After all, one disastrous heartbreak shouldn’t write off an entire nation. Or three. Between the combined English, Irish, and Welsh male populations, there’s bound to be someone to keep my toes toasty during the chilly summer nights, right?
But absolutely, definitely, positively—no Scotsmen.
We drive another half-hour through the picturesque countryside, until the driver turns off the main road and down a winding country lane. “It’s just up ahead,” he says, eyeing me in the mirror again. “You can’t miss it.”
I roll my window down and crane my neck for the first glimpse of the country estate where we’ll be shooting our first scenes. There’s a scree of trees and hedgerows, and then we crest a small hill, and the undergrowth opens to show—
“Holy shit!” I gasp out loud and hear a chuckle from the driver.
“She’s something, isn’t she?” he comments, sounding amused.
Something like the most beautiful building I’ve ever seen in my life. The historical country house sits surrounded by rolling lawns and gentle woodland, the sandstone exterior glowing gold under the midday sun. Even surrounded by equipment trucks and trailers, with a bustle of people all around, it’s still brimming over with historic charm. The perfect Netherfield. I can almost see Charles Bingley striding out of the front doors, with a carriage and footmen awaiting. The whole scene takes my breath away.
A base camp’s been set up about a half-mile from the house, with trailers, tents, and a dizzying array of screens and equipment on the lawn. We pull over to the side of the gravel driveway, and I get out, stretching and yawning from the ride.
“JJ! Over here!”
I turn, and find Reeve’s assistant speed-walking over, with her phone in one hand, and a clipboard in the other, her perky brown ponytail pulled back under a ballcap. “Anna!” I greet her with a hug. “It’s great to see you again.”
“Welcome to Sussex,” she says, looking only a little frazzled. She’s twenty-five, and basically a human Siri, the only person who can keep Reeve on schedule. “Was your flight delayed? Never mind,” she says before I can reply. “Everyone’s gathering for the welcome meeting in the main house. Then I have new script pages for you, and a schedule, too. We have a read-through this afternoon, by the way—"
“Breathe,” I tell her, amused, and she finally cracks a smile.
“Sorry, it’s just… Everything’s crazy right now. The Last Time You Left Me was nothing compared to this,” she explains, naming Reeve’s last movie. I look around, taking in the mayhem of crew and equipment, not to mention our impressive location. There have to be two hundred people here, minimum, plus the massive trailers and trucks littering the palatial grounds.
She’s right, this is a whole different league.
I gulp, realizing the scale of the production. This is the real deal. I’ve been thinking like I’m helping out a friend, and getting a lucky break—and paycheck—in the process, but now it hits me that this is a serious undertaking. Millions of people are going to see this movie, and if I don’t do my job right…
Well, that’s a whole army of pissed-off Austen fans who are going to be cursing my name.
“It’ll be fine,” I reassure Anna—and myself. “I’m sure Reeve’s got it under control.”
“Uh huh,” Anna murmurs tactfully, but it doesn’t sound convincing. She turns to where the driver is scrolling on his phone. “Would you please drop her bags at the hotel down the lane?” she asks, before turning back to me. “Come say ‘Hi’ to everyone, then you can go get settled in.”
“Are you sure there’s no time for me to go now—?” I start to ask, painfully aware that I’ve just stumbled off an eight-hour flight. But Anna is already whisking me through the chaos towards the house, so there’s nothing for it but to smooth my hair down, shake out my vintage sundress, and stride after her—ducking to avoid a low boom mic, and weaving past a rack of elaborate period costumes being trundled past.
I try to play it cool, but inside, I’m already freaking out. Costumes… Props… Pieces of 19th Century England are just wheeling past me, and I’m wide-eyed, taking it all in. Anna leads me up the wide front steps of the main house, and into the stunning open foyer, with a grand staircase and polished marble floors. I barely have time to drool over the period portraits on the wall before she’s ushering me down a hallway, and into the ballroom, which is packed with cast and crew, with Reeve holding court in the middle of the vast room.
“… And it’s with those historic words of inspiration, let’s make this movie!”
Clearly, I’m late to the party.
I slide into an empty spot by the wall and look around as another efficient crew member steps up and starts taking about schedules and fittings. Even with everyone dressed down in regular clothing, it’s easy to see who’s crew, and who’s ‘the talent’—the actresses playing Jane and Elizabeth are sitting together in the corner, already looking intimate as sisters as they whisper over something in the schedule. They both have the glow of good genes, good makeup, and a good facialist. Our A-list hunk, Hugo Chambers, stands behind them, dark and handsome in an almost unreal way, like a cardboard cutout of himself. I’ve seen him in a few movies, glowering across crowded rooms and delivering the perfect cutting barb, and I can see up close that he’s a perfect Darcy—elegant and strong-jawed, with the perfect posture of an aristocrat. The rest of the cast are dotted around the room, fresh-faced and gorgeous, and I feel a thrill at the buzz in the air.
It’s almost like the first day of summer camp: We’re all embarking on this adventure together.
I catch sight of Hazel across the room and send a wave. She’s Reeve’s older sister, and a genius production designer in her own right. She waves back, then surreptitiously scoots around the outskirts of the room until she can slide in next to me. “Finally, a familiar face,” she whispers, greeting me with a hug. She’s wearing her usual uniform of black jeans and a T-shirt, her phone hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “Good flight?”
“Fabulous. I’m ruined forever now, I can’t ever go back to coach,” I joke back, keeping my voice low. “When did you arrive?”
“A couple of weeks ago—and I haven’t slept since,” Hazel pulls back the loose brown curls that are already falling out of her messy bun. “You try sourcing enough carriages to outfit a crowd of two hundred extras. Apparently, not just any will do,” she adds, giving me a look.
I wince. That was my note. “Sorry!” I whisper back. “But the difference between a barouche and a two-horse chaise is very important.”
She grins. “I know, I know. Historical integrity, and all that jazz. But luckily, the new Bridgerton spin-off just got pushed a couple of months, script issues, so we swooped in and grabbed some of theirs.”
“Nice work. How’s Lottie?” I ask.
“Having a blast at sleepaway camp,” Hazel whispers with a grin. It’s hard to believe she’s only a few years older than me, but already has a thirteen-year-old daughter. “I’ve only gotten one letter so far, and, in it, she thanked me six times for letting her go. So, she’s great. I, on the other hand, am checking the camp’s Instagram every few hours, desperate for a glimpse of my baby.”