Can't Turn Back Now, I'm Haunted (A Ben Willbond Rom Com)

Chapter Four | The Scarlett Letter Of It All

I don't know if you've ever had the truly mind-numbing out of body experience that is having the entire world comment graphically about how they think your hips look in black lingerie, but I absolutely, unequivocally do not recommend it.

I slumped my tote bag on the counter of my trailer dressing area and peered into the mirror — my face was sallow and grey from a night of no sleep and too much doomscrolling. It was eight in the morning and I'd already fielded a concerned and embarrassed call from my parents (in the middle of the night because in their panic they forgot about the time difference), frustrated and game-faced calls from my team (in the middle of the night because publicists and managers simply do not sleep in Los Angeles), and one or two calls from "journalists" — and I use that word generously — calling to ask for my comments on my experience as Jason Sands' Inamorata Inflagranté. Tired as I was, I felt grateful to be at work — if anything could keep my mind off of everything, it was playing a fun part with nice people.

... At least, they were nice yesterday before they'd seen my ill-advised private photographs on the covers of their local tabloids, the captions of which incorrectly but pointedly described me as a mistress to a taken man. Who knew how they'd react today.

I stayed in my trailer as long as I could before my need for caffeine drove me out into the foggy morning and to the holding tent, where some of principal cast — Charlotte, Martha, Simon, Larry, and Lolly, were sat on folding chairs, chatting. There was a lull when they saw me. Great, I thought. The Scarlett Letter of it all begins.

"Hi," said Charlotte, standing immediately and approaching me with a concerned face. "How're you, you okay?"

"I'm okay," I lied, then turned to the group. "Hi guys."

"Let me get you a coffee," said Martha jumping up. Larry stood and offered me his seat.

"Guys, I'm not dying," I deadpanned. "I'm just half-naked on the cover of the Daily Mail."

"And who among us hasn't been?" Jollied Simon, and everyone, including me, chuckled.

I took the seat that Larry was gesturing to insistently, and Martha returned with a hot coffee for me.

"Thanks," I said, a little more earnestly.

"Is there anything we can do?" Asked Lolly, leaning forward in her chair.

"You're doing it," I said with a disbelieving chuckle. "Honestly, thank you guys for being so nice to me, it's a huge help."

"It's bang out of order," said Lolly, angrily. "You're grown, you should be able to live your life however you like without having to worry about anything like this."

I nodded, too exhausted to rekindle one of the white-hot flashes of rage I'd been wrestling with all night. I was endlessly grateful to them for being righteously indignant on my behalf — and leaving the accusations of infidelity out of it.

Bridget the PA appeared wearing a headset and an all-too-familiar-at-this-point expression of sympathy.

"Morning everyone," she said. "I'd like to invite you all to hair and make-up."

The shoot went well. I didn't have any big physical comedy moments to nail, and everyone did an excellent job of treating it like a normal day and being generally pleasant and professional, which was exactly what I needed, but I found the sour pit of angst in my stomach begin to reemerge as the hours went on. When lunchtime rolled around, I excused myself and slipped out into the hallway, grabbing my tote bag and phone as I went. Once alone, I pulled a baggy USC sweatshirt out of my bag and pulled it on over my neon-orange pleather crop-top and leaned against the wall, letting out a deep sigh. I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn't help myself. After a moment of gathering my wits about me, I pulled out my phone.