Chapter Text
It’s fucking freezing.
Sophie buries her face into the collar of her long, puffy coat, her nose catching the icy metal of the zipper. She looks longingly at the electric heaters across the soundstage. If only the stand-ins were afforded the same luxuries as the so-called talent. But no: she and her colleagues are huddled shoulder-to-shoulder in a tight circle like penguins in the Antarctic.
Her friends in office jobs don’t understand the realities of a film set. They are always making repeated comments about the glitz and glamour, begging for gossip about famous actors, calling Sophie Miss Hollywood, despite the fact she’s never even been to California, let alone the United States. While she usually brushes off their comments with an eye roll or a gentle shove, Sophie knows they’d soon shut up if they spent a single day with her at work. Hours of hanging around for perhaps forty-five minutes of actual shooting.
At least if she were in Hollywood, she’d be warm. Not that anyone would expect January in Leavesden to be anything other than cold and grey, sometimes damp. Sophie stamps her feet, wiggling her frozen toes to check they’re still attached. The man beside her, a gangly Yorkshireman with short brown curls, looks on.
"Bed socks, that’s my secret,” Alfie mutters. “Normal socks first, then the fuzzy ones.”
Sophie snorts. “That’s all very well and good if you’re in boots,” she lifts her foot off the ground, rotating a glittering kitten heel shoe. “Tell me how I’m supposed to get away with that trick in these things?”
“Point taken,” Alfie grins, nudging her playfully. “Fancy switching with me?”
“Don’t. You know I would if l could.”
“You should. I walk way better in heels than you do.”
“Slow down, Cinderella. You’re not squeezing into these things, no way!” Sophie laughs.
Alfie feigns shock, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead while his other hand clutches his heart. “Soph, you wound me.”
Sophie slaps his wrist, pressing her lips firmly together to stifle another laugh.
Alfie grins triumphantly before his eyes drift over her shoulder and his features fall. He leans in close and murmurs. “Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”
The principals - or talent, to use the term Sophie loathes - are always a mixed bag, falling into one of three categories. The majority keep to themselves: appearing for their call-time, getting the work done, and clocking off. She’s exchanged a few words with that kind of principal and for the most part they are cordial. While Sophie has never encountered an actual friendly principal, willing to mingle with cast and crew alike regardless of their position on the call sheet, Alfie insists they exist. Sophie remains hopeful but deeply skeptical, largely due to the final and most irritating genre of principal. The snooty, holier-than-thou principal, whose entitlement and rudeness is spewed at anyone with a perceived lower status. Alfie coined the term Priestlys during one of your film nights. Of course, the Priestlys of the world plaster a dazzling smile on their faces for A-list celebrities. But if you dare to make small talk between takes or at craft services, you’ll be met with a sneer and a wrinkled nose, as though you were something disgusting they’d trodden on in their designer shoes.
The principal flouncing across the soundstage right this moment is maybe the best example of the Priestly category Sophie has ever come across. Rosamund Li makes a beeline for the director, the clicking of her heels on the concrete floor alerting the crew who are seasoned enough to shuffle out of her way. Her much-abused assistant scuttles along beside Rosamund, tablet in hand and headset clipped to her ear.
As Rosamund begins barking her displeasure at the director, Sophie mumbles. “I genuinely don’t know why people still cast her in stuff. It’s not like she’s got a great reputation on set.”
“And she’s a shit actor,” Alfie adds unceremoniously. “But, hey. At least she’s keeping you in a job, eh?”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “I genuinely don’t know how. She was quite awful to me a couple of years back, you know that episode of-?”
“You’ve told that story a dozen times, Soph.”
“I know. But you know what she’s like - I’d have thought she’d have tried to blacklist me after what she said.”
“Tried, maybe,” Alfie muses. “If I can be brutally honest, she probably doesn’t even remember your name.”
Sophie groans quietly. “You’re probably right. Arsehole.”
“Bitch,” Alfie winks.
The piercing sound of Rosamund’s voice grows loud enough for you both to hear. “Absolutely not!” She all but screams. A few crew members turn their heads, but most know to mind their business. “I never agreed to that! I have an image to maintain, you know!”
The director’s voice is too quiet to hear from where Sophie is standing, but even at a distance, she can see the exasperated look on her face.
“I won’t, and that’s final. Send for me once you’ve changed your mind.” Rosamund shouts, turning on her heel and storming away.
The entire set falls silent as she strides off to her trailer, her assistant trailing behind her. Looks are exchanged, eyebrows are raised, but nobody says a word. That is, until Alfie whispers in Sophie’s ear.
“You don’t look all that surprised.”
Sophie giggles. “Unfortunately.”
A low hum of murmurs blankets the soundstage. A quick glance at the director confirms she is even more stressed than usual: her glasses perch right at the end of her nose, more than a few curls escaping the bun at the crown of her head. Sophie purses her lips.
“Looks like I’m being paid to stand around doing fuck all again,” Sophie mumbles.
“Only ever so slightly more so than the rest of us,” Alfie smirks. “Coffee?”
“Irish coffee?”
“Behave.”
Alfie loops his arm through Sophie’s and extracts them both from the stand-in circle, walking in tandem over to craft services. There’s no fancy coffee machine, just a couple of urns of hot water, a pot of instant coffee, and a near-empty box of teabags. They each retrieve a small paper cup and a flimsy stirring stick, trying in vain to encourage the granules to fully dissolve in the less-than-boiling water.
“I wish we were important enough to have a PA bring us a barista-made coffee,” Sophie sighs, trapping a coffee granule against the side of her cup and fishing it out with the stirrer.
“No, you don’t,” Alfie retorts. “If you ever get all Priestly on me, I’ll make a point of spitting in your matcha latte."
“Bit harsh, Alfie.”
“Harsh?” Alfie’s eyes glitter. “No, babe. Spit in your drink is a polite warning. Harsh is piss.”
Sophie bursts out laughing, her shaking hand sending coffee dribbling over her fingers. “You’ve got to stop,” she dabs at her eye with her spare hand. “One day, the coffee will be hot enough to burn me.”
“Dream on, Soph.”
Before she can respond, Sophie catches out of the corner of her eye a short woman with soft features speeding towards her. Her cheeks are flushed pink and she clutches a worn script to her chest, a seemingly endless number of neon sticky notes peeking over the edges. A biro rests behind her right ear, a second one poking precariously out of her ponytail.
“Sophie, if I told you that you could make sure everyone leaves on time later, would you believe me?” Penny says with the air of an over-confident car salesman.
Sophie eyes her warily. “What do you want?”
“Ah, so you can see right through me,” she chuckles but pulls on her sleeve anxiously. “I just need to run something past you.”
Sophie shoots an apologetic look over her shoulder at Alfie as Penny whisks her aside.
“Right, so… Rosamund has locked herself in her trailer and is refusing to come to set,” Penny explains.
“Of course she is,” Sophie shakes her head with a sigh. “Don’t say you need me to coax her out?”
Penny shifts on her feet. “I mean, ideally, that would be the answer. But you know what she’s like better than most, so I hear?”
“How did you-?”
“That’s besides the point,” Penny waves a dismissive hand. “Would you give it a go?”
“I mean… I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Rosamund won’t budge on my account. From my experience, she isn’t likely to listen to a lowly stand-in. Even her own stand-in.”
Sophie’s heart sinks at Penny’s crestfallen expression.
“You’re right, you’re right,” Penny tugs on a loose strand of her long, red hair. “Oh my God, this is a nightmare. Long story short, we need this next shot today. The set is being rebuilt tonight and we don’t have the budget for reshoots and what-have-you.”
“Okay,” Sophie says slowly, “so, is there another option?”
“Potentially,” Penny pauses. “Just… stand in for Rosamund in the next scene, will you?”
Sophie frowns, growing suspicious. “That’s quite literally my job. Why all the dramatics?”
“Well, that’s the thing. We might need you to have a chat with the IC first, but it’s a case of-”
“IC?” Sophie asks aloud, the answer coming to her seconds after the letters leave her lips. “Intimacy co-ordinator?”
“Only if you’re comfortable with it,” Penny rushes. “I know it’s far beyond what’s expected of you. It was a fleeting idea, if you don’t want to do it then we’ll find another way.”
“I just…” Sophie purses her lips. “I don’t think I’m comfortable doing a sex scene. Sorry.”
“Sex?!” Penny’s eyebrows flick upwards. “Sophie, it’s not sex, don’t worry. I wouldn’t ask you to do… anyway. There’s a kiss at the end of the scene, just for a few seconds. As long as we keep the cameras angled right, nobody will be able to tell it’s you and not Rosamund.”
“You think it’ll be enough?”
“It kind of has to be, at this point,” Penny says sheepishly. “I wouldn't ask if I had a better idea. I'm sorry. But it would be a real help if you could finish the scene.”
Sophie nods slowly. “Just kissing?”
“Just kissing."
Sophie takes a steadying breath, thinking about the long, gruelling days when nothing has gone to plan. Her mind wanders back to the last shoot she shared with Rosamund, who was so abrasive in her first hour on set that two production assistants quit on the spot, and a third was reduced to tears. She thinks about the other lead actor in this film, the one she would be acting opposite. While she hasn’t been introduced to him personally, she’s spotted him having casual conversations with a couple of extras and sharing a pastry with one of the lighting technicians. She doesn’t get the impression he is as difficult as his leading lady, but Sophie knows better than to pass judgement before ever meeting him. None of the other people on set have spoken negatively about him, and he doesn’t seem to have caused half as much drama as Rosamund, which does nudge Sophie towards believing he can’t be that bad. Certainly not bad enough to have his film schedule ruined by his co-star acting like a child.
“Alright. I’ll talk to the IC.”
Penny actually claps her hands together, a bright smile lighting her face like a Christmas tree. “Sophie, you’re an actual lifesaver!”
“Woah, woah,” Sophie’s hands raise up defensively. “I said I’d talk to the IC, not that I’m in. I just need to think it over a bit more. Is that alright?”
“Yeah, no problem at all!” Penny’s tone suggests she isn't fully listening as she tugs Sophie’s sleeve, dragging her over to a pair with their backs turned, deep in conversation. She clears her throat.
“Sorry to interrupt. This is Sophie, Rosamund’s stand in,” Penny says quickly.
The taller man turns to face Sophie. His blue-grey eyes look down at her, his expression turning warm and friendly, a crooked smile gracing his lips. He’s taller than he seems on screen - and Sophie is all too familiar with his on-screen presence. She’s seen him in a couple of rom-coms, a period drama, and a (quite frankly) terrible action film. Now he is standing in front of her, however, he almost looks... normal.
He extends a hand towards her.
“Sophie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ben.”