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Displace: to disrupt, upset, or disturb the order of something by removal from
it's usual or correct place.
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Of all the places Troy has been in his life, a movie set in London is by far the most jarring.
He's been on the stage before. Stages, to be accurate. But the here and now is so far and away from the Berkley Theater Department it may as well have been Jupiter.
A cold chill races up Troy's spine at the same time the whispers reach his ears. Not that its something he hasn't been subject to before. He's Troy Bolton. The gossip mongers have been on his tail for as long as he can remember.
That doesn't make it any easier though.
The impulse to run, as far and fast as his legs can carry him, hits so he turns. He's prepared to leave without a backwards glance. But he stops short when he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and huge sunglasses walking in the stage door. Sharpay would never let him live down walking out of this movie. He knows that as well as he knows his own name.
"There you are." Joyce. Of course. "Its about time you got here. The read through is just about to start. Hope you came prepared to work."
If work constitutes doing the best he can all the while staying out of Sharpay's way…then yes. Otherwise he's not so sure.
"You bet." He says instead. He's not stupid enough to tell his publicist the truth.
His reward is a big, bright smile and a tight hand on his wrist. "Good boy."
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Three hours later, Joyce and Sharpay have gotten into exactly eleven arguments-three of which had to be broken up by crew members out of fear that physical violence would break out. And they haven't even made it to the actual filming yet.
"Something tells me this is going to be a long summer," Shelly whispers when she hands him the aspirin he has a feeling is going to be a necessity to get through the next three months.
Rex, the guy playing Sharpay's dad in the movie sits to Troy's right. He's worked with her before and takes in the scene around him with the bemused smile of someone well accustomed to diva moments. "Is she always like this?" Troy asks.
Rex's hand clamps down on his shoulder, a fatherly gesture that Troy at once appreciates and resents. "I've seen a few similar scenes," he confesses. "But nothing quite like this. She must be upset about something more than she's letting on."
'Great,' he thinks. So this is about him. A blind man would have been able to see the anger in Sharpay's eyes back during their first meeting in LA, but he thought she would at least attempt to be professional about it.
"No worries, kid," Rex booms in his deep voice, "this time next week, she'll be nothing but a consummate professional."
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Rex, it turns out, is wrong.
The longer filming goes on, the more temperamental and difficult Sharpay gets. And as he suspected was going to be the case, Troy is more often than not on the receiving end of her wrath.
"Is it humanly possible for you to hit your mark?" she demands about three weeks in, hands on her hips and that trademark mean girl glare in her eyes.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair (sure to give Wendy the hairdresser fits). "I'm trying here."
"Well try harder." And she flounces out of the room, heels of her costume heels clacking loudly in her wake.
The prop chair is the perfect place to collapse and drop his head into his hands. He's not sure how much more of this he can take. It seems as if everything he's doing is wrong-at least to Sharpay who has no qualms whatsoever about letting him know her opinion.
The one solace he has in the whole situation is that Joyce has flown back to the states, eager to capitalize on the movie and launch the elaborate publicity strategy she's had planned probably before he ever saw the script in the first place.
The director gives him a sympathetic look. He's as tired of all this as Troy is. Everyone on set is, but there's a lot to be gained just by having Sharpay's name attached to this project. She can guarantee a smash opening weekend simply by being involved. There just happens to be nothing more to be done at this point than to try and do the best job they can and attempt to do it without letting her get to them.
Easier said than done it turns out.
When Sharpay rolls her eyes the next day at his flubbing his lines, Troy snaps.
"I don't know what your problem is," he tells her, face lowered down to hers so that they were almost nose to nose. "But I'm here, Sharpay, and you can throw all the little snits you want-it won't change things."
Which is much, much nicer than what he wants to say. That's Troy finally decides to follow Sharpay's lead and storm off the set.
…0…
There's a gym on the top floor of his hotel. State of the art everything and a spa right next door. Troy spends three hours shooting hoops before his leg begins to scream in protest. Defeated and still boiling, he decides to try out the pool.
The cool water seems to do the trick, and he glides through the Tiffany blue water feeling like the anger is slipping off his shoulders and down into the filter below.
Then of course he emerges to see Sharpay at the water's edge, annoyed stare fixed on him.
"Troy Bolton's first diva moment, and I was there to see it," she says. "Am I a lucky girl or what?" She situates herself at one of the small tables littered around. Her hair is pulled back off her face and the thick pancake makeup applied to her skin that morning has been scrubbed away. He can see her, just her, for the first time since this whole mess began and she looks like the girl he grew up with before the attitude really began to set in.
"What do you want, Sharpay?"
There's anger in his voice still, or maybe again at seeing her there, but she doesn't seem surprised by it. In fact, she sort of looks like she expects it.
Crossing her ankles, she leans back in her little iron chair and schools her features. "Why don't you come out of there and I'll tell you."
He does as she asks, and feels rather proud of himself for not mentioning the way Sharpay's eyes avert from him until he puts his robe on.
"Troy," she begins with her gaze leveled on the London skyline around them, "I'm…sorry."
He laughs., he can't not at the sour look on her face uttering the apology. She frowns, and he laughs harder.
"Can you be serious please?"
Calm now, he sits back against the chair back to let her finish what she came to say.
"I've been taking a lot of things out on you, Troy, and it's not fair. My life lately…honestly, has not been all that great and then you show up."
Well, that's an interesting turn of events.
"I wasn't prepared to see you again and I haven't been handling it well. So…yeah."
Troy smiles, knowing that she may blow up at him again or throw some close handed object at his head. Sharpay doesn't in fact hate him and the realization washes over him like an enormous wave of relief with enough force to knock him flat. It hits him, sitting there looking at her, that this whole experience doesn't have to be the nightmare he's been anticipating.
"Thank, Sharpay. For coming here. You didn't have to." Presenting the words up like a peace offering is what he hopes is necessary for them to form some sort of truce. Both of their sanity relies on it at this point, of that he's fairly certain.
A small smirk curves her lips and her shoulders shrug. Looking like the devious teenager that pranced around him back in Albuquerque for the split second it takes for her to flip open her cell phone, Sharpay glances up at him through those thick eyelashes and his chest constricts. "Not a problem. It is about time we decide to grow up and get along after all."
There's a hypocrisy in that statement too staggering to mention. So he doesn't. His mother raised him to be more of a gentleman than that. If not, he's sure there would be no better therapy then telling her how much of a brat she still is even at 27.
"Tomorrow morning?" he asks.
She nods. "Bright and early."
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The next Saturday is Sharpay's 28th birthday and the studio throws her an enormous party. As her leading man du jour, he's obligated to attend.
"Tell her I said hello." Is what Zeke says when Troy mentions it. Chad isn't as congenial. To be precise, he warns Troy not to drink anything he doesn't see poured with his own eyes.
The guests are all mingling on the yacht where the party is taking place. They're to remained docked until Sharpay makes her grand appearance, and then take off for a three hour trip down the Thames.
Which is why he's planted himself at the bar in avoidance of the industry hordes that are flocking about.
When it's seven on the dot she finally emerges from the limo that pulls up. There's applause and Jack, the director, escorts her onto the boat. He claps politely-because it's polite-and goes back to his drink.
The word must have been put out that Troy's not in the mood for shoptalk tonight, because other than polite chit-chat over orders, the only talking he does is to Rex. The older man sits beside him, eyeing a few blondes decades his junior by the railing and cracking jokes to try and make Troy lighten up.
"You're gonna make yourself old before your time kid. Live a little."
One of the girls Rex has been sending drinks too steps away from the group and smiles at him seductively, tucking her hair behind her ear. Rolling his eyes, Troy points his drink in her direction and says, "Why don't you go live enough for the both of us."
"Suit yourself."
Then he's alone with his third Scotch of the night. He's not a fan of hard liquor, but this is Sharpay's party so there's nothing as gauche as beer to be found. It' will have to do until they dock and he's free to go back to his hotel room.
"I don't understand you, Bolton." Sharpay plops herself down next to him and a champagne almost magically appears in front of her. "You're in the greatest city on Earth, on a yacht, and you choose to sit here and mope."
"Greatest city on Earth? Wouldn't New York take offense to that?"
Then he looks at her, really looks at her, and it's all he can do to keep his jaw from dropping open. "Wow."
"You like?" she preens a little (even though she's sitting), and winks at him.
"That is…some dress," he said slowly.
"A woman's dress should be like a barbed wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view," she said offhandedly, "Sophia Loren said it and I could not agree more."
"Yeah."
She grins smugly, not even trying to hide it. There's a satisfaction in making Troy Bolton's eyes go wide that she's not even going to try to hide-not even from Troy himself. She knows she looks amazing, so why should she deny it?
He's still a little dumbstruck so she snaps her fingers in front of his face. "It's a dress, Bolton, not a championship ring."
"Uh, yeah." He shakes his head, willing the fog (alcohol, no doubt) in his head to clear. "You look nice."
"I gathered." There's that smugness again. He eyes slip down and she makes a 'tsk'ing sound. "I see you still haven't learned how to tie a tie properly.
"What?" He pulls it forward and adjusts in self-consciousness. "What's wrong with it?"
She heaves an exasperated sigh and takes hold of his tie. "Here." The attitude would make one think that it was a task of untold difficulty; that she was martyring herself by the simple action of twisting and tucking just so without strangling him.
That part may have been the most difficult. Or he could just be projecting his own nerves at having a piece of fabric wrapped around his throat with Sharpay Evans attached to the other end. When she's done, smoothing it down and fixing his collar, she tilts her head to appraise him properly. "Better."
"Thanks." He leans back and sniffs the air. There's something spicy yet floral in the air, something out of place for open air and water. "You smell that?"
A small wrist ends up under his nose. "Chanel #5. A woman wearing the wrong perfume has no future. Coco Chanel."
"How many of those do you have?" he asks, hoping she's distracted from the odd behavior he knows he's exhibiting.
"Dozens." she answers, tone just a fraction deeper, enough to make him feel it in his gut. It feels like a punch, and a direct hit at that. "Don't just sit here all night, Troy. Have fun."
He gives her a lopsided grin. Maybe if he acts like he's going to take her advice, she'll leave him alone. He's had a few drinks and they're starting to mess with his head.
Yeah, that's it.
"I'll try."
"Liar," she scoffs. "But it's my birthday so you have to do what I say. Get up. Mingle. Smile."
Some big name London actor with perfectly scripted time shows up and she's off without a spare look back at him. Not that that's…bad. Not at all. He's just a little less sure that he wants to be by himself than he thought. Just a little problem. Kind of the same way Mt. St. Helens was a little problem.
Typical Sharpay.
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