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‘Out,’ he said. Grunted, really.
‘You have an exam tomorrow.’
Dev shrugged. He’d had no intention of turning up. He dumped his keys on a sideboard, and began to head past the stairs to the hallway that led to his bedroom, tossing his reply over his shoulder. ‘I’m not going to be an accountant, Dad.’
Patrick Cooper’s slippered feet were still heavy as they thumped down each carpeted step. Dev didn’t pause. He’d heard it all before.
He’d gone to uni to please his mum, only. But three semesters in, and he’d had it. He knew where his life was leading, and it didn’t involve a calculator and a navy-blue suit.
His father picked up his pace behind him, but Dev remained deliberately slow. Unworried. Casual.
He was unsurprised to feel the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. But when Dev kept walking, the way Patrick wrenched at his shoulder, spinning him around...yes, that shocked him.
His arm came up, his fingers forming into a fist. It was automatic, the result of the crowd he’d been hanging with, the occasional push and shove at a pub. He wouldn’t have hit his dad—he knew that. Knew that.
But his dad thought he would. He could see it in his eyes, that belief of what Dev was capable of. Or rather, the lack of belief.
Dev saw the fist coming. Maybe he didn’t have enough time to move, maybe he did—either way he stood stock still.
His father’s knuckles connected with his jaw with enough force to twist his body and push him back into the wall. And for it to hurt. A lot. He tasted blood, felt it coating his teeth.
But he remained standing, half expecting more.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, his dad fell to his knees, holding his fist in his other hand.
For long moments, it was perfectly silent. It was as if neither of them could breathe.
Then a clatter on the stairs heralded his mum’s arrival. She gasped as she came into view, then ran to Patrick, kneeling beside him and wrapping her arm around his shoulder.
She looked up at Dev, her gaze beseeching. ‘What happened here?’
‘I’m quitting uni, Mum,’ he said. ‘I’m an actor.’ His whole face ached as he spoke, but the words were strong and clear.
‘That’s a dream, not a career.’ His dad didn’t say the words, he spat them out.
‘It’s what I want.’ What he needed to do.
‘I won’t support you, Devlin. I won’t stand by and watch you fail—’
‘I know that,’ he interrupted. How well he knew that.
That his family wouldn’t support him. That not one of them believed he’d succeed.
‘Good,’ his dad said. ‘Then leave. You’re not welcome here.’
It didn’t surprise him. It had been coming for so long. His mum, the only reason he’d stayed, looked stricken.
He nodded. Then walked back up the hall the way he’d come.
He didn’t say a word. No dramatic farewell. No parting words.
But he knew he’d never be back.
Graeme slowed to a stop at a paddock gate before a security guard waved them through. A dirt track wound its way over the smallest of hills, and then they were amongst the trailers that sprawled across Unit Base. The set was vast—yesterday the producer had told him it was the corner of a working sheep and canola farm. It spread across the almost perfectly flat countryside, overlooked by an irregular ridge of mountains. Yesterday, Dev’s gaze had explored a landscape dotted with eucalyptus, rectangular fields of lurid yellow canola and paddocks desperately trying to hold onto winter hints of green. Today it was just a blur.
But something caught his eye as Graeme parked beside his trailer. Through the car window he followed that splash of colour with his eyes.
A woman in a bright blue dress, more like an oversized jumper, really, was barrelling rapidly along the path towards him. She was unmistakeable, her mop of choppy blonde hair shining like pale gold in the sun.
Ruby Bell.
She’d slipped his mind as soon as his nightly battle for sleep had begun, but now she’d sprung right back to the front, in full Technicolor.
He knew what she was: a distraction. A temporary focus.
But one he needed.
He was here. And thanks to Graeme—via Veronica—he’d be here on set each day, right on time. But right now he couldn’t make himself care about the film, about his role.
Oh, he’d perform, right on cue, and to the best of his ability—as much as he was capable of, anyway.
But he wouldn’t care. Couldn’t care. Any more.
How was that for irony?
With his death, his father had—finally—got his way.
He was on time—just.
Ruby watched as he got out of the car, all loose-limbed and casual.
In contrast, she felt as stiff as a board. She kept making herself take deep, supposedly calming breaths as she gripped the papers in her hand, and reminding herself that she could do this—that this was her job.
It was just incredibly unfortunate it was her job. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really, when Paul had taken her aside this morning and made her task clear: keep Dev on time and on schedule.
All the Dev-related rumours—a new one this morning hinting at a lot more than tardiness—should’ve made Paul’s request a no-brainer.
Yet, she’d actually gasped when Paul had told her, and then had to make up some unfortunate lie about swallowing a fly, accompanied with much poorly acted faux coughing.
Once again Dev had managed to short-circuit her brain.
Because the task of babysitting talent was a perfectly typical request for the production co-ordinator, who, amongst other things, was responsible for organising actors’ lives while on location.
Actors were notoriously unreliable. Putting together the call sheet was one thing—having anyone actually stick to it was something else entirely.
As she watched Dev watch her, a hip propped against his car, it was suddenly clear that getting him to do anything—at all—that she wanted could prove difficult.
This was not the man who’d smiled at her in the Lucyville pub last night, or who’d teased her on the street. Neither was he the man with the smug expression and the coffee stains on his shirt.
This man was completely unreadable.
‘Good morning!’ she managed, quite well, she thought.
He nodded sharply.
She thrust the portion of the script he’d be rehearsing today in his direction. ‘Here are today’s sides,’ she said.
He took them from her with barely a glance. It was as if he was waiting for something—to figure something out.
‘And?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be taking you to be fitted by Costume, first,’ she said. ‘Then Hair and Make-up would like to see you prior to your rehearsal.’
‘And you’ll be escorting me?’
Ruby swallowed. ‘Yes. I’ll be looking after you today.’
It was immediately obvious that was the wrong thing to say. Something flickered in his gaze.
‘I have my call sheet. I know where I need to be. I don’t require hand-holding.’
‘Paul asked that I...’
His glare told her that was another mistake, so she let the words drift off.
Then tried again. ‘Mr Cooper, I’m here to help you.’
Somehow, those words changed everything, as if she’d flicked a switch. From defensive, and shuttered, his expression was suddenly...considering?
But Ruby didn’t think for a moment that he’d simply accepted she was just doing her job. This was different—more calculating.
‘Here to help,’ he said to himself, as if he was turning the words over in his head.
Then he smiled, a blinding, movie-star smile.
And Ruby had absolutely no idea what had just happened.
It was dumb—really dumb—that he was surprised.
Heck—if he were the producer on this film, he’d have done the same thing.
It didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
He’d never been this kind of actor before; he’d never needed to be led around on some imaginary leash. Lord—he’d thought Graeme was bad enough.
And, of course, it had to be Ruby in charge of him.
It was a total waste of her time, of course. On set, he was fine, and not the fine he told himself he was whenever he was convincing himself to fall asleep.
He followed just slightly behind her. She was talking, quite rapidly, but he really wasn’t paying much attention.
She was nervous, for sure. He did like that.
And he did like how the tables had turned. Last night she’d called the shots. Today—it was him.
Juvenile? Yes.
Fun? He thought so.
So Paul thought he needed looking after? No problem.
He’d be that actor, then. The ridiculous type who wanted everything in their trailer periwinkle blue, or who would only drink a particular brand of mineral water—not available locally, of course.
He’d prove Paul right—and irritate the self-important producer in the process.
A small win.
And it would push Ruby’s buttons too—trigger that flare of response he’d already witnessed a handful of times, and was eager to experience again.
Dev smiled, just as Ruby stopped before a hulking white trailer and turned to face him.
Her forehead wrinkled as she studied him, as if she knew something was up.
He just smiled even more broadly.
Yes, this was an excellent idea.
Completely focused on the email she was reading—Arizona’s agent, confirming that his client was available to attend an opening in Sydney the following week—Ruby picked up her loudly ringing phone from her overflowing desk without glancing at the screen.
‘Ruby Bell.’
‘Ruby.’ A pause. ‘Good afternoon.’
There was no point pretending she didn’t recognise that voice. Her disloyal body practically shivered in recognition.
‘How can I help, Mr Cooper?’ she asked with determined brightness, her eyes not wavering from her laptop screen, although the email’s words and sentences had somehow become an indecipherable alphabet jumble.
Even so, she tapped randomly on her keyboard. For her benefit, mostly, a reminder that she was a busy film professional who received phone calls from famous actors All The Time. She was working. This was her job.
No need for her mouth to go dry or for her cheeks to warm.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have a problem.’
‘Yes?’ she prompted, with some trepidation.
He’d been scrupulously polite this morning. Allowed her to take him from appointment to appointment. He’d chatted inanely about the weather, and charmed every person she introduced him to.
But...
