Super for You, Bad for Me Read online

  One person with whom I did converse was Barry Hidgkin’s PA, Terri. She confirmed that the dailies from the “slime scene” had pleased Barry upon review and it seemed likely they would make it into the final cut. I was happy, of course, but that was the most emotion I could muster. I should have been thrilled, ecstatic, delirious—a week before, I would have been—but somehow, in light of recent discoveries, the news no longer held the same significance for me that once it would have. It was good news. Hell, it was excellent news. However, it wasn’t the foremost thing in my mind. I no longer believed its inclusion or exclusion would make or break my career. Thirty seconds in frame in one movie couldn’t quite compare to levitating objects with my mind.

  Today was my last on set. Principal photography was wrapping up soon, and only one major crowd scene remained. There were no lines to learn when all you had to do was stand in a group and gape, so I’d focused much of my attention for the past few days on honing my telekinetic abilities, which showed no signs of waning.

  That said, on more than one occasion, my thoughts had also strayed to Kane Teague. I replayed his kind words and dwelt on the tone of his voice and the tilt of his head. Had that glint in his eye and his dilated pupils hinted at sexual interest? It seemed highly improbable, yet he’d purposefully sought me out. Surely he didn’t do that with every random extra who shared a scene with him. I had fallen heavily, though, when the slime hit me. He might simply be the genuinely kindhearted and compassionate individual he always projected, and I shouldn’t draw too much into it. Who noticed the size of a person’s pupils in a ten-second conversation, anyway? Doubtless that imagination of mine was working overtime. Only one thing was certain: Kane Teague was perfection personified and I was, well, me.

  It was true that I hadn’t needed to shave since the slime incident, and my usually acne-prone skin was as clear and smooth as a babe’s, but I remained the same old Oswell Outterridge in all other respects. Whatever had caused my telekinetic powers hadn’t also seen fit to grace me with bulging biceps or rippling abs. I was still a few centimeters too short, with a propensity toward flab around the midriff if I was slack with my exercise routine or indulged in too much chocolate. It was hardly a package likely to entice someone who could have his pick of the world’s hottest models, if he so chose. Hell, had Kane been straight, it wouldn’t have surprised me to read that he was dating Helen of Troy.

  Kane’s comment that he hoped to see me around had probably been no more than polite banter. Although, there had been precious few opportunities for us to meet since that day because most of my scenes had been establishing shots, without any of the leads present, or else they’d featured interactions with Paul’s villain, rather than Kane’s hero. Today’s set piece was the first crowd scene with Kane since the slime attack. We were about to shoot a climactic moment from the movie, when Kane’s character, knocked unconscious by the bad guys, tumbles from a skyscraper and plummets toward the busy city street below. Aside from explosions, which his agent had apparently vetoed, according to the on-set rumor mill, Kane had insisted on performing all his own stunts, so he would be the one up there doing the wire work.

  The guy certainly had balls. Although not as tall as a real skyscraper, the rig was still pretty damned high, and I wasn’t sure I’d fancy launching myself off it, trusting the wires to catch me. Maybe I was a coward. Professional stuntmen did such things on a daily basis, after all. Besides, with a huge star like Kane Teague in the harness, no one would be taking any chances. They’d beef up any fail-safes and make the wires double thickness; I’d stake my life on it.

  I joined the others and listened to Barry’s lengthy treatise on the scene and what he wanted from us. However, when Kane appeared, decked out in cape and tights, I must admit, my attention strayed. Whether by chance or because he sensed the scrutiny, he turned his head and our eyes met. He flashed a smile. My breath caught. But then he was gone, whisked away by crew members intent on strapping him into the harness.

  Twenty minutes later, we were ready for the take. I stared up at Kane, who hung suspended by a series of lines. He was so high, I couldn’t make out his expression; his face was just a pale blob. From all the interviews I’d watched and read over the years, I knew he was something of an adventure-seeker and thrill-junkie, regularly participating in events like charity skydives and fundraising bungee jumps. Maybe he looked forward to the drop. I, on the other hand, would have been pissing my pants about now. Heights are not my thing.

  Barry yelled a few final instructions, the clapper clapped, and the scene commenced. Kane plummeted, arms and legs loose and dangling as the harness spun him. There was no need for me to act worried for the cameras; in my mind, I saw him hit the floor, brains splattering the concrete. All around me, extras gasped and screamed, but I could only stand, openmouthed, as Kane hurtled toward us. The crash mat, hidden from the camera’s view by the mass of bodies, was fast approaching. Surely they wouldn’t let him impact it at such speed? Surely they’d pull off soon?

  At what seemed to me the last possible moment, the line jerked to a stop. The sudden cessation bounced Kane, but he was close enough now that I could see his grin. When the reverberations stopped, he gripped the ropes and swung his legs down, his feet finding the mat, and the crew rushed in to fuss over him and check that all the connections and whatnot remained secure.

  We went through three more takes before Barry decided he had the shots he needed. I’d remained nervous during the second, but by the third, my concern for Kane fled and I was able to concentrate on my own performance, shaking with shock and shouting at the top of my voice.

  Since this was our final scene on the film, Barry called us over following the last take and gave the usual vote of thanks for our “commitment and hard work.” However, instead of dismissing us when done, he settled his hands on his paunch and cast one of his assessing looks over those nearest the front.

  “Everyone in the front two rows, step forward.” He waited while they did so, narrowing his eyes as he reviewed them. From the movement of his lips, I deduced that he was counting. “Good. I need you to come back for one more half day at the end of next week, to shoot an additional scene. Give Terri your names and numbers and she’ll call you in the next couple of days to confirm a time. Everyone else, thank you once again and goodbye.”

  Having been unwilling to watch Kane’s potential grisly demise from close quarters, I had kept to the back of the pack. I regretted that action now since it had cost me an extra half-day’s work, and another day with Kane, but I guessed that was just the way the cards fell. I’d gotten the slime scene, after all—not to mention all the unexpected changes that had wrought—so I couldn’t be greedy.

  I was halfway across the set when I heard my name. For a second I thought I was mistaken, but then it came again. I turned and saw Kane standing beside Barry. He was scouring the crowd, and when he spotted me, he waved and beckoned. Unease gripped me as I made my way back. Why did they want me? Had someone finally reported my absence the other day? Were they docking my pay? Were they cutting my slime scene? Or did they know exactly what that slime had done and wanted to ship me off to some government medical facility for testing? Barry’s grimace could have meant anything. However, Kane’s tentative smile helped subdue the worst of my fears. He didn’t seem the sort to smile at others’ misfortunes.

  “You’re Oswell Outterridge?” Barry said when I reached them.

  “Yes, Mr. Hidgkin.”

  “Didn’t we slime you the other day?”

  I suppressed a gulp. “Yes, sir.”

  “Hmm. Well, Kane here has asked me to include you in next week’s scene. Are you available?”

  “Me? What? I mean, yes. Yes, I’m available.”

  “Go see Terri along with the others, then.”

  Barry departed, leaving me beside Kane, utterly flummoxed at both the attention and his proximity. I knew that I should thank him for getting me the extra work, but I feared if I started speaking, I’d d
o something embarrassing, like drop to my knees and kiss his hand, pledging eternal devotion in the manner of the slaves he’d freed from their dire fate in a recent sci-fi-fantasy blockbuster, thereby proving myself a complete nerd as well as a weirdo. It soon became apparent that Kane was waiting for me to speak first, though, so I had to say something.

  “Why?” The question came out sounding far too accusatory and disgruntled, so I hastened to add, “I mean, thanks, thank you so much. But why did you ask for me?”

  Kane glanced down, looking sheepish. “I’m afraid it’s entirely selfish. We haven’t had a chance to talk since the other day, so I used my influence to create one.” He raised his head, and the corners of his mouth lifted. “What’s the good of stardom if you don’t make the most of it when you can? Right?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess. Well, that’s… kind of you. Though I’m not sure why you’re so keen to talk to me, of all people.”

  “I was thinking, hoping, that we could maybe grab a coffee together next week.”

  “You want to get coffee? With me?”

  Now I was completely confused. Kane asked me out on dates all the time in my dreams, and I always had a suave and witty response that swept him off his feet. I’d never expected to find myself in such a scenario in real life, however, and I hadn’t a clue how to respond. Unless this was a dream. It didn’t feel like one, but there was only one way to be absolutely certain.

  “Could you pinch me?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Pinch me. I’m just having trouble accepting that Kane Teague is asking me out on a—” Shit! What if he had never intended for me to view it as a date? Now I looked presumptuous and full of myself.

  “On a date?” Kane glanced around the fast-emptying set and then looked back at me. “Well, I am.” He tried to shove his hands into his pockets. When he realized he was still in costume, he folded them across his chest instead, only to change his mind again seconds later and let them hang loose at his sides. “Perhaps it would be easier if you think of me as Kane Teague, an average lad from Kent, rather than Kane Teague, movie star.” He shifted his gaze to his shoes. “If you can’t do that, then maybe this won’t work out, after all.”

  “I can try.” I spoke too quickly and tried to moderate my next words. “I mean… I don’t really know ‘Kane Teague, an average lad from Kent.’”

  His eyes met mine again, and it was like all my best fantasies rolled into one. I still wasn’t entirely convinced I wasn’t going to wake and discover I’d dreamt this exchange.

  “That’s why I want us to go for coffee—to get to know one another better. I like you, Oswell. And I remember you. It’s not a common name, after all, and you’ve written me three letters over the last few years.”

  “Oh.” Heat spread across my cheeks as I recalled some of the effusive things I’d said in the aforementioned missives.

  “I’m sorry I never replied—there are so many these days, it’s impossible to respond to them all—but yours really stuck with me. I kept them all. In fact, in your case, I feared to reply more than anything, lest it broke the illusion. Your letters were so different from the others. I felt as if you wanted to get to know me. Me as a person, rather than just a persona. And from your words, I felt as if I knew you, too, and I liked you. So when I discovered who you were, following that scene….” He moistened his lips. “It’s been a long time since I’ve formed such a strong, immediate connection with someone, even if it was only from a one-sided correspondence. I can’t make you any promises, but I want the opportunity to see what’s possible, what could happen, if we took this off the page and made it two-way.”

  “Yes. To the coffee, I mean. I’d like to get to know Kane from Kent.”

  More blood rushed to my cheeks, and I began to sense other things too: the crash mat beneath my feet, the harness that swayed behind Kane, and the painted boards and blocks that made up the set. Fearful of unintentionally launching projectiles, I stomped down on the developing bonds as best I could.

  “Great!” Kane’s grin was infectious; I found myself beaming in response. “Are you staying here until next week?”

  “No. I only booked a room until tonight. I’ll be heading back home tomorrow morning.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Outer London. But I could come back before the scene next week, or stay on after.”

  Kane shook his head. “After we wrap here, I fly straight to LA to do the press circuit for Two Hearts, One Gun. But the day before your callback, I only have to shoot in the morning. We could meet that afternoon, if you can get here by then.”

  “Yeah, I can make that.” It would mean forking out for an overnight stay, but I could just about afford it. For a single night, I might even manage something a tad more salubrious than Mrs. Pearse’s Guesthouse. Anything would be an improvement on that. I’d doubted she’d have me back, in any case.

  “You know the nearby town? There’s a coffee shop a few streets down from the main shopping strip, near the church.”

  I nodded. “I know the place.”

  “Meet me there at two thirty next Thursday?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Mr. Teague?” Kane’s assistant made a hesitant approach, looking everywhere but at me. “They need to touch up your makeup before the next scene.”

  “No rest for the wicked.” Kane shrugged and shot me an apologetic look. “I’ve gotta run. Until next week?”

  “Until next week.”

  Kane accepted the bottle of water his assistant proffered and strode away, drinking as he walked. Meanwhile, I stared after him, elated yet still bemused. I was going on a date with Kane Teague, but I had no idea how or why. He’d said he liked me, liked my letters; however, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he saw to like in either my person or my words. Still, the fact that I hadn’t woken suggested this was really happening and wasn’t another dream, so I supposed I would have to wait until next week to find out more. Whether I could survive that long without the anticipation causing a stroke was another matter.

  Chapter Six

  ON THURSDAY, I sat on my sofa bed and strummed my guitar, reclining against the cushions with my legs stretched out in front of me. Since I rarely received visitors, I never bothered to return the bed to its sofa state during the day. I wasn’t overly fond of making it each morning either, so the top sheet and blankets remained scrunched at my feet during the daylight hours, until I reached down and pulled them up and over me at night. Indolence played a role in this, I admit—I’ve never been much of a one for tidying and cleaning—but the accommodation itself was also partly to blame.

  My flat was not extensive or spacious. It consisted of a bathroom so small (or compact, as the real estate agent had called it), my feet were technically in the shower when I sat on the loo and a single-room living area with a tiny basic kitchenette in one corner. Given the lack of room to maneuver, the only items of furniture I could fit in were the sofa bed, a squat three-drawer chest that doubled—or should that be tripled?—as both bedside table and coffee table, and a metal clothing rail on wheels. My sofa bed performed the functions of lounge suite, bed, and dining table. Nevertheless, I couldn’t grouch. After all, I had a London address and lived close enough to a Tube station, I had easy access around the city as auditions and casual work demanded.

  Speaking of the latter, in usual circumstances, with one job over, I’d have already started searching for work in a bar or restaurant while I, once again, awaited my big break, or at least my next small-time acting gig. On this occasion, however, with the return to the studio mere days away, I’d decided to hold off on my quest. For the most part, I’d tried to relax and work on some new songs, but all I could pen were sappy love songs, with lyrics that read like cheesy greetings cards. In any case, two other things had occupied the bulk of my attention, as you might expect.

  Naturally, my mind strayed to Kane Teague at least once every five minutes, wondering what he was doing or recalli
ng the brief moments we’d shared on set. Me and Kane Teague. Was it truly possible? I knew I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, counting my chickens and all that. It was coffee, not a marriage proposal. When I got to know him better, I might find I didn’t like him. Nah, I was fooling myself. I could no longer muster even the smidgen of envy I’d clung to in the past. I was a goner. It was far more likely that he’d realize he’d been wrong about me, that whatever he’d thought he saw wasn’t really there.

  Not a relaxing or comforting thought by any means, but I had to be ready for the worst. I had to school myself not to be too distraught when the afternoon coffee proved to be our one and only meeting—if he came at all. It was more than most people got, and I ought to be grateful for that, and not set my hopes at unrealistic heights. My mother always said, “Plan for the worst, son, and then the good, when it comes, will shine that much brighter.” She’s a good soul, my mother.

  My other preoccupation was with my new abilities. They persisted, intriguing and yet infuriating at the same time. Some days I believed that I had a firm hold on them and understood both their limitations and my capabilities. Other days things would happen over which I had little or no control.

  This morning was a case in point. I’d woken to a terrible crash as all the objects that I’d floated in my slumber fell to the ground. Nothing broken this time, but then all the fragile items had already bitten the dust earlier in the week. Sleep was the worst. It wasn’t every night, but most. Actually, it tended to happen when I’d been dreaming. Something in my subconscious mind latched on to things during the course of my dreams. More concerning was when it happened during the day. Certain emotions, such as anxiety, seemed to act as the catalyst, but at least awake I was aware of what was going on around me and could regain control. I supposed it was one of those things that would take time to master, and it wasn’t as if I could call the local superhero helpline for answers.