‘That’s not fair.’
‘You don’t get to decide what’s fair,’ she says, through tears. ‘Not when you never once asked me what I actually wanted.’
When Seb speaks, his voice has hardened again. ‘What do you want?’
‘Not this,’ Clara says. ‘Not any of this.’
Seb takes a long time to reply. He seems to know that they’re at a crossroads, that what he says next will matter. He seems to know he’s choosing the wrong path.
‘Have it your way,’ he says. ‘I’m done.’
The last thing Eric sees before he drifts off to sleep is the blurred shape of Seb storming down the corridor. The last thing he hears, heavy boots on the stairs.
the grip
The last scene before they wrap is an INT./EXT. job, taking place between the trashed banquet room and the garden on to which its generous doors are thrown open. Long curtains billow out in the breeze. Call Time has been called on their final day, and Seb and Jacob pace the lawn with their backs to each other as if preparing for a duel. The grip deploys his small team to check the tripods and tracks, ensuring each camera is primed and in position. He gives one of these cameras a final check, sees Seb on the screen attached to it. His mind conjures an image of a firing squad.
‘Action!’ calls Clara.
Both Seb and Jacob look like they haven’t slept, which is kind of the point of the scene. But Seb is lethargic, mumbling his lines, and Jacob is jumpy, bouncing off walls that aren’t there. The first take is a dud. Clara is clearly stressed, sweating through a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. When she cuts, both actors immediately turn to her.
‘He’s off,’ Jacob says.
Seb shakes his head.
‘You’re both off,’ Clara replies.
And the grip can’t help but see her as he saw her late last night. Wandering the halls of the chateau, alone and in tears. Jacob finding her, comforting her, taking her to the next balcony along, away from prying eyes.
‘Seb said we’re done,’ he’d heard her say, between sobs.
Jacob, stroking her hair and shushing her. ‘You deserve better.’
Another take. Another dud. Jacob is overacting. Seb, under. But whenever they’re not rolling, the energy is all Seb’s. He paces like a rodeo bull, snorting and stamping his feet, muttering lines under his breath. Jacob grins manically to himself, lost in some private joke. When he locks eyes with Seb, the smile disappears. They each look to Clara, two attention-starved kids battling for their mother’s affection.
‘Let’s dial it back this time,’ Clara says, careful not to look at either of them.
The grip knows what she’s thinking. They’re all thinking it. It might be the last day, but if they don’t have this scene, they don’t have a film.
‘Roll sound,’ Clara says, as she wipes her brow. ‘Roll camera. Action.’
They go again, Jacob toning it down just enough to avoid a telling-off, but still chewing enough scenery to get under Seb’s skin. It’s better – but they can do better still.
As soon as the cameras have stopped rolling, Jacob huffs in frustration. ‘Give me something,’ he says to Seb. ‘Anything!’
‘Fuck off, Jacob,’ says Seb.
‘That’s it,’ Jacob says, with a grin. ‘That fire in your belly.’ He comes close, prods Seb in the gut. ‘Use it.’
‘You’re not the director,’ Seb says, like a broken record, batting Jacob’s hand away.
The real director looks nauseous. ‘Guys, cool it,’ she says. ‘We’re almost there.’
‘No, we’re not,’ Jacob says, his voice edgy. ‘He’s coasting. He’s had one foot out the door the whole time.’ He throws his arms up. ‘His bags are already packed, for god’s sake.’
Seb’s eyes, which had been trained on the dry lawn beneath him, snap to Jacob’s face. He furrows his brow. ‘My bags?’
Jacob meets his glare. He glances deliberately towards the window above Seb’s head.
