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“I’ve got to tell you,” she says, snapping the words in perfect monotonous cadence while chewing on a fry, “those hair implants do not look a day past forty, so congrats on that.”
His keen, wooly face dims for a moment. Eyes squint. Hairline almost stiffens, as if it had a will of its own.
He tries to laugh – that warm, generous, belly laugh. But he doesn’t quite hack it.
Amelia coughs. “Too much?”
He eyes his plate of crisp, oversalted nuggets. “Yeah. Kind of.”
She signals to the camera crew, still chewing. “Let’s get rid of that.”
A script supervisor dashes forward to consult with her on the line change. She leans away from the table and speaks to her quietly. “Tell them not to delete the footage. We can add it to the bloopers. I can get him to agree to that.”
Andrew watches her re-arrange the scene.
He tries to shake off the awkwardness, gives her a flirty, leery grin, sizing her up again.
What he actually, secretly, finds hot is not her relatability. It’s not her down-to-earth persona or her deadpan humor.
It’s this “strictly business” side of her.
“Are you comfortable enough to continue?” she asks airily, and you’re not sure if that’s her being sardonic, or if she genuinely cares.
“I’m very comfortable with you,” he replies smoothly.
“You should be,” she says with a small, derisive smile. Friendly, except not. “I mean, it’s not like when you shot Silence. That must’ve been worse.”
The cameras are rolling again, so he tilts his head and leans forward, so that his eyes look like they’re drinking her in.
“Ah, we’re back to – back to religious themes. That thing you said last time we – on the red carpet. About my affinity for religious characters.”
“Yeah. You like being punished,” she says quickly, picking up her soft drink. Wrapping her lips around the straw. Sip, sip. “I mean, look at you now. Here.”
He studies her mouth on purpose. Thinks about the best line to fluster her. “That lipstick makes your lips look like candy.”
“It’s lip gloss and lipstick actually,” she replies, pursing said lips.
“Is it.”
Amelia shrugs. “I read somewhere that actually – we’re showing off the vagina. The vag lips. By wearing this shade.”
He bursts into laughter, the more vulgar sort of locker-room guffaw. “Can’t believe you said vag lips.”
Amelia rests her chin in her palm. “Ugh, okay, let’s cut that out.”
“No, you should leave it in –”
She shakes her head. “Too raunchy. We need to get back to wholesome, awkward romcom vibes.”
“If you say so. But I’ve seen other episodes of this. You’re not generally that wholesome.”
“Every date is different. I’m using what works best for each individual.”
“Like my hair implants?”
She shrugs, flicking her own hair. “You didn’t say they were off-limits. But now I know.”
She sounds like his agent. She sounds like a flexible professional. And that sends another shot of something through him.
Amelia checks her notes briefly. “Should we take a break?”
“Er, sure. I thought we had a flow going, though.”
She stands up, brushing the seams of her very sparkly green shorts. “We kind of do. But we need to make it look more stilted. For the funny bits, you understand.”
No way of knowing if she’s still in character, really.
Suppose he’s done things like this too. Refused to switch up between scenes. Not for something comedic though. If this is comedy.
She smiles at him. Halfway bites her lower lip. “Plus, you’re making me really nervous. I need a break.”
Oh, fuck you, he wants to say. He’d also like to grab her wrist and check her pulse.
The cleavage of her pink shirt is flared wide, almost like it’s part of the joke. He decides to stare directly at it – at the pretty regular and calm movement of her chest – as he smiles back. “You’re making me nervous too. Gonna go have a smoke, then.”
She rolls her eyes. “What an unattractive habit.”
No way of knowing if she means that. But she probably does, judging by the way she wrinkles her nose.
He stands next to some empty crates in the back alley and taps his foot against the wall.
She pops her head through the door.
“Don’t set anything on fire.”
Andrew exhales the smoke with a chuckle. “I’ll try not to.”
“You can set my knickers on fire, though.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “You’re so full of shit.”
Amelia raps her nails against the door. “I’m just getting you ready for the next twenty minutes.”
“Thanks. I don’t need warming up.”
Her face could be described as impish as she stares at him. “Remember, I’m annoying on purpose.”
“You’re delightful.”
Yes, delightful, he thinks as he follows her back into the shop, passes through the damp kitchen, shakes hands again, thanks the cooks, breathes in all those grease fumes, watches her bum stretch those green shorts, thinks again yeah, delightful strategy, playing this bumbling bitch persona, frustrating all his flirting material for the sake of a bit.
He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly irritated.
Maybe because she brought up the hair implants. Maybe because he thought she wouldn’t. They hadn’t drawn up clear boundaries on topics, because he didn’t think he’d needed to. She was that zany girl from all those red carpets. Hot, in an interesting way, maybe. But not hot enough to warrant a threat.
The worst part is, she thought it’d be funny to bring that up.
He pictures pushing her up against the counter. Tilting her face up, hand under her chin.
Have a genuine fucking reaction for once, Amelia.
And if she refuses, he pictures knotting his hand in her flat-iron hair. Tugging down, forcing her face close to one of the friers.
At least then he’d see a touch of panic in those baby blues. She has to be afraid of something.
She whips her head around, tossing her hair to the side. “Ever had sex in a kitchen?”
He exhales with a guilty laugh. “No, but I’m picturing it.”
She rolls her eyes, tosses her hair again. “I bet you are, weirdo.”
“I’m not a weirdo for picturing it,” he says as they sit down again.
“Picturing what?”
Little red dots everywhere. This is all going on record, or her record anyway.
The cameras zero in on every micro-expression, so he relaxes his face.
“You and me. I did actually fantasize about taking you over the stove back there. Respectfully, of course.”
She smiles. “Yeah sure. We’re going to cut this, you know. But sure. Respectfully.”
He leans back. It’s stupid, but he wants to push it. Wants to see if he can break the format. More out of pride than anything. “You don’t believe I want to fuck you?”
She blinks, remains unfazed. Steeples her palms and rests her chin there. “I don’t know about wanting. You’d probably do it just to prove a point.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re not a snob.”
He chuckles drily. “Seriously.”
Amelia shrugs. “It’s funny, cuz I grew up more posh than you, actually. But you’d still see it as a downgrade.”
His face feels hot. Saliva sticks to his teeth unpleasantly. “Can’t believe you’re – Jesus, that’s not true. You have a terrible idea of me. I hope you’re just joking.”
The cameras keep rolling for no one’s benefit.
Amelia bites her cheek. “Sorry. I’m such a bitch. You’re right. You’re a very kind man. You might pity-date me.”
He shakes his head. “Is this still for the bit? Because – what you’re saying is really stupid. We’re on a date right now. It feels real to me.”
Amelia snorts. “Really.”
“D’you think I’d do this whole song and dance for anyone?” he says, gesturing to the walls of the chicken shop.
“Aren’t you promoting a film?” she asks, deadpan.
“Fuck off.”
She smiles. “It’s called flirting, you said.”
He laughs. “Very funny. I’m being real with you.”
She has the audacity to pick up a fried chicken leg. She bites into it. “I’m being real too. Eating in front of you.” She chews. “Gross, right?”
He shakes his head. He can feel prickly sweat at the roots of his transplant. Thick head of hair on fire.
“Maybe you’re the one who’d see it as a downgrade,” he throws at her.
"Oh, definitely. But at least we’re both Jewish, so it's kosher.”
He suppresses a smile. “You’re the one incapable of going on an actual date.”
He can’t seem to control the aggression in his voice. Why can’t she just open up to him? Just a glimpse. That’s all he’d require to make this feel even-balanced.
Amelia nods. “I know. That’s why I have to force you guys to hang out with me like this.”
He clicks his jaw. Who the fuck is she that he needs to ask this of her? He doesn’t need to know her, actually. They could just keep being actors.
“Yeah okay. Maybe you were accurate on the terms earlier. Pity-date. Pity-fuck too. I mean, you’re doing a reverse psychology bit. Hoping that if you act all cold and hostile you’re going to make me want to be with you for real.”
Amelia leans forward. Words breathy, slightly high-pitched. Mock-nervous. “Is it working?”
“Not really, no,” he says coolly, staring at her lips.
“I feel like it kind of is. I’ve created a challenge for you.”
“It’s not a challenge. You’re a glorified youtuber.”
Amelia leans back. Her smile is superior. She got him to say it.
“Told you you’re a snob. And you don’t even have an Oscar.”
His teeth flash. “Yeah, you’re really making me want to win one.”
She picks up a fry. “How about this. Okay, pay attention, yeah? If you could choose only one. Golden Oscar statue. Or coming on my tits in this shirt. What would it be?”
She brings the fry to her cleavage. She drags it against her bare chest. Leaving a tiny greasy smear.
Andrew stares. His jaw slanted, mouth open. Punch to the gut, hardly breathing.
“Tits,” he says. Sort of quiet. Hoarse.
He must be doing something with his face, something he can’t control.
Because she signals the camera.
“That right there. That’s the money shot, babe. We’ll cut like ninety-percent of all the fluff and porn. But we’re keeping this. Can you hold that for me, Andrew?”
He stares right into the camera, throat dry.
Yeah, he can hold it for her.
Total professional. Expert mind-fucker.
That’s the money shot, babe.
Fucking bitch.
God, he wants to fuck her so bad. Maybe it was fantasy before.
But now he wants it on film. He wants the cameras on them. He wants to split her open on this stupid fucking table. He wants to do something primal and ugly, like shove his cock down her throat. Come on her tits just like she said. Give her a nice warm necklace.
He wants to win an Oscar just to fuck her with it. Plunge the bald, gilded head inside her cunt and watch her come around it.
“I think we’d have a really nice time without the cameras. I think we’d just enjoy each other’s company. Or maybe not. Fuck it,” he says, all affable smiles as he pictures stuffing her.
“I think we should be friends,” she says, staring at him, at the camera behind him.
He narrows his eyes. “Okay. Great. Done.”
“We could hang out.”
Right now, he would just want to hang her head over this table frankly. He smiles. “Okay.”
“Wait, did I just friendzone this situation?” she asks, all clumsy, as if she hadn’t engineered any of it. As if she hadn’t been talking about his cum on her tits earlier. Wiped clean for TV.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Ah, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Unless that’s what you want?” he says, scratching the side of his face and a trail of dry sweat.
“No, I don’t know what I want.”
“You haven’t got to know what you want.”
She pretends to think. “You have my number.”
And he pretends he doesn’t remember. Does he?
“You asked for my number at a party. Despite being a snob.”
His eyes harden. “Will you answer, then? If I call you on that number? Late at night, for instance?”
Amelia shrugs. “Depends. Sometimes I take like, really long baths at night. You shouldn’t bring electronics in the water.”
“I could just come over and spare you that risk,” he says, drumming his fingers against the table.
This part won’t make the cut, he knows, but he wants her to hear it anyway.
Amelia leans forward, batting her eyelashes.
Her smile flattens. “Do you even have a phone?”
It’s so fucking stupid. But he laughs. He laughs the hardest at that stupid fucking joke.
Because she’s so fucking funny and stupid. He wants to fuck her stupid.
Someone yells cut.
Amelia beams at him. She wipes her lips against a napkin. Glossy pink kisses.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Andrew chuckles. He’s sweated through his clothes. He feels his age, down to the roots of his hair. But he feels good too. Rash and ready to risk it all for the bit of grease that’s still left between her breasts.
“We have to do it again sometime,” he says with a smirk, careful not to sit up too quickly.