Hey, y'all!
Thank you for all the reviews and alerts. I treasure each and every one of them.
Last week BCG passed 1,100 reviews. acw1, you posted review No. 1,100 and in keeping with BCG tradition, name an outtake of your choice and I will write it!
As usual, Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar, and SunflowerFran wield the red pens.
RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
Shall we check in with AwkWard and BCG, currently separated by a couple of continents and an entire ocean?
BCG – CHAPTER 39
"You need to get a grip, Cullen. I mean it. Take fifteen. Come back caffeinated and with an attitude adjustment."
I don't hide my huff at Riley's dressing down. My pique, in all its petulant glory, is unjustified. I've had trouble getting into my groove this week. Despite my hurt pride, Riley's words sound less scathing than he's entitled to be, considering my abysmal performance today.
When I slam the door to my trailer, the noise startles Seth, who's made it a habit of sitting here to work when he needs quiet or has long phone calls to make.
"I'll call you back," he speaks into his Bluetooth headset, which he then discards on the table, taking stock of my appearance. Without a word of comment, a steaming mug of Earl Grey appears on the table.
Seth's been great since we got to Vancouver a week ago. He's anticipated my every need without one single complaint or misstep. He reads my moods with uncanny accuracy and steers clear of me when I get myself into a murderous tizzy. Like today. And over the course of a meagre week, he's had to do it quite a bit.
Bella's been cooped up in Devonshire for almost ten days now, and between both of us travelling, settling in, brutal call times in the morning, and the bloody time zones in between, it's been a shitty ten days. We've made do with emails, texts, voicemails, hasty phone calls … but it's not the same.
At the other end of the earth, she sounds exhausted but buoyantly excited at the same time. All the time.
Poor old me, well, my clueless self is having a weeklong pity party for one, and despite my attempts at working my arse off and staying professional, my attempts are tanking faster than the Titanic.
"I'll go check the schedule for tomorrow with the production assistant," Seth announces, his hand already on the door handle.
"Thanks, Seth."
He nods and leaves without a word.
When I fail to detect the clicking sound of the door shutting behind him, I absently raise my gaze from my folded hands. I didn't exactly expect this particular visitor.
"Riley's not mad at you, you know?" Irina says, still kitted out in the elaborate Edwardian costume from her earlier scene. The scene I botched multiple times by missing my mark, my cue, and my line. A trifecta of screw-ups.
"I'm mad enough at myself for both of us. But thank you."
She's kept to herself this week, mostly, but I've seen her catch lunch or a coffee break with Seth or the rest of the crew and cast at the craft tent. Unpretentious. Kind to everyone. No diva, by all means—rather, a hard worker. Focused. Unlike me.
"Until you let that out, you'll keep messing shit up."
And to the point.
"Thank you for the vote of confidence."
She huffs. I'm being deliberately standoffish—defensive, even—but I can't tell what her angle is with me here. I'm not sure I want to let her in.
"Be a prickly pear about it if you want. Your choice. But if there is one thing I learned on Broadway—you do not get a dozen takes on a stage. You could be having the crappiest day of your life, and you are still going to have to pack it up and check it at the stage door. Your real life hiccups have no place on a stage."
Her tone grows more incensed through her speech, and her careful, neutral delivery increasingly transforms further and further into her clipped, contraction-averse Eastern European accent the longer she speaks.
As I let her words sink in, my addled mind starts discerning there's some merit to them. Although one thing stubbornly, absurdly stands out. "Prickly pear? Where the hell do you come up with this shit?" I can't help barking out a laugh. The analogy is, for lack of a better qualifier, unusual.
"Well, if the fruit fits," she retorts with a chuckle of her own. "Is that the only thing you got from the entire speech?"
"No, but it was the funniest."
"I'll give you that," she replies, just as another knock resounds through the door panel and a production assistant shouts from outside, "Five minutes, Mr Cullen!"
Irina nods, raises her travel mug at me, in salute, and leaves.
"Thank you." My words follow her retreating back as an epiphany hits me.
Compartmentalize—that's what I need to do.
I miss Bella. It's the longest we've been away from each other since we met. It's also an inevitable separation. Nor will it be the last one we face. But the only way forward is through.
Gird your loins, Cullen. Showtime.
###BCG###
A week later, my Bella-induced tantrum has mostly become a thing of the past.
It helps that we've both settled into more of a routine—as far as unpredictable changes to filming schedules permit—and we've learned to make time to talk even for a handful of minutes at a time.
"How's the editing going, love?"
FaceTime has quickly become our new best friend. Prior to decamping to Moor Lodge, Bella forced the Admiral to join the twenty-first century and hook up the Lodge with wireless internet access—another assist to our endeavours to stay connected despite distance and time zones. He'd never seen the need before, both because of his notorious aversion to technology and because he'd always regarded Moor Lodge as his refuge away from civilisation to begin with.
"I just finished haggling with Victoria over a scene. Now I need a pint," she says.
"Haggling?"
She looks exhausted but happy with a twinkle in her eyes. I can learn to cope with my separation anxiety if the reward is a happy Bella. She fills my screen with her hair in a messy bun, an oversized Oxford sweatshirt, and a fourteen-pound feline perched in her lap—the infamous MB, who's twirling his fluffy tail between Bella's face and the camera. When she attempts to move the offending appendage away, the cat reacts with a disgruntled meow.
"Sorry about that. MB doesn't take kindly to lese-majesty."
"By all means," I answer, chuckling. The cat's antics on camera so far have been hysterical. He's a little diva. And quite attached to Bella.
"He's being clingy because I ditched him yesterday."
"How did that meeting in London go?"
"Info-packed. Their entertainment lawyer flagged a couple points that need smoothing over, and Victoria had good suggestions about it. More work to do. Yay me!"
"But still, you had to haggle with Red today?" I prod, using the quite obvious nickname Emmett saddled Victoria with. Of course, she retaliated and calls him "Beefcake." True to form, he still hasn't stopped gloating.
Bella huffs dramatically, waving MB's tail away from her face again. "The haggling was about something else. She wanted to cut a scene altogether. I wanted to keep it."
"Who won?" As a rule, Vic comes out of these little battles on top. Bella trusts her instincts, especially because Vic doesn't trample on Bella's storytelling, or so Bella says.
"No one. We compromised. It'll be shorter, but it'll be there," she states with a satisfied smile.
"I can't wait to read it. I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you, Edward. How's filming going?"
"Better now the clueless sod has gotten over his tantrum."
She glares at me through the screen. "Don't put yourself down like that."
"I'm just calling it as it is. You have all your ducks in a row. You're functioning. And here I was not even knowing where my fucking ducks were or that I was supposed to have any."
"It's an adjustment—"
I cut her off. "And I was clearly unprepared for it. Whereas you …"
She averts her gaze, too intent on petting the feline fiend to protest my interruption. "B?"
She finally deposits MB somewhere off-screen and looks back at me with a vaguely chastised expression. "What makes you think I had all my ducks in a row?"
I sigh, frustrated. "Well, you didn't get called out on your shit by your furious director in the first week of filming. I did. You didn't look or sound on the verge of a nervous breakdown every time we talked. I did. You always looked dead on your feet but happy. I almost …" I can't bear the thought of even finishing that sentence.
"You almost what, baby?"
"I almost thought you were better off out there doing your own thing. Without me."
My confession tumbles out in a strangled whisper. A reluctant ocean of guilt oozes into every syllable.
"Edward. My Edward …" She sighs, touching her fingers to the screen. "At times like these, I'm cursing technology to the fiery pits of Hades."
"Why?
"Because if I could hold you and kiss you, it'd be a faster and more effective explainer. But we'll make do."
I miss her. I physically ache for her. "Put those on my tab. You'll collect in person."
"You can bet your sexy ass I will."
"But I still want my explainer."
She sighs before answering. "Do you think it's any easier for me? Without you? It's not. I miss the fuck out of you, Cullen. I miss the piles of your clothes strewn over our bedroom. I miss seeing your toothbrush next to mine. I miss that you're the first and last thing I see every day. I've never been that girl. I've never pined. But for you, I do."
Her confession floors me. "So where does the appearance of a functioning human come from? Because last week, I was useless."
"I talked to Rose before coming here. And Em, too. They've had to deal with living half a world apart for years and yet behave like functioning adults most of the time."
"For Emmett, that's debatable." I can't resist a crack at his expense, but I'm starting to see where she's going with this.
"True. But still. They told me essentially the same thing."
"Which was?"
"Their solution was the 'Triple C'."
"Explain, please, before my brain thinks this is Em's brand of humour talking."
"Compartmentalize, Communicate, and Cherish."
I let the words sink in. She nailed it. And though I waxed poetic that we'd get through this before she left, I still went into this flying blind headlong into the night. And ended up landing on my arse. She prepared for this.
"Were you trying to spare my feelings last week when you looked happy all the time? Communicate, please."
She winks; batting away MB's ever-present twirling tail. "Yes and no. I was happy to talk to you, but letting you see me unravel would have been unhelpful."
And I bet she had her meltdown in private when I couldn't see her. Couldn't hold her. Couldn't comfort her.
"I want to hold you so badly right now …"
"My Edward …"
"My Bella …"
"Five minutes, Edward!" Seth suddenly bellows from outside the trailer.
"I know, I know. You gotta go."
I nod. "Reluctantly. I do love you, B."
"As I do you. Go get 'em, Cullen."
"Yes, ma'am," I salute, touching my fingers to the screen as she disconnects the call.
Back to the grind. With a plan, this time.
###BCG###
The next day, in keeping with my new "Triple C" mantra, I enlist Seth's help for the "Cherish" portion.
We're sitting in my trailer, going over my schedule for the next few months—filming, press commitments, interviews, the works. The schedule's full—what else is new?—but there's some wiggle room here and there, and I recognise Bella's (or Seth's?) capable hand at time management.
"This is good work, Seth. Thank you for not packing the calendar up to the rafters."
"Well, I've learned to plan for contingencies. And Bella taught me well."
I nod, acknowledging his praise for my girl and his undeniable expertise on the job. "Anything else business-related?"
He shakes his head, throwing a sidelong glance to his BlackBerry. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Scripts. Angela sent a bunch of them through for you to look at. How do you want to go about it?"
"Bella usually gave me notes on those. Could you do the same please?"
He nods again, scribbling a reminder on his notepad. "I'll get you notes by the end of the day. Angela needs an answer by next week, so …"
"I can't sleep on them, got it. Would you forward those with your notes to Bella when you're done? Check with Angela for confidentiality first."
He scribbles more notes, and then nods. "There shouldn't be any issues. Ang herself told me to make copies for Bella if we needed."
"Good, good. Now, I need your help on something more personal. Any problem with that?"
Minute headshake. "How can I help?"
"I need you to call Emmett and find out a) if he knows the exact mailing address for that country house Bella's staying at, and b) the name of the florist he uses in L.A."
Seth's puzzled face stopped me in my tracks. "You don't know the exact address for Moor Lodge? And we can't ask her directly?"
The exasperated wave of my hands precedes my answer. "Bah, it's somewhere in the moors of Devonshire. And I can't ask her because it's a surprise. Got it? So if you happen to speak to her, please don't blab."
"Surprise. Secret. Got it." More scribbling.
"When you have those two addresses, please arrange for flowers to be delivered to her every other day. Nothing over the top. No roses—she hates them. Preferably purple or thereabouts."
"Perfect. You're going all out. I'm impressed. You need cards for those?"
"Just write "Triple C, Edward". She'll get it."
###BCG###
A week later, during a break in filming, I pick up a call on my BlackBerry without even looking at the caller ID—half-hoping and half-believing it might be Bella, who I haven't talked to in about twenty-four hours.
"So you still pick up the phone. Good to know."
Only one person in the world would start a call like that without a greeting.
"Ang. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"A little less pleasure and a little more action, Wonder Boy."
Angela quoting Elvis throws me a little off kilter—all right, a lot. "Uh?"
"I'll spell that out. You've been sitting on my scripts for a week. Hasn't Seth reminded you of the deadlines?"
He has. Repeatedly. "He's been on top of it. It's just …"
"You can't decide? They're all good, but if you want my preferences …"
Before answering, I throw a wary glance around. This isn't a personal call, but I'd still rather avoid eavesdroppers on business matters. I drop half-dead on the nearest chair and run a frustrated hand through my hair. "I've kept Seth waiting on those because I need to talk to Bella about them first."
"Well, didn't Seth give you notes about those like you asked? Like Bella used to do? Are the notes no good?"
Cue the groan. "No, Ang. It's not that. Seth's notes were excellent, and I told him as much. But I'm committed to Bella, not to Seth. Where and when that shit is filming affects our life. I don't want to sign on to projects without knowing if they mesh with her schedule or not. And that's my final word about it."
Angela falls silent at the other end of the line. Score for Cullen—I got the invincible Miss Weber speechless again.
"That actually makes sense. Fine. Talk to Swan. But don't tarry."
And the line goes dead.
###BCG###
"So, my agent told me we need to talk about scripts," Bella announces hours later during our nightly FaceTime chat.
"Please tell me she didn't nag you to death about it."
Angela may need answers, but all in good time. Bella and I sharing an agent, has both upsides and downsides. They both boil down to the fact that said agent is Angela.
"Nah. She just dropped a line in passing while she doled out details about book tours and press releases. I told her I'd discuss it with you whenever you were ready. Are you?"
I smile at her through the screen. She's having Nutella by the spoonful and a stringy ribbon of gooey chocolate just landed on her nose. She licks at it with her tongue, and now I want to walk through the screen and lick it off for her.
"Edward? Did you hear what I just said? You look a tad dazed."
"And confused." I shake my head to dispel my naughty thoughts.
"What's wrong?" she asks, abandoning her jar of hazelnut goodness, looking concerned.
"Nothing per se, love. I just miss you."
She blows me a kiss through the screen. "I miss you, too. Thank you for the flowers, by the way. They're lovely. MB had a tussle with a nosegay of purple irises. The irises lost."
I crack up. That cat. He's always up to no good. "I'll send more."
"You don't need to," she protests, even though her shy smile says otherwise. The bill with Emmett's swanky florist in Brentwood is racking up zeros like there's no tomorrow, but it's all worth it. She's all worth it.
"I want to. Now, those scripts."
She drops the phone and shouts from off screen, "Hold on, let me get Seth's notes." She quickly reappears, armed with an email printout. "The notes are really good. Seth's working out well then, isn't he?"
I smile at her again. "He is. And I was a wanker for not believing he'd be a good fit. But in my defence, he's not you. But anyway …"
"Right, scripts. Any preferences, Cullen?"
I grab my own copy of Seth's notes and the scripts. "I like the rom-com. It's smart and sassy, and frankly, I haven't done one yet. I'd like to do a movie where my character is alive by the time the end credits scroll past. And I like the action thriller. Em will be happy. Tons of stunt work to train me for."
"Not the indie fantasy horror? What is that even supposed to mean, anyway?"
It's a positively weird script. "That's the entire point. The story is a full-blown mindfuck, and that intrigues me to no end, but it films late next year so there's still time. And Riley was talking about his next project. I want to know what it is before I commit to too much other stuff. I like working with him."
"So, rom-com and action thriller for now? You're branching out."
I shrug. "No typecasting, remember? Plus, there's a precise reason I chose those. Principal photography is mostly in L.A. Not in some remote jungle of Papua New Guinea."
"Edward Anthony Cullen, please don't tell me you've been choosing scripts only based on filming location and how long and far away from home they'd take you. Please."
She sees through me. "Love, my schedule affects us both. Your schedule affects us both. I don't know what yours will look like in six months; do you? Hell, your professional life is about to be put into a blender at full power for the next six months, for all we know. If I can do something to cut down the time we have to spend apart, I'll do it."
She sighs, batting MB's tail away. "It's supposed to be a private conversation, you insolent cat." Great. Now she talks to the damn guy, too. "Sorry about that. Thank you for explaining, Edward. I just didn't want you to feel in any way constrained in your choices because of what I'm doing."
"That's exactly the thing. You shouldn't feel constrained in your choices either, but we're committed to each other. I want to make a life with you. I don't want our house to be a temporary home base in between jaunts to this or that set on another continent. I want it to be our home. Our. Home. You and me. Together."
"We're doing this, then. Long haul?" she asks again. It's a rhetorical question as far as I'm concerned.
"Bella, there was never any other option for me. You and me, long haul."
"I love you, EC."
"As I do you, Bella. And don't you forget that."
###BCG###
As late March bleeds into April, and April starts bleeding into May, Bella and I have the entire "Triple C" routine down to a science.
I send flowers. She sends cookies, overnighted. I send pictures of Riley and me goofing off in between takes. She sends videos of Merlin Britannicus howling at the Admiral, refusing to vacate the Admiral's favourite armchair.
We've agreed not to lock ourselves up inside our respective temporary residences. So every now and then, we do go out. Separately, of course. Rosalie spent a weekend at Moor Lodge with Bella that involved a respectable quantity of margaritas. The pictures were hysterical, and so was Bella's drunk dialling. Riley and I go out for dinner or drinks with the rest of the crew and Seth tagging along. Cue the pics in gossip rags. Cue another hysterical phone call with Bella, which we spend analysing every single thing the tabloids got wrong.
Bella's editing work is keeping her busy at all hours of the day, and the isolation helps her concentrate, but equally gets on her nerves at times. The Admiral looks in on her once a week but hasn't been overbearing so far.
Which brings me to my present conundrum. Bella's birthday is in two weeks, and I'll be damned if I let her spend it doing gruelling work in a remote country house in Devonshire by herself with an opinionated cat as her only companion. She's not big on celebrations since she hates being the centre of attention. But appearing at her—the Admiral's—doorstep to give her a party for two isn't a big celebration.
And dammit, I've missed her. I miss her. Every minute of every day.
I'm dealing with my pathetic arse as best I can. Said pathetic arse manages to compartmentalise as long as I'm on a soundstage and all my angst and longing is locked away from "action" to "wrap." I communicate with her tens, hundreds of times a day. I cherish her from another fucking continent. As best I can.
But I still miss her. My yearning for her tugs at me like the pain from a phantom limb somehow excised out of my heart and soul. I need her. I keep waking up in the morning hoping to turn and see her face next to mine in bed, rumpled and sleepy. And fuck, I want her. The naughty pics she sends—which I reciprocate—and our embarrassed attempts at cybersex just don't cut it.
So I plan.
First, I need to find a way to get to Moor Lodge that doesn't involve telling Bella, or the Admiral throwing me into an untimely, watery grave. I also need to know where exactly Moor Lodge is—hell, I know where it is, but again, details escape me. Seth has sole custody of the never-ending Rolodex. I may have to talk to the Admiral. Cut the middleman.
Then, I need a three or four-day break in filming with Riley's blessing. In a movie where I'm in every other scene, taking me out of the picture for that long without a schedule and budget nightmare is almost a statistical impossibility.
Which is why I'm knocking on the door to Riley's makeshift office—read: trailer—at an ungodly hour of the morning.
He opens the door with bleary eyes, wielding a steaming coffee cup, and still clad in his pyjamas and a bathrobe. "Cullen? Anything wrong?"
"Can I come in?"
He shakes his head minutely. "I mean yes, sure. Sorry, still asleep." He ushers me in and closes the door behind us.
"Spit it out, Cullen. I'm sleep-deprived and not nearly caffeinated enough yet, but I can tell this isn't a social call."
"Bella. Her birthday's coming up, and I need …" I blow out a breath. "Is there any way …? Fuck, I don't even know what I want to say."
He plops on a chair in a heap of plaid fleece and red terrycloth, nursing the coffee cup as if it were the Holy Grail. He takes a few sips while I stew in my misery and try to find more coherent words—if I can.
"She's holed up in that country house her father has in England. Alone. I can't let her spend her birthday alone, Ri. And I fucking miss her. There, I've said it."
He nods in between pensive, assessing looks at my sorry arse. "Go on."
"If at all possible, is there any way that's remotely feasible for me to take a break and go see her for a day or two?"
His nose disappears into the coffee mug. A coffee mug that, I might add, sports a rather whimsical portrayal of Big Bird. With glitter. It's hard to stay serious when you're staring at a big, yellow, fuzzy bird whose beak morphs into your director's mouth.
"Don't judge the mug. Present from my sister."
I raise an eyebrow at him and continue my spiel. "I won't take any breaks after that. Not one day until we're done filming."
"Well, when is Bella's birthday exactly?"
"May thirteenth."
He nods again, sipping more coffee from the Big Bird mug of magic, which appears never to deplete. "It's a what, ten-hour flight? Longer? You'd need what, three-four days? Five?"
I finally sigh in relief. He's not cursing me out. And he's asking questions with a logistics-oriented slant. Which means he might be considering it. Might.
"I can work with four."
"Let me think about it for a day. I need to put a production assistant on it and play Tetris with our filming schedule. If I let you do this, and I'm saying if, no break after that. None whatsoever. We'd have two weeks left, plus any pick-ups. I need those to be full steam ahead. I don't want Sullen Cullen on the premises, you got me?"
Time for me to nod. "Thank you, Ri. This means a lot to me."
"Yeah, yeah. Piss off and let me shower. See you on set."
I get back to my own trailer with some pep in my step and use that stretch of time to place an important call.
"Talk to Dr Emmett, Eddie. How's the flower-buying spree going?"
My earlier jittery nerves dissipate thanks to Emmett's quip as I reluctantly admit to myself that I do miss the big lug. "That florist of yours was a godsend. Thank you, Em."
"I'm the best. You should know by now. What do you need?"
"What? Can't I call you just to chat?"
"If you had any intention of doing that, you wouldn't be calling me at stupid o'clock," he deadpans.
I'm that transparent, I guess.
"Fine. Question for you. Have you ever been to Moor Lodge?"
At the other end of the line, Emmett snorts so vehemently his spit take could have spritzed me through the phone. "To the lion's den? Hell, no. I have the address for emergencies, but that's it. Rosie's been there. Jasper, too."
"Fantastic. I'll call Jazz, then."
"Wait a minute. You can't drop a bomb like that, and then not tell me what you're up to, Wonder Boy."
Damn Angela and that nickname. "It's a surprise, Emmett. Please don't blab."
"I see how it is. Don't trust me with your secret, just pump me for information, and then dump me. I'm hurt," he counters with fake disdain dripping from every syllable.
"I want to surprise her for her birthday. There."
"Was that so difficult?"
I grunt in response to stop myself from insulting him.
"Great idea, by the way. And maybe tell the Admiral. Forewarned, forearmed. That kind of thing."
"Okay. Thanks, by the way," I echo as he disconnects the call, almost as abrupt as Angela.
###BCG###
After another gruelling day of filming, I'm sitting in my trailer, sipping a monumental amount of water and going through Bella's latest messages. There's a common thread emerging—she's still happy with her work, still fatigued yet still 100 percent engaged, still communicating, compartmentalizing, and cherishing from afar … but something's cracking at the seams.
Her characteristic sarcastic answers seem to be losing some of their bite. She'd normally go on good-natured but snarky tirades about MB's antics, but now, she's just sounding annoyed. The feline pounced on top of her desk, and a stack of edited pages flew off the table in a flurry of redlined pages. She ran after Merlin, shaking a belligerent broomstick at his wayward tail. As a rule, she'd shake her head, pick up the stranded papers, restack them, and then grab the cat and impart a fake-sounding lecture while cooing at him and petting his fuzzy tummy. Broomstick-wielding Bella is an entirely new development. She also apologised for not getting my weekly delivery of baked goods ready—too much work prevented her from going grocery shopping. At my concerned query about her eating habits if she had no fresh groceries in the house, she replied that the Admiral went himself and got her some staples, but she couldn't very well ask him to prowl the baking supplies aisle at ASDA. The man would have been quite out of his element.
I understand this kind of fatigue. A portion of her brain—the one that's still compartmentalising without fail—works just fine. But her heart and her emotions have ceased keeping up their side of the bargain. She misses me just as much and as deeply as I miss her. Virtual no longer cuts it. Only the real thing will do.
An imperious three-toned knock interrupts my musings. Before I can even breathe, "Come in," two figures crowd the tiny entryway of the trailer.
"Riley, just the man I wanted to see. Miss Chamberlain, this is quite the surprise."
Who knew Victoria "Red" Chamberlain kept in touch with Riley so closely?
"Mister Cullen … Edward, it's great to see you again. Forgive me for barging in like this."
"Not at all. I didn't know you had business in Vancouver or with our friend Riley here. How may I help you?"
She takes a seat, crossing her mile-long, pantsuit-clad legs, and depositing a pristine Hermès bag on the floor. Then she turns to face me with the kind of ultra-white, megawatt smile only Beverly Hills dentists can bestow.
"In fact, I may be able to help you, Edward."
My befuddled expression seems to divert both her and Riley, who speaks next. "Close that mouth, Cullen, or you'll start catching flies."
"Would the pair of you be so kind as to stop speaking in riddles? I'm coming out the wrong end of a fourteen-hour shoot, and at the moment, the only thing my brain can process is food, shower, and bed. In that order. You'll have to bear with me, I'm afraid."
I direct my tirade at Riley, hoping he'll take pity on me and explain why they're tag-teaming me. Ri throws a sidelong glance at Vic, who nods and sits back. To enjoy the show? Only time will tell.
"I checked with the PA and the EP—I didn't want him blindsided if we did make any changes to the schedule. As it turns out, the location we need for Irina's post-war scenes …"
"The ones she has to play alone in the asylum?"
"Post-war convalescence home, but yes. Where she serves as a nurse while your character is lost in a trench somewhere in Flanders. Point is, the location we're using had to reshuffle their calendar, too, and they'd only be available on the weekend of Bella's birthday. You would be standing there twiddling your thumbs anyway, so I went ahead and changed the schedule and arrangements accordingly …"
It takes a moment for my tired, fried brain to register what he's saying. But then it clicks.
"How long? How long to shoot those scenes, Ri?"
"Three, four days tops. We'd start on the Friday and go through end-of-day Monday. If you can find a way to get to Devonshire, you can have your four days off."
My fatigue dissipates like a blanket of fog in the sun. "Thank you, Ri. You have no idea what this means to me."
"Just come back and give it your all like you've done so far. I have a good feeling about this movie, my friend. Don't jinx it."
I reply with a serious nod. He has no contractual obligation to accommodate my request, and yet, he's gone above and beyond to do so. "I owe you one, Ri. I mean it."
"And I'll collect when you least expect it," he replies with a wink. If he asked me to parade outside Grauman's Theatre in my skivvies, I'd probably do it.
"Now, I have to find a discreet way of getting in and out of Devonshire without ending up on Twitter," I announce, already mentally predicting how much of a logistics headache I'll be giving Seth with these travel arrangements.
"As a matter of fact, Edward, I might be able to help with that."
"Huh?" This lady has a way of rendering me dumbfounded at every turn.
"I happened to overhear your plight while Riley tried to rearrange the filming schedule, and, well, I've been working closely with Bella. She needs a break, and I'm willing to lend a hand to make that happen."
I amend dumbfounded to beyond grateful. "Thank you, Vic, but how?"
"I need to be in England on that weekend myself for a family commitment I won't bore you with. But, as it happens, I'll be back in Vancouver again Thursday next week and fly out to England on the Friday. That Friday. Since my father wanted to make sure I'd attend his stupid garden party, he's sending his jet to Vancouver to collect me. I'm pretty sure I can take another passenger, if you want."
It would solve a lot of problems in terms of press exposure and minimising my public presence. If we leave from a small executive airport in a private plane, the paparazzi are a lot less likely to catch wind of our departure and give away my surprise for Bella, or worse, arouse her suspicions as to why I'm traipsing around airports when I'm supposed to be filming.
Normally, I keep her abreast of my movements, but I can't very well tell her "oh, I'm flying to England on the sly to surprise you for your birthday." So not a surprise.
"If you have room for one wayward passenger, I'll be grateful and take you up on the offer, Vic. Where would you be landing? I can make my own way to Moor Lodge from there."
Vic flicks her hair over her shoulder and flashes me another of her disarming smiles. "See, that's the thing. My dad's family seat is near Exeter, so the jet filed a flight plan from Vancouver into Exeter Airport. Would that suit?"
I bark out a liberating laugh. "That would more than suit, Vic. That would be brilliant. I'll get Seth to reserve a hired car and book me a flight back into Vancouver."
With an animated gesture of her hands, Vic interrupts me. "Oh, no! It won't be necessary. I have to be back in Vancouver myself on Monday, so we can fly back together on the jet. Might as well maximise that jet fuel, right?"
Back to Vancouver after the weekend, huh? Curiouser and curiouser. "I had no idea you had so much business in Vancouver, but again, I'll take you up on it with my thanks."
"And Bella's, I hope!" interjects Riley, whose ribald laughter subsides after I throw him a withering look. I'm thankful all right, but still quite uninclined to hear that kind of talk about Bella. I hardly tolerate it from her brother, let alone my director. Even if he's a friend, to whom I am mightily indebted at the moment.
Victoria, I notice, entirely sidestepped my comment about her business in Vancouver, but exchanged a meaningful look with Ri just before he blurted out his comment about Bella. A well-timed attempt at deflection? Possibly. I'll keep an eye on those two.
"I'll pass the details on to Seth, right?" Vic says.
"That'd be great, thanks. You know how to contact him?"
She waves a dismissive hand in my direction. "Ang knows, I bet. And don't worry, not a word will reach Bella."
"We'll let you be now that we've sorted you out, Cullen," Ri adds as he stands and walks back to the door.
Moor Lodge, here I come.
Oh, shite. I have to call the Admiral.
Our AwkWard can be resourceful when he has the right motivation. And you may have noticed that Bella's birthday in this story is non-canon. She stole it from ... someone. Care to guess who?
Next week, we're all taking a trip to Moor Lodge.
Let me know what you think, here on in the FB group: LaMomo's Lair (type the name in the FB search bar to find it).