The One Where The Lines Get Kinda Blurry

The One With Old Flames And Hot Tempers

Jen couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so miserable and lonely as she did right now. And scared. She really was incredibly scared. She felt out of control and out of routine, the two things that she thrived on the most, and as she stared out of the window at the rain hammering down onto the deserted, night time Paris streets, she found herself questioning for the third week in a row, whether this was worth it; whether this was what she still wanted to do; whether she could find a different way to live her life. She hadn't exercised once since she'd been here. She wasn't eating well. She was barely sleeping at all. She kept herself locked away in her hotel suite pretty much all the time she wasn't on set, terrified of being exposed to Covid and getting ill, which would delay things even more than they already were thanks to the awful weather. And then of course, there had been the terrifying news of Russia invading Ukraine, which not only broke her heart for the millions of innocent civilians who were suddenly forced to flee for their lives, but also more selfishly, it felt too close for comfort being in Europe at such a turbulent and unpredictable time.

She missed her home. She missed her dogs. She missed the sun. She missed her friends. And most of all, she missed him. God, she missed him. The time distance and her irregular filming hours meant that communication between them was erratic and short lived. The longest they'd managed to talk since she'd arrived twenty five days ago had been just shy of thirty minutes, and that thirty minutes had been filled with tension and, for the first time in a very long time, disagreement. He'd said some things she never thought she'd hear from his mouth and she was still reeling and still hurting. She appreciated his reason for being unnerved, but at the same time, she felt aggrieved at his sudden lack of understanding and trust. Her head was pounding and all she wanted to do was jump on the very next flight home as she heard a knock at the door of her trailer and a voice calling her back to set. She begrudgingly pulled herself up from her seat and did as she was requested, not at all sure how she was meant to be funny and entertaining when everything in the world seemed so impossibly depressing and dismal right now.

David read her last message again for the umpteenth time that day. He still wasn't sure if he was angrier and more frustrated with her or himself, but he did know he wasn't at all happy. After everything they'd been through, he thought they'd finally got it right, they'd finally found a way to make it work and yet with one fell swoop, he suddenly found himself questioning everything all over again. Why? Why would she do it? Why would she do it to herself and why would she do it to him? It wasn't that he didn't trust her because he did. But he couldn't shake the feeling that games were being played and it bothered him. It bothered him a lot.

"Cleo, will you turn that dammed music down" he shouted up the stairs, his words literally falling on deaf ears as she couldn't hear him over the heavy beat and loud vocals. Less than twenty seconds later he was in her room, making sure she had no choice but to hear him as he demanded she keep it quieter or risk her phone being confiscated. He didn't want to take his mood out on his daughter, but his head was pounding, and he couldn't hear himself think. He looked at his watch as he arrived back in the kitchen. 6.03pm which meant just after midnight in Paris. She was due to finish her latest twelve hour shoot around 4am so hopefully he'd have chance to talk to her later, unless of course she was too tired again. He got it. Of course, he got it. Night shoots are a killer. Several very early morning shoots followed by back-to-back night shoots are even worse, and that's exactly what she was doing now so he really felt for her. But regardless how tired she might be, he needed to speak to her again and try to put to rest the mounting fears that were gnawing away deep inside his brain.

Jen had been surprised by the message she'd received a few days earlier, very surprised and also slightly confused. She'd thought for a while before replying, a little tiny niggle in the back of her brain telling her that this might not be the best idea and that she should think very carefully about how to handle it. But less than forty-eight hours later, and while the vast majority of US was still sleeping soundly, she'd found herself sharing lunch with her ex-husband for the first time in a very long time. Of course, they'd talked on several occasions since their dramatic and oh so public split some seventeen years earlier, they'd even worked on the same project together during lockdown, albeit remotely. And, as had been very well documented, he'd been there watching as she'd picked up her SAG Award, congratulating her briefly in the foyer afterwards in front of all the press, which had led to much tabloid speculation about them rekindling their 'Hollywood's Golden Couple' romance. As usual, that couldn't be any further from the truth and as she'd sat opposite him at the table in her private hotel suite, she couldn't help but think that time had not been very kind to him. He'd looked drained, he'd looked drawn, he'd looked disheveled and most of all he'd looked old. She couldn't prevent herself from quietly comparing him to David and how well he'd aged. They'd made polite conversation until lunch was served and they were finally alone, away from prying eyes and ears. Jen had made a mental note to leave an extra generous tip and gift for the staff in order to at least try and keep this little meeting out of the public domain.