s very hard to clean up glitter. That stuff gets everywhere.” She smirks, her gaze running slowly from my face to my feet, and then—pointedly—over my shoulder toward my trailer, which looks like a Jackson Pollock/My Little Pony collaboration.

I close my eyes as I realize she’s right. I’m going to be finding glitter in my things for the rest of filming. At least I’d changed out of my costume and I’m wearing my own clothes… although that was probably part of her plan. I don’t think she’d do anything to actively sabotage the film, but then again, I hadn’t seen this coming, so I suppose anything is possible.

I glare at the little she-devil in front of me. “Cynthie Taylor,” I say dangerously, though I’ll admit the glitter all over my face is probably ruining the menacing picture I’m trying to present. “You’re going to regret this.”

She doesn’t even flinch, only laughs and turns to walk away. “Ooh,” she calls over her shoulder, “I’m quaking in my boots.”

Patty takes another picture and hands the still-developing Polaroid to me, careful not to touch my glitter-covered hands. “A little memento,” she says, then she glances over at Arjun, and winks. “Looking good, boys.”

Arjun’s big, lovelorn eyes are glued to her as she shimmies away.

“You’re not being subtle,” I tell him.

“I’m not trying to be. She says I’m too nice for her,” Arjun replies sadly, still watching Patty go. “But, man, every time I see her… my heart…” He lays a hand over his chest.

“So what do we do now?” Scott asks, eyeing the remaining balloons with trepidation.

I look down at the photo in my hand—three startled, sparkly faces stare back at me. “First,” I say, “we dispose of these”—I gesture at the balloons—“very carefully. And then, we plan how to get even.”

IT TAKES US AGES TO transport the balloons to a safe spot for bursting. We handle each one like it’s a tiny explosive device about to detonate and we’re the bomb squad. Scott digs us out some paint-spattered hooded coveralls from the props department so we even look the part. I spend the time focusing on how sweet my revenge will taste.

By the time I’m back at Alveston Hall, it’s late and I’m exhausted. I’ve taken three showers but am still finding bits of glitter not only on my body and my clothes, but somehow all over my room here as well. I glare down at the smear of pink glitter on my favorite T-shirt, and when my phone rings the name on the screen makes my heart sink.

“Hi, Mum,” I say, reluctantly picking up the call.

“Hello, darling,” Mum’s voice rings out. “Your father is here too.”

“Oh, good.” I sink down onto the side of the bed, picking at the glittery T-shirt with my free hand. “I thought he was still filming in France.”

“Got back yesterday,” my dad booms. He likes to project when he’s on the phone, like he’s in a thousand-seat theater and you’re sitting at the back. “Rained the whole bloody time. And that director didn’t know his arse from his elbow. I don’t care how many Academy Awards the man owns, he doesn’t have the first clue about Voltaire. No fucking subtlety!” This last part is bellowed without a hint of irony.

“I’m sure you were great,” I mutter.

He scoffs. “It wasn’t my performance that was the problem. Speaking of which…”

“Jack, your father and I were watching the dailies, and we have some notes.” My mum’s voice is echoing as if she’s stepped away from the phone. There’s the distinctive sound of ice hitting a glass.

“Dailies?” I repeat, confused. “What do you… Wait… Do you mean the dailies from A Lady of Quality?” I laugh, a sound of pure disbelief.

“Of course,” Mum replies tranquilly.

“I—” I start, and then stop, my brain unable to take in what she’s saying.

“You’ve got to work on your diction,” my dad cuts in. “It’s like all those years with the vocal coach were for nothing. Enunciate! Are you doing your warm-ups? You should know better than to skip them.”

“How did you even get hold of the dailies?” I ask, rubbing my forehead. “Jasmine and Logan aren’t sharing them with us.”

“But, darling, you know Peter’s one of the producers!” Mum’s voice is closer to the phone again. “You must have expected he’d share them with us.”

“No,” I manage. “It hadn’t occurred to me at all.”

“The girl’s not as bad as I thought she’d be,” Dad says. “Bit green.”

“She’s got a very common face,” Mum sniffs.