Page 14 of Let’s Make a Scene

“Oh, sorry.” She tilts her head, with a look of wide-eyed confusion. “Is this you being professional? I must have missed the part where professionals bad-mouth their costar to the director and try to get them sacked. That doesn’t sound like a professional to me. It sounds like a spoiled prima donna.”

A muscle in my jaw starts to tic.

“Because, trust me,” she continues, “you’ve made yourself very clear. You want me off this film, but it’s too late. I’m not going anywhere, so you’re going to have to get over yourself and your giant ego and deal with it.”

“I am dealing with it,” I say through gritted teeth. “I tried to apologize—”

“Really?” She cuts me off again. “Because I don’t remember that part.”

“Because you won’t let me finish a sentence!” The words come out too loud, but she only smirks, pouncing on my exasperation like it’s a delicious treat.

“Oh! I’m sorry for interrupting your apology,” she says, sweet as cyanide. “Please,” she gestures with her hand, “carry on. I’d love to hear it. At length.”

And then, she actually bats her eyelashes at me, which I don’t think I’ve seen a human do in real life before.

Any guilt I was feeling is quickly evaporating as the insults pile up and it’s clear that she’s enjoying my discomfort. I came into this coffee shop perfectly prepared to grovel, but with every passing moment I want to be the one to watch her squirm. I’d absolutely love to be the bigger person here, but her taunts are enough to demolish all my good intentions.

Two can play this game.

I lean forward, sincerity in every line of my face. “I’m sorry,” I start.

I don’t think she realizes that she’s leaning toward me, too, that her posture has softened, mirroring mine, that I’m reeling her in so easily.

“I’m sorry…” I say again, pausing, keeping my expression earnest and open “… that you overheard a private conversation. I hope you learned a valuable lesson about eavesdropping.”

She blinks as the words settle between us, then snaps back, almost knocking over her tea.

“You— I— that—” she splutters, and I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes like victory.

Cynthie narrows her eyes. “ ‘A valuable lesson about eavesdropping,’ ” she repeats, finally, each word carefully enunciated in what I would guess is an imitation of my accent. “Well, that’s quite the apology. I suppose I shouldn’t expect better from an entitled twat who speaks like a Victorian ghost.”

My pulse leaps in my throat. Cynthie’s cheeks are flushed, her hazel eyes glittering.

“I’m just saying…” I sling my arm over the back of the booth and keep my tone deliberately conversational, allowing a nice condescending note to creep in. “Instead of focusing on a little criticism that wasn’t actually meant for you to hear, you should be focused on the job at hand. Then you might not make so many mistakes,” I add, kindly, and temper leaps in her eyes.

“I am focused on the job, you tremendous dickhead. I’m not afraid of hard work, which is good, seeing as I’m going to be working much harder than you,” she says. “Because you’re right about one thing. I am trying to catch up. I don’t even have an A-level in drama”—she puts little finger quotes around the words and rolls her eyes—“because not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us had to leave school and get a job instead of a full fucking ride to RADA. Some of us had to scrimp and save, and pursue our dreams any way we could. And some of us, some of us,” she repeats, her voice shaking with fury, “got the part because of raw, natural talent and not because of who our mummy and daddy are.”

“What did you just say?” The words are a growl low in my throat.

“You heard me.” She lifts her chin, the picture of disdain. “You’re so convinced it’s me that’s the problem, but at least I got here on my own merits. Can you really say the same? Do you think if it wasn’t for your parents you’d have all these doors opening for you? Would you be playing Edward? Or could the part have gone to someone else, someone better?”

It’s like she’s digging her fingers into an open wound. I can only stare at her.

Finally, I let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not the one who’s out of my depth, sweetheart. This isn’t an after-school musical where you can find yourself through the power of performance and discover that the real gift was the friends you made along the way. There are hundreds of people’s jobs and millions of pounds riding on the success of this film. You fuck up, and there are real consequences. You think I’m arrogant?” I run my eyes over her in a lazy examination. “Take a look in the mirror.”

She puts her palms flat on the table and levers herself up so that she’s leaning over, crowding into my space. Her perfume is a silk ribbon wrapping around my throat, but her expression promises only cold, calculated murder. This close, I can see the tiny flecks of green in her eyes. Her chest rises and falls and I can hear the ragged intake of her breath.

She’s not the only one who is furious. Anger is a snarling, snapping thing inside me. I want to sink my teeth into her.

“You,” she says, her voice a husky accusation, “are the worst person I have ever met. I can’t wait to shove my success in your boy band–reject face.” Her laugh holds an edge of mania as she slides out of the booth. “We’ll see who’s out of their depth, won’t we? Nepotism can only get you so far, Jack.”

The way her mouth curls around my name makes something tighten in my stomach, but I ignore the sensation, getting to my feet, looming over her. “Good luck with that,” I sneer. “Or should I say break a leg? Sincerely. Break both of them. Then maybe we’ll actually get to cast a real actor.”

“I’d like to break your neck.” Cynthie’s smile is wide and wicked and she steps in close to me, close enough that I can feel the heat from her body brushing up against mine.

“Well, look at that,” I rumble. “We’re finally on the same page.”

She treats me to one last smoldering look of disdain, then without another word, she whirls away, a tiny tempest about to unleash herself on the streets of London.