The Show Must Go On

Chapter Five: Kiss With a Fist

Chapter Five Soundtrack: Kiss with a Fist by Florence + The Machine

Can you get jet lag in the same time zone? I think I have jet lag. Or maybe I'm just allergic to Nas. Whatever the cause, this cannot be healthy. We have just arrived on location and already I know this afternoon's headache will be the worst one yet.

Surely Sandra wouldn't want me to stand up to Nas if she knew how sick he makes me.

I glare at him but he's ignoring me. 'Have you taken us to the wrong set?' I ask.

He glares at me but then glances at the sat nav. 1-0 Ellie.

We're in a clearing in the midst of a nature reserve. Parked around the dirt are a dozen trailers: the nearest one, its door tells me, is Makeup. There are thirty or forty cars here, and a catering truck, but there's not a person in sight. Andrew's obviously forgotten to send the runner. The engine idles.

'Turn it off,' I snap, and Nas does. The silence is worse.

'They've forgotten us,' Nas remarks. They've forgotten you, he means, because you're not worth remembering.

It's a huge car but it's too small to share. I escape into the fresh air.

The trees rustle, casting long shadows across the clearing, and overhead a bird calls. Cables crisscross through the dirt and the dining tent flaps in the breeze: somehow, it's peaceful. I feel at peace, here, waiting.

My phone buzzes. Peace is gone.

+44 7960 131200: omg r u here andrew says i was meant to find u

We're in the clearing by makeup, I reply.

No response.    

I add, In the huge car, just in case.

A few minutes later, a white coach swerves around the lane and pulls up beside us. Nas emerges from our car wearing sunglasses. God forbid the glare of the sun perturb him.

A boy appears from the coach. He's slim, with enormous eyes and tangled hair he runs a hand through. 'I'm Johnny,' he tells us, with a strong Irish accent. 'I'm the runner. I'm meeting you.' He pauses. 'You've been met.'

Nas snorts.

The coach sinks into the ground and emits a crunchy metallic groan.

'Hi Johnny,' I reply. 'Thanks for coming. Where's Andrew?'

'On set.' He doesn't elaborate.

'Can you direct us?'

He gestures to the coach, which seems to have a punctured back wheel. It sighs and sinks lower. 'I'll drive you.'

I was afraid he'd say that.

'Great,' I say, unconvincingly. Great, Nas mouths. This is not my fault, so somehow it must be his fault. I make sure to glare as he picks the seat next to mine on the empty coach. He scoots even closer and glares back.

Soon—though torture couldn't pull this out of me—I am glad he's sitting beside me. Johnny is the worst driver I have ever met. Behind his sweet green eyes is the nerve of a gladiator. The coach lurches around the narrow lanes through the woods, hitting each bump and pothole. It screeches as he accelerates through tree branches. They break off in a trail of destruction. I can't imagine what the conservationists will say when filming wraps, but I imagine it will start with 'Fuck'.

We careen out of the woods and stop at the precise moment I am certain I will vomit. The back end of the coach leans unnervingly. Nas is pale and clammy. Wordlessly, he hands me my bag, which I hadn't seen him bring on.