Acting The Part

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We’d been filming in the south of France for only two weeks when rumors of a real-life romance between Mikhail and I spread through the British tabloids like mold on warm mayonnaise. All completely—semi—false, of course. But try arguing that when there are pictures of Britain’s “most eligible bachelor” spreading sunscreen all over your American ass. “Friends can spread sunscreen on each other on their day off at the beach,” I told my publicist.

She laughed. “Is that your official statement?”

I’d been warned about working with both Mikhail Sommerville and Derek Jackson, the director. The unlikely progeny of a beautiful, dark-haired Russian actress and a British physicist, Mikhail had an international reputation as a heartbreaker. He had a literature degree from Oxford and would occasionally moonlight as a playwright for the Royal Theatre in London. I’d never worked with anyone like him before—actors generally being rather blank in all the ways that matter. My agent told me he had ridiculously high standards and a knack for making actresses cry.

The first time we actually met was in a tiny Parisian café near the Musée D’Orsay. Derek led me over to Mikhail—sipping a noisette and reading a French newspaper, dressed all in black, dark brown hair raked back and off his face—and made the introductions.

“Lydia Castle, I’d like you to meet the infamous Mikhail Sommerville, your co-star.”

“Infamous, eh?” Mikhail stood up, looking a little embarrassed, and held out his hand. At least six-foot-two, he towered me.

His cheeks dimpled slightly as he smiled. I squeezed his hand. He held onto it a second longer than necessary, lowering his chin and staring into my eyes—as though we were in on the same joke. I have to admit, I swooned a little.

I’d seen enough pictures of him to know that he was gorgeous, but I hadn’t expected the effect he would have on me. Unlike most of the pretty Hollywood boys, Mikhail was reported to have something rarer than good looks—character. He actually looked like he was thinking, lots, about everything. I could see that he was sizing me up.

Perhaps it was just my insecurities, but I thought he looked unconvinced that I was the right woman to play a moody, passionate, medieval writer named Sandrine Farot—feisty enough to dare to write when few women could read, with a sexual appetite to match the perverted king’s. I’d been dying for a role like this ever since I knew I wanted to act.

The three of us sat down. The mid-morning sun streaked through the floor-to-ceiling café windows. Derek slapped Mikhail on the shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t greet Lydia the way you did Juliette Binoche.”

Mikhail burst out laughing. His broad, easy smile was mesmerizing. I looked from one to the other for an explanation. Mikhail sighed, still looking rather pleased with himself.

“When we were filming Sun Into Midnight, and I met Juliette for the first time, rather than shaking her hand, like I just did yours, I laid a wet one on her.”

“What?” I exclaimed, looking at Derek for confirmation; he nodded and shook his head in amusement and exasperation. “Why would you do that?”

Mikhail shrugged nonchalantly. “It was an intense film. I needed to make sure we had the right kind of chemistry to pull it off.”

“So what did she do?” I had to know.

“What do you think?” He said, exchanging a look with Derek. “She slapped me.”

“And do we have the right kind of chemistry?” I heard myself asking.

“I don’t know, let me see,” he said, darting a hand quickly behind my head and pressing his mouth against mine. Fair enough, I’d asked for it—and was glad I did. His lips felt soft and solid at the same time. My mouth was slightly open, as was his. I felt the tip of his tongue just barely touching my bottom lip. I got shivers on top of my goose bumps.

When he finally let go—just as abruptly—and sat back in his seat, sipping his noisette as though nothing had happened, I felt drunk. I had no doubt that we had the right kind of chemistry for a Derek Jackson film. I couldn’t wait to start.

We didn’t see each other again until a month later when filming began. At the time, Mikhail was in the throes of a vicious divorce with wife number two, a French songbird named Maxine. His cell phone was constantly ringing off the hook and it was understood that he might be scarce around the set.

This time, we bumped into each other over the lavish breakfast buffet at the Cassis Hotel, located in the heart of the fortressed French town of Carcassonne, where most of the main crew was staying for the duration of filming.

“I recommend the banana pancakes,” he grinned and offered, slapping his cell phone shut, dressed more casually in a white T-shirt and frazzled jeans. There was a hint of a British accent, his Rs and Ss hardened by having Russian as a second language—a real European mutt. He also looked a lot younger that morning than he had at the café, more like his thirty-five years. His light brown eyes, almost the color of desert sand, danced mischievously as he continued to stare at me.

“If we’re going to be having sex in front of twelve people in a month, we should probably have breakfast together,” he said. “What do you think?”

My stomach dropped to my shoes like a broken elevator. “Why is Derek waiting that long to do the scene?” I asked, delicately selecting fruit for my plate as though I weren’t sweating like a teenager.

The scene we were both referring to was an intense, emotionally fraught collision between our two characters. The sex was supposed to be the “shred each other to pieces” kind. From watching Derek’s previous three films, I knew he was capable of making it happen. My knees had quivered just reading the scene. I’d been desperately trying to shed my tame, good-girl image since my breakaway role in a generic romantic comedy; if a Derek Jackson film didn’t do it, then nothing would!

“He always does this,” Mikhail answered. “He wants the tension to build. The scene won’t work unless we’re actually dying to fuck each other for real.” He said this so nonchalantly you’d think we were talking about the history of steam-engine design. Meanwhile, every time he made any kind of reference to us having sex, my clit would pulse against my silk underwear. If he was trying “to build tension,” it was working beautifully. I already wanted him.

Over the next week Mikhail “let himself go” at Derek’s instance. His character was supposed to slowly descend into madness. His facial hair, carefully monitored by the makeup crew, was beginning to cast just the right five o’clock shadow. It made him look more handsome than ever.

“Tomorrow I get to touch your breasts,” he whispered into my ear a week and a half into filming—again, over the breakfast buffet. I almost dropped my pain au chocolat into my coffee. He’d walked a few paces ahead of me by this point. He stopped at the fruit platter and turned around to gauge my reaction, his mouth twitching into a playful smile.

I’d argued a long time with my agent about whether to do the nude scenes. Once you do them, there’s no turning back. We squeezed an extra million dollars out of the deal. I’d already known at that point that Mikhail would be my co-star and thought nothing of it—one giant, masculine mitt on your breast was bound to be the same as another. Wow, was I ever wrong! I was a wreck just thinking about it; Mikhail had a knack for making me feel like a nervous twit, even though he was only six years older.

The next morning, I thought I was going to throw up. This was by far the sexiest scene I’d ever done—and it was just the beginning. This had to go well; Derek was taking a huge chance on me.

I skipped breakfast. I didn’t want anyone to know how nervous I was, and I knew Mikhail would see right through me. The last thing I wanted him to think was that I was a twittering, insipid American who squirmed at the mention of “boob.”

Wardrobe fussed with the opening of my bodice for nearly an hour, opening and closing the front to make sure Mikhail wouldn’t have problems. I tried to concentrate on something else, but every time Lisa from wardrobe grabbed the front laces with her hand to check if the tension was right, I pictured Mikhail doing the same. How on earth had I agreed to this? I debated calling my agent up and saying I hadn’t been in my right mind when I’d signed the contract.

I looked at myself in the mirror one last time before making the five-minute trek to the set. My long, light brown hair was arranged in a messy updo, tendrils hanging haphazardly down my face. There was a distinct blush on my cheeks, and my lips looked abnormally moist. Normally, the makeup and costuming put me into character, made me forget myself; I became my character. But all I could think about was Mikhail, and not Marcel and Sandrine.

All of the narrow streets were made of cobblestones; I walked onto the set in running shoes, with my billowy, multi-layered gown bunched and balanced in my arms.

The set had been constructed in the actual castle, completely transformed to look as authentic as possible. The scene was to take place at the entrance to a tight, spiral staircase. Every eye turned in my direction as I bent down to replace my shoes. When I stood up again my gaze instantly found his.

He was standing near the entrance to the staircase, wearing a long, tailored black overcoat, trim black pants with high boots, and a loose white shirt. He grinned. I readjusted the massive pile of fabric in my arms and walked over to him as confidently as I could.

“Wardrobe fixed the bodice issue?” Derek asked.

“Uh, yup,” I fumbled.

“Listen,” Derek continued, taking me aside. Mikhail’s eyes followed us. I couldn’t break his eye contact. “Mikhail and I were talking yesterday. I think we need to alter the scene a little.”

“Oh?” Out of the corner of my eye I could still see Mikhail watching us, his face still and observant.

“I know it’s not in your contract, and I know I’m asking a lot here, but I think it’ll work a lot better if Marcel actually kisses Sandrine’s breast.” He waited for the bomb to drop.

My mouth hung open. I felt cornered. I respected Derek’s genius. I trusted his opinion; no fewer than four actresses had earned an Academy Award nomination through one of his films. But kiss my breast?

I looked over at Mikhail. His expression was impossible to read. He walked over to us.

“Lydia?” Derek looked concerned.

“Yup,” I said, as Mikhail reached us and put his hand on the small of my back. The gesture was both protective and controlling, at the same time. It had the perfect effect. I suddenly felt safe. If it had been anyone else—no way in hell!

“So will you try it?” Derek asked.

I looked at Mikhail again. He smiled and raised his left eyebrow ever so slightly. My eyes rested on his mouth. I imagined those full, wide lips on my actual, real, sensitive breast—not a prop, my breast.

“Oh God,” I whimpered. “Fine.”

“That’s our girl!” Derek slapped me on the shoulder. “Now remember, it’s not binding. We don’t have to use the scene. We’ll shoot it both ways and see what works.”

“OK.” I was down to monosyllables.

The three of us walked back to the staircase.

“Places everyone,” Derek yelled. Everyone scrambled, leaving Mikhail and I on the set.

“So remember,” Derek instructed, taking his place beside the cameraman. “You’ve just been forced to sit through an interminable dinner with the king. Marcel is furious with you, Sandrine, for entertaining the king’s advances. You can’t risk being caught with him or the gig is up. Ready?”

Derek waited a moment while I tried to concentrate myself into character. “OK,” I said.

“OK, quiet everyone. And…rolling!”

“What in bloody hell was that?!” Mikhail growled, grabbing me by the upper arm as I took my first step up the staircase.

“Get your paws off me! No man has, nor ever will, own me!” I squirmed away and went to take another step.

“This is not about ownership, and you know it!” He had me pinned against the wall, his mouth inches from mine. I could feel myself flitting in and out of character: brazen Sandrine one moment, breathless Lydia the next. I thought I detected Mikhail doing the same. We should have ended the scene and started again, but neither of us called it.

He went to kiss me. I dodged and turned my head to the side, as planned. He grabbed my bodice by the front laces with one hand and made me stare into his eyes. His knuckles pressed against my sternum, making the bodice constrict my breathing even more. I clutched at his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” I snarled. “If he catches us, it is done.”

“So be it, then,” he said, twisting the fistful of delicate silk so that the fabric gave.

I had expected my breasts to pop right out of the bodice. They didn’t. The stiffness of the bodice made it stay in place, my nipples still covered. Mikhail looked surprised as well. We stared at each other, both of us clearly out of character. Then Mikhail slipped one hand into the bodice and cupped my breast, pressing me even further against the cold wall with his thighs. I continued to stare at him. My heart was pounding. His eyes felt like knives. I was on the verge of calling for Derek to cut. I knew it was Mikhail touching me, and not Marcel. I knew this was us playing the scene.

He ran his thumb gently, slowly over my nipple. I felt it spring to life under his touch. He angled the tip of his thumb so his nail grazed the erect nub back and forth. We both knew that no one else could see this—this was not for the eventual viewer’s pleasure. It was for mine. I leaned my head back and moaned, just as the script demanded. I was absolved of responsibility for my reaction.

Suddenly popping back into character, Mikhail squeezed my breast harder, tugging the bodice with his free hand. It slipped completely off, pinned between my hips and the wall.

“I don’t care if you bed the fucking emperor himself,” he said against my lips. “It will never change anything between us.”

I still had a flimsy white batik shirt on, ripped down the middle, exposing my cleavage. Mikhail let go of my breast momentarily, seizing me by the shoulders. In one swift motion he pulled the shirt down around my waist, pinning my arms against my sides with the sleeves. I was completely topless down to the waist. The wall against my back was freezing. I tried not to flinch. This felt so overwhelming, the last thing I wanted to do was start the scene all over again. I forced myself to stay with it.

“Stop this Marcel,” I tried to squirm away again, my voice hinting at the emotional torture of wanting something so bad you’re ready to go to hell for it, but stopping yourself nonetheless.

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