Part One
Ewan
God, I was exhausted. 12 hours of travelling, and for what? A crappy hotel with all the usual commodities of crappy hotels - over-priced mini-bars, a lumpy bed that poked up in all the worst places, and a shower which looked like it hadn't been cleaned properly in the best part of a year. Sighing, I stripped off and climbed gingerly into the shower, trying not to touch anything. The warm spray cascaded onto my head, and I tried to drown my thoughts in lemon-scented bubbles. I missed Eve, and I missed home. What with all the travelling this job entails, it would be expected that separation would get easier with time, but, fuck it, if anything, it gets harder. Every film script that comes through the door, I know that if I accept it, it'll mean minimum 6 months away from the people I love, and that hurts. No, 'hurts' isn't the right word. It cuts through to your soul, and you're racked with a mixture of guilt and duty – guilt for once again leaving those who own a piece of your heart, and a sense of duty because I have to do something, and if it wasn't acting, it would just be some dead-end job that I would think of as torture and detest every second I spent there. A severe case of can't live with it, can't live without it.
Drying myself roughly with a fluffy towel, I wrapped another one round my waist and padded out into the hallway. Filming didn't start till the next day, so I had 5 hours, plus sleeping time, to acquaint myself with Oz. Turning around, I noticed a piece of paper had been shoved under the door. First of all, I panicked – images of death threats, psychotic fans, and such like flashed through my head… no, no one knew I was here, other than the production team. Curiously, I picked up the paper and unfolded it. "CURT WILD LIVE ON STAGE TONIGHT!" then scrawled underneath: "Hi Ewan, thought you might be bored tonight, so, here's some light entertainment. Baz" Ah, always Mr Thoughtful, Baz had taken the care to find something for me to do, involving my love of music. I wrinkled my nose… Not really my kind of music, though. I vaguely remembered Curt Wild from years ago – I had been too young to take part, yet was now old enough to remember. He was a glam rocker, and at one point the press had been filled with stories of his wild romance with fellow glitter-boy, Brian Slade. I had always been slightly dismissive of any musicians who let their personal life interfere with their career, and Curt Wild had certainly done that – his relationship with Slade ended up costing him his record contract, and effectively, his career, at least for most of a decade.
Glam had never appealed to me anyway, there was no angst or real meaning behind the lyrics, and it was too ponced up, too image-focused, for me, but I had nothing else lined up for that night, so I decided to give the concert a whirl. If I hated it, I could always leave, and what could be the worst thing that happened? Have a few beers and dig up some old memories, and what's so bad about that?