"Happy sex day, everybody!" I sing loudly as I enter the bedroom set. We're on a sound stage, but you wouldn't know it; the room is dressed like a romantic beach hut interior, with a four-poster bed draped in floaty white curtains and a photo-real ocean view outside the windows. Apparently, the real-life room where the royal couple spent their first night wasn't nearly as elegant, but don't let the truth get in the way of some producer's wet dream.
The director calls me over. Olivia is standing beside the bed with Erik. I ignore him and focus on her, admiring the dance of her braids around her shoulders; my nerves won't allow me to even glance in Erik's direction. We're both wearing matching white towelling robes, as if we've been interrupted in a hotel room together and this was the best we could do to cover up on short notice.
The reality is the robes hide our very strange modesty undergarments known as shibues: a bit like an adhesive beige thong with no side strings. I've been lucky enough to score nipple covers as well. It's going to take a vat of almond oil to de-stick me after this is done...
Olivia says, "Okay, guys – the studio has been going back and forth on this scene, as you know. My belief is that the narrative doesn't need it, our audience will be wider without it, and it will ultimately be cut, but-"
I interject. "But our executive producer is a dirty old perv who wants his stars to mash their sexy bits together for his pleasure?"
I could swear that Erik snort-laughs softly. Olivia shrugs. "I didn't say it and if anyone asks, I'll deny we ever had this conversation. But, yes, I think this is more about what certain execs believe will sell tickets based on their individual preferences rather than market research."
"It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't really feel fine. "I signed the contract knowing this was part of the gig. And, I mean... People do shitty jobs all the time and survive – like unblocking toilets or popping pimples. My friend used to work at a dog grooming salon – she told me about how they have to squeeze the anal glands of the little dogs, like, squirt their backed-up poo-juice out of their buttholes, and one time she got squirted in the face and some got in her mou-"
"Thanks, Mila," says Olivia, waving me down with a look on her face as if she could taste the anal juice. "So, you've both done your rehearsals with the intimacy coordinator yesterday."
We nod. The process was about as sexy as a tampon up the nose. The IC was a pleasantly plump woman who directed our movements as if we were puppets playing Twister. Right hand, left butt cheek, left hand, right shoulder, kiss left neck, hook right ankle left hip... We'd been fully clothed, and I'd made jokes the entire time, ensuring that there was zero chance of the atmosphere turning intimate.
"Great. We'll try to get through this as swiftly as possible, but you both know that scenes like these can take a few hours." She smiles sweetly. "Get ready, we'll have makeup do last minute touches, then get started."
The lovely makeup team hurry over. Erik sheds his robe and I quickly turn away, heat rising in my cheeks. My makeup artist says, "Honey, can you lose the gown? I need to get some bronzer on your butt."
"That's what she said," I say, shucking out of the cotton robe, my skin goose-bumping in the chilly studio air. I've never been a prude – I've been skinny dipping, I did a lingerie shoot with Maxim, I once flashed a bartender for a free tequila slammer – but there's something about standing here clothed only in strategically placed coverings that makes me feel more exposed than being fully naked. Like how you feel way more naked wearing socks while you're nude rather than just being nude.
Eventually, I'm bronzed enough to pass muster. Someone fluffs my hair (on my head) and then the DOP is calling for us to take first position so he can check how everything looks.
"Once more, into the breech!" I cry cheerfully, feigning a vague amusement with the process rather than letting my anxiety show. I consider jumping on the bed like a little kid for a moment, then realise that would mean some poor props assistant will have to remake it and I'll be stuck standing around longer. I settle for diving under the covers, pulling the sheet over my head and hiding. "I don't want to go to school today, Brenda! You're not my real mum anyway!"
There's a tug at the corner of the sheet and Erik's face comes into view. "Are you ready?" he says, as serious as a surgeon about to embark on a life-saving operation.
"Come on in, the water's fine." I pat the space beside me on the mattress.
He eases into the bed, keeping the sheet about waist height. "Can I straddle you now?"
I giggle for a second; he asks the question like a surly server who wants to clear your plate so they can pack up and go home. But his lack of response – not even a smile – causes me to call him out. "Do you really have to take this all so seriously?" I say, exasperated.
"Do you really have to take it all so lightly?" he counters, lifting his leg over my body, his knees on either side of my torso. His hands press into the sheet beside my shoulders, and his chest flexes with the exertion of keeping himself elevated.
Suddenly, we're close, shockingly close; I can feel the heat from his chest, his thighs, his groin. It's too much. My throat begins to tighten and tears spring from out of nowhere. "Yes, I do," I whisper. Before, I'd been worried that I wouldn't be able to generate heat with Erik. Now, I'm concerned that there might be too much.
Because I've realised that I like this guy. I don't want to – it would be so much easier if I didn't – but I do. I like the way he looks, obviously; Erik's appearance is enough to make the most staunch hereo macho man turn giggly.
It's more than that, though. It's in the intensity of his gaze when he's listening to me, as if I'm the only person in the world. It's the little glimpses of himself he allows to shine through when it's just him and me, the occasional joke or chuckle. It's in the surprising small acts of kindness he performs for me, like making sure they have fresh mango on set because he knows it's my favourite – or even now, as he keeps the sheet tented above us to protect me, even though we both know when they call action, it will have to get stripped away.
I am petrified that I might like this man a lot, and that filming a scene like this is only going to convince my body to join my heart on a free-fall – like two idiots taking the plunge on a dodgy bungee jump operator.
I can't say any of this, but Erik is perceptive enough to know something is going on. He doesn't try asking if I'm okay when I'm clearly not. Instead, he says, "Just to check... Did you really just compare having simulated sex with me to expressing dog anal gland liquid?"
A nervous laugh bubbles up from inside me, turning rapidly into a real one. "Oh my god, I totally did!"
"Well, there are obvious parallels. For example, both involve body heat, strange noises... What else?"
He's offering me a comedic lifeline, a distraction. Grateful, I say, "Both involve fingers in inappropriate places and the occasional cry of 'down, boy!'"
We're both laughing now, and I can feel my limbs begin to relax. "Thank you," I say softly.
"I'm here to help – just let me know. My nanny used to say that the bravest thing anyone can do is ask for help."
"She sounds like a wise woman. My nana likes to call chopped iceberg 'honeymooner's salad,' because it's lettuce alone, so, you know, nearly as sagacious."
Olivia's voice calls out. "Okay, team – let's do this."
I close my eyes and take a breath. I've got this. I can let Erik hold me like this, I can allow myself to be vulnerable, embrace the intimacy of this moment – and still walk away unaffected at the end.
Then I open my eyes and find Erik's clear ones staring into me. There's desire in his stare, and an unguarded warmth that floods my entire being with lightness.
And as Olivia calls action, I realise that being unaffected was never going to be possible. I'm already in way too deep – and it's too late to call for help.
*
"Do you need help with that, pet?" My wardrobe dresser was the sweetest, most charismatic gay man I'd ever met. The first day we'd met, he'd told me how he was half-Korean, half-Italian, had interned with Christian Siriano, knew how to dress larger bodies and always kept candy bars in his sewing kit. "Science says that concentration drains the glucose from your brain. That means eating candy when you're too tired to think straight is scientifically verified. Fact," he'd explained. Sunny was my new favourite person.
In fact, everyone on set was a remarkably good human. Unlike AP1, where infighting and power games had been ubiquitous amongst the cast and crew, the sequel had seemingly set out to exclusively hire a diverse group of hard workers with a passion for the story and cheerful dispositions.
Best of all – not once had anyone tried to convince me to 'just try Keto for the energy boost,' or to come along to their F45 class. No one made fat jokes or talked down to me or referenced the glaring differences between how I used to look then compared to now. If I didn't know better, I'd swear they'd been coached or coerced into actually treating me like a valued member of society and a worthy cast member.
"Yes, please, Sunny." I turned my back towards him and allowed him to zip me into my gown.
The deep French navy fabric was dotted with thousands of diamantes, giving the dress the appearance of a night sky peppered with stars. The material hugged my torso, showcasing bubble sleeves and intricate criss-crossing at my chest. Underneath, I wore a hoop skirt, giving me perfect hourglass proportions. My hair had been piled high on my head, with tiny tendrils snaking softly around my face; my lips were painted in a plum so deep, it verged on goth. The whole look was sophisticated but served to highlight the mental state of the character: isolation and depression.
The isolation, I could empathise with. I'd been on set for a week, filming the early moments in the story. In the lead up to the dramatic events we had been tasked with portraying, Patricia had been alone most of the time. We'd shot a series of scenes: me, alone in my baroque bedroom, alone at a ridiculously long dining table, alone in a beautiful garden. I'd had a quick scene with the man portraying my bodyguard, showing how Patricia was desperate for connection with anyone around her, but other than that, I hadn't had contact with any of the other cast.
Tonight was my first scene with Erik; I hadn't seen him since the theatre a few weeks back, and I was irritated at myself for how often my memory kept drifting back in time to our first film. Those early days were potent with reverie, in that incomparable way that all first loves tend to be. All the messiness is forgotten. All that remains is the powerful memories of discovery, longing, lust.
I'd been reliving some more recent memories too. The night at the theatre had played on repeat every night as I'd tried to fall asleep. Sometimes, it was sensory: the feeling of Erik's leg pressed against mine as my thighs overflowed into his seat, the heat rising from him as my arm attempted to drape casually on the armrest. Other times, it was about the scent of his skin, the sound of his quiet chuckle, the easy grace he carried himself with.
More often, it was about what hadn't happened, rather than what had. The powerful pining I felt around Erik caused my heart to invent scenarios that were hopelessly implausible. What if, at the end of the night, Erik had followed me back to my hotel room? What if he actually wanted to be with me again? What if he held my body the way he used to, stripped me down, pinned me on the bed, kissed his way from my neck to my-
No. The constant battle to keep my horny imagination from running around like a toddler who had escaped their nappy was getting old. I needed the mental energy to get through the next few weeks of the shoot; we had only just kicked off and every scene from this point was going to become a greater emotional challenge.
Including this one. I thanked Sunny and headed for set, steeling myself and running through my lines as I walked. There were golf buggies available for the cast, but where possible, I preferred to go on foot around the lot. I wore my favourite Ugg boots and carried my strappy black heels in my hand, enjoying the sunshine on my face, the warmth seeping into my bones.
Stepping from the outside world into the studio was like transitioning between worlds. The bright heat of day was replaced with an artificial night. I walked through the back of the set, where cords snaked everywhere and crew in casual clothing stood around, snacking from the catering table or studying scripts.
A second transition occurred as I entered a gilded door and found myself standing in a palace ballroom. The soaring walls were white with intricate gold details and ornate mirrors, interspersed with arched windows showing snowy mountains and a clear night sky. The ballroom was filled with elegantly dressed aristocracy – or at least, a bunch of actors who looked the part. Everyone else's outfits were either gold, white or a blend of the two shades, another deliberate way to show Patricia's clear divergence from the people around her.
A quartet warmed up in the corner; they wouldn't be able to play during our scene because the music would mess with the sound guys and their ability to capture our audio. But someone called out a request to the musicians, and they happily began to play an old familiar melody. Several couples took advantage of the tune to rehearse their steps and sprang into a choreographed dance, sweeping and swirling around the floor.
"Waltz of the Flowers," I said to myself.
"From the Nutcracker."
I spun awkwardly to find Erik standing behind me, blindingly attractive in his white tuxedo. Flustered, I reached for humour. "In my primary school, whenever someone said the words 'nutcracker' you had to whack them in the balls."
"How barbaric," said Eric, his patrician's nose wrinkling.
"Looking back on it now, it was kid-on-kid assault, but at the time it was hilarious as long as it wasn't happening to you." I winked at him. "I'm happy to reinstate Nutcracker law if you like."
"I will pass, if it's all the same to you."
"Why? Not interested in having my hands near your nuts?" What are you doing? I screeched internally. I should not be discussing Erik's scrotum with anyone, least of all the owner of said scrotum.
Eric cocked his head, a little smile on his lips. "The proximity isn't an issue – only the force."
"Why, Mr Brear, are you flirting with me?"
We were interrupted by a gaggle of production assistants, dragging us in opposite directions for various last-minute notes and adjustments. People talked at me, but I couldn't concentrate on anything other than relaying our exchange. Was he flirting? Was he just being funny? And why, oh why, did I initiate a conversation about his testicles?
Twenty minutes later, I was somewhere I'd sworn I'd never be again: back in Erik's arms. The script called for a waltz, so we'd assumed the position, my hand gently resting against his bicep, his fingers splayed against the flat of my back. I swallowed, unable to focus. How did this feel so right when it had drawn me back into the embrace of a man who'd almost destroyed me?
There is something about dance that works so beautifully to pull you into the present. As soon as Erik and I began to move around the dancefloor, my body took over, muscle memory kicking in and booting everything else out of my head. It allowed me to slip out of my skin and into Patricia's; regardless of the similarities between us, this was her story.
I delivered my first line. "I've missed you this week. And last week. And the week before... If it weren't for the giant portrait of you in our bedroom, I might forget what my husband's face looks like."
Erik's face had tightened into the mask he wears for Prince Alrick; it looked a lot like the expression he wore when he was protecting himself. "I'm not just a husband, Patricia. I'm a prince – and you knew that when you married me."
My defensive position is humour; Trish's is crass language. "I know that, dickhead – I never asked you to give up a thing for me. But it would be nice if your bloody wife was invited with you when you go kiss political arse or whatever it is you do."
"Your place is here." He pauses, and I appreciate Erik's craft as I can see Alrick's subtext. "The most important thing you can do is look after yourself."
"Yep, because all that matters is getting me up the duff." I scornfully tilt my chin at the watching couples. "Sorry to disappoint, everyone, but I'm still just a fat arse, not preggers."
The royal couple's pregnancy challenges weren't so different to anyone else's. According to reliable sources, they'd held off trying for a baby for a few years while they enjoyed being newlyweds and Trish settled into royal life. Then, they'd started 'not trying but trying,' dropping contraception and just seeing what happened, before trying in earnest, tracking ovulation and monitoring temperatures. After a year, they'd sought the best medical help available, undergoing numerous tests only to be told there wasn't a single diagnosable thing wrong with them – they just had to keep trying.
It hadn't helped that Trish began to gain weight in the middle of this whole ordeal. Every week, as her waistline expanded, the press frothed and foamed with pregnancy rumours. It must have felt like the cruellest possible joke: suffering from infertility, having the world weigh in about how many weeks along you were when you knew you were just fat.
As a fat woman, I could commiserate. So many times over the years, people had asked me when I was due. The worst was a guy recently – when I responded that I wasn't pregnant, he'd insisted, "But you were pregnant, right?"
Yeah, six years ago, you giant cock-womble...
Erik and I continued to waltz. I delivered my next line. "I got my period today, by the way."
I felt his recoil, the pampered prince withdrawing from unpleasantness. "Jesus, Patricia. Not now."
"Oh, I'm sorry – when should I share what's happening with me, your wife? In the five minutes before you fall asleep? While you're away for months at a time? Or should I send out a press release? Hey, womb watchers! Another month without an heir! How long do you reckon I've got before your citizens call for my head, King Henry the VII style?"
He scowled at me, and I felt his disdain down to my bones. "Patricia, once your candour was charming – when you were a bikini-clad retail worker from a backwater town in an uncultured land. You're a princess now. Try to act accordingly."
This line was the cue for everyone to halt, as if the music had finished. Tears came, hot and uncontrolled as I pulled back from Erik, saying, "I hate to break it to you, your majesty – but you knew who I was when you married me too."
He reached half-heartedly for me and I twisted away. "When I told you I loved you, I meant it. No matter what. I just wished you'd meant it too."
My voice broke on the last word as I hurried away through the crowd, hiding my face as best I could. As I reached the doors to the balcony, Olivia called cut and a slow clap broke out on set.
Olivia appeared, her smile white and beaming. "Mila, that was phenomenal! God damn, girl – when you delivered that last line – chills! Literal chills!"
"Thanks," I said confidently, flicking the tears from my cheeks as if they were pesky ants and grinning. Other people surrounded me, congratulating me on the scene as my mascara was fixed and we prepared to reset.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Erik studying me, his expression stormy. Because we both knew the truth.
That final line wasn't deliveredby Trish to Alrick. It was deliveredfrom me to my ex-boyfriend – the one I was rapidly realising I wasn't as over asmuch as I thought I was.
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