Fat Funny Famous

Chapter 16

Reshoots. It's a word every actor, director and producer loathes – because if you did the thing right the first time, you don't need to go back and film again. Reshoots mean that someone has arsed things up. Sometimes, the writers are to blame; the narrative isn't working and they need to add or change something critical to the story. Occasionally, a studio exec gets passionate about a scene they feel the film desperately needs and we have to pander to the person writing the cheques.

This time? This one is completely my fault. Well, mine and Erik's. Olivia had called me last week to let me know that the test audiences loved the film – like, completely, utterly, obsessively adored it – except for one scene. "So sorry, Mila!" Olivia had trilled. "But it will be fun to get everyone together one last time, right?"

"Right," I'd said, looking forward to it as much as squeezing an ingrown pubic hair on a live stream while my creepy high school Religious Studies teacher watched on and offered detailed commentary.

So, here we are. We're back on the clifftop again. It's another one of those eerie timey-wimey feelings that happens on set: it's been months since we filmed this scene the first time, but everything is uncannily the same. Not just my wardrobe, but the weather, the crew, the catering; I'm pretty sure I've even seen the same one-legged seagull skulking near the fold-out tables, hoping to score lunch.

But while everything looks the same, it couldn't feel more different. The last time I stood here, I was filled with luminous joy, Erik and I so enamoured with each other, we couldn't keep the grins from our faces. This time, all I feel is dread.

"Mr Brear is on his way," calls out one of the production assistants.

Every cell in my body vibrates in response. I haven't seen him since the night I left him in his hotel room in Sydney. I haven't functioned properly since then either. No tears or grief, but I've been a zombie, a being without a soul, a person who now says, 'that's so funny,' instead of actually laughing.

Vin has been my rock, forcing me to go for a daily walk, making sure I eat, booking me in with a therapist. I'm sure his new boyfriend, Kelly, must find our dynamic uber-frustrating, but if it wasn't for Vin, I can't imagine how much worse I'd be. He's the reason I was even able to show up today. He dragged me out of bed, shoved me into his car and drove me down to Byron, saying, "Mills, you need this. Do it for closure. Pour everything into the performance and do your work on this movie justice. And don't for a moment let him see how much he's hurt you."

So, I bounced out of the car, acting my arse off. I've giggled and bantered with the hair and makeup team, flirted with the cute DOP, laughed along with the continuity people as they try to arrange my hair in exactly the same way as it had been the first time around – a fruitless endeavour as the wind gusts and pulls at my locks. This entire set has become my stage, and I am giving the performance of a lifetime.

But I still haven't seen Erik yet. Now I know he's near, I make sure I'm telling a hilarious and animated story about the time I accidentally agreed to give an erotic poetry reading at my very liberated friend's thruple wedding but couldn't say the words 'turgid meat sword' without falling into an inappropriate fit of giggles.

Just as Erik appears on set, I'm saying, "I mean, it honestly sounded like the poet was fantasising about being ploughed with a lamb kebab!" The group of crew members around me explodes into hearty laughter, right on cue. Boom. I am owning this business right now.

I turn grinning to face Erik. I'm planning to say something casual and pithy, but instead, I start talking like a pirate. "Ahoy thar, young Eton! How does the day find ye?" I bellow. I actually don't hate this at all.