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“Scene eight, take four, And… Action!”
The assistant director snaps the clapper board, and the world of Austen springs to life on the lavishly decorated set in front of me: Sophia and Hugo transforming into Lizzy and Darcy before our very eyes.
“I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding… My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."
"That is a failing indeed… Your defect is to hate everybody."
"And yours is to willfully to misunderstand them.”
“Cut!” Reeve yells suddenly. “Love it, but Ed, you drew focus with the card-shuffling,” he calls to the actor playing Bingley in the back of the scene.
“Shit, sorry!” Ed calls back. “I’ll keep it low-key.”
“No problem, everything’s looking great. Let’s break for twenty, reset and go again,” Reeve says, disappearing behind his screens to review the footage.
There’s a buzz of activity as the actors take a breather, prop-masters move in, and hair-and-makeup materialize to blot shiny foreheads and rearrange petticoats.
“The time off did Chambers well,” a nearby PA comments.
“No kidding.” Another one sounds impressed. “He’s got the brooding banter down.”
I smile, perched on a folding chair at the edge of the room, out of the way. After Hazel finished up the pizza and left my room last night, I crashed. Hard. I must have slept a good ten hours, until my alarm woke me bright and early for our first day back filming. I wasn’t going to miss it for anything, and now, seeing Hugo in action, I’m even more impressed by his talent and acting skills, being able to snap back into character after everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours.
Hell, it took everything I had just to cover the dark circles under my eyes, and drown my sorrows in a thermos of coffee, and meanwhile he’s brooding with perfect intensity under sweltering spotlights.
The man himself walks over to me and settles into an empty chair, dressed up in his Regency cravat and breeches.
“You’re a revelation,” I tell him.
“I bet you say that to all the boys.” He gives a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I mean it. You nailed that scene. Nobody would ever guess, well…” I catch myself, looking around to make sure nobody can hear.
“… That I’m wretched bastard, nursing a broken heart?” Hugo finishes for me. He sweeps back his hair, unthinking, then winces. “Cat!” he calls, to the hair stylist. “I just fucked up the coif again!”
She comes over to ruffle it up again. “Thank you, darling,” Hugo flashes a big smile, covering his misery in a heartbeat.
“You’re welcome, doll.”
The stylist moves off again, leaving us alone.
“How are you feeling?” I venture softly, even though the answer is written all over his face. Even through the makeup and costuming, I can see the shadows of heartbreak in his eyes.
Hugo gives a helpless shrug. “Awful. I suppose it helps to channel it into the role,” he adds, with a sigh. “The longing. The shame of going after what you want and failing.”
“You didn’t fail,” I insist.
“Didn’t I? Because it doesn’t feel like a raging success, getting dumped by the one man I’ve ever wanted a future with.”
I can tell Hugo is deep in his feels, because he doesn’t even keep his voice down.
“I’m sorry,” I say, reaching over to squeeze his arm. Hugo sighs.
“Still, the show must go on.” He straightens up, giving a determined nod. “We’ll get over them.”
“We will,” I agree. It’s a lie, of course. The truth is that I never really got over Fraser in the first place. The pain dulled and faded; I learned to live with it. But as I’ve discovered this week, a part of my heart has always belonged to him.
Bastard.
