The Making Of

Money Talks

New York 2012

'You don't have to do this.'

I exhaled slowly, my eyes brimming with tears. 'No, you're right. I don't have to do this. I need to do this.'

'Just... put the gun down.'

'And then what, huh? Then what happens? I let you walk out of here and this all goes away?' I tightened my grip, bringing my other hand up to hold the gun steady. 'This will never go away!'

'Please-'

'Please? Is that what she said to you right before you killed her?' I took a step forward. 'Did she beg for her life, just like you're begging for yours?'

'I-I swear to you, I didn't-'

'Shut up. This ends tonight. I don't care what you have to say-' I stopped suddenly, rolling my eyes and letting my arms fall to my sides, the tension on my face dissolving with a sigh. 'I'm so sorry, my accent completely slipped there, didn't it.'

The director began to laugh from behind the camera monitor and slipped his headphones down around his neck. 'Yeah, you went from American psycho to queen of England real quick.'

'Sorry. Sorry everyone!' I waved my hands apologetically at the crew surrounding us.

'Let's reset, we'll go again,' he said.

I turned to my costar. 'Can you lead me in?'

'Sure.' He laughed as he sat on the ground in front of me, fake blood trickling down his cheek, elaborate bruises and cuts covering his face.

Accents were always something I'd been good at; so convincing, in fact, that after Sherlock and Junk, many people were shocked to discover that I was actually English. I'd spent three years of my life on a tv show where I spoke with an American accent almost every day; I may have messed up lines, stumbled or missed cues, but I rarely ever slipped up when it came to that.

It was a sign that my mind was occupied with something else, and I was annoyed with myself for it. I was on set filming with one of the biggest directors in Hollywood, bouncing between this and another movie where I was also in the lead role. I was successful, my career thriving like it never had before, and yet I was consumed by the memory of finding that script in Ben's house. Wondering why they hadn't asked me back for another season.

We finished the scene and I was sent back to my trailer, left with nothing to do except wait for my next call time to roll around after sundown. I curled up on the small couch and began picking through a tray of snacks as my personal assistant flitted in and out of the trailer.

Chris rarely left her office back home, and my manager Mira was dealing with things back in London too. So it was just me and the PA. Her name was Leah, she was around my age, with a gentle voice and a nervous disposition she'd developed after two years working for a very difficult actress. I'd tried to get her to tell me who it was, but the trauma of whatever she'd been put through had made her tight-lipped; terrified to even speak the woman's name.

She hadn't been working for me long. I'd allowed Chris to assemble the team; the manager, the stylist, the publicist. But there was something that didn't sit right about employing a person to run around after me, getting my coffees, organising my bills, watering my plants.

'Leah, just sit down and relax,' I said. 'You're making me dizzy.'

'Sorry, I've been on the hunt for that tea you asked for. The only place that sells it closed half an hour ago.'

'That's fine, it's just tea.' I laughed. 'Come on, sit.'

She parked herself on the other side of the couch, her movements tentative like she was scared she was being tested. 'I've been making calls and there's a place in LA that has it, I think I can get it flown here-'