Dazzled (8 page)

“Come on, Miles! Keep going! Push it, baby! Push it!” Hilda, the Soviet Nazi fitness fascist, was in cheerleading mode today.
It was so fucking irritating
.

I almost expected her to yell, ‘Feel the burn!’ but that wasn’t part of her motivational speech, apparently.

Sweat was pouring off me and I was red in the face, every muscle glowing with effort. But I also felt stronger and I liked the leaner, harder look that was beginning to develop. I still needed to go further. What was it they said, the camera added 20 pounds? Pity it wasn’t going to be 20 pounds of muscle.

After another hour of encouraging, cajoling, mocking, jeering and bullying, Hilda called a halt.

“You’re getting there, Miles. We’ll make an athlete out of you yet!”

Yeah, right
.

“You’re gonna look great, baby. You got my gold seal promise on that.” She paused. “So, you got plans for tonight? I thought we could maybe catch a few veggie juices. Whaddya say?”

Veggie juices?! Seriously?

“Er, thanks, Hilda, but my friend just flew in from
England and I promised I’d take her around and show her the sights.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Well, she’s a girl and she’s a friend, but… no, not a girlfriend.”

“You can ditch her for one evening.”

It dawned on me that Hilda was making a pass at me. How the hell was I going to get out of this one without the Soviet Nazi in her having a meltdown?

“No, sorry. I promised. Like I said.”

“Raincheck?”

“Sure.” I agreed, even though I had no intention of following through. I had two more weeks of pre-prod, so only two more weeks of Hilda’s nagging. If I lasted that long.

I jogged slowly back to the apartment. Clare was still asleep so I took my time showering. I was just drying off when she banged on the bathroom door.

“Miles! Hurry up! I need to have a pee!”

“Okay, okay,” I grumbled. “Keep your hair on.”

I stumbled out of the bathroom as she pushed past me and slammed the door. Charming.

Rummaging through the closet I found some jeans and t-shirts, all clean and folded up. God, I loved this. The apartment came with a housekeeper who did all the laundry. It was going to be hard going back to the squalor of my flat in Euston with Jim the Unwashed when this ended. I didn’t even have to do grocery shopping here – everything was taken care of. I knew there was a price, but right there and then, I didn’t care.

I heard the toilet flush and a grumpy-looking Clare shuffled back out into the main room, her hair a lopsided bird’s nest.

“God, I’m starving. I don’t know if I want breakfast or chocolate – my body clock is all over the place.”

“It’ll wear off in a few days,” I offered.

“Huh, listen to you. Suddenly you’re Mr. Jet Set.”

I frowned, annoyed.
What was eating her?

My phone rang, saving me from saying something I might later regret when used in evidence against me. There was nothing wrong with Clare’s memory – only her temper.

The caller ID showed Rhonda’s name.

“Hey, Miles! How’s the diet going?”

God! Was
everyone
on my case about this?

“’S’okay. What’s up, Rhonda?”

“I’ve organized a driving lesson for you at 1
PM
and then at 2
PM
you’ve got media training with Gayl Lemon.”

“Media what?”

“Miles, you’ve gotta know how to talk to the Press, how to do interviews. I mean, face it, right now you only open your mouth to change feet. You make the studio guys nervous. Gayl will help you with all the usual stuff.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll see. And after you’ll be seeing Natalia Da Silva.”

“Who?”

“Keep up, Miles – your stylist.”

“Er, but I already got a suit and…”

“Jeez! Your whole wardrobe looks like it came from a disaster movie! You need to look good
every
time you leave your goddamn front door. I’ve
explained
this to you.”

“Er…”

“The driving instructor will drop you at Gayl’s offices and
then
I’ll send the car to take you on to Da Silva. Capiche?”

It was easier to agree.

“Yeah, sure, Rhonda.”

“Ciao.”

And she was gone.

I stared sourly at the phone.

“What was all that about?”

I sighed. “We won’t be able to go to the beach this afternoon. I’ve got a driving lesson and media training. Apparently the studio bosses don’t think I’m competent to speak for myself.”

Clare looked at me evenly. “They’ve got a point, Miles. It’s not really your thing, is it, talking off the cuff? You know what Americans are like – they’re so literal and you’re so weird… I mean, it could be useful. You should be more open-minded.”

“Bloody hell. If I was any more open-minded my brains would fall out,” I muttered, so she couldn’t quite hear.

Her words had cut me, but I knew she was right. I thought back to the woman on the plane – I’d managed to offend her in one short sentence.

I really couldn’t wait for the production to get under way then all this shit would end. I just wanted to
work
.

“So,” said Clare, “can I come with you? I don’t want to hang around here by myself. And if I’m going to be your assistant,” she laughed, “I need to know this stuff.”

“Fine. Fine. Come. Why not,” I snapped, annoyed that it was just a good laugh to her.

She looked surprised. “What’s your problem?”

I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. “It’s just…”

“What? Tell me?”

“They hired me to do a job and they want to… change everything about me. They’re even sending me to a bloody
stylist
to tell me what clothes to wear. I feel like I’ll forget who I am.”

“Oh, please! As if.”

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t see how hard it was when pieces of me were being chipped away: the way I spoke, the way I smiled, my hair color, the shape of my body – all changed, or being changed. I felt like I was being swallowed up by the studio machine. It made me anxious. But Clare thought I was being a diva – I could see it written all over her face. I was beginning to regret asking her to come out here.

In silence, I fried a couple of eggs and toasted some bread for an egg sandwich. For her. Not me. Obviously.

“Do you want ketchup with it?”

“No, thanks. Just as it comes. Aren’t you having one? I thought you’d be starving after all that gym rubbish.”

My temper exploded. “I know this is all a big fucking joke to you but I’m the one who’s… who’s got to go out there and put myself on the line. Everyone’s telling me I’m too fat, too ugly, too stupid, too badly dressed – and… and there’s all this pressure… and now my best friend is just pissing her pants laughing at me!”

I was staring at her, panting, my hands clenched into fists. I couldn’t look at her shocked expression, so I shoved the plate at her and stormed off into my bedroom, slamming the door. I felt as if I’d reverted to being 12 years old and arguing with my mum about playing my music too loud. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, letting the fury pulse through me.

I ignored her tentative knock, but she opened the door anyway. How very Clare.

“I’m sorry, Miles. I was just trying to… be funny. You know, make light of things. I’m sorry if I made it sound like I don’t care. I do. You know I do.”

Clare

I wound my arms around his waist and rested my head on his back. I’d never seen Miles so tense – it wasn’t like him to lose his temper. And he’d never shouted at me before. Never.

He was holding himself tightly, as if he was afraid he’d explode again. I could feel the tension radiating out through his rigid muscles.
Shit! He was really losing it!

“I’m sorry, okay?”
Please tell me you’re not mad. Please!

He turned around and kissed my forehead.

“I’m sorry I yelled. It’s just…”

He let out a long breath and rubbed my arms gently.

“It’s okay,” I said, quietly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Below us, a car horn honked. Miles threw an irritated look over his shoulder.

“Oh, crap! My driving lesson – I’d forgotten. Sorry, I’ve got to go. Do you still want to go to this media training thing later?” he asked, looking harassed.

“Yeah, should be a laugh.”

He flashed me a grateful smile, and then he was off. I could hear him running, taking the stairs three at a time. He sketched a wave and I watched through the window as he had a short conversation with the instructor. A tall, glamorous looking blonde woman.

Bloody hell: wasn’t there anyone out here who didn’t look like a film star? And then suddenly a light went on in my head – I got what Miles had been trying to tell me: everyone out here was judged on their looks. HD TVs were the new high court and the jury was still out. Every wrinkle, every spot, freckle and mole, highlighted for everyone to see. Yeah, I sort of got how Miles must be feeling. Sort of. But he was right – I had no clue how it must feel to stand in front of a film camera, every blemish recorded for posterity.

I really wanted to rewind this morning, press the delete button and start again. I’d go right back to the moment that Miles came out of the shower with just a small towel wrapped around his waist. I mean, wow! I’d seen Miles without his shirt on before – wandering around the flat, playing football in the park, the summer we went to the beach at Brighton – but I’d never seen him look so well muscled. Did I mention wow? The Nazi Soviet personal trainer must really know her stuff. Bitch.

But after the ogling, I really hadn’t meant to wind him up. I just wanted to make light of it all. Well, that backfired – big time. Worse still, he thought I was being insensitive. As if he wasn’t at the forefront of my mind almost every waking minute, to the point where I disgusted myself.

I spent the next hour wandering around the apartment, unpacking my case and dressing with more care than usual. I put on my best jeans, the ones I usually saved for dates – which meant they’d only been worn once – plus a new t-shirt that was slightly more girly than usual. I wondered if mascara was appropriate for media training and figured in for a penny, in for a pound. It felt weird wearing makeup in the daytime.

By the time Miles returned, I was feeling as tense as he looked, but I tried very hard to act chilled. I ran down and jumped into the back of the car. Thankfully, Miles wasn’t driving.

“How was the lesson?”

“Okay, I guess. I’ve done nearly all the practice hours and I’ve watched Drivers’ Ed videos and that. The learner’s permit should be here any day.” He sighed. “It’s pretty easy driving out here, I think. Compared to
London anyway.”

The instructor raised a plucked eyebrow and glared at me in the rear view mirror.

I didn’t know what to say to that, having never bothered about driving. Even if I bought a car for a few hundred quid, I couldn’t possibly afford the insurance.

The driving instructor smiled insincerely and dropped us at the offices of Lemon Inc. Time to find out what media training was all about.