Page 77 of Doc Hollywood

Clara’s insides clenched as she thought that word, and it only got worse as the crew trickled into the room.

Devon touched him, flirted with him, smiled coyly up at him, reminding Clara just how delicate the other woman was at five-foot-two, and she must have been fifty kilograms at the absolute most, compared to Clara’s own five-foot-six height and a fair few more kilos than fifty.

Every touch that Taylor reciprocated, his eyes only for Devon and apparently unaware of anyone else in the room, was like a shard of glass to her heart, so Clara busied herself with turning the anaesthetic machine on and doing a last check of all the drawers.

Although Clara couldn’t help it, she kept glancing over at Taylor, feeling the little stabs of glass every time Devon touched him, and he touched her back.

His eyes finally locked with hers over the top of the petite actress’s head, and for a moment, she believed that everything would work out in the end; maybe she would get the man. The spell was broken when Taylor gazed down at Devon and brushed his fingers over her cheek.

Clara began to build a brick wall around her heart. She did believe him when she was with him, that he genuinely liked her. But he also now looked like he genuinely liked Devon. Was everything with her an act as well? Was she just an amusement? Someone different to the normal women he was with? Someone who he would soon grow bored of.

Clara’s dark musing was interrupted when a grey-haired, bespectacled man in his sixties swept into the room. From her research, she knew this was Mr Atrosky. Following behind him was a cluster of people, including Lacey and several other actors who she recognised.

The director didn’t hesitate before he jumped straight into work, announcing, “Good morning. We have a tight schedule. We’re starting with the top of page thirty. We have today only to get this right.”

CHAPTER 21

They spent the morning going over the scenes set in the operating theatre until Mr Atrosky was satisfied. He finally allowed them a lunch break at one o’clock, and this time, Clara got to eat at Craft Services. The food was probably delicious, but it tasted like ash in her mouth as she spent her whole time trying not to glance at Taylor and the table for two that he occupied with Devon.

As the afternoon wore on, Clara could see the actors getting increasingly tired, and the lines around Taylor’s eyes deepened.

Clara glanced across at Mr Atrosky and frowned. He was sweating heavily despite doing nothing to exert himself.

She stopped paying attention to the actors, who were at a particularly tense part of the scene and started observing the director. He didn’t look well, and as she watched, the colour in his face gradually changed from a healthy pink to a pallid grey.

When he took something out of his pocket and took a puff on it, then began to rub his left arm, Clara walked to his side.

“Mr Atrosky,” she said quietly.

Initially, he ignored her, either caught up in the scene or his own pain.

“Mr Atrosky,” she said louder.

The director’s dark gaze swung towards her. “Yes? Was there something wrong with this run-through?” His voice was strident, even as he struggled for breath.

“No. There’s something wrong with you.” Clara tried to keep her voice low, but the actors had stopped and were all staring at her, waiting for her to correct them as she had done many times throughout the day.

Even as Mr Atrosky shook his head, he rubbed his shoulder again. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. We need to call an ambulance,” Clara told him, stepping into his personal space and ignoring the gasps around her as she leaned forward and grabbed his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

“I do not need an ambulance. I do not like to be touched. Please let go of me.” Mr Atrosky tried to pull out of her grip, but she held firmly onto his wrist.

“Your pulse is racing. Do you have heart problems?” Clara ignored his objections and continued to question him.

“Yes, how—“ he panted, his free hand reaching up to mop at his sweating brow.

“Lacey, call an ambulance, now. He’s having a heart attack. We need to get him to a hospital.”

“Doctor, you’re overreacting. It’s just a little bit of chest pain. It will pass,” the director wheezed at her.

“When you get angina, it usually passes by now, doesn’t it?” Clara demanded.

“Yes, but—“ He mopped his brow again.

She didn’t let him talk before interrupting him, “And your GTN usually works, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but—“

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