Chapter Five Soundtrack: Kiss with a Fist by Florence + The Machine

Can you get jet lag in the same time zone? I think I have jet lag. Or maybe I'm just allergic to Nas. Whatever the cause, this cannot be healthy. We have just arrived on location and already I know this afternoon's headache will be the worst one yet.

Surely Sandra wouldn't want me to stand up to Nas if she knew how sick he makes me.

I glare at him but he's ignoring me. 'Have you taken us to the wrong set?' I ask.

He glares at me but then glances at the sat nav. 1-0 Ellie.

We're in a clearing in the midst of a nature reserve. Parked around the dirt are a dozen trailers: the nearest one, its door tells me, is Makeup. There are thirty or forty cars here, and a catering truck, but there's not a person in sight. Andrew's obviously forgotten to send the runner. The engine idles.

'Turn it off,' I snap, and Nas does. The silence is worse.

'They've forgotten us,' Nas remarks. They've forgotten you, he means, because you're not worth remembering.

It's a huge car but it's too small to share. I escape into the fresh air.

The trees rustle, casting long shadows across the clearing, and overhead a bird calls. Cables crisscross through the dirt and the dining tent flaps in the breeze: somehow, it's peaceful. I feel at peace, here, waiting.

My phone buzzes. Peace is gone.

+44 7960 131200: omg r u here andrew says i was meant to find u

We're in the clearing by makeup, I reply.

No response.    

I add, In the huge car, just in case.

A few minutes later, a white coach swerves around the lane and pulls up beside us. Nas emerges from our car wearing sunglasses. God forbid the glare of the sun perturb him.

A boy appears from the coach. He's slim, with enormous eyes and tangled hair he runs a hand through. 'I'm Johnny,' he tells us, with a strong Irish accent. 'I'm the runner. I'm meeting you.' He pauses. 'You've been met.'

Nas snorts.

The coach sinks into the ground and emits a crunchy metallic groan.

'Hi Johnny,' I reply. 'Thanks for coming. Where's Andrew?'

'On set.' He doesn't elaborate.

'Can you direct us?'

He gestures to the coach, which seems to have a punctured back wheel. It sighs and sinks lower. 'I'll drive you.'

I was afraid he'd say that.

'Great,' I say, unconvincingly. Great, Nas mouths. This is not my fault, so somehow it must be his fault. I make sure to glare as he picks the seat next to mine on the empty coach. He scoots even closer and glares back.

Soon—though torture couldn't pull this out of me—I am glad he's sitting beside me. Johnny is the worst driver I have ever met. Behind his sweet green eyes is the nerve of a gladiator. The coach lurches around the narrow lanes through the woods, hitting each bump and pothole. It screeches as he accelerates through tree branches. They break off in a trail of destruction. I can't imagine what the conservationists will say when filming wraps, but I imagine it will start with 'Fuck'.

We careen out of the woods and stop at the precise moment I am certain I will vomit. The back end of the coach leans unnervingly. Nas is pale and clammy. Wordlessly, he hands me my bag, which I hadn't seen him bring on.

'Mind the pheasants!' Johnny calls as we emerge from the coach. A flock of them vanish into the trees at his shout. 'Sometimes we try to hit them with the coach,' Johnny says. He gulps at my expression. 'No, no we don't. I didn't say that.' He busies himself inspecting the punctured tyre.

We're parked beside a lake hidden on all sides by pine trees: from above, it must look like a moon has crashed onto Earth and reflects back the heavens. The water ripples softly and, far on the other bank, I spot a nest of swans. An old blue canoe bobs against its bank.

Andrew is filming 100 metres from us. He bellows for silence and storms over to us. The actors, sound, ADs—all wander away to smoke and chat.

'Oh!' He recognises me as he approaches. His fury clears. 'You came.'

'You insisted,' Nas drawls. His carsickness has cleared and his haughtiness is back.

'Welcome!' Andrew spreads his arms to encompass the nature around us. 'We decided on this lake after all. Great, isn't it?'

'Great,' I reply, though he isn't waiting for a response.

'So it was probably a wasted trip for you.'

'Well. There we are then,' Nas adds.

This is his favourite contribution to long meetings, writers sulking, or urgent memos from Barry. The words shuffle in my mind: I notice what the acronym spells out.

I choke on my laugh. Perhaps there are people Nas hates more than me.

'What about the rigging for the treehouse?' I ask.

Andrew is bored by the question. 'Oh, you can see it if you want.'

'Health and safety raised some issues. Your insurance might flag it.'

'And then death,' Andrew says philosophically.

'Right, but first insurance.'

He sighs, 'Alright. We're making art today, but if you insist, I'll make a crew go tomorrow morning.'

I smile through clenched teeth. Andrew wanders towards the smoking crew members. I assume we're meant to follow, but I won't look to Nas for reassurance. He'd just love it if I got lost on a ten-second walk.

'I thought you were filming the poker scenes today,' Nas says to Andrew. Of course he's checked the schedule. He checks everything.

'We were, but Jimmy didn't show up, so we're here instead.'

'Why didn't Jimmy show up?' Jimmy is a supporting actor. He has a head that wobbles like a tennis ball on his veiny neck and he always smells of cigars.

'Oh, his car broke down. Apparently, he thought the runners would refuel it for him.'

I wish I was surprised, but television is littered with actors like this: average men who assume they're irreplaceable, who scream, sulk, and harass their way through the crew as though they own them. Worse, though, are directors like Andrew, who allow it.

If I were braver, I would confront him. But why would he listen to me? I'm a twenty-seven-year-old nothing, a grown woman without the courage to disagree with her own mother. Andrew will run his set how he wants.

Nas is waiting for me to say something, I know. He won't do it for me. But I keep quiet, and I feel his eyes roll. Well, he should be used to disappointment by now.

'Actually,' Andrew continues, 'while you're here, there's a disagreement about the billings. Jimmy wants to be higher up. He's being a bit difficult about it, actually.'

'Right, and what's the issue?'

'Well, I thought you could let us know what you want.'

Irritation lances through me. 'What do the contracts say?'

'The contracts have the billings, but—'

'Well, that's the answer then.'

Andrew throws out his hands and addresses Nas. 'What do you think, Nas?'

The sexist pig.

'She's the boss,' Nas replies calmly. To illustrate his indifference, he wanders off to grab a coffee from the crew tent.

Andrew smirks at me. 'You're bigger than I remember.' He gestures both up and out.

I grit my teeth and pretend not to understand. Nas is chatting with the gaffers. Thank God he didn't hear. I'm indifferent to what Andrew thinks, but Nas hearing it? Nas hearing me ignore it? The thought sends tremors down my legs.

'Well, if there's nothing else, we'll be off.'

'You don't want to watch filming?' His voice rings with insincerity. 'Ah well. I'll get Johnny to drive you back.'

'No!' I nearly shout. 'No, thank you. We'll walk.'

Andrew shrugs and leaves me. Nas takes no convincing to leave. No doubt he's already reworking his weekend plans as we start the walk back to our car.

The sun is already setting. Around us, the trees fall in long matchstick shadows across the path, and curve above in a rustling archway.

The wind tugs through my hair and blows strands into Nas's shoulder. With a pained look, he shifts further away. It's cooler without his warmth beside me.

We walk in silence for another few minutes before I am brave enough to apologise.

'I'm sorry for what I texted you earlier.'

'Don't be,' he drawls. 'It's not the strangest proposition I've ever received.'

Damn him. That's not the text I meant. 'I don't want to kill myself. Not because of you anyway.' He shoots a look at me, and I realise what I've said. I add, quickly, 'Or at all.'

He looks away. 'Barry will be thrilled to hear it.'

'Let's leave Barry out of it.'

He laughs, and only now do I realise how this might sound flirtatious. But Barry is out of it, miles away, probably already drunk and mindless of what we do. Here, as the night draws closer, it's only us, walking home from the art we've created.

It's strange, but I'm happy. I'll fall asleep tonight feeling something suspiciously like hope.

*

hello hello and happy friday! please enjoy our first glimpse into the world on set and some more carsickness because i am a fan of *autobiography*

have you ever had a colleague like nas? i am such a people pleaser so if you're good at standing up for yourself drop me some advice in the comments please x