Chameleon

I write the script - it's my only purpose in this. But I want to see what happens to the characters I write and the actors who play them; and for this, I need to talk to leading actor Ben Barnes...

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2. Write

My phone bleated loudly, irritably, dragging me from the blissful snooze I had slipped into whilst working late. I tossed aside my notebook, filled with scribbled ideas and character traits.

"Hello?" My voice was groggy.

"Hey, is this Melissa Stewart?" Only my teachers ever called me Melissa, but I wasn't about to correct him.

"This is Ben, I'm playing Jack," he said.

"Yeah, I know..." I sounded a bit pathetic, but I really had no idea what to say.

"Sorry for calling so late," he apologised. I glanced over at the clock, ticking away minutes past midnight.

"I'm still at the set," he continued, "but we're having a bit of a crisis down here. Herb says he needs you to submit the script earlier."

"But it's not finished yet," I protested.

"Seems pretty unreasonable, doesn't it?"

I laughed, surprised at his comment. "You have no idea."

"He's called you a cab, apparently it can't wait until tomorrow."

"Great," I grumbled.

"I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," I said honestly. "See you in a bit." I hung up and chucked my phone onto the sofa. Herb has twisted my schedule again, and I was sick of it. I literally don't have time to write out a decent set of script in a couple of hours - it takes preparation, proof-reading, checking with the editors and directors. All he does is turn up, yell, get paid, go home. And repeat.

Does writing for a film seem glamorous? Exciting? Different challenges to face each day?

Nope. It's really not anymore.

At least I hadn't really screwed up my first conversation with Ben. I had to stay professional, but I was thrilled that I had just held a conversation with an actor whose work I had admired for years. 

I pulled on my shoes and coat and headed outside, sitting on the doorstep, waiting for the cab. The streets were never quiet here, even in the fresh morning hours. Headlights raced, tinging the blackness with a momentary glow. A party a few streets away was going strong, the bass resonating too loudly for my liking. I took some lungfuls of the crisp air and stuffed my gloveless hands into my pockets.

I'd finish this script, bid goodbye to Ben, and move on.

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