The Actress and the Aristocrat by Katie Ashley
Chapter Four: Charlie
Two weeks ago, I hadn’t been able to contain my excitement when the cast and crew of Remains of the Season packed up and left Sutherlin House for our other location shoots. I’m sure you can guess that my giddiness had nothing to do with the house itself, but more with its beast of a master, and you would be absolutely correct.
After that initial day of embarrassing myself in front the Earl, I’d managed to keep my distance, and thankfully, I hadn’t had any more embarrassing scenes or tirades with him. While I would’ve fully expected him to look down his nose at the entirety of cast along with keeping his distance from us, I was surprised too often to find him chatting amicably to some of the other leads. Mr. Pretentious Prick even instigated a cigar and brandy hour after shooting ended with Peter Dewsbury and some of the other established British actors. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Peter’s father had been knighted or that Conrad Brighton, the man playing my ruthless grandfather, came from an aristocratic family. I fought the urge to voice how elitist it sounded, but I managed to bite my tongue.
As a somewhat backwards and untraveled gal, I’d loved every single moment of being in London. On the days when I didn’t have a call to shoot, I’d roam around and soak in the historical sights. I’d also been giddy to experience the studio at Ealing, which was the oldest film studio in the world.
Although there was a part of me that was somewhat homesick for the States and my family, I’d grown especially close with my fellow costars. Many nights after we completed shooting, we’d duck into a pub and sit around until the wee hours of the morning talking, laughing, and getting pissed, as my fellow Brits called it.
There was one cast member in particular, Cas Armstrong-Jones, whom I’d come to know intimately. Oh yes, I knew him very, very intimately indeed, and that wasn’t just on-screen where he was playing my working-class love interest.
I’d shamelessly flirted with him during the table reads. By the time we got to the rehearsal stage of filming, we’d segued into a few dates that were cleverly disguised as sightseeing excursions. Since Cas had been living in London for years, it was less about him seeing the sights and more about making out with me in front of the Crown Jewels. When we finally stepped in front of the bright stage lights for principal shooting at Sutherlin House, I’d come to know him in the Biblical sense of the word as well.
While I was the unknown Yank leading lady, Cas was a very popular TV star in England and was segueing into a film career. With his golden-blond hair, cerulean eyes, and sculpted physique, he had future international heart-throb written all over him. While some actresses would find it nice being seen out on his arm, I wasn’t interested in his potential fame. I liked that he made me laugh, and I could be myself. So much of Hollywood was fake, and that wasn’t just the boob jobs, breast lifts, and Botox. People hugged you up one day and then knifed you in the back the next. Over the years, I’d dealt with a bruised ego and wounded pride after people made me feel I wasn’t good enough.
That feeling of inequality brought me back to the Beast aka Earl Whittingham. Just when I thought I was safe from ever having to see him again, I heard the word actors and actresses always dreaded to hear: a pickup.
For you non-SAG, aka Screen Actors Guild peeps, a pickup is relatively minor shot that is filmed after the fact. Usually, it occurs during the editing process, which is weeks or months after principal filming has ended. In my case, the director hadn’t been pleased with a particular scene’s dailies, aka the raw and unedited footage that is often watched before morning shoots or during lunch. While in London, he’d decided we needed to add to the scene. In particular, we needed to expand the main love scene between my character, Lady Rowena, and the valet who she wasn’t supposed to be involved in a romance with.
Out of all of the shooting locations, guess where that scene happened to be filming at?
My nerves weren’t only shot at the prospect of returning to Sutherlin House and potentially running into the Beast, but I wasn’t relishing the particular scene we’d be shooting. It was the dreaded love scene.
Now I’m not a prude in any sense of the word. For the most part, I’m completely comfortable in my own sexuality and my own skin. It was more the prospect of showing that skin that had me slightly on edge. As someone who appreciated their privacy, it wasn’t just the idea that Joe Blow out in Podunk, Indiana would know what I looked like without my clothes, but it was also the fact my dad or brothers could see.
At the same time, I was forever grateful to the SAG for the nudity rider clause in contracts. Before I’d even arrived on the set, I’d ironed out what I was or wasn’t comfortable with. Like, I was willing to show the side curve of my breasts or hips and the tops of my breasts and buttocks. But no nipples or vajayjay or full-on ass cheeks could be shown.
The one thing besides my nudity rider clause that somewhat calmed me was the fact I would be shooting the love scene with Cas. Since we had been acting out many sex scenes privately over the past two months, one could only assume it would come easy for me to do the same thing publically. Of course, during our intimate times together, there hadn’t been a lighting guy or the director or the boom guy picking up our pants and grunts. When you added ten people to your lovemaking, it took anything remotely sexy out of it. Well, at least if you weren’t involved in an orgy.
Yesterday when my nerves were at a fevered pitch to begin rehearsals with Cas, the unthinkable happened: I ran into the Beast. And when I say a ran into him, I literally smacked into him in the form of colliding into his hard wall of flesh. At first, I didn’t know who it was and quickly said, “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry.” But then I jerked my head up from the rock-hard pecs at my eye-line, the sight of Earl Whittingham caused me to internally groan. The universe seriously hated me.
Things went from bad to worse when my traitorous brain thought, Damn, I had no idea he was built like a brick shithouse. Quickly, I scrambled away from him and any R-rated thoughts I had about his body.
“My apologies as well.” Cocking his brows at me, he replied, “You appear to be lost.”
“We were rehearsing earlier in one of the guest rooms before we broke for lunch.” I threw a glance over my shoulder. “Now that it’s time to shoot, I can’t seem to find my way back. All the corridors look the same.”
“Tell me about it. I used to get lost all the time when I was a kid,” he said with a smile.
I blinked at him in surprise. Had Earl Asshole actually been human in front of me? Was he actually lowering himself from his high horse to be nice to a commoner—an American commoner—like me? Although I had every right to give him some bitchy response back, I realized I’d been raised better. Returning his smile, I replied, “I’m glad it’s not just me.”
“Oh, it’s not. Whenever we hire new help, it’s almost like we need one of those You Are Here maps.” He chuckled. Then as if he realized there was something wrong with what he said, his laughter cut off quickly while dark his brows knitted together.
Sensing we needed a conversation change, I opened my mouth to say something about how beautiful the guest rooms were, but I was interrupted by Cas’s voice booming from the top of the hallway. “Charlie? Where the hell have you been?”
Earl Whittingham turned around to see who the voice belonged to. “Sorry. I must’ve taken a wrong turn,” I replied to Cas.
He waved his hand at me while an impish grin curved on his lips. “Well get your arse down here, so we can fuck.” He then proceeded to make a rude thrusting gesture with his hips.
Mortification rocketed through me when Rand sucked in a breath at Cas’s crude behavior. While I was accustomed to Cas’s somewhat frat-boy humor, I could only imagine Earl Whittingham was thinking how the behavior polluted the reputation of his estate. When he turned to peer questioningly at me, my cheeks were on fire. And it was right then and there I wanted the floor beneath the antique carpeting to open up and swallow me whole. In a way, the reaction felt quite surprising.
God, I could only imagine what was running through his mind at that moment. Most likely, I was some sleaze who just banged her way through the cast.
At Rand’s expectant, rather than judgmental look, I stuttered, “W-We’re filming a l-love scene today.” Wait, what? Why was I suddenly acting like a cowering fool in front of him? It was like I had warped into some weird Jekyll and Hyde personality in his presence.
Rand’s gaze trailed down me before bobbing his head. I think it was the first time he realized I wasn’t wearing my usual Edwardian dress. Instead, a frilly robe covered the period piece nightgown underneath. “Ah, I see,” he murmured.
Since I seemed to suffer from word vomit whenever I was nervous, I unfortunately blabbed, “I mean, I won’t be nude or anything. It’s all very tasteful.” Nervous laughter then bubbled from my lips. “I guess you could say it’s all very period appropriate except I’ll be revealing a little more than my ankle.” Hey dumbass, could you please shut up and quit making an absolute idiot out of yourself? Now he probably thinks you’re going full nude and is also rethinking having his house represented in a soft porn film. Once again, mortification colored my cheeks at the thought of what he might be thinking of me. It was quite surprising considering just ten minutes ago, I hadn’t given a rat’s ass what he thought of me. Not to mention I was accustomed to telling him just where he could get off.
Thankfully, Rand was a good sport about it. His nose hadn’t turned up in a condescending sneer like I’d expected. “Well, that’s good to know,” he replied. A few seconds ticked by as a heavy, agonizing awkwardness hanging around us. Finally, Rand cleared his throat. “Right, well, I won’t keep you any longer.”
When I tried moving to the right, he did the same, and then we both moved to the left. It felt like I was back in one of the ball scenes we’d filmed earlier in ballroom downstairs. After waltzing together for a few moments, Rand pressed his back against the wall, leaving the hallway to me.
“Thanks,” I murmured as I swept past him. I continued to feel the heat of his stare on by back as I walked along the antique carpeting. When I heard his footsteps in the opposite direction, I exhaled a breath of relief.
When I reached Cas, I smacked his arm. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded.
“For telling me to come and…” I almost couldn’t bring myself to say the word.
It didn’t seem to be a problem for Cas because he said, “Fuck?”
“Yes.”
With a snort, he replied, “The word hasn’t bothered you before.” After waggling his brows, he added, “The act itself hasn’t either.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s because it wasn’t in front of Earl Whittingham.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“Hate is a very strong word,” I argued feebly.
Crossing his arms, Cas countered, “Bollocks. I’m pretty sure you said you hated the ‘pretentious prick’ many times and went on and on about how you couldn't wait to get out of here and head to London.”
Damn him and his good memory. “Fine. I did say I hated him.” Giving him a pointed look, I added, “That doesn’t mean that I want you talking all crass around him.”
A burst of laughter came from Cas’s lips. “Well fuck me. I never thought I’d see the day when an American like you would be bootlicking the aristocracy.”
Like his character in the film, Cas had an extreme disdain for anything class related. He’d made that evident from the first day of filming when he did an impression of Earl Whittingham. At the time, I’d found a kindred spirit in him after my own disdainful experience with a member of the aristocracy. But now for reasons I didn’t understand, I didn’t share his sentiments.
“I’m not ‘bootlicking’. I’m merely wanting to not lend further credence to him thinking all Americans are trashy.”
“You’re welcome to suck up to Earl Fancy Pants all you want. Rest assured, I won’t have any part of it.”
“Ugh, be that way.”
With a devilish twinkle in his eyes, he jerked his chin up and thrust his nose into the air. “Ms. Monroe, will you please accompany me to the set where we shall partake in simulated intercourse?”
A very unladylike bark of laughter came from my lips at his words coupled with the pretentious tone. After extending my crooked arm, I said, “It would be my pleasure.”
After we spentthe morning in rehearsals, we broke for lunch. Since I wasn’t wearing my usual medieval torture device, aka my corset, I partook in a plateful of scrumptious food from the catering services. It had been my first day at the craft service table when I fully realized just how I’d truly moved up the East Side like the Jefferson’s with this film.
Just as soon as I’d swallowed my last bite, I was whisked away to the makeup trailer to get ready for the afternoon filming schedule. Once my makeup was finished, I went to wardrobe for a check of my costume. All too soon I found myself being walked by an AD into the main house and then up the back staircase. I kept my nerves in check until I stood in front of the massive, intricately carved mahogany bed, and felt the hot glare of the stage lights singe my skin. It was at that moment I instantly regretted binging at lunch as my stomach churned with nerves. As my mouth went dry, I desperately tried remembering my lines along with my choreographed motions for the love scene.
All I could think of was the horrified expression of my parents in the audience on opening night when they saw me dry-humping Cas. I gulped. I really should’ve stayed with Hallmark.
“Ready, Charlie?” Desmond, the director, questioned. At what must’ve been my deer in the headlights look, he gave me a reassuring smile. “You’ve got this.”
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
“You will.” He patted me on the back. “Just as soon as I say, ‘Action’, you’ll come alive just as you always do. I wouldn’t have taken a chance on you if you didn’t.”
Bolstered by the self-esteem boost, I drew my shoulders back. “Let’s do this.”
Desmond nodded. “Where’s Cas?”
It was at that moment I realized he wasn’t in the scene yet. A few seconds ticked by before he poked his head in from the hallway. “Right here,” he called. Cas appeared to have been talking to Serena Dougherty. She was the chambermaid who caught us in the act and then blackmailed us to keep the secret. “Okay then. Everyone let’s clear the set.”
The crowd of people buzzing about thinned down to the basics. Just like every other scene is choreographed and rehearsed, it was the same with love scenes. I knew exactly when and where Cas was going put his hands and mouth. After Desmond yelled, “Action!”, all of that choreography went out the window, and when Cas jerked me into his arms for a passionate lip lock, I shrieked, rather than moaned.
“Cut!” Desmond said.
I slapped a hand to my forehead at my idiocy. “Sorry.sorry.sorry.SORRY!” I muttered.
“No problem. Let’s go again.”
“Come on, Charlie. It’s me, not Seamus you’re fucking,” Cas teased.
At the thought of having a love scene with my dear friend, Seamus, I giggled. I couldn’t imagine his hands or lips on me, and that wasn’t because he was playing my brother who was in turn involved with another man in the film.
After a few deep breaths and getting my head in the zone, Desmond called action again. This time I melted into Cas’s arms, grasping the strands of his hair while moaning with pleasure as his tongue darted into my mouth. I went through the motions we’d rehearsed of taking off his clothes while he did the same to my night jacket and gown.
It was when we got down to business in the bed that the strangest thing happened. When I peered at Cas above me, it wasn’t his face I was seeing. It wasn’t his hips thrusting against mine.
It was Earl Whittingham.
His image, coupled with the sudden rush of moisture between my thighs at the thought of him doing naughty things to me, threw me for such a loop that I lost my train of thought and went against Cas’s scripted actions, which caused me to knee him in the balls.
“Fucking hell!” he groaned as he collapsed on top of me.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Charlotte, is everything okay?” Desmond questioned.
Cas grunted. “I’m the one with bruised balls, and you’re asking Charlie if she’s okay?”
Desmond chuckled. “Sorry, mate. I always check on the ladies first.”
Through my utter and complete mortification, I nodded my head furiously at Desmond. “I’m fine. My leg cramped,” I fibbed.
“Do you need a minute?” he questioned me.
Oh, I need a hell of a lot more than just a minute. Like a bottle of vodka and a therapy session. “No, no. We can keep going,” I lied.
Desmond glanced over to Cas. “Do you and your balls need a minute?”
With a roll of his dark eyes, he retorted, “We’re fine.”
“Good. Let’s reset and then begin again.”
Although I was still gob smacked about what had just transpired, I forced any R-Rated thoughts and images of Earl Whittingham out of my mind. I poured everything I had into the next take, which thankfully didn’t resort in anymore emotional trauma for me or physical trauma for Cas.
I’m not sure how many takes we went through. When Desmond finally called it a wrap, my lips were swollen and my nether regions felt somewhat chafed from the modesty patch and constant fake humping.
After the AD helped me into my robe, I started for the door. I wanted nothing more than to get out of the house and back into my street clothes. After bolting out the door, I started down the hallway. I’d just reached the stairs when I heard Cas’s voice behind me. “Wanna get dinner later?” I called over my shoulder. When he didn’t respond, I glanced back to see he hadn’t caught up with me. Instead, he was talking to Serena and Desmond. Since I was more than ready to get dressed, I decided just to text him.
I managed to get out of the main house without running into Earl Whittingham again. After a separate AD helped me out of my costume, I went over to the makeup mirror to try and remove some of the heavy stage makeup. Once I was finished, I grabbed my bag and glanced at my phone. I couldn’t help wrinkling my brow at the sight of no texts. Since Cas was notorious for leaving his phone in the oddest places, I decided to go in search of him.
When I didn’t find him in wardrobe or makeup, I headed back into the main house. At the bottom of the main staircase, I found Cas’s PA, Trevor, with his head buried in his phone.
“Have you seen Cas?”
Trevor jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He said he had a meeting in the library.”
Furrowing my brows, I repeated, “A meeting?”
Without looking up from his phone, he replied, “That’s what he said.”
It was the first I’d heard of any meeting. Anxiety pricked its way up my spine. What if Desmond had taken Cas aside to talk to him about how bad I was in our scene? I could almost picture the two of them—grim faced and defeated—about how I couldn’t deliver intimacy and sexiness when depended on. Jeez, Charlie, way to always think the worst about yourself and your performance.
Hopping over the red velvet ropes, I ignored the Off Limits to Cast and Crew signs. With my stomach constricting in knots, I made my way down the hallway. At the door on the left, I recoiled slightly because I remembered it was Earl Whittingham’s office. I tiptoed past, careful not to let my footsteps echo on the marble floor.
I wound around the rest of the hallway. I wished I had one of the headsets for the house tours. Then at least I might know where the hell I was. After peeking in a few doors, the sound of voices alerted me to the last door at the end of the hall.
My heart sank when I identified one of the muffled ones as Cas. As my hand hovered over the antique crystal doorknob, I debated just turning, running away, and pretending I’d never heard anything between Cas and Desmond. A part of me reasoned that confronting them probably wouldn’t do anything good for my career.
At the same time, I’d been raised not to allow anyone to railroad me, and the fact my director and my costar had the audacity to meet about me without extending an invitation made my blood boil. Especially after Desmond had been so kind about my skills before the shoot began. So, I squared my shoulders, inhaled a sharpened breath, and jerked open the door.
“You know, the least you two could’ve done was to ask me to…”
My words died at the horrifying sight before me. It felt like the bright bulbs of the paparazzi flashed before me, imprinting the images on my mind. Cas’s bare ass. His pants around his ankles. The skirt of Serena Dougherty’s maid costume shoved up over her hips. Skin against skin.
Holy fucking shit.
“I thought you locked the door,” Selena hissed at Cas as she jerked her dress down over her hips.
“Yeah, so did I. Fucking old houses.” Turning his attention from Serena to me, Cas scowled. “Jesus, Charlie, you could’ve knocked!”
I blinked at him as he jerked his pants up his legs and over his hips. Was he actually insinuating I was at fault for what had just happened? Like I was to blame for him been caught red-handed with another woman? “E-Excuse me?”
“You about gave me a bloody heart attack.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I spat, “I could say the same.”
With her costume back in place, Serena glanced between the two of us. After her face turned maroon, she sprinted out the door. When it slammed shut, I stared pointedly at Cas. “I see our afternoon of rolling around in the sheets turned you on. Well, at least not for me.”
“You and I both know there’s nothing sexy about filming that love scene bullshit.”
“You certainly found a post-filming urge with Ms. Dougherty,” I countered.
“Look, Charlie, what Serena and I were doing had nothing to do with you, okay?”
“Yeah, I think that’s abundantly obvious since I wasn’t the one you were just fucking.” As we stood there staring at each other, I shook my head. “You know, even though I’ve played this type of cheating scene before in a movie I did for Lifetime, it truly didn’t prepare me for actually experiencing it in real life.”
“Cheating?” Sweeping his hands to his hips, Cas challenged, “Come on, Charlie, don’t tell me you honestly thought we were more than we were?”
“Wait…what?” Surely, I had just hallucinated his last statement. More than we were? Like, what the hell had we been the last two months? “Of all the ways you could respond, gas lighting is how you’re choosing to play this?”
“I’m not playing anything—I’m just stating facts.”
“You introduced me to people as ‘your girl.’”
“How was I supposed to introduce you? ‘Here’s Charlie, my costar I’m shagging’?”
As a tremor of rage ricocheted through me, my breath exited my lips in harsh pants. “That’s really all you think has been going on between us?”
“Seems like it to me.”
To be fair, he was correct in his summation of what had been transpiring over the last two months. We had been epically shagging, but there had been a personal intimacy between us that the foundation of all that shagging had been built on. That was primarily because I’d made a rule early on in my career not to get involved with costars unless there was a future between us. I could find hookups off-set to avoid any drama.
Yet here I was.
“I met your parents,” I argued somewhat feebly.
Cas rolled his eyes. “Do you know how many girls they’ve had dinner with over the years?” When I didn’t respond, he added, “Since you’ve met them, you can plainly see they’re not the easiest people to be around. Inviting a girl with me makes being in their presence tolerable.”
Jesus, what a slime ball. His parents had been positively charming when I’d met them. I blinked a few times and tried to clear my head. I mean, I didn’t love the guy, but fuck, I’d at least expected respect.
“I assumed there was monogamy between us, as I hadn’t—”
“You assumed wrong.”
“You’re right, I did. I assumed you were a halfway decent human being who was worth pursuing a relationship with. Instead, I just see a jackass who can’t keep it in his pants.”
With a snort, Cas said, “You truly are fucking delusional. I can’t believe I wasted my time trying to charm the knickers off you.”
“Excuse me?”
“How much plainer can I make it?” His smirk deepened. “I’d never had a piece of American arse.”
Red cascaded over my eyes, clouding my vision to anything but my growing rage. “You bastard,” I seethed.
He then had the further audacity to laugh at me. And not just a short chuckle but a full-on belly laugh. My fists clenched at my sides as a dark realization came over me.
I zeroed in on large vase on the table next to me. I snatched it off and hurled it at him. He barely had time to react as the vase grazed the side of his cheek before bouncing off to crash and then smash against the wall.
After his hand flew to his cheek, Cas’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “Are you fucking barmy?”
Although I didn’t know exactly what barmy meant, I had a good idea. “If I’m crazy, it’s your fucking fault for driving me there.”
Cas slowly shook his head back and forth. “I was seriously mad to get remotely involved with you.” His shoes crunched on some of the broken pieces of the vase as he strode towards me. From the expression in his eyes, I didn’t know what he was going to say or do. After giving me one last disgusted look, he stomped out of the room.
I jumped at the slamming of the door. Whatever steely courage I’d had coursing through my veins dissipated, and I staggered back. I would’ve kept freefalling if the backs of my knees hadn’t bumped against a chair. As my ass hit the cushion, tears clouded my eyes. Although I hated myself for it, I let the sobs overtake me.
After swiping away my blackened tears on the backs of my hands, I shook my head. Jesus, how had I been such an idiot? Again.
“I’d never had a piece of American arse.”
That’s all I’d been to him. I wasn’t in love with him, but . . . Was it my pride that stung the most here?
With a groan, I buried my head in my hands. God, how was I ever going to get through the premiere? The press junkets where we’d have to appear together? Why did I choose assholes? Now there’s a question for my therapist.
There was also the fact I’d even thrown a vase at him. I jerked my head out of my hands and then peered out at the broken pieces. Bile rose in my throat at the sight of the broken shards of the vase. Oh fuck. Oh, fuckicty fuck fuck! I hadn’t just thrown a vase. I’d thrown what had to be an antique vase. Considering how this room had been off limits, I’d thrown a pretty fucking expensive antique vase.
But more than all of that, I’d thrown Earl Whittingham’s vase. Of all the vases in the world, I’d had to throw his. The beastly bane of my existence.
I was in deep, deep shit.