Ruchi put her notebook down, neatly tying the brown leather cord around it before she did.
“I’ll be honest with you, Nadine. This is an opportunity for me too. I’ve seen the film. You’re good. You’re going to be the breakout star of this thing if I do my job right. And I’d like you to bear in mind, with all that’s going to come of this, that I’d love not to be working PR for independent movies for the rest of my life.”
I was a little shocked—but relieved too. This was someone I could trust.
Friendships were doubtful.
Collaborations were vital.
———
I couldn’t get a feel for where Ivan had put money into this project. In film terms, it was low budget. But we had a publicist, hotels, and round-trip flights to America. We weren’t paid very much, but it was still more money than I’d ever earned inmy entire life. And asking about the budgets felt like the sort of thing that might make a friendship difficult.
So it stood that despite the publicist and the full team on set and the sky-high stakes of hitting this all exactly right, I was in my hotel room doing my own hair and makeup before our screening.
We were a few days into our trip, and Ruchi had me on a near-continuous press circuit. I had smiled and laughed and swooned for so many people that my cheeks had begun to hurt. I’d found myself wearing that necklace of Harper’s—evidently plastic rather than turquoise, the fake silver chain greening around the edges. But it had inadvertently become a luck charm of my own.
This role may not have beenher, but it wasn’t entirely divorced from her either. A version of myself, with elements of her bravado that translated into a flirtatious aloofness, like you knew you weren’t getting as close as you wanted but wondered if that wasn’t half the fun.
I’d opted for a dark teal dress, crushed velvet with crisscrossing straps to match the necklace, tying my hair back in a loose and messy knot like I’d just woken up one day and thought to hop on a plane from London to Utah and accidentally ended up at a film festival.
Utah, which was, of course,fucking freezing.
My winter coat was designed for a London chill, to be layered with jumpers and scarves, and intended to get you from one tube station to another. This was a ski resort in January.
All this to say, I was shaking as I arrived at the screening and paler than the snow-capped mountains surrounding us.
There was no red carpet, just room J at the back of the theater and a quick press talk before the movie rolled. Backstage, as I clutched coffee in a desperate attempt to warm myself, Ivan found me.
“Ready for this?” he asked.
“Areyouready for this, Drozdov?”
Ivan smiled. “Nadine, I’m fucking terrified. Thank you for being here with me.”
I put the coffee down and wrapped my arms around him tight. “The film’s made. Nothing left to do but sell tickets for the show.”
———
More journalists attended than I’d expected. Evidently, Ruchi was good at her job. And I spotted a few faces I’d personally invited at parties throughout the festival.
Oisín’s hand found my waist as we walked, then it slid to my knee as we sat behind our table in front of the screen.
The questions came quickly.
“Nadine, what was the hardest part of filmingDreadbase?”
A glance at Oisín. “Not getting distracted by my coworkers.”
The soft chuckles of the press were a delight to entice. I almost liked it as much as acting—it was a show I was putting on. And my audience would take it and project it across the world.
“Did you have to go on a special diet for the role?”
“Less a diet than intensive physical workouts.” Another quick look and a sly smile. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been so physical.”
There were other questions. I told them what the role meant to me. Why I felt connected to Adeline. The work I did to embody her.
But those are the answers people still remember.
