Chapter 51: One in a Hundred

Chapter 51: One in a Hundred

Sound Stage, Leavesden. November 2009.

Bas Rhys was snogging her senseless. Emma hated every moment.

Spectacular? To her ear, that was perhaps the most appropriate descriptor. Because there was an entire (even if limited) audience spectating - which was predictably uncomfortable. What made the experience so jarring was just how irritatingly competent Bas was with his lipwork. Even though she’d never admit it out loud, she was thoroughly savouring his smooch-manship. Despite the delightful sensations, it infuriated her knowing, and not knowing, why and how he was so good at it.

It fed her aggression. Cameras inevitably captured Emma practically mauling her co-star. The way she was going at it - bruising, nipping, swallowing - they’d need another liberal slather of chapstick to stop them from chafing. 

Nothing she could do to compensate for the swelling, though. But Bas deserved all the pain she could pile on.

His lips were pliant, his breath was minty fresh - which she regretted because she’d done the first take with stale breakfast coffee polluting her mouth, before borrowing the listerine he’d brought on the set. 

Every peck and pucker of his was gentle at the start. Bas was always so considerate of her. He let her set her own pace. It was sweet. It peeved her something fierce, too. Was that internal conflict why she’d basically attacked him so vigorously? No, no, couldn’t be. She was just acting. Let it be known: Emma Watson was a woman of pure pride and prudence. There wasn’t any prejudice to be found, so stop looking!

“Cut!” David Yates barely uttered the single syllable before Bas swept Emma off her marker and turned his back to the crew. Bas’ insufficiently covered buns replaced her risque side-view. 

Aside from their director, Bas himself, and the cinematographer, the remaining few necessary members of production were all women. Emma had insisted. Closed set or no, she had little to no inclination to parade her body to outright strangers. Emma merely mentioned her discomfort to him once, and since then he’d taken it upon himself to shield her after every single take. “Put me down, you brute! I’m not some sack of potatoes you’ve the freedom to manhandle!” Her complaint fell on deaf ears, and she was secretly over the moon about it - as she glimpsed his derriere from over his shoulder, rather literally, too. 

“How was that? Have the lenses fogged up enough, or do we need to make it more steamy?” More steam! Emma was unable to avoid that thought fluttering across the forefront of her mind. At least she didn’t blurt it out.

“Final verdict - we’re good. If this doesn’t give Ron nightmares about Hermione and Harry together, nothing will.” Emma interpreted that to mean she could finally put some clothes back on. “Alright, everyone. Let’s pack up for the day. The both of you are free to wash off that body paint.”

Bas and Emma had been doused and dusted head-to-toe in a horrible concoction of reflective silver cream. And while she could appreciate that it added an ethereal dream-like quality to their figures, and subsequently the scene, the gunk stank to high heaven. Worst of all, it was layered on thick enough to clog her pores. She hadn’t been able to sweat a single drop - her entire body felt like it was wrapped in cellophane. “About time. I can finally wash this filth off.” Emma separated herself from Bas’ torso, but she only got a couple inches apart before he pressed her back against him.

“Wardrobe malfunction!” Bas provided the benefit of an explanation for his actions to her; simultaneously commanding the wider room to source a solution. “I’m gonna need a robe, please. I’m feeling… er, chubby.” A new temporary member of staff was their intimacy coordinator, who rushed over.

The Harry Potter movies weren’t exactly rife with the R-rated stuff, so the studio had appointed someone with a fancy title to ensure any and all hanky-panky in the script remained above board, and under the litigious radar.

Emma itched to look down. Not to see anything - mostly because she’d witnessed more than her fair share of Bas whenever she’d accidentally on purpose committed coitus interruptus. Though, not recently. Fedex was a far less forgiving sentry than Cadbury used to be. “I don’t feel anything poking or prodding me.” Emma buried her hips deeper and shifted them around to confirm his reaction (or lack thereof). She felt his muscled ridges on her skin, especially his adonis belt. Lamentably, she couldn’t trace his V line all the way down, most of it packed away beneath layers of skin-tight lycra and padded foam. Should she be relieved or annoyed? 

“No, but I do. They’ve strapped mini-me down with gaffer tape, which seems to be proving a smidge more effective than your pasties. We’re not filming a porno here.” She leaned her top half back, unheeded about losing balance. Bas would catch her. 

Sure enough, as she glanced down at her own chest, she caught sight of pink on an otherwise silver canvas. It seemed that in the midst of her fervour, the protective tape used to conceal her areola had peeled away like an old bandaid, and hung limply in the wind by a small sliver still on her skin. Emma tilted her neck back to face Bas so she could thank him properly. His pupils slid up to meet her own, but too late, she saw where he’d been peeping a moment ago. Good. “Shall I rip it off?” Bas always raced to tease her; it was gratifying to return the favour. 

“Only if you plan on getting the other one, too. The asymmetry would bother me. Need help?” Heat immediately flew to her cheeks. Emma scowled at him - he taunted her by sticking that blasted silver tongue of his out. She wanted to bite it off. Couldn’t he let her taste victory just this once?

“Please don’t do that. I would get into so much trouble. Even modesty socks have their limits.” The intimacy coordinator hurriedly handed Bas his robe, and without hesitating, he swung it around, draped it over Emma’s own shoulders, and secured it closed by quickly tying its strap around her hips.

Wrapping her up like a present, was he? The sly dog! “Bit early for Christmas, Bas.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, I’m gonna lose my job.”

“Relax.” He said that to the panicking coordinator, but the flick to her forehead told her exactly who he intended the message for. “Don’t make me put you on the naughty list.” With that last line said, he made his exit. Emma counted that as her win, primarily since he jogged away from her without caring to cover up. 

His retreat was her triumph. She was prepared to call out to him and crow about it, but spotted the coordinator’s gaze getting a little too intimate with his backside. “Ahem. Eyes up! That’s mine.”

–

Dressing Room, Leavesden. November 2009.

Water cascaded down full force from the shower head above. Emma let it soak in for a while.

“Emma, are you decent?” She was - now that the cool water washed away both the body paint and the fire she’d stoked within herself. 

Squeak. She cut off the stream to make herself heard. “Just about. I’ll be out in a minute, Anita.” As she dressed herself, she couldn’t help but contrast the soft fabric to the phantom touch of Bas’ firm hands roaming and roving all over her skin. He was constantly on her mind these days, especially after that mishap last week, so Emma really couldn’t blame herself.

On reflection, she’d just blame Bas. It was always his bloody fault. Nothing could convince her of anything else.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have his fingers everywhere else she looked. “Hey, so have you had a chance to read through the scripts I brought?” Emma emerged from the bathroom and encountered the physical embodiment of Bas’ influence on her life. 

Anita Specter, unlike Bas, had returned from California with far fuller hands. Scripts, endorsements, and even prospectuses. “Oh, absolutely. It was a toss up between Crazy, Stupid, Love or The Descendants, but I think I’d rather go with the latter.” 

Anita smiled that toothsome grin of hers. “Clooney over Gosling, eh? Decisions, decisions. Aren’t you just spoiled for choice?”

“Didn’t even cross my mind, to be honest.” There were other things occupying that space currently. “Family drama just felt more compelling to me than a rom-com. The last couple of days have only reaffirmed my stance against sex or sex adjacent scenes. I’d rather leave that for my private life for now.”

“Won’t hear me complain. Makes my job managing your image easier. Plus, it only has a six week filming term in Hawaii, so it’s not gonna take too much shuffling around with the studios to squeeze it into your schedule. I’ll get started with negotiations. Which is more than I can say for your education. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” Emma honestly didn’t understand why Anita was apologising.

“Why? Brown accepted me into the part time track. Deferring it by a semester or two isn’t a big deal.” She’d applied, tested, and interviewed her way through with her own toil. The universities were hopping to grant her admission. “On top of which, I’ve also been granted academic dispensation to avail myself of the study abroad programme they share with Oxford, should I ever need to spend time working on the Isles during my course.” That miracle had required a little donation on her part. 

Emma and her family all were inordinately proud of her monumental achievement. She’d done it all herself while working a demanding and rigorous career. But it had to be said that Bas played his part, too. He’d tutored her academically and pragmatically both. 

“What can I say? If I don’t nitpick for flaws, I’ll find none in myself. I’m just that good. Knocked it out of the park with your new fashion sponsorship, didn’t I?”

Coco Chanel no longer wanted Emma Watson as their Mademoiselle. Kicking her to the curb for Kiera Knightly. In retaliation, Anita had marched straight into Kering’s offices and facilitated an endorsement deal for their entire catalogue - of companies. “I always did like Gucci.” And Emma didn’t have an ounce of remorse in admitting it. She would be the new face of their upcoming Gucci Guilty campaign.

“Well, I’m at least grateful that your career’s on track. Recently, I feel like it’s been crisis after crisis. He’ll never say it, but Bas has been pretty gloomy since that debacle in Cali. That fucking fan of his ruined his relationship with Jonah Hill before it could even get off the ground.”

“I warned him against encouraging his fanatics too much. Had to bite him in the arse, eventually.” 

“Meh.” Anita swatted her comment away with a wave of her manicure. “Bas indulges them more than he needs to, but I still think it does vastly more good than harm. Jonah pissed me off, though. You’d think a guy who looked like that in Hollywood would have thicker skin. Haah, whatever. Bas’ll pull through. He always does.”

“I’m sure I can cheer him up.”

–

Bas’ Caravan, Leavesden. November 2009.

Common decency dictated that one should knock when asking for entry into someone else’s space. But Bas didn’t understand shame, so she wouldn’t adhere to it either.

“So, is this how it’s going to be? Just kiss me and run? You owe me a date!” Emma had practised that line the whole way over. She was ecstatic not to have flubbed it at the crucial moment.

“Go away. I don’t have any energy left today.” Bas very much sounded it, too. His voice was muffled, probably due to the screenplay lying open over his face while he lay sprawled and spread-eagle on his back on the floor. Drama queen.

“That’s a first. Never would’ve considered you remotely capable of any lack of it.” Emma dropped to her knees and lifted the booklet to get him to look at her. It made her sound terrible, but as the shadow of the script fell away, she was hoping he was at least a little sad so she could console him. A little broken, vulnerable, or morose maybe. Emma didn’t want to see him streaming with tears, but a glassy-eyed expression wouldn’t be amiss.

Instead, as the warm yellow light of his RV’s lamps revealed his full face, he dashed every hope she could conceivably hold. Bas scrunched up his face, crossed his eyes, and tucked his chin into his neck until he didn’t have one anymore. He looked ridiculous. Fwap! She smacked him.

“Ow!” He cradled his face and rolled over, kicking his feet all the way.

“Stop fussing. I didn’t hit you nearly that hard.” She grabbed his wrists, he let her pull his palms away from his face and plant them on the ground.

Bas was smiling, laughing. She couldn’t look away. Frame after frame of their memories together flicked rapidly through her thoughts. 

The first time she’d barged into his camper, she was all fire and brimstone, thinking he was wilfully jeopardising her career. Now? She didn’t even want to wonder where her career would be without him. Emma leaned in closer. The tips of her hair prickling his skin forced him to shield himself with a rising shoulder. It reminded her so much of the way he’d muck about with her - chucking her socks, tickling her with feathers, dunking her underwater. Emma was looming over him now, her lips just millimetres away from his own. She flash-backed to the many times she’d been in a similar position before; soothing his throat and making a fool out of herself on her own birthday. 

Emma refused to let him get away this time. She kissed him. For real this time; not as a character, not as a part of her job. As herself. Finally, and for all she was worth, she kissed him until it hurt to not breathe. 

They needed to pull apart, but she was pleased to see a string of saliva still connected them. “Woah! Don’t rehearsals typically happen before we finish shooting the scene?” Oxygen was slow to refill in her lungs, because their proximity meant they were just recycling each other’s breath. He overpowered her grip and gently wrenched one of his hands free. It came up, stroked the side of her face, and tucked away the few stray strands of her hair, blocking their locked stares. “You sure? We’re gonna have to have a serious chat after, you realise?”

Emma nodded. “Yes-but not n-later-I need-” Her tongue was in overdrive, her words tumbling on top of each other without her control. Bas silenced her with a tender caress at the side of lip and dragged her down. 

“Okay.” That settled it. She fell on him again. Bas caught her like he always would.