Six months of shooting, a combination of stunts, location and studio filming. I told my agent and PR team that I’m mostly excited for the stunts and typically that’s true. There’s nothing I love more than getting harnessed to a rig and flipped around a few times over a green screen mat. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m most excited to be in the same city as the girl who walked away from me in France without a second glance and an order to forget it ever happened.
Resting my hands on my hips, I finally admit that I’m probably not going to be able to sense where in London Rosie currently is just from standing at the window.
I have already scoured social media for any hint of her. I pull up Anya’s profile and scroll to my favorite photo, one from the wedding of Rosie and Anya before the ceremony, Rosie’s dark dress hugging all the curves that felt so delicious under my hands. But it’s her face that I linger on, the dazzling smile that she shows her best friend and the shiny blue eyes sparkling with joy.
I’ve done this multiple times but I tap the picture, desperate to see if maybe Anya has tagged her since. No luck. I can’t blame her. Anya has a very small follower list now, with only a few hundred personal contacts and she doesn’t tag anyone anymore. I’m just glad that she’s allowed me in enough to be able to keep returning to this picture.
Even though she has so few followers, I’ve alreadymaxed out every account desperate to find Rosie’s. It’s getting stalker-ish now and I am almost ready to admit I have a problem. I’m almost positive it’s a private account with a tiny picture of a girl who’s almost Rosie shaped but it’s too vague to tell for sure and the last thing I want is to accidentally follow a random stranger.
Collapsing on my bed, I fall back onto the sheets with a sigh. I need to see her again. I have to. I haven’t flown half way across the world to give up now.
I have to see her, even if there’s no chemistry (impossible), even if she doesn’t want to be with me (possible). I have to know.
Call it closure or call it obsession, I have to know.
A knock on my door disturbs my musings and I cross the room to answer.
Eric is about half my size and always wears the same button down shirt. I’ve only really met him in person a handful of times. Maybe he has many of the same shirt. Maybe he doesn’t wash it between wears. Maybe he washes it every night. My sister Tara would lose it if that’s the case, what a waste of water.
“Hello, Mr Harper,” Eric says, puffing his chest up.
“Jackson, please.” I open the door wider and allow him in.
“The car is downstairs when you’re ready to head to set.”
I nod. “I’ll just grab my shoes and I’m good to go.”
As I tug on my sneakers, I glance up at him. Eric is politely staring at the floor by his feet.
“Hey, would you be able to do something for me?”
He looks up. “Of course Mr Har–Jackson. What can I help you with?”
I rub my beard, “I need to get in touch with someone, but I don’t have her number.”
Eric looks at me suspiciously. “Uh?—”
“Not in a weird way,” I assure him in what I hope is a convincing tone. “It’s the Maid of Honor at Danny’s wedding. I uh—I have something for her that she left at the wedding.”
Eric looks doubtful. “Wasn’t the wedding in June?”
“Yeah, I completely forgot until I was packing my suitcase and then figured I could just deliver it in person.”
He purses his lips before nodding to himself. “Yeah…yeah I could probably find some details for her.”
I stand and cross the room to him, clapping him on the shoulder as I grin. “Perfect, her name is Rosie Taylor, she’s Anya’s best friend and she lives in London. Is that enough?”
Eric nods nervously. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll see what I can find.”
“Excellent, now let’s get moving.”
Today is a prep day and I spend most of it in costume fittings. Unlike Starseeker, this film is pure action. I’m an ex-spy just trying to get by working construction before my old partner pulls me back into a conspiracy. Basically, I just get to fake punch a lot of people and shoot some fake guns. Excellent.
Sometimes this job feels like what I wanted when I was a kid. I wanted to be a hero, fighting bad guys and saving the day. My dad used to pretend to be a villain, sneaking in the house to press a kiss to my mother’s cheek, and I used to hide behind doors and prepare to tackle him. He would go down pleading mercy as I climbed over him, pretending to be bested.
Then one day he didn’t come home. In real life, bad things don’t happen to bad people and good guys don’t save the day. Sometimes, a father of three trips in the street and smacks his head open on the curb.
The play fighting stopped, replaced by rugby and thenan acting class that my mum was convinced would help me process my feelings and the panic attacks that would grip me. I don’t know how many feelings were processed in the class but at least I found something I was good at.
