Chapter 14: Rated (R)ock to the Rhythm

TCL Chinese Theatre, LA. June, 2004.

I was in the lap of luxury. And by that, I meant I was curled up with a blanket in the trunk of a minivan.

The rich and famous traveling in style was a long established phenomenon. Why no one bothered to tell me that style was akin to that of a hobo, I’ll never know.

The premier for the Prisoner of Azkaban, after months, was finally here.

Problem was, we were still very much in the thick of filming Goblet of Fire, so the schedule was kept tighter than a flea’s butthole. The plan for these sorts of events was very much show up, show out, and show up back to work.

At least when we did the London premiere, we could easily drive back to Leavesden to resume work. I’d spend longer on the transcontinental trip than I would in my own backyard.

What a waste of a first-class ticket.

My transient tranquility was harshly torn away by Cadbury. The blinding glare of a setting sun seared away the rods and cones of my eyeballs.

Flimsy as they were, at least those flowery cloth curtains prevented me from going blind.

I immediately rolled over and yanked the blanket over my head. “Five more minutes.”

In lieu of an argument, she merely tore the quilt off me. Resistance was futile in the face of her fierce forearms. I suspect she was distantly related to Popeye. I’d have to prepare some baked spinach and see how she reacts.

“Your daily quota of tomfoolery has passed, Mr Rhys. Now, up! The rest of your colleagues have arrived, and you are still, in no way, shape, or form, presentable.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n.” True enough, I couldn’t let anyone but me hog all the attention on the red carpet.

I scooted over and sat on the edge of the trunk. Cadbury shifted beside me, pulled out my toiletries from their bag, and dolled me up.

That wasn’t saying much, though. My hair was messy by design for the movie, and no amount of combs or clay was going to tame the wild animal living on my scalp.

I confirmed as much when I surveyed myself in the small foldable mirror. If my hair wasn’t loud enough, my clothes required a noise complaint.

Head to toe, all white. Not a buckle, zipper, or button in sight.

“I look like a mascot for a laundry detergent brand.” With my endorsement with Uniqlo now cemented for the foreseeable future, I gained the privilege of basically never having to buy clothes for myself again. The flip side of that coin, however, was that my apparel wasn’t always my choice anymore - especially when I was to be paraded out to flog out my image like a walking, talking billboard.

My complaint went in one ear and out the other. Cadbury draped the last of my outfit on me. A clean crimson mandarin collared dinner jacket. Which she pierced with a small but conspicuous jewel encrusted lightning bolt lapel pin - a prototype accessory for the Harry Potter line of Uniqlo merchandise.

“A mannequin has no need for opinions, Mr Rhys.”

A robot would know. “Alrighty then,” I twirled and studied myself from every angle. The air around me was clearly debon. “Let’s give the people a show, then catch my own.”

I felt an elbow nudge my side. I turned in my movie seat and glanced at Emma Watson sitting beside me. In stark contrast to the very serious scene playing out, her smile was ear-to-ear.

I raised my eyebrows in question. She discreetly pointed to her other side. I leaned forward and saw Rupert Grint practically bouncing in his seat. I stifled a laugh and rested back in my chair and focused on the potions confrontation happening on the screen.

[ “That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger,” said Snape coolly. “Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all.”

The close-up frame showed Hermione as she went red, put down her hand, and stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears.

The camera blurred the foreground and zoomed in on Ron, who stared at Hermione with a frown, turned a heated gaze on Snape and shouted. “You asked us a question, and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don’t want to be told?”]

I leaned into Emma and muttered in her ear. “Don’t pretend you won’t be just as excited when you see the scene where you got to punch Malfoy.”

She slapped my shoulder playfully. The movie progressed.

I’d likely have been more enthused about the event if I was allowed to go to the after party. But with my timetable, my dinner was reserved for forty-thousand feet in the air.

I snuck a peek at Emma’s half full tub of popcorn. I followed her hand as she popped another kernel into her mouth. Good, she was concentrated on the movie. Slowly, ever so casually, my twitching fingers slithered their way over. I reached in, palmed a fistful of buttery triumph. Yet all I’d taste was bitter defeat.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Emma pinched the back of my hand, which reflexively dropped its payload and pulled back. “Get your own!” she whisper hissed.

Count on British manners to maintain decorum in an active cinema.

I showed her the decimated vestiges of my own greasy tub. “The intro ran way too long.” Movie premieres didn’t come packaged with previews and warnings to keep your phone off. Instead, we were treated to meandering, self-congratulatory speeches that put smug award acceptances to shame.

“...Fine.” Chapped lips, and salty fingers, here I come. “But I want something in return.”

“Name it.” My lap suddenly had a snack bucket, and my shoulder held a second head that wasn’t mine.

Emma turned me into a combination table and pillow. “I’m cold.”

Taking the glaringly obvious cue, I threw my arm over her shoulder.

Good thing too, if this was my first turn around the block I would have (and had) told her to get a jacket.

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Alnwick Castle, UK. June 2004.

Summertime was for the students; even more when you were working students.

The actors hired to play the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students were very much included in that number, so the cast and their required scenes were of paramount importance to get done in a timely manner.

Being the consummate professionals that we all are, we young actors were on set - the adults, however, were taking a little too long.

So, naturally I decided to incentivize them to hurry up.

Strolling over to the sound system set up in the corner of the great hall and pulled out the ever useful aux cord.

No smartphones just yet. But I’d nudged Ben Wyatt, my financial manager, subtly in the right direction to capitalize on the oncoming situation with what liquidity I had left. In the meantime, I was relegated to mp3 players. Everyone in the hall startled at the sudden blasting of Michael Jackson. “Good morning everybody, and welcome to your first day of dance training!”

I clasped my hands behind my back and strutted forward to face the crowd. “Today, we learn how to moonwalk!”

“That’s about enough of that!” In quick succession, my music was cut off, and my ear was twisted and held in punishment. “I am Hazel Newberry. I am a two-time world champion ballroom dancer, and luckily for the lot of you, your dance instructor for the next few weeks.”

Our willowy new teacher had yet to let go of my ear and continued her initiation to the highly amused audience. “Despite what our little miscreant here says, we will not, in fact, be moonwalking. We shall be practicing the waltz.”

“Planning to release me anytime soon?”

“No. I happen to need a volunteer, and you have graciously presented yourself. All eyes on us, I shall be showing you the first steps we’ll be learning.”

Quick as a whip, I found my hand firmly clutched in hers, while another held strong at my waist.

“On my shoulder, Mr. Rhys.”

“I guess I’m the skirt and you’re the trousers in this equation.” I supplied. “So, you got a boyfriend?”

“Please flirt on your own time.” Shut down without an ounce of remorse. “Pay attention, everyone.” She led me through the first steps. “1-2-3. 1-2-3.”

I fumbled along while she glided through the routine. “Perhaps you should spend more time focused on your steps rather than your hormones.”

“I’m confident I can do both.” Ha! I finally got her to smile.

She stopped and faced the crowd once more. “Nice and easy for today to get you all comfortable. Please pair up and find some space. I shall be wandering through and correcting you.”

She let me go. “You as well.”

“Tired of me already?”

“Even before we began dancing. Run along and find someone a little more age appropriate. Your practice dummy duties resume tomorrow.” She shooed me away and began her rounds.

As much as I wanted to continue flirting with her - even if just for practice, there was someone who I had my eye on since the casting in London.

A large portion of those in attendance were teenagers; and with that came that hesitation to mingle with the opposite sex for fear of embarrassment. But I had no doubt that once the dam broke, I’d miss my chance - she was too pretty not to be one of the first picked; and I’d be damned if I wasn’t doing the picking.

She sat there, a little nervous, as she twiddled her thumbs and glanced around the room for a partner.

Full, wavy hair; and even fuller pink lips. Her deep eyes peered hither and thither, dark enough that you’d struggle to see her pupils. Full seemed to be the most à propos adjective when it came to her; because it was the ideal word to describe that sinful figure as well.

I came to a stop in front of her. She noticed me then. “Hey!”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Me?” She self consciously looked behind her to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake.

I leaned down, grabbed her free hand, and pulled her off the bench. “Who else would I be talking to?”

Still a little stunned but trapped in my pace, she allowed me to wrestle her into the starting position as the music in the background started playing. My hand was on her waist this time.

“I would’ve thought, one of your more prominent co-stars, no?” It was an ordeal to actually process her words. Her unique voice was oh so distracting as it sent shivers down my spine with every note.

“The moment I saw you, I sort of forgot about them.”

“Liar!” she said, playfully given her new smile. “You don’t even know my name.”

1-2-3. 1-2-3. I could hear the teacher call in the distant background.

“You can solve the conundrum quite easily. Go on, I could hear you talk all day.” She giggled. I felt my goosebumps wake. At nineteen, I was sure she was more than aware of the effect her voice had on boys.

“I’m Gemma Arterton. And you are a flirt!”

“Didn’t sound like a complaint to me.” I whispered into her ear and pulled her in tighter. Not enough that she was pressed flush or anywhere near, but calling us cozy would be apt.

She gasped at my action. The hand she had rested on my shoulder struck at my neck and pinched me there. But despite that, she made no effort to pull back.

I saw as her cheeks flushed red, a ruddy band stretching across her button nose to connect the two sides. I smiled then.

Over the coming month, the classes would continue.

In the mornings, we’d shoot all the scheduled scenes for the film, and then nearly every afternoon would be spent practicing the steps for the Triwizard ball scene.

Ms. Newberry advised us to stick primarily to one partner; which if I was reading her signals correctly, Gemma was just as happy about as I was. On occasion, we were made to swap partners to ensure we weren’t ingraining any bad habits, but at the end of the day, we’d both come back together.

It being the height of summer, the sun only grew hotter as our dance routine more demanding.

Sweat became a constant companion.

I didn’t know if pheromones were a scientifically proven fact, but her scent drove me wild.

She was blatantly aware of that. If it wasn’t for her helping to hide it, my erections would be plain to see for everybody. Although, her pressing up on me with her sweat soaked body certainly didn’t help dampen my arousal either. She smirked at me every time I popped one.

I’d say damn my hormones, but they clearly seemed to be doing more good than harm.