Lucy Holliday 2-Book Collection: A Night In with Audrey Hepburn and A Night In with Marilyn Monroe. Lucy Holliday
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their favourite way of proving to people what a big shot they are.’
‘Be fair to the poor guy,’ the alien extra says. ‘Maybe he got stuck in traffic.’
‘If there’s anything at all he got stuck in, it’s more likely to be some leggy supermodel.’
And then I stop talking.
Because the alien extra is taking off his helmet, and it turns out that he’s not an extra at all.
It’s Dillon O’Hara.
‘That was fun,’ he says, a wide grin spreading over his face. His accent is Irish now, instead of the English one he – I now realize – has been putting on for the last couple of minutes. ‘I felt a bit like a prince in a fairy tale. You know, the kind who disguises himself as a peasant in order to mingle with the real peasants and find out what they truly think about him.’
I’m mortified.
But at the same time, I have to say, I’m outraged. Because not only has he just quite deliberately set me up, he’s also – I’m fairly sure – just pretty much called me a peasant.
‘I didn’t mean to imply,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind, ‘that I think you’re a peasant.’
‘I should bloody well hope not.’
‘But then, to be fair to me, you did just call me – now, what was it? – Lord Chief Arsehole.’
‘That was different …’
‘That’s true. It was behind my back, for one thing.’
‘It wasn’t behind your back!’
‘Well, it wasn’t to my face.’
‘You set me up! You … entrapped me.’
‘Oh, stop getting your knickers in a twist. If you’re wearing any knickers beneath that thing,’ he adds. ‘I mean, Jesus, these costumes are like a bloody sauna as they are, without adding extra layers beneath them, aren’t they?’
I would say something in reply – I’m not sure what, exactly, because it’s not often that I get asked by strange men if I’m wearing any knickers, let alone strange men like Dillon O’Hara who, now that I come to notice it, is even better looking in real life than he looked on the pages of Cass’s Grazia – but I’m stunned into silence by the fact that he’s starting to take his clothes off.
Seriously: he’s undoing the Velcro down the front of his jumpsuit, peeling the fabric off his shoulders and down to his waist and then – oh, dear God – pulling his T-shirt up and over his head to reveal the most perfect torso I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
I’m not exaggerating: his shoulders are wide and packed tight with lean muscle, he has a smooth, rock-hard chest, and an actual, proper six-pack where most men – my horrible ex-boyfriend Daniel, for example – sport varying sizes of beer gut.
‘Ahhhhh.’ He lets out a sigh of satisfaction. ‘That’s better. They told me, the nice Wardrobe girls, that I’d be more comfortable if I took my T-shirt off, but I got all shy.’ He grins at me, in an extremely not-shy sort of way. ‘I assumed they were just after my body.’
I can’t tell, dazzled as I still am by the ridiculous perfection of the body in front of me, whether his cheeky arrogance is attractive or annoying.
I think, probably, it’s fifty-fifty.
For now, anyway, I need to concentrate on not staring while Dillon swivels round and takes something out of the back pocket of his jeans.
It’s an open packet of Benson & Hedges, from which he’s pulling a cigarette.
‘No!’ I yelp, and then, because he looks rather startled, I explain: ‘I mean, you can’t. Vanessa will have your guts for garters if you light up in costume.’
‘Vanessa … Vanessa … oh, you mean the scary production lady?
It’s reassuring to realize that Dillon is as scared of Vanessa as the rest of us.
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m the big star, right? I should be allowed to do whatever I want, whenever I want?’
I think he’s joking …
‘Or,’ he adds, with another of those grins, ‘I could just nip round the back of this catering bus and have a sneaky smoke where Vanessa won’t catch me. Might be safest all round, hey?’
‘I think that would probably be best.’
‘Join me?’
‘Huh?’
‘Join me? In a cigarette?’
‘Oh … I don’t smoke.’
The moment the words leave my lips, I regret saying them.
I mean, I don’t have to go all ga-ga over the man to be able to admit Dillon’s attractions. And yet here I’ve just turned down the opportunity to continue this little chat – while he remains, I should point out, completely shirtless – just because I don’t actually smoke cigarettes.
Which is nuts, because it’s not like I’ve never smoked. I used to. Admittedly only when I was drunk, and not since I was about nineteen, when I went on a trip to Paris with Olly and smoked so many overpowering French cigarettes that it put me off for life.
But is this sort of hair-splitting worth missing out on another few minutes in Dillon’s company, when he’s never likely to exchange another word with me again?
‘What I mean to say is that I try not to smoke.’
‘Oh, well, if you’ve given up, then all credit to you—’
‘No, no, I haven’t given up! I’ve failed completely at it! Love smoking. Love it to death. Literally to death, probably, the amount I smoke!’
‘Then be my guest.’ He hands me the cigarette he’s holding, takes another for himself and then reaches into his back pocket again for a lighter.
‘So you’re one of the extras, right?’ he asks, flicking the lighter on and holding it out towards me.
‘Mnnh-hnngh.’ This is because I’ve got the cigarette in my mouth. ‘I’ve sort of been promoted, though,’ I add, once the end is lit. ‘I mean, I’ve got my first line to speak today. It’s not exactly a proper part, and obviously I get to wear the ugliest costume on set, but …’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen worse.’ He takes an expert puff on his own cigarette, blowing the smoke in the opposite direction from me (which is courteous of him, seeing as I’m technically smoking too; I just haven’t risked actually inhaling yet in case I cough and sputter, unattractively, all over him). ‘I’ve an ex or two that looked a bit like that,’ – he nods at the alien head I’m clutching in my hand – ‘without their slap on.’
This is unlikely. But I appreciate his generosity.
‘Anyway, if you’re one of the extras, you probably know a thing or two about the way things work around here.’
‘Work?’
‘Yeah, every show I’ve ever worked on, the extras are always the ones who know how it all works. Who’s the biggest diva. Who’s got the biggest coke problem. Who’s getting it on in the props storeroom. I mean, there’s always somebody getting it on in the props storeroom, isn’t there?’
Given that I’m about to furnish my entire flat from the props storeroom, I can only hope that he’s joking about this.
‘So?’ he asks. ‘Dish the dirt! Tell me who to avoid, who to cultivate, who I’m going to get a stonking great crush on …’
‘Don’t you have a girlfriend?’