“I hate to say you’re right. Basically, we’re fucked.”
“Yep.”
I’m called into makeup to fix the blood plastered on my face, ready for the next shot, and it’s only then that I finally relax. While we’re still filming the same scene, this time the camera will be set up mostly behind me, giving me a rest from the tears. I’ve always been able to cry on cue, and it’s gotten me out of many situations, but when it’s this tense and emotional, the fake becomes a little too real, and it’s hard to pull myself out of it.
I wouldn’t say I avoid emotion as such. In fact, I thrive on it. But it tends to skew toward emotions that are positive or protective in nature, not so much the deep, depressing kind.
Those, I keep to myself.
Like discovering the love of your life just died trying to save you—in the case of my character—orthat your boyfriend of five years was cheating on you for three of them, and you found out but chose to pretend you were oblivious so that you could follow him to the US to pursue your dream of acting. That one is all me.
Those are not the emotions I let linger.
But hurt a friend of mine, or try to get in my pants when I’m not interested, and I’ll hold a grudge for years. I’m not even opposed to violence.
“Hayley, Hayley, Hayley,” our head makeup artist, Lucian, gushes with his hands clenched near his heart. “Word travels fast, and I hear you just perfected that performance. Apparently our darling Steve actually praised you.”
“He did, and honestly, it’s gone to my head. How dare you talk to me like we’re friends. Don’t you know I’m a huge star?” I deliver my line with no emotion while Lucian’s assistant touches up my eyeliner, and he barks out a laugh, forcing his assistant to move away from my face in case I follow suit.
“Oh, Hayley, I could listen to your accent all day. Tell me. What would you say in Australia after an epic performance like that?”
I think on it for a second and grin, gesturing for the makeup artist to continue her work. “If it was me, I’d be saying much the same as I am now. I’m not fake, remember?”And I try to maintain an American accent while I’m on set.
Lucian rolls his eyes and I laugh, careful not to let it reach my eyes. We’ve spent many hours discussing all the actors and actresses that have sat in this very chair, or at least, a chair similar to this one, and it’s safe to say he’s had a run of bad luck lately. Until me, so he claims. He pouts now, because of my boring answer, but I’m not done. “Ido, however, know a director who would have said something along the lines of ‘you bloody ripper,’ if that’s what you’re after?” My lips pull into a grin, knowing full well that’s exactly what he wants to hear.
“That’s it. You’ve done me in. I’m moving to Australia. I need to be able to say ‘bloody ripper’ and get away with it.”
“Let me know if you do. I have a few contacts.”
“Mmm.” His smile turns mischievous. “If those contacts are as fine as your ex, then hand over your address book, my love, because I’m taking them all.”
He’s so over-the-top that I can’t help but belly laugh, moving my head in the process, eliciting an exasperated sigh from Lucian’s assistant.
Schooling my features, I apologize softly, while Lucian waves off her concern.
“Let her live a little, Cher,” Lucian says, taking the eyeliner from her hands to finish the job himself. “Our dear Hayley just performed the scene that’s going to propel her to stardom. We’re in no rush. I have a feeling they’ll wait.”
My heart jolts, and for the first time, my confidence makes way for something new, something I hadn’t anticipated…gratitude. Because while I’ve always dreamed I’d be a star, always assumed I’d find a way to get there, I never once stopped to think about how I’d feel if I did. Almost like my false bravado was guiding theway, paving a path for me. But now that it’s a reality, the relief I feel is boundless.
This could be it. I might be close to becoming the person I always wanted to be.
And the thought of that is humbling.
Who knew?
“And that’s a wrap. Well done, everyone.”
A collective cheer fills the air as I deflate, grabbing the wall to stop myself from crashing in a heap. Instead of the elation I expected to feel after finishing my first starring role, an emptiness starts low in my belly and works its way through my chest, branching out until my entire body is numb.
I’ve done all I can do for this movie, and now I’m left to wait for the vultures to suck the life out of me. For the masses to judge me. To put me on a pedestal for their own enjoyment and leave me there until they’ve decided whether to praise me or throw stones.
My thoughts are a little dark and twisted, I know, but I guess I never considered the aftermath before now. In Australia, I was known as the sweetheart of the silver screen. Audiences loved me because I played characters they couldn’t hate. They had no idea that behind the scenes, I wanted to play the dark, gritty characters. I wanted parts that had depth and unexpected layers. Because I felt more connected to that part of myself.
At the core…I wantedthisrole.
And only now that I’ve finished it, it’s hitting me that I’ll no longer be seen as a sweetheart anymore. Far from it.
But I have never loved a role more.
