those of her characters’ as she portrayed anger and sadness and all other human emotions onstage night after night, but never has she encountered this extraordinary meeting of her own sexual awakening and that of a character — the infamous Lady Chatterley no less.
The director finally yells, “Cut,” when the scene reaches its natural conclusion and he gets what he needs: a genuine sense of two people drawn to each other so viscerally that they have no choice but to surrender. As uncomfortable a situation as it is, Sarah understands why she and Ian have to be pushed to such extremes of passion. More important, she knows they must be willing to force themselves to do whatever is needed if the audience is expected to buy the scene.
“Print!” Christopher shouts to no one in particular. “That’s a wrap! Thanks, everyone.” He runs to the two actors, who scuttle to cover their nakedness. “That was bloody beautiful. Brilliant work, guys.” This time Sarah almost thinks his compliments are genuine, but he has said those very words so many times before that they now sound hollow.
Having already changed into her comfort clothes — a pair of blue jeans and a cream cashmere sweater — Sarah stands in front of the mirror in her trailer. She studies her face, delight flashing in her eyes for handling what could have been a difficult day rather well. Sarah is also happy about how she looks. Although people have been telling her how lovely she is all her life, she has never allowed herself to believe it, or more accurately, never permitted herself to take joy in it because she has always thought one should be proud of one’s accomplishments, not a blessing as random as physical beauty. She is quite Puritan that way. But of late, especially after her thirty-third birthday a month ago, she has become much more interested in herself, not only in her intellect and emotions to which she has always paid utmost attention but in her body, as well — its appearance, the way she feels in it, and the many pleasures it has to offer.
Hers is a beauty composed of parts that are individually ordinary, even flawed. The neck is a centimetre or so too long, the nose too thin and pointed. The ears have an elfish, upward drift that makes them stick out more than she cares for, the lips appear too plump, almost collagenated, and the skin is fairer than is fashionable.
Add these oddities, however, and the effect is stunning yet approachable, with a kind of Audrey Hepburn vulnerability that makes everyone around her either want to fuck her or protect her from those who want to fuck her. As she stares in the mirror, apparently fascinated with herself, Sarah ties her brown hair in a high, loosey-goosey ponytail, puts on her coat, and leaves.
When she steps out of the trailer, which is parked outside a closed-off street, she finds Ian at the foot of the vehicle. For a moment he looks like a star-struck teenager waiting for an autograph from his favourite actress. Ian offers his hand and helps her down the trailer’s steep steps.
“I thought you’d gone home,” Sarah says.
“Before I left, I just wanted to thank you for a really amazing day.”
At first Sarah doesn’t read much into this compliment. She knows how obnoxiously self-congratulatory actors can be and that they say this sort of thing to one another all the time, especially on the first days of a shoot. But something in Ian’s eyes, the way he gazes at Sarah but quickly turns away as if the gratitude he feels is too overwhelming, convinces her of his sincerity. She stands close to him, peers into his eyes, and kisses him on the lips softly, barely touching them. “You’re so sweet, you know that? You’ve waited just to tell me that?”
“That and …”
“And what?” she prompts.
“I … well, the thing is. Back then, when we were making love, I mean, pretending to … I just want to say I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? What for?”
He hesitates as though trying to find a discreet way to speak his mind.
“What on earth are you sorry for?” she asks again.
“For getting, you know …”
“Oh, that …” she says with a smile of sudden recognition — a perverse grin, actually.
“I just wanted to assure you that it was no disrespect on my part.
I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I couldn’t help myself.”
Sarah finds his clumsy apology endearing, touching even.
“You’re so very sweet.”
This behaviour isn’t what she anticipated from a man who has become a box office sensation by playing bigger-than-life heroes who save East Coast cities from psychopathic Arab terrorists or who single-handedly terminate giant bloodthirsty bugs invading from South America, wavy brown hair blowing beautifully in the wind. Sarah expected him to strut around the set, sweet-talking female crew members out of their pants, charming them into making a pilgrimage to his sizable trailer. Sarah even figured he would attempt a quick on-set fling with her. She didn’t imagine herself standing in front of a man so shy, so quiet, that she can barely hear him.
Suddenly, Sarah is overcome by guilt for almost refusing to take the role in the film when she discovered that Ian Harmer would be her co-star, that her first foray into cinema would be alongside a man whose movies she can only bring herself to watch when she takes her godchildren and even then finds it difficult to sit through them. But having actually done some scenes with him now, she sees that underneath the matinee idol is a good actor who could someday be great if only he challenged himself more often. She feels a strong physical attraction toward him. Her desire made sense when he was naked and she was touching his beautiful body, feeding off his reaction to her, but fully clothed outside her trailer on a cold, rainy September night, she can’t make sense of it.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” Sarah asks him, almost before the thought fully forms in her head. “The food at the hotel is … well, let’s just say I’m not looking forward to it.” She realizes she might have stepped over an invisible line whose crossing could have very serious consequences, especially only two weeks into principal photography. What if something does actually happen between us? she wonders.
Sarah doesn’t entertain that idea any further, for there is Michael, her husband, to consider. It is Michael who really makes her think twice about what lies on the other side of desire. If she had an affair with Ian, it would break Michael. She knows he would find out, too, not due to his own cleverness but because she could never keep something as big as that to herself. No matter how hard she tried to wipe away the residue of another man such a secret would manifest itself in some unforeseen way.
A part of Sarah admires people who possess the peculiar talent of taking from others what they can’t get from their husbands or wives while at the same time holding on to those things they cherish most in their spouses, those things that made them say “I do” in the first place.
Could I be one of those people? Sarah asks herself as she and Ian walk side by side on the wet, shimmering pavement on their way to dinner, shoulders occasionally touching. There is one thing she knows, though — her capacity to surprise herself.
For a brief moment Zakhariye thinks he is having a nightmare as the sound of George W. Bush’s voice talking about spreading freedom and democracy throughout the Middle East ricochets in his head. He jolts up, popping his head from under the pillow. It dawns on him that it isn’t a nightmare. He fell asleep with the television
