Hollywood's Golden Runaway

(0 7)

"And cut! Fantastic! That's us done for today! Thank you everybody, see you tomorrow. Call is 9 o'clock!" Ethan calls into his trusty megaphone, ending the first day of filming, and a scattered applause follows before the set breaks into its organised chaos. Neck cracked, I cross the bed of needles, left by the towering pine trees above us towards Sydney, who shakes a few pine needles from her perfectly straightened hair that hangs in curtains down to her chest.

"Ugh, this is seriously disgusting," she scoffs as she flicks a single needle off her finger. She also regards the damp environment around her with a level of distaste. Nature clearly is not doing anything for her make-up.

I try not to take offence at her comment. But I lived here for 17 years of my life. I spent 17 years walking around areas just like this. Family walks in the early years of my life when my parents acknowledged our existence. Later times when grandma and I would come out for fresh air. Or the summers, days spent on the lakefront with Finn, a picnic basket between us, beneath the rare searing sun and splashing childishly in the shallows to relieve ourselves of the heat. My heart clenches at the memories of the simple times with Finn, that would reassure me of his love, which I now know to have been a lie.

Still, I haven't lived here for five years and even I am starting to feel the nipping bites of cold on my fingertips and nose. Another flick of a needle brings my attention back to the present and I concur with Sydney's comment, remembering that I am supposed to have never have been in a place like this before. Experiencing an unknown climate so familiar to me.

"I know, this humidity is clogging my pores," I complain, putting both hands to my face and only feeling the layers of make-up there. Primer, foundation, powder, contour and fake dirt and a latex wound, all adding to illusion. Reminding me, I'm not the same person who lived here five years ago. And I have to keep reminding myself of that, to keep myself sane, to stay true to Bella.

Sydney laughs and links her arm through mine and we chatter endlessly until we reach her trailer, parked perfectly to the left of mine, while Liam's is to the right of mine. I spot his silhouette moving behind the illuminated blinds in his bedroom. Just as I watch his shadow pull his shirt over his head Sydney draws my attention back to her with a knowing smirk.

"Come on, Peeping Tom," she mocks before dragging me into the luscious trailer, the warm heating greeting me with a welcome gust as I walk across the threshold. With a large sigh she throws herself into one of the seats at the mirror where she is immediately attended to by a quiet pair of dutiful girls.

I perch myself on the armrest of the sofa to her right as we discuss the plans for the night. As our first day of filming is over we always, ritualistically, go out in some form or another.

"I saw a cute, little restaurant on the way that looked good. Italian, I think." I surreptitiously suggest my favourite restaurant in town, 'Maialino' for dinner. More interested in what information her phone is giving her she only nods at me. I don't want to stand in the way of the make-up artists doing their job by distracting Sydney.

So with a promise to rendezvous in my trailer in half an hour, I make the short journey back to my own space where I find Julia and Kate leaning against the counter, chatting idly. Feeling guilty for keeping them waiting I throw myself into the chair making them laugh. Without the constant distraction of Liam, less makeup and dirt on my face, and with some casual small talk the girls finish up fairly quickly bidding me goodbye within fifteen minutes of starting. I close the door behind them and power up my speaker, the sound of my favourite playlist starts streaming through the space.

I take my time in choosing my outfit, finally settling on a wine-coloured, bardot playsuit with a thick chunky cable-knit, wheat coloured cardigan and a pair of pale tan Timberlands with knee high-socks. Satisfied with my choice of outfit for the evening I begin my make-up routine, applying the foundation carefully. The music changes to a song with a heavier dance beat and instinctively my hips begin swaying along to the rhythm as I sweep eyeshadow across my eyelids. The vocalist joins in and being familiar with the song I join her. However, my vocal talents do not match anything close to the singer's but being alone, I continue anyway.