The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood! Chapter 58

"That instructor looks tough," Michael Cudlitz remarked to Matthew as they walked side by side. "Something tells me we're in for some grueling training."

Matthew shrugged. "Maybe, but I doubt it'll be the same as real army training."

Looking like a soldier and actually being one are two completely different things.

The sound of an engine rumbled behind him. He stepped to the side and glanced back to see a black Land Rover accelerating toward them, close enough now that he could make out the specks of mud on its grille.

The driver didn't honk or even slow down, just kept barreling forward as if Matthew and Michael, standing right by the gate, were invisible.

Matthew instinctively sidestepped, and the front of the Land Rover shot past him, missing him by less than eight inches. Before he could even react, the side mirror clipped his arm.

The Land Rover didn't slow down in the slightest.

"You..." Matthew whipped his head toward the car and shouted, "You blind bastard! Have you got eyes in your head?!"

Driving through the gate at that speed... he'd barely had time to get out of the way.

"That's the assistant producer from yesterday," Michael warned in a low voice. "The bitchy one. Don't pick a fight with her."

Matthew recognized her immediately—the assistant producer from yesterday, the one with the sharp British accent.

"What are you yelling about?" the woman's voice was shrill and grating. "I didn't hit you."

Despite her hostile attitude, Matthew remembered Helen's advice. Not wanting to start a conflict with the production crew, he kept his tone even. "As you drove by..."

He tugged at his sleeve, which was streaked with dust from where the mirror had scraped it. "Your car's mirror hit my arm."

"Don't be ridiculous!" The woman's voice climbed even higher. "There was nobody in front of my car. But if you insist, we can go to the medic and have them check out your so-called 'injury'."

His arm ached slightly. The mirror had only grazed him, it wasn't a serious injury, but Matthew just wanted an apology—the kind any decent person would offer. "Are you listening to me? Your mirror hit me."

"Hit you?" The woman advanced a step, looking like a rabid dog. "If I'd run you over, then you'd have something to whine about."

Matthew's anger boiled over. He didn't care that she was a woman; he balled his fists and lunged forward, ready to punch the bitch in the face.

"Matthew, calm down!" Michael yelled, grabbing hold of him.

This wasn't the main entrance to Hatfield Airport, but it was the temporary one closest to the actors' lodgings, and a crowd of them had quickly gathered to watch the scene unfold.

Many of them had flown in on the same plane as Matthew. A few of the older actors took one look at the woman and hurried over to help Michael restrain him.

"Don't do it, kid," Eion Bailey cautioned him. "If you hit her, you're done on this set."

Those words were a splash of cold water. He'd worked too hard to get this part. If he got kicked off the show for assault, he wouldn't see a dime in compensation.

Seeing Matthew stand down, the woman grew even more arrogant. "I'll sue you for making false accusations, boy."

Matthew's eye twitched, and the arm Michael was holding trembled with suppressed rage.

"Crazy Kate's at it again? Some things never change."

"Bet you he punches the bitch."

"Can't say I'd blame him."

"Not if the lad's got half a brain."

"What's this? Is Tommy playing the white knight for the damsel in distress?"

"I might, if the damsel in question wasn't Crazy Kate."

The woman—Kate—was still shrieking something about a lawsuit. Many of the British actors in the crowd clearly knew her, but none of them stepped in. They seemed accustomed to her outbursts, watching from the sidelines and snickering as if she were a court jester or some kind of sideshow freak.

"Kate." A man's voice, not loud but carrying authority, came from the entrance to the walkway. "Cut the crap."

A man in his thirties approached, walking directly to Kate. "The set's ready. You don't want the producers noticing you're not there, do you?"

The man's words did the trick. Kate shot Matthew a venomous glare, spun around, and stalked back to her Land Rover. She climbed in and started the engine. Just when everyone thought the drama was over, she rolled down the window, stuck her arm out, and flipped him the bird.

The gesture was obviously meant for Matthew, but with so many people standing behind him, everyone who saw it felt a flicker of awkwardness.

The man couldn't help but shake his head. He turned to Matthew. "You all right?"

Matthew had managed to cool down. "Yeah, I'm fine."

His eyes, however, were still fixed on the departing Land Rover.

"Don't let it get to you," Michael whispered, clapping him on the shoulder. "Just consider it a run-in with a lunatic."

Eion added, "The woman's a psycho. Nobody around here can stand her."

Matthew took a deep breath, finally tearing his gaze away from the road. He looked over at the man who'd intervened and gave him a slight nod. In a way, the guy had just saved his career.

If that bitch had kept pushing, he absolutely would have decked her, woman or not.

The man offered a faint smile and a nod in return before heading into the airfield.

"That's the lead actor, Damian Lewis."

At that moment, Doug Allen, whom he'd chatted with on the plane, walked up. "He's not a big name, but he's a decent bloke."

They soon entered the airfield and headed for the training grounds. The other North American actors, all of whom had been on the same flight, came up to Matthew one by one to say hello and get the story.

Even here, the geographical cliques were already forming.

After crossing the training ground, the group headed toward a barracks-like building that housed the locker rooms. As Matthew walked in, several heads turned in his direction. It was clear that word of his run-in with the bitch had already started to spread.

The locker room was lined with rows of lockers, each with a name taped to the door—a preemptive move by the crew, Matthew guessed, to stop any squabbles among the actors. His own locker was far from Michael's, tucked away in the far-left corner of the room.

Matthew made his way over. The actor whose locker was next to his had already arrived and was in the middle of changing.

He didn't recognize the man. Since he knew most of the North American actors by now, he figured this guy must be British.

Matthew walked past him, opened his locker, and pulled out the fatigues and army boots he'd stored there the day before. He was just about to shrug off his jacket when he spotted a wallet on the floor.

"Hey," he said to the other man. "You drop this?"

The British actor glanced down, scooped up the wallet, and gave Matthew a grin. "Thanks, mate. I was just looking for this."

"No problem." The man's smile was peculiar, Matthew thought, wide and sharp-toothed, like a shark from some cartoon he vaguely remembered. The name of the show escaped him, but the lingering bitterness from the morning's incident did not.

"Still stewing about that?" The British actor had clearly seen the whole thing by the gate. "Don't waste your energy. Honestly. Kate Jeffries has a dreadful reputation in the British showbiz world. Nobody likes her, as I'm sure you've gathered."

Matthew asked, baffled, "If her reputation's so bad, how did she get a job on a show like this?"

The British actor replied with a shrug. "Her father."

Seeing the question in Matthew's eyes, he elaborated. "Kate's father is a bigwig at the BBC. She always ends up on projects with BBC funding, so she has some experience. But I'll tell you what—she won't be throwing her weight around like this for much longer."

The British actor seemed to have his own grudge against Kate. "My agent mentioned that old man Jeffries retired from the BBC earlier this year. It won't be long before his influence dries up completely, and no one will be hiring a hack like Kate anymore."

"Thanks," Matthew said, feeling a measure of his anger dissipate. "That actually makes me feel a lot better."

He said the words, but the fire in his gut hadn't really cooled.

Matthew extended his hand. "Matthew Horner. From Texas."

The actor shook it, that shark-like grin returning. "Michael Fassbender. From Heidelberg. German, actually."

Matthew felt a bit sheepish. "Oh, sorry. I just assumed you were British."

They chatted for another minute or two, but with training about to start, they headed out of the locker room. They emerged just in time to see Tom West, the military instructor, stepping out of an adjacent room.

All the actors, Matthew included, greeted the instructor before heading to the training ground together.