Temporarily blinded by the brutal glare of the morning sun after the dark of the warehouse, I stumbled over the lip of the door and plowed straight into Madison, who was standing on the small loading dock just outside. “Sorry!” I yelped. “Didn’t see the step down.”
Madison tittered and spun to face me, phone in hand. “Careful,” she teased. “People might say you’re drunk on set.”
Noticing the live stream icon in the corner of her screen, I forced an awkward laugh. Did this girl ever stop filming? At least I was camera ready today. “Sober as Sunday morning,” I quipped.
Of all the exits, why did she have to take up residence at this one? The side loading dock was tucked away from the hubbub of the craft services tents in the dusty parking lot on the other side of the building, shaded by big trees and overlooking a hill that rolled gently down to the rocky shore—a perfect place to take a break.
Madison’s eyes flitted back to the screen. “I’m getting so many questions from you guys right now, I can’t even keep up!” she exclaimed. “I’m gonna pick one at random. Here we go. Randy from Wisconsin asks ‘Stella, these days, do you shave your pussy—’ Randy! That is very randy of you.”
I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. A decade had passed; I shouldn’t still be bothered, but when your most embarrassing moment is splashed all over the internet and proceeds to ruin your career, it’s a little hard not to be. I didn’t actually remember the night in question, but I’d never be allowed to forget it. It wasn’t my fault, really. I’d been (what I didn’t know at the time was clinically) depressed and really fucked up—uppers and downers paired with booze, an ill-advised combination in any circumstance. I was at Rock & Roll Ralphs on Sunset replenishing my supply of gin and snacks at two in the morning when I apparently caught a woman taking pictures of me. I was blackout drunk, so I have no recollection of it, but the video shows me yelling and throwing pickle jars at her, wearing a sundress with no underwear. The nail in the coffin: in my despair, I hadn’t been taking care of my nether regions properly, hence Randy’s comment and my perpetual shame.
“Stella?” Madison asked expectantly. “What do you think?”
I blinked at her, realizing she’d continued to talk after I’d stopped listening. I had no idea what she wanted my opinion on, but I was beginning to feel claustrophobic, trapped beneath the crush of her 143,000 adoring fans, and I needed to get out of there. “Sorry,” I said as nicely as I could muster. “We’re about to roll. I’ve got to prepare.”
And with that I gratefully disappeared into the cavernous darkness of the studio. I hadn’t gotten to smoke a cigarette, but it was probably for the best. It was a filthy habit.
“Oh, there you are!”
I turned to see Taylor, headphones around her neck and script in hand. “I got caught out there in Madison’s live stream,” I explained.
“She’s live streaming here?” Taylor asked. She sounded as frustrated as I was by the whole thing.
I nodded and pointed to the door. “Out there.”
Taylor put the heels of her hands into her eyes, sighing. “Okay, thanks. I’ll deal with her. They’re ready for you on set. The photographer is going to shoot some stills of you guys before we roll.”
“Cool.” I skirted around a collection of flags and scrims to land at video village, where I found Jackson and Felicity in deep conversation, the script between them. I watched his gaze soften, his eyes trained on her as she looked down at the pages, searching for something. I smiled to myself. Didn’t look like they’d be needing my matchmaking services after all. The kids could evidently figure it out on their own.
Feeling my eyes on him, Jackson turned. “Felicity and I were just discussing a discovery she made about your character that I thought you might want to use.”
“Oh?”
“You inspired it, really,” Felicity rushed in, batting her long lashes. “I was thinking of what you’ve said about how stressful the limelight can be, and I realized that maybe Marguerite’s actually not terrified but thrilled by the idea of leaving it behind.”
“Of course she’s thrilled,” I snipped, annoyed. I saw Felicity’s face fall, but it wasn’t my job to coddle her. And clearly Jackson needed to be reminded that I was the lead actress here. “The spotlight eventually burns even the thickest skin. I of all people should know that.” Avoiding Felicity’s gaze, I shed my robe and draped it over the back of Jackson’s director’s chair, meeting his eyes with what I hoped was a convincing smile. “Ready when you are.”
Cole sat on the bed beneath the lights, studying his lines. “I’m gonna cut that last line about wanting to celebrate and just kiss you after you ask me whether I’m happy,” he said without looking up as I approached.
“You’re gonna cut what?” Jackson asked, overhearing.
The prop master signaled to me as Jackson and Cole once again locked horns, and I gladly stepped away from their argument, joining him in the doorway of what was supposed to be our bathroom. “This is the positive pregnancy test you’ll come out of the bathroom holding,” he said.
I palmed the pregnancy test and inspected it. It did indeed have two lines. “Who’s the lucky mother-to-be?” I joked.
He laughed as the sound guy approached with my mic. “You ready to get wired?” he asked.
“We’re gonna shoot pictures first, so let’s wait till after,” I said.
“Stella.” Jackson beckoned to me. I slipped the
