"Are you sure about these guys? I mean, they're pretty new to the industry."
I gulp, portfolio in hand. If a gut feeling is all I have going for me, my boss isn't buying it.
"A rom-com relies entirely on the chemistry of the actors," he goes on, cufflink tapping his chin. "If we get the casting wrong - the whole movie's derailed. You are aware of that?"
I am - but you don't think I am.
I try to hide my sigh. "Sir, I am very confident in the actors' ability. I've checked their past work, their personal resumes - it all looks very promising."
"Then test it."
"Huh?"
"Give them the script. Put them on camera."
"With the high level of confidentiality required by the author, sir, we - "
"Just give them small parts." He shrugs at me like the rookie that I am. "You don't have to give them the whole thing - just the main parts. See if the chemistry clicks."
If my producer's giving me the money for that - why not?
"Yes, sir."
THE PORTFOLIO
He didn't need to do this. No - not one bit. In fact, when the screentest request first came, he tossed the script at the director's face. Why would he, the mighty Derek Wills, need to audition for anything - much less a role?
He sighs, manifesting his irritation as preoccupation - as requested.
A wall street broker with no fun in his life - could the characters get any more trite?
He hides his smirk as he barrels towards the corner. He's known for directing, of course, but this script had come at the most impossible time. He made a drunken promise, caught a whim, and here he is.
Literally auditioning for a rom-com. Oh how far the mighty has fallen!
He turns the corner as directed, flourish in place. He crashes into the assigned female.
"Oh!" she cries, papers flying.
Of course.
He frowns, maximizing the disdainful feelings he actually has into expressions that he's supposed to be sporting. His voice could not be more thoughtless. "Excuse me."
He readies himself to dash forward, steeped in this unexplained rush. She blocks his way, glaring up at him from where she's crouched among her scattered artwork.
"Look, I - I'm really sorry, darling." He lifts his brows - not humanly able to care any less. His fingers curl around the world's most cliché prop briefcase.
She doesn't answer, just stares back. Her curls cascade generously around her face. She's gorgeous - no argument there.
Then she says it, her line, with total resignation. "It's okay."
She looks down, busy with collecting what must be a month's worth of work. It takes a whole minute before he heaves that monumental sigh. He lowers himself to the ground, free hand helping.
"You work for an art studio?" He doesn't know what possesses this character to make small talk.
She doesn't reply, but she laughs - her giggle as beautiful as her spirited brown eyes.
"What?"
"If waiting for them to sell my art counts as working there." She smiles between phrases. "Then sure, I work for an art studio."
Fresh-faced artist - but, of course. He reaches for the portrait next to her.
"Art studio. That - sounds fun," he tries.
"Fun? Right - like, Wall Street fun, right?" She doesn't hide her smile, and that choice makes her irrevocably sexier.
"No, I mean - real fun."
"Real fun?" She frowns a little.
"What I mean is - " He checks his watch as instructed (Let no one say Derek Wills can't take another person's amateur direction).
"Rushing, huh?" She adds, surprising him. She's right - the script's missing something there. The girl's got talent.
"Yes." He smirks sadly, helping her tuck in the last sketch. Can't lie - those props are much more convincing. They both stand up. "Look, I really need to go, uhm - could I get your number?"
She pulls the straps of her portfolio bag up against her shoulder, tilting it upward before the fabric hooks. The gesture highlights the skin peeking out between tank top and shirt.
"So, I give you my number - cuz you just hit my artwork all over?"
"No." He's instantly defensive. Then he smirks, upping the charm. "Just because."
She starts hiding a smile, and he feels inexplicably flattered.
"You know" - she bites her lip between words - "I - uhm, it sounds like I'm faking this, but - I really don't do this often."
"Right, right - neither do I."
She nods a little. He knows he's gotten to her. It only takes another two seconds before she's openly smiling all over again. She pulls a card out of her pocket and slides it into the one on his chest.
"There you go, Wall Street. I'll see you around."
She winks.
THE PROPOSAL
The idea of kneeling this long just to ask a girl to marry him sounds entirely too ridiculous in his mind. Whoever said guys had to do the asking? Don't people simply get married when they want to?
Yet, here he is, down on one knee - hands propping the world's most pretentious prop engagement ring. Their characters had shared two years together by now, supposedly. And this is his grand romantic gesture a week before Valentine's.
"Dad, please!"
"Sorry!"
In the closet to his right, the girl's pretend parents argue amongst themselves. The entire thing is as trite as trite can be.
Tired of the meaningless shoving, he refocuses on the door instead. Any time now, his imaginary girlfriend will -
He gasps when she appears. He knew it was coming, of course. But, the bruises look even worse than he thought. The awkwardly splattered paint on her denim dress don't hold a candle to her battered face.
He stands up instantly, ring flung aside. She barely makes it into his arms before her feet buckle under her. The girl's good - he'll give her that.
"What happened?" The tenderness floods his voice without effort.
"Muggers," she mumbles between sniffs.
"Right - come over." He lifts her - she's light for someone so tall - and relocates them on the couch. The cameras feel more like a petty annoyance than an actual imposition. He lifts a hand to touch her face. She flinches. "Are you alright? I swear - if anyone tries to hurt you."
"I'm fine." She puts her hand over his, squeezing lightly, and smiles softly.
He exhales, genuinely sad. These, after all, are the wells of emotion he draws from every time he directs. He tries to smile. "You want a drink?"
She smiles. "Some water would be nice."
"Sure, I'll just - "
"Hey." She grabs him before he stands up. He turns back to look at her. "Having you here is nicer."
How this nameless girl (no, not nameless - the casting director said something - Keren, maybe?) manages to evoke these gentle feelings he's long kept hidden both soothes and surprises him. He opens his arms. She snuggles against his chest.
While she sobs into his shoulder, he glances back at the ring. A little further in front of him, a head peeks out of the closet, signaling comically. He scowls, forcing the mobs down. He runs his hands up and down her back - her long, slim back.
He whispers gently, "Where did it happen?"
"I was bringing a piece over to that café place. The muggers, they - "
He pulls her closer as she trails off. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's - okay."
They stay in their embrace, her cold body slowly warming. He ponders if he should even mention the ring.
"Ouch!" The old lady, bless her heart, decides to crash out of the closet and onto the floor.
The girl - Karen, right - pulls away and turns.
"Mom?" Her voice is perfectly incredulous.
The other hidden members trickle out one by one. She looks around, bewildered. He stands behind her, hand in pocket.
"Dad? Amy? What's going on? Is it my birthday? I'm pretty sure that already happened two months ago."
He smirks a little, almost laughing. He swings his hand down, grabbing the ring box, and lifts it just when she turns.
"Trust me - this was a whole lot more romantic in my mind."
She gasps - happy.
"So, what do you say?" He blinks, also happy. "Will you marry me?"
"Yes!" She rushes into his arms, kissing him soundly.
He smiles against her lips, gladly kissing her back.
THE PRENUP
She hasn't said much between scenes all day. But with this being the last scene they're shooting today, she's starting to let lose a little. Sure, Dev may be a gigantic jerk who decides to break up with her for winning this audition, and she's been fighting those tears all day - but one broken dream doesn't mean this dream can't come true.
To arrive on set and see the great Derek Wills auditioning opposite her was definitely a welcome surprise.
It's not that she cares for his flirtations. No - he's been trying to get her attention ever since that kiss this afternoon. But for her, that's all business. She's not the type of girl to mix work with pleasure. At least - not yet.
Working with Derek Wills is good because he's emotions personified. He doesn't show it outright, of course not. But the feelings are there, simmering, just beneath the surface. Every smirk means something more. Every touch is intentional.
And she knows for a fact that strong emotions in her scene partner bring out her best acting chops.
"So, uhm - ladies first?"
She looks up just as he gestures to the desk in front of them. She looks around, a little disoriented. This scene, right - the lawyer scene thing.
She sneaks an awkward peek at the document on the shiny, wooden desk. The large print 'PRE-NUPTIAL AGREEMENT' blazoned on top doesn't exactly scream accuracy - but, hey, it's just an audition.
To her right, Derek clears his throat again. She shrugs when he nudges the stack closer. She doesn't reach for it.
"Sweetheart - " he starts.
"Maybe - you know," she interjects, shrugging again. "Maybe - unless - you wanna go through it first?"
Derek doesn't move. He's still leaning forward, torso hovering over his knees. He's frowning, a little confused.
She shrugs again.
"Right," he mumbles. He takes the ugly prop papers in his hands and rifles through them absent-mindedly.
Then he stops.
And he plops them back on the desk. "Look, sweetheart, I don't - "
"I don't need it!" she exclaims - the same words at the same time.
They look at each other, both happy and relieved at the simultaneous declaration. The smirk he sports slowly grows into a real smile. She smiles back, skin growing warmer by the minute.
"Sir, madame, I assure you this is for your own benefit." To her left, the fake lawyer is almost comical in his insistence. "If your families wish for this document to protect you - "
"I don't need it," Derek tosses at him. She finds the move extremely suave. "She can keep the house, whatever."
"And he can keep the heirlooms," she adds, still smiling at him.
"I urge you to reconsider," lawyer goes on, undefeated. "It's been known that - "
"No," they both say.
She smiles, glows - feels utterly in love with this creature. Derek, still smiling, nudges his head towards the door. She, smiling, nods.
THE PROMOTION
The second day of filming feels ten times more familiar than the first. She's learned quite a few things in the last twenty-four hours - that Derek Wills is a big softie, for one.
After things wrapped yesterday, he'd offered to walk her home. For some strange reason, she said yes; and so he did. It didn't even occur to her until they were halfway home that he probably had a car they weren't taking.
And now he knows where she lives - and she's a little thankful it's no longer with Dev.
The loud bang of a door being thrown shut hits her ears. She turns around, dressed in her flowery, red apron. The props and costume can be ridiculous around here (but hey, the reward is sweet). She remembers auditioning for Bombshell last year, seeing Derek for the first time. It felt great - amazing, even.
She would never have expected to see him here.
The sound of keys dropping reminds her of her cue. She puts on her wife smile. "Honey, is that you?"
He groans, as expected, when she walks out of the studio kitchen. He looks - haggard, sad and disgraced. His hair falls flat all over his head. The clothes that looked so sharp a moment ago are now wrinkled, unbuttoned.
"Hon?"
"Yeah," he grumbles, staggering forward.
"I heard you coming home, and I was so excited - " She trails off at his dark expression. "I, uhm - are you okay?"
He doesn't answer with words - just a shrug as he leans backwards against the wall. "Yeah, I, uhm - "
"Hey." She walks over briskly, tossing her apron along the way. There's something wrong - very wrong.
When she's finally in front of him, he spits it out, "Devons got the promotion. I guess I was wrong to have expectations."
The situation, the name, the - it all gets to her. She gulps. Her hands find his shoulders. "Hey, it's okay. It's not - "
"Not the end of the world?" He asks, voice hinting on sarcasm. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, but this is - "
She doesn't let him finish, because her lips are too anxious to get on his. She presses her body against his, his height giving her the perfect tilt - not too high, not too low. Her hands slip down and around to grip him closer. Her hips quickly latch against his.
He responds just as quickly. His left hand finds her hair, his right hand her waist. He pulls her closer, tighter - sliding their limbs into an erotic embrace. Her chest is intimately shoved against his. Her legs are failing her - fast.
He seems to sense her faltering and lifts her right away. Her legs wrap around him; her mind is slightly too busy to wonder if he feels the warmth between her thighs. By the way he nestles himself firmly between her legs as her back hits the couch, it probably doesn't matter anyway. Whether this is professionalism or something more - she doesn't know. But she does know it feels good, very good.
And she kisses him back fiercely until he pulls back. Her mind barely has time to clear.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, hesitant. "I don't - "
She pushes herself up, kissing him again. He lets her, readily kissing her back. Her hands find his shirt already untucked, and she rips it off him. The buttons hitting the ground make delightful little noises. He reaches for her hem before sliding her T-shirt off in seconds. Her hands find his belt buckle.
He pulls back again, panting. "Look, sweetheart, I don't need pity sex, alright?"
She grins, feeling bravely empowered in her lacey red bra. "It's never pity from me."
"Right." He's smiling, a little naughty. "Then what is it?"
She pushes herself up until her cheek touches his.
"Well," she uses her most breathy, bedroom voice, "you happen to be really hot."
He smiles - and then they're eyes are closed again. Their lips devour each other's. His hands hover dangerously close to the clasp of her bra - before the director yells, "Cut!"
THE PICTURE
It's not every day that one meets, marries, and divorces a woman within forty-eight hours. But that's the magic of show business, isn't it? Life is lived in a blur - with next to no consequences.
When a beautiful woman says she'll marry you without a pre-nup, it's not real. When the world's most gorgeous and supportive wife shags you on the couch, it's not real. And when your lovely estranged wife walks up to you on the park bench, looking as lovely as ever, you insist to your own throbbing heart that it's all not real either.
"Hey," she says when she's finally standing next to him. The false breeze tosses her hair as if they were outdoors in the middle of summer, not trapped in a suffocating studio.
He tries not to look sheepish. He was the one who supposed chose this spot - the specific corner of Central Park that looks right at where he'd first bumped into her. Ah, sentimental fool he is indeed.
He looks vaguely towards her direction, throat tight. "Hey."
He slides sideways, never outgrowing that boyhood cool. She smiles a little before perching lightly on the spot beside him. His hand twitches around the frame. This isn't kindergarten; he's not holding his first valentine.
He smirks a little, brow frowning. This feels worse than that first heart's day. He doesn't even know if she still cared (at least little Susie Mason did).
But bloody hell, she's here - isn't she? He sighs. He asked and she's here - all the turmoil of these recent months be damned.
"Hey," so he says again, gently handing her the photo. It's a familiar one, that's for sure. It's the one on their invitation, their foyer, their phones, and their nightstands. It's the one that's been his only profile picture for far too long. He doesn't even know if he'd ever log on social media again after the papers are signed.
She looks at the picture. Her fingertips trace the frame. He wonders what she's thinking - even just one thought would too.
"For what it's worth," he says instead. "I'm sorry."
She doesn't answer, just keeps looking.
He gulps, oddly nervous. He tries a false chuckle. "I know I don't look half as good as I did back then - but that's what engagement photos are for, aren't they? They're proof that we used to look good, once upon a time."
He doesn't know what she'll say, or if she'd speak at all. His fingers curl around the edge of the seat.
But he certainly didn't expect what she actually said: "Well, you still look hot."
It takes a moment for the compliment to sound real. He smiles. "So do you."
Now she's the one smiling. His heart hopes.
"I'm - I'm sorry about Frank." She's suddenly apologizing. "He's just - "
"No, no, please - I'm sorry."
They look at each other - open and vulnerable - perhaps for the first time in years.
He blinks, gulps, readies himself to say more before she does. "My career isn't everything. I know that now."
Her gaze grows softer, warmer. He wonders if she'll reach for his hand.
"Yeah, it isn't," she says simply.
He nods, taking in her gaze for another two seconds, before he looks away. Nothing quite like an acknowledgement of guilt to remind him of how he'd lost her.
"But you know what is?" She mentions all of a sudden.
He looks up - surprised, anxious, hopeful. Two tears fall down her cheeks before she gets the word out.
"You."
His heart swells to the point of bursting. He doubts his own sanity. Did she truly just - forgive him?
He is the one to reach for her hands. She gives them readily. He knows he needs to say something - anything. The script did this moment no justice. Her sad, guilty eyes. Her dearly kissable lips. Oh how he longed -
She nods, as if reading his thoughts. He loses no time, quickly pressing his lips against hers. She smiles against them, kissing him back.
And somehow, after everything, all's right with the world once more.