We callit a day shortly afterwards. I’m too blindsided, and too pissed off, to do any strategising with Alyssa today. I desperately need to get home and process. At least my flatmate Nora is working from home today. She’s my best friend from uni. We were in the same college together—Emmanuel—and read English together.
She’s not in awe of my career. Nora isn’t in awe of anyone on the planet. She’s my biggest cheerleader, yes, and my most ferocious defender, but her smart, beautiful head is mostdefinitely not turned by anything that goes on in the movie industry. If anything, she’s contemptuous of the whole circus. She has a point.
Anyway, back to obsessing about Dickhead. As my driver weaves through thick traffic back to Notting Hill, I allow myself to relax in the back seat and attempt to organise my thoughts. I put a hand on my stomach. Deep belly breaths. The last thing I need is for that fucker to cause another flare up.
Because I’m a total geek and obsessive about every role, I’ve been learning my lines for weeks. I know, I know. I have seven weeks to go before the table reads even kick off. But still. I like to be prepared, and I like knowing my lines well so all my focus can go on acting them to the best of my ability. Nora and I have had a few hysterical evenings of practice. She makes an excellent Dominic.
Now I have to recalibrate everything I thought I had straight in my head. Most of Georgiana’s scenes involve Dominic. Every line I’ve learnt, every line I’ve imagined saying to some dashing, dastardly stranger, I now know I’ll be saying tohim.
The early scenes should be fine. Georgiana is openly contemptuous of Dominic at first, and aghast that she should be required to marry him to save her family. She sees him as a useless, frivolous waste of space.
Believe me, that should be easy enough to act.
But the two of them are married off in the second of six episodes, and, as Dominic woos his wife, Georgiana starts to thaw. The real delight of the show will be in watching these two fall in love as equals. And I will be acting out every single step of that with Josh Lander. Starting with the wedding night.
My rhythmic belly breathing falters as I mentally list thesex scenes. There are so fucking many of them, and I know I said I have no problem with sex scenes generally, but I do have a major problem doing them with Josh Lander’s lips against mine, his hands raking through my hair (wig, maybe, but still) and his mouth on my—oh. My. God. On my boobs. On my stomach.
There’s even a scene where Georgiana gives her husband head in his study. Obviously this is TV, not a porno, so I won’t be going anywhere near Josh’s dick IRL, butstill. It’s horrifying to think about acting out anything like that with him. Fuck fuck fuck. I need a serious Nora pep talk, and I need it now.
‘Heads need to roll for this.’Nora slams her hand against the marble kitchen counter. ‘They need tofucking. Roll.You hear me?’
‘They won’t roll.’ I shrug. It’s been an hour since the meeting, and already I’m broken. Defeated. ‘Alyssa calls the shots. There’s nothing Richard or I can do contractually. Believe me, I’ve thought about pulling out and paying the breach of contract fine, but I want this part. I deserve this part.’
‘Of course you do. I just can’t believe Alyssa would pull a stunt like this. Isn’t she supposed to be a feminist? I mean, what the fuck happened to female solidarity? You just don’t pull shit like this on another woman who’s putting herself in your hands. It’s not cool. It’s not what a leader would do. Can you imagine Michelle Obama pulling a stunt like that?’
(Aside: Nora is obsessed with Michelle Obama. And Brené Brown. And Oprah. And Glennon Doyle. You get the idea.WWMD,orWhat Would Michelle Do, is her mantra. And there’s a one-hundred-percent chance she’ll nod sagelyand saywhen they go low, we go highbefore this conversation is over.)
‘Much as it pains me to admit it, I don’t think Alyssa’s doing this for unscrupulous reasons. Yeah, her methods are deeply dodgy, and it’s a definite case of the end justifying the means.’ I loll against the counter and flick the kettle on. ‘But she is a feminist, I know that. She told me at the end of the meeting she firmly believes this will be amazing closure for me, that it’ll prove to the world I have no issue working with Josh, that I’m totally over him.’
Nora snorts derisively, but there’s a hint of doubt on her face.
‘That may be, but if that happens, it’s all thanks to you and your professionalism, and she’d better not try to take the credit after throwing you under the bus. You’re sure you don’t want to try to get out of this?’
My tone is more decisive than I feel. ‘I’m sure.’
‘Brave girl. Have you thought about what you want to get out of it?’
‘How do you mean? Right now, I just want to emerge from filming with my dignity intact.’
She’s quiet for a moment. ‘And your heart?’
‘Ibegyour pardon?’ I shoot her a filthy look and shovel a mound of camomile flowers out of a caddy, throwing them in our teapot.
‘It’s me, babe. You can tell me anything. You’re sure you’re not worried you’ll fancy him again?’
‘No! For fuck’s sake.’ I slam the lid back on the caddy. ‘Honestly, I can’t imagine my body has that little survival instinct. Obviously, I’m worried sick about the sex scenes with him. I’m worried sick about all of it. But what he did—the way he disappeared on me—that’s pretty much the most unattractive thing someone can do to another person. There’s no way I’ll fancy him after that.’
It’s true. Everything good that I felt for him, physically and emotionally, has long since burnt out. The guy pulled the ghostiest of all ghosting moves on me. Now all I feel is disgust that I let him near me, that I trusted him so completely.
‘Okay, okay.’ She pries the little shovel out of my hands like I’m unstable and wielding a weapon. ‘I know you can handle yourself. And I know you know what you’re doing. My main concern is how we’re going to handle your health during all this stress.’
Herwemakes me love her even more than I thought possible. Nora’s my guardian angel. She pours the boiled water into the teapot and takes a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. This is one of the many problems with my illness. Most of us like to comfort eat (and drink) when we’re stressed. Right now, I’d like to work my way through a giant tin of Cadbury’s Heroes, but I can’t.
Because what most people consider a treat is particularly toxic for my body. When it’s already at risk of stress-driven inflammation, adding processed and inflammatory foods is asking for trouble. Instead, I’m supposed to deal with this cluster-fuck by lying on the sofa, listening to a meditation and sipping camomile tea. It’s not fair.
‘We’ll put a protocol in place,’ I tell her. ‘Alyssa’s already aware of my Crohn’s. The chef on set will cater for me, and I’ll take my supplements. I promise.’ Despite my healthy diet, my supplementation is heavy because the absorption rate of nutrients through my damaged, scarred gut lining is so low.
‘Good girl.’ Nora puts the teapot and cups on a tray to take over to the sofa. ‘I suppose… at least he’s not, you know, physically revolting. Let’s be thankful for that, at least.’
