I wince. “I really am sorry. I didn’t realize there was just one bathroom and I was in there trying to disguise myself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, you didn’t do a very good job of it, now did you?”
I grin. She’s cute even when she’s mad at me.
This is not good. Not good at all. In fact, it’s really, really bad.
This whole actor-movie-star gig? It’s a sham. It’s a big fake personality that I put on while playing fake roles and fake pretending to be someone the fans want you to be while you’re on camera or signing autographs at some convention. It’s all just one be persona my manager and I concocted together when I got my first role. Was I going to be the womanizer bad boy actor or the charming America’s sweetheart?
I chose sexy but nice. And it’s not really me. It’s just my actor self. I mean, sure, I am a nice guy. Deep down, I’m friendly and trustworthy. But I’ve been pretending to be America’s sweetheart for so long that it’s kind of hard to remember who exactly I used to be.
There’s a dark side to this industry. Everyone knows about it and yet people keep flocking to it. Fame hurts people. Fame results in multiple broken marriages, drama plastered all over trashy magazines. Embarrassing candid photos from the paparazzi. I’m trying my best to avoid all of that, to work hard on screen but stay in the shadows off screen because I’m only here to earn enough money to make my mom set for life. And, if I’m being honest, I’d like to be set for life, too.
Once I’m rich enough to have both of us taken care of, I’ll leave Hollywood and move out to the middle of nowhere and life my life quietly and peacefully.
And until that happens, I can’t let myself develop a crush on some woman I’ll never see again once filming wraps. After all, it’s the number one rule of acting:
Never fall in love with your co-star.
CHAPTER7
Annie
I guess I’ve never really thought about it, but when you watch the credits at the end of a film, there are a ton of people’s names listed. There are also a ton of people here on set. People who aren’t actors, but the behind-the-scenes folks who keep the show running. Everything is a whirlwind of chaos—or at least it feels that way to me. I get the feeling that all the people going in all directions between scenes actually know what they’re doing. The chaos around me is orderly and everyone else understands it except for me.
Trevor and I talked a bit, but when he says he’s going to lead me to “craft services”, we get so tangled up in other people that the conversation naturally wanes. Eventually, he turns the corner and the crowds of people thin out. He opens his arms at a white temporary tent, the kind with plastic windows on the plastic walls, and says, “Ta-da! Craft services.”
I lift an eyebrow.
“It’s food,” he says with a big grin. This grin more charming than the grin he has in all those Google images I saw with Julie. It’s like he means it this time, and those other times were just for the cameras. “Craft services is the best part of being on a film set,” he says, walking toward the plastic door flap. “Unless you’re one of those women who refuse to eat?”
Briefly, I have a teensy thought that he’s making fun of my weight. I’m not a rail-thin woman like most of the actresses he’s probably used to working with. I have curves.
But he seems friendly, so maybe he’s not insinuating anything at all. Maybe he’s just used to actresses who don’t want to eat.
I shrug. “Depends on how good the food is.”
A young guy wearing black skinny jeans and a black T-shirt holds out his hand to stop us before we walk inside the tent.
“Actors only,” he says, looking at me with a polite, yet annoyed expression.
“She’s with me,” Trevor says.
“She’s an extra,” the guy says back without missing a beat. Something tells me he doesn’t get starstruck over celebrities like most people.
“She’s the stand-in for the main character, who isn’t here because of an injury, which makes her the main character for today,” Trevor says.
The guy’s brow furrows a bit but then he nods. “Just until Andrea Block returns, I guess.”
“I feel bad,” I say softly as Trevor leads me into the tent. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m not a real actor.”
“You deserve to be here,” Trevor says. “You spent hours working just now and you deserve to eat.”
I look around at the spread of food and my jaw drops. The whole tent is lined with tables that are filled with food. Bagels, chips, candy, fruit, salads, wraps, veggies, sushi, sandwiches, a huge variety of drinks—the list goes on.
“How do we pay for this?” I ask, glancing around at the room that’s filled with food but otherwise empty of people.
“It’s all part of being an actor,” Trevor says, grabbing a cookie and taking a bite. He hands me a sturdy paper plate. “Dig in.”
