Page 5 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Now, now,” Gayle chides. “You know that the public perception was a very different thing, so you can’t blame anyone involved in making the film for thinking it’s a neat spin that’ll draw the crowds.” Her eyes are shrewd behind her thick, red-framed glasses. “What’s a little pretend romance between co-workers? They just want you to do a few appearances, get your picture taken together, stir things up. And you can protest all you like, but even you can’t deny the chemistry the pair of you had on-screen.” She fans her face with her hand. “You can’t fake that kind of heat.”

“It’s called acting,” I insist. “We absolutely hated each other.”

“And that was the whole story, was it?” Gayle lifts her brows, and it’s my turn to look away.

“Anyway,” she continues after a moment of weighty silence. “The two of you did a great job playing things up for the cameras once before… Why not do it again? You’re both professionals; you know how to handle something like this.” She fixes me with a sudden, penetrating look, her easy charm dropping away to give me a glimpse of the hard-boiled dame beneath. “Frankly, Cyn, we need to do something for your image. If we don’t act now, then Iron Maiden could be just the start of our problems. I’m offering you a lifeline here.”

“Okay, just so I’m clear.” I briefly close my eyes, letting the facts settle. “Not only am I supposed to make a sequel to a film from thirteen years ago with a man I can’t stand, but he and I are required to pretend we’re in a romantic relationship… in front of a documentary crew that is following our every move.”

Gayle nods.

“Let me ask you a question.” I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my chin in my hand as I scan her face. “Are you high right now?”

Gayle hoots. “I mean, I’ve had my morning edible, but you know I gave up the hard stuff years ago. California sober, darling! I get your hesitation, but if you give it a little thought, I think you’ll realize what a no-brainer this is.” She gets to her feet, the chunky beaded necklaces she wears clacking wildly.

“I can’t believe Jack would agree to this!” I blurt.

Gayle’s face softens. “Of course he did! You’re Cynthie Taylor. Any man would be lucky to have a relationship with you—even a fake one. You’re a brilliant, beautiful force of a woman, and a once-in-a-generation talent.” She shakes her head, her lip curling in distaste. “Shawn Hardy did a number on you, that weaselly little shit, and I’d like to smack him right in the face, but he’s not going to derail your career. Not while I have breath in my body.”

Easy tears spring to my eyes, and I try my best to blink them away.

“I’ve already sent Hannah a copy of the script.” Gayle grabs her voluminous Hermѐs handbag. “I’m going to give you time to read it, to process things, and then we’ll talk again. I’m off for lunch with Leo.” She rolls her eyes. “The man is so needy.”

On this note, Gayle breezes out, leaving Hannah and I alone.

“What… the… fuck?” I say finally.

Hannah lets out a wheeze of laughter. “I know,” she agrees, curling her feet up beside her on the sofa.

“I don’t even understand what just happened.” I shake my head. “I can’t believe Gayle thinks this is a good idea. I can’t believe anyone thinks this is a good idea.”

“Welllll…” Hannah trails off.

“You think I should do this?”

Hannah hesitates for a moment, and then she sits forward, pushing her hands through her hair in an impatient gesture. “Okay. Do you want softly-softly, or is it finally time for hard talk?”

What I want is to squeeze my eyes shut, to find a blanket and curl up under it, to hide from the whole world, but Hannah is looking at me expectantly.

It could have been a huge mistake, all those years ago, hiring my best friend as my assistant. There are a million ways it should have blown up in our faces, but it didn’t. It has never felt like Hannah works for me. It’s like it has always been, since we were kids: we’re a team, partners in crime, Cynthie and Hannah against the world.

I might be the one who stands in front of the camera, but Hannah is with me every step of the way; she undertakes every practical aspect of the job, organizes my entire life, and keeps me sane. I couldn’t do what I do without her, and we both know it. I trust her more than anyone else on the planet, and that is the only reason I’m going to listen to what she has to say, even if I begin to suspect that Gayle hasn’t been the only one hitting the edibles.

“Fine,” I huff. “Hard talk, let’s go.”

Hannah sends me a long, measuring look, her lips pursed, as though she’s working out exactly what I can handle. Eventually, she gives a satisfied nod, and it’s clear I’ve passed some sort of test.

“Okay.” Picking up the iPad again, she taps the screen a few times and turns it to face me.

SAINT OR CYNNER? the headline screams in giant letters, and I groan.

“I am going to let you read this article,” Hannah says firmly, “because we both know it’s bullshit, and we are capable of detaching a bad, fabricated story that is written to attract clicks, from the reality of this situation. Right?”

“Right,” I repeat, but the word is shakier than I’d like.

After another second of hesitation, Hannah hands me the tablet so that I can read the whole thing.

It’s been four weeks since Saint Cyn was caught on camera with her very married director Shawn Hardy, the article begins, gleefully.