Page 95 of Let’s Make a Scene

I nod.

“I saw it,” Jack admits. “You were wonderful.”

“I suppose.” I pull my hand away from him, too agitated to keep still. I get to my feet and wrap my arms around my stomach. “There’s Oscar buzz, you know,” I say flatly. “Which is actually a nightmare, because it means more press, more headlines. Being in a room with him for the campaign.”

“I get that,” Jack says. “I’m sorry that his behavior would taint a huge achievement. You should be proud of the work.”

The bark of laughter I give is devoid of humor. “Proud of the work?” I exhale shakily. “I barely remember doing it. The whole experience was awful, even before Shawn and I…” I trail off.

“I’ve heard he’s difficult to work with,” Jack says carefully.

“Yeah. Difficult is one word for it. Nothing I did was good enough,” I say. “The subject matter was so harrowing, you know—a young mother losing her child in mysterious circumstances, trying to uncover the truth but questioning her own sanity…” I shiver. “It was hard to live with, and Shawn was determined to wring an authentic performance out of me. I guess he did.”

“What do you mean?”

I sigh. “I don’t…” I start to tell Jack that I can’t talk about it, but something makes me stop. Maybe I can talk about it. With him. “It’s hard to explain,” I say instead.

“I’ll listen. If you want to tell me.”

I’m still not looking at him, but I nod.

I hesitate, weighing my words. “So much of it I only saw afterward. That’s what’s so strange… At the time it didn’t feel wrong.” I make a sound of exasperation. “And it’s so slippery that there’s little to tell. He didn’t really do anything; he just made me feel small. All the time. He chipped away at my performance first, and then my appearance, the way I moved, the way I talked. I wasn’t connecting with the material emotionally or intellectually; I wasn’t bright enough to understand what he wanted; I hadn’t got the training; I wasn’t taking it seriously. I got more and more nervous and edgy, and then I’d break and cry, which was humiliating, but he’d be pleased, and he’d tell me he was only pushing me so hard because he knew how talented I was, what I was capable of. I started clinging to any bit of praise; I was desperate to make him happy.” I chew on my thumbnail. “I admired him, and I was determined to deliver. The work was important, you know? We were doing something important.”

I chance a look at Jack and his face is very still, but after a moment he moves his head in a jerky nod.

I huff out another breath. “But it was hard, I suppose. Harder than anything I’d done before, and I started feeling anxious. I couldn’t eat and I lost weight. I looked ill, and he liked that. For the part, he said. It was as if it all started to creep in, the character and her mental state… I don’t know,” I say, rubbing a hand over my eyes. “He was doing his job, I guess. As you say… he got the performance he wanted. And a relationship with me too, such as it was. I don’t think he planned for that. God!” I feel for a second like I want to strike out, to hit something. “It was like I was in a fucking cult by the end. I worshipped him. It makes me feel sick now. I don’t know how it got so far.”

I turn to Jack again. “But he really did tell me he was separated from his wife,” I say a little desperately. “He told me they were divorcing. I wouldn’t have… I really don’t think I would have… otherwise.” There are tears, and they come suddenly, hard, taking me by surprise.

Jack is on his feet in an instant, wrapping me up, holding me against him so that I can cry, properly cry, against his chest. He holds me for a long time, stroking my hair until my sobs quiet.

“I’m scared I’ve lost it,” I confess, the words muffled against the fabric of his shirt damp from my tears. “What if I can’t do the work anymore?”

Jack eases back from me, his hands holding my forearms.

“Cynthie,” he says, and his face is serious, “you haven’t lost anything. What that man did… it wasn’t directing. It wasn’t art, honey. It was abuse, plain and simple.”

The words are like a shock, and I jerk back instinctively. “No,” I say, a shaky laugh on my lips. “No, Jack, it wasn’t that bad. It was just…”

“Okay,” he says quietly. “We don’t have to say any more about that now, but you just let it sit with you.”

I rub a hand over my face.

“It’s a good thing there isn’t an entire room full of actors in there, along with an actual documentary team, or I’d be worried that I look like I’ve been crying my eyes out,” I say with a tremulous smile.

Picking up on the change in my tone, Jack’s body language shifts completely, ready to put me at ease. He grins. “Yes, at least you can reassure yourself that they’re not at all nosy and excited to jump in everyone else’s business.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a clean white handkerchief.

I lift my eyebrows. “You carry a handkerchief?”

“I do.” He folds the fabric into a strip and carefully pours some of the water out of my glass over it. “Here,” he says, “sit down and put this on your eyes. You’ll be good as new in a few minutes.”

“Oh my god,” I whisper, delighted as I turn it over in my hands. “It’s monogrammed!”

Color touches his cheeks. “My gran gave them to me.”

“Well, that’s adorable.” I sit, and the damp fabric is cool and soothing against my eyes. We fall into silence, and I try not to think about why sitting quietly with Jack is so comforting.