Chapter 54: Why Stay Cool? Cucumbers Give You Reflux Anyway! (Patreon)

Chapter 54: Why Stay Cool? Cucumbers Give You Reflux Anyway!

Leavesden Studios, UK. June 2010.

A rolled up dress, a tipped toe, and a toned calf swathed in a sultry pair of silk stockings. Slender fingers toyed with the twisted hem of a garter garroting a girthy gam. “Blasted bloody thing keeps sagging!” Not from where I was standing (and ogling). 

Voldemort had some sexy legs, I’ll tell you what. 

Emma had recently subjected me to a bit of a haranguing, mostly on account of my magnetic charisma attracting a rather unfair slew of female attention. She was gonna take issue with me again, but there were some sights that a man just couldn’t - shouldn’t - avoid. “Those part of the death eater uniform, or something you brought from home?” I wonder what verbal assault she’d throw at me if she’d heard that; ‘beware Bas, or you might just run out of breath chasing those skirts’ or something along those lines, I’d wager.

As the taunt floated through my lips, I couldn’t help but notice that the timbre was unintentionally more mean-spirited than I typically projected. 

Thankfully, though, I was in brood company with Ralph Fiennes as he finished furiously fiddling with his fetish wear. “I’d like to make the argument that these stockings were perhaps my wife’s, but no, I can’t say that with full honesty. I’m not married anymore and haven’t been for nigh on a decade at this point. Which may very well be the sole silver lining here.”

“Why? What’s got your lace knickers in a twist?” Misery loves company, and I wouldn’t mind someone to have a bitch sesh with.

“Aside from the chaffing, I’m still somewhat miffed that I’ve had to revise my portrayal of Voldemort. No actor worth their salt likes to be called goofy.” 

“That’s fair shakes, I suppose.” To both him and Alfonso. “At least it’s mostly the one scene.”

Ralph tucked his luscious leg back beneath his flowing dress robe and straightened any creases out. “And every subsequent one, henceforth. Frustrating beyond belief. Do you know what I’m preparing to do with it all that’s built up inside me?”

“Make whoever placed you in that position’s life a living hell?” Vengeance is sweet. Not even an orthodontist yanking out cavities could convince me otherwise. 

In the back of my head I imagined Ralph purposely forgetting lines, phoning in his dialogue, or being an all around diva. It’s exactly the sort of thing I yearned to do to resolve my own bubbling angst aimed at Robinov for usurping a treat for easy tricks. 

“Ooh yes! But not in the pedestrian way you may be speculating.” However, Ralph apparently had a more measured, mature, and constructive response. “I’m more of the mind to win a war of attrition. And believe you me, nothing quite pinches a perfectionist - like Alfonso’s - nerves like not having anything to correct. I’m going to take every drop of irritation I’ve kept carefully bottled, uncap it, and pour it out in my performance. And you, dear boy, are going to bear the brunt of it.”

“Huh? What did I do-!?”

Ralph spread his arms theatrically and presented himself in character. “So close to fruition, and everything around him falls apart. Voldemort is going to have an absolute field day. Here’s what’s going to happen,” he pointed at the various Hogwarts fabrications resting in front of green and blue screens; each elaborate fiberglass island a set unto itself. “I’m going to channel my aggression and bash you across every single stage of our final duel.” 

I found my gaze leapt off his fingernail and hopped between the different sets. The team choreographed our last battle as an homage to the times Harry and Voldemort had clashed in years past.

Racing from the courtyard into the castle with Voldemort whipping his wand at my heels. 

Clambering up the magical stairs, up to the third-floor corridor, that in the same motion would whirl around to hamper Voldemort’s progress. His spells raining the shattered splinters of exploding frames, which I’d send back after transfiguring them into needles. 

Getting banished through a hole in the hallway floor, directly into Myrtle’s loo. My fall only cushioned by invading acromantulas that I’d send crashing through the windows with an arania exumai.

I’d then summon a broom, toss myself out the same window, and catch it barely in time to dodge a livid dark lord flying under his own power.

We’d chase up the side of Hogwarts with the backdrop of a hoard of dementors swarming the quidditch pitch.

Right up to the summit of the astronomy tower, where Voldie’d get the drop on me. But just before his killing curse would end me at point-blank range - Fawkes, at my desperate call, would flame in, catch us in his talons, and teleport us back to the crowded courtyard for the final incantation.

I clocked the slow-mo cameras being calibrated for that sequence. So, I knew that our last spells, my tired victory, and Ralph’s rag-doll flop were planned to last for as excruciatingly long as an audience can hold their breath. 

We were basically going around playing bouncy castles. I almost wished I wasn’t capable of drumming up the energy.

“Curious. I must say I’m astonished you aren’t as gung-ho about the action sequence as you normally are.”

A sigh escaped my lips, which I tried to hide by distractedly rummaging through my hair. “Let’s just say the reason I’m not smiling is because I can understand your chagrin.” My confession came out mumbly and grumbly; I wasn’t comfortable or even used to such candid outpourings. 

“Would you mind terribly, Bas, if I dole out some unsolicited advice? When we go through the motions of our tiff, get angry.” I met his gingivitis riddled gummy grin with a surprised raise of my eyebrows. 

“I’ve always been told that anger is too much of a crutch. Too cheap.”

“So what?” He shrugged. “Cheap doesn’t mean worthless, just makes your performance easier to sell.” My head dipped conspiratorially as Ralph leaned in while roughly clutching an imaginary pair of testes. “And then when they’ve bought it? You squeeze!”

–

Universal Islands of Adventure, Florida. July 2010.

“Think it through. It’s a big decision. But don’t take too long, Specter. Offers like yours don’t stay on the table too long before someone else comes along and swipes it, yeah?” Really? Anita almost scoffed at the voice on the other end of the line.

“Is that right? Didn’t realise so many people have a cool couple mill just ready to go,” she brought her hand close to the receiver, and audibly snapped her fingers, “like that.” Anita Specter did - much more than that, in fact. Years of supplementing her income with Bas’ hairbrained, but surprisingly egg headed, financial schemes had seen her pockets deep. As far as Anita was concerned, setting time limits was amateur hour to her.

“Hey, it’s the biz, baby. Hollywood ain’t short on millionaires. Besides, that’s also the cost of business. Endeavor has a rep and standards to maintain. You wanna make partner at the firm? Then you have to pony up the buy-in.” Anita could almost visualise the cocksure body language given the sickeningly smug tone she was forced to hear. 

Money wasn’t an issue, “what you’re asking me to pay is exorbitant,” but the price of her career was a dear cost.

“I know. I get it - believe me, I had to go through the same thing to be in the position I’m in today. It’s an adjustment. So, as someone with a wealth of experience, let me just say something I don’t normally hand out for free: don’t get hung up on a couple of clients. Especially when you stand to own so much more. As a partner, you get a slice of any and every starry-eyed schmuck who walks in our doors. But with that privilege comes responsibility, too. When someone gets to your level, it’s less about keeping a star you’ve made - and I mean that. You made. God knows actors are hopeless without us pushing their careers. No, don’t waste your skills on wiping the noses of faces everyone already knows. When you’re in the big leagues, you gotta find the next home run. Leave the peons and the jobbers to round the bases for you. Get me?” Anita chewed her lips quietly while being served a meandering sermon. Empathetic anecdotes, seemingly reluctant mentorship, and measures of her new potential worth contrasted against the needlessly put down upon other. Each sentence wrapped up in cumbersome metaphors that belied the rehearsed - almost ritualistic - tilt of the words being wickedly whispered to her.

All pressure tactics and petty flattery.

It was a tempting tapestry being woven for her. In a lot of ways, the devil on the other side of the phone wasn’t just offering her a shit deal; merely explaining the natural progression in her line of work. Progression that she’d worked her butt off to achieve. 

Now that she was here, though… Many had and will see the twisted reasoning. Hell, she could see it for herself. But there were other things in her sights, too. 

A sudden riot of laughter boomed her way; louder than even the rattling steel of another coaster cart careening across its rails. Anita immediately spotted her Bas. Who caught her gaze first thing, even surrounded by a gaggle of chattering, jumping heads vying for his attention. She cupped her hands around her mouth to ensure she wasn’t misheard. “I’ll have to call you back.”

“Fine, Specter. We’ll wait, and so will the bottle of champagne - try not to let it get too warm.” She hung up. Her own little power play after being on the receiving end of one for the last few minutes. 

That entire conversation reminded her of the roller coaster overhead. Ironic considering she’d elected to stay off of the one Bas and co had just wobbled out of. 

It wasn’t exactly Disneyland, but Anita knew full well that compared to Bas’ usual attitude towards premiere events, today was a walk in the (amusement) park. Or it was supposed to be.

WB had wasted no time and quickly implemented Bas’ idea of hosting a private showing of Hallows one inside the newly unveiled Wizarding World section at Universal. Both events were commercial coups that heavily benefited from coinciding with one another. The only glaring divergence from her boy’s vision, and Warner’s execution, was the beheading of any charitable thought. 

Nope. The big wigs had cut a bunch of underprivileged children off at the knees, long before they could limp into the park. Instead, they charged an arm and a leg for a private guided tour of the park and all the attractions, a fan meet with the main student cast, and ending the magical night with a showing of the latest film. So far, it proved to be a rousing success. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in her mind that back at HQ, they were wiping their joyous tears with the steady stream of notes the fans had paid through their nose to be here.

And they were totally getting their money’s worth. Bas’ group was having a ball, she could tell. He got on every ride, answered every inane question, posed for whatever photo whether or not the moment was inopportune, and powered through every painful screech of exaggerated excitement he was being subjected to. 

He’d somehow even won over the pod of disgruntled husbands, disappointed boyfriends, and designated bag-boys despite their female halves clung to Bas like a school of ravenous remoras.

Fedex infiltrating the cabal was the sole excuse Anita had to let this farce continue.

These weren’t just regular, everyday fans he and the rest of the cast were dealing with. They were the elite kind; the entitled kind. Rich, spoiled, and demanding - doubly so because they’d opened their parents’ wallets to be here. “Hurry back, Bas!” 

“We still have you all to ourselves for a few more hours.”

“Bro, don’t forget you gotta do the butterbeer chugathon with us, too.”

“Tick tock!”

“I’ll be right back - just need to check with the staff when the movie’s scheduled to start.” He smiled at them as he jogged over to her. Then instantly swapped out that fake expression for his real visage the second he fully turned away from them and faced her. “You gotta save me! I swear to god, these girls are all over me. At this point, I suspect they’re gonna tear a hole in my popcorn bucket, insert it on my lap, and then take turns sharing what’s inside. Popcorn? More like cockporn.” He hissed low enough that only lip readers might hear. 

Anita, on the contrary, refused to reserve her annoyance. “You could’ve avoided this, you know? Citing illness, buying and giving away the tickets yourself, throwing a massive hissy fit - all of these were viable options of getting out of this. The studio didn’t give a shit what you wanted. I don’t really see a reason why you went along with today without a fight.”

“Because I don’t want to. Honestly? I’m a little fed up with fighting.” What? That didn’t sound like Bas at all… “Taking it easy for once isn’t gonna kill me. Who knows? Might even work out better in the long run.” She didn’t believe that for a moment. What scheme was he trying to pull?

None of what he just told her was what Anita wanted to hear, but it was undeniably something she needed. She folded her hands behind her back, while Bas plastered on another smirk and sauntered off to his adoring public. 

Chummy and charming as ever. Pearly whites and rhytids - those tiny wrinkles around his squirting eyes that made him appear so authentic in his happiness. 

He was lying to them, to her, and to himself. 

It made the skin of her palms itch. She dug her nails into her skin to prevent herself from reaching out and snatching him to wring out a proper explanation.

Who else could Bas confide in? Who else could rein him in? Who else would he allow to see his genuine face under the facade? Who but her is able to stop him from being eaten alive out there? He’d find some asinine way to kill himself; whether through working himself to the bone or until he breaks all of them. 

Did she really trust a vapid valley volunteer reject to look after her boy? Not a goddamn chance!

“Fuck champagne.” She preferred the taste of blood, sweat, and tears, anyway.