Other Fan Fiction ❯ Film and Heels ❯ Film and Heels ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: I'm not very good at this author's note stuff, so just enjoy and please review.

 

Film and Heels

by

Alexandra the Gray

 

The sky was dark, the grimy, rolling clouds obscuring the stars and trapping the heat of the earth. We had been filming for near to six hours; no drinks, no potty breaks, no relief from the heat produced by the lighting crew. No one was safe from the glare of the makeshift outdoor studio; the make-up team scurried about, filling the air with the scent of camera foundation; the hands scampering to-and-fro to the tune of the director who commanded them: “See to Mr. Bogart's hat; it looks quite floppy at the moment... and Mr. Rains cap! It should be angled just so.”

 

Time was running short for us; we had to get this scene in the can, so to speak, by the end of the evening. We had spent the week we had planned to film the last scene waiting for the bottle of French water to be delivered. Mr. Curtiz, our director in chief, nearly had a hissy fit when I suggested that we just forget about the water and do the scene; and now here we were, twelve minutes to midnight, all of us sweating worse than an Englishman at an American independence day party, and all because of a stupid bottle of water that would only garner a total of nine seconds when it went through editing. Sometimes you really just have to hate the French.

 

Not only did we have to wait for the water to come, we had to wait for it to stop; those clouds up above, seemingly innocent enough, had delivered a torrential amount of rain. The asphalt was still wet with it, large puddles ammasing in the dimpled imperfections.

 

I shuffled from foot to foot and leaned my elbow on the side of the big, shiny car that had been forced to stand next to. Men may boast about how tough they are, hunting and farming and spitting and scratching themselves in public - in places they ought not to scratch themselves while in public - but the tough ones are really the women; listening to a director whine and prattle on about the “distasteful milieu” and the “incompetent slackers” while trying not to make excruciatingly painfilled expressions caused by standing for six hours in a pair of “practical” two inch heels.

 

I slid my foot out of my shoe, taking it gingerly in my hand and rubbing just behind the ball of it as I leaned. It really hurt! I swear I was going to have to spend all my earnings from this film on a foot masseuse for all that this was doing to me.

 

I let go of my foot and, reaching up to my face, pulled the skin just under my eye down as I stuck out my tongue while the men's backs were turned; I suppose standing for six hours in heels makes me a little childish.

 

As I pulled my tongue back into my mouth and released my face from its expression the ground slipped from under my feet and my elbow slipped from its position on the car, causing me to fall in an ungainly heap, right on my backside. I almost thought that they were contriving against me.

 

As just as I felt that the world had turned on me, it actually did; everyone - from the director and my co-stars to the simpering peons with their quivering cups of coffee and special earl grey tea with just a dash of milk and “no sugar, whatsoever” - turned toward me, the heap of stiff, sweaty fabric and sore muscles, as if they had somehow been wrenched from subjects of the utmost importance by my callow, uncouth self.

 

Just as I was beginning to feel sorry for myself - again - Humphrey came up to me, his hand held out to me. I spent a good several awkward moments dumbly staring at that hand before reaching up and accepting his offer.

 

As I barely managed to get my balance, in only one heeled shoe mind you, Humphrey abruptly came in close to me, grasped my chin lightly but firmly between his thumb and forfinger, lifted my face to his and said, “Here's lookin' at you, kid.”

 

I spent a fair amount of time blinking up at him, fairly dumbstruck, before turning out of his grip, leaning once again against the car, and saying over my shoulder, “Practicing in the mirror, Huffie?”

 

The older man grinned crookedly down at me, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trench coat. “I've had all week.”

 

A/N: Please remember to review if you liked it... even if you didn't, critisism, comments... even a flame, at this point I would greatly appreciate responses. :D