Page 55 of Anyone But the Superstar

‘What did she just say?’

‘She can’t possibly mean?—’

‘I thought only British people used that word?’

‘What the—fuck!’ Ron’s face goes white and David reaches out a hand to steady him.

Oblivious to everything but Mike on Ron, Anne rushes forward, arms out. ‘Mikey, let go!’

‘His claws…’ Ron drops his hands to the front of his shorts and every male winces in sympathy from Mike digging a little too deep.

David grabs hold of Ron’s shoulders, stiff with pain, while Anne grabs ahold of Mike’s ribcage. A tug of war ensues with David pulling one way and Anne pulling the other.

Fabric renders.

Anne’s bare feet grip the wet cement, as she just manages to maintain her hold on Mike.

Ron’s sneakers aren’t so lucky. He pinwheels back into David, both sliding perilously close to the water’s edge.

I snap to my senses just in time to prevent them from capsizing into the pool, pulling them forward by Ron’s t-shirt.

More fabric renders.

‘What—’ Ron’s pants echo over the shocked, silent crew ‘—the hell?’

Bent over from exertion, the crew bears witness to their director’s white briefs, revealed behind shredded cargo shorts.

Briefs and… frowning, I reach out and unhook an object from Ron’s back belt loop. ‘Is this a hair thing?’

‘Who the fuck cares what that is?’ Ron snatches the hair accessory from my hand, pointing it at Mike. ‘The real question is what the hell isthatand who thefuckallowed it on my set?’The silver, rhinestoned claw catches sparkles under the many fluorescent overhead lights.

Mike’s shoulders shimmy, his eyes narrowing on Ron’s hand.

‘No, buddy.’ Anne struggles to contain him, but Mikey’s leash is nowhere in sight. ‘Don’t you do it.’ But it’s too late. Anne loses her grip and Mikey pounces.

Ron, horror struck once more, steps back, throwing his hands, and the hair accessory, trying to ward off the attack.

Anne steps forward, hand outstretched. ‘Mikey!’

But it’s too late.

The hair clip arcs over his head. And, like an acrobat, Mike climbs the director’s body, using Ron’s shoulders as a launching pad to dive after the sparkling accessory.

And dive he does – right into NASA’s swimming pool.

There’s a splash, then silence. Everyone’s eyes fixated on the circle of ripples wavering above the submerged International Space Station mock-up.

‘Mikey?’ Anne’s voice, stunned and anxious, breaks me from my stupor.

I tug off my boots.

‘Don’t even think about it, Jones.’ Ron has one hand on his ass, the other at the torn neck of his t-shirt and his voice brokers no argument.

So I don’t argue.

Because I always listen to my director. I’m known for it. And, if I’m asked later, I will insist that I’d listened to him now. Because there’s no way I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing now, if I’d been thinking about it at all.

I jump in.

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