Acting The Part

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We’d been filming in the south of France for only two weeks when rumors of a real-life romance between Mikhail and I spread through the British tabloids like mold on warm mayonnaise. All completely—semi—false, of course. But try arguing that when there are pictures of Britain’s “most eligible bachelor” spreading sunscreen all over your American ass. “Friends can spread sunscreen on each other on their day off at the beach,” I told my publicist.

She laughed. “Is that your official statement?”

I’d been warned about working with both Mikhail Sommerville and Derek Jackson, the director. The unlikely progeny of a beautiful, dark-haired Russian actress and a British physicist, Mikhail had an international reputation as a heartbreaker. He had a literature degree from Oxford and would occasionally moonlight as a playwright for the Royal Theatre in London. I’d never worked with anyone like him before—actors generally being rather blank in all the ways that matter. My agent told me he had ridiculously high standards and a knack for making actresses cry.

The first time we actually met was in a tiny Parisian café near the Musée D’Orsay. Derek led me over to Mikhail—sipping a noisette and reading a French newspaper, dressed all in black, dark brown hair raked back and off his face—and made the introductions.

“Lydia Castle, I’d like you to meet the infamous Mikhail Sommerville, your co-star.”

“Infamous, eh?” Mikhail stood up, looking a little embarrassed, and held out his hand. At least six-foot-two, he towered me.

His cheeks dimpled slightly as he smiled. I squeezed his hand. He held onto it a second longer than necessary, lowering his chin and staring into my eyes—as though we were in on the same joke. I have to admit, I swooned a little.

I’d seen enough pictures of him to know that he was gorgeous, but I hadn’t expected the effect he would have on me. Unlike most of the pretty Hollywood boys, Mikhail was reported to have something rarer than good looks—character. He actually looked like he was thinking, lots, about everything. I could see that he was sizing me up.

Perhaps it was just my insecurities, but I thought he looked unconvinced that I was the right woman to play a moody, passionate, medieval writer named Sandrine Farot—feisty enough to dare to write when few women could read, with a sexual appetite to match the perverted king’s. I’d been dying for a role like this ever since I knew I wanted to act.

The three of us sat down. The mid-morning sun streaked through the floor-to-ceiling café windows. Derek slapped Mikhail on the shoulder. “I’m glad you didn’t greet Lydia the way you did Juliette Binoche.”

Mikhail burst out laughing. His broad, easy smile was mesmerizing. I looked from one to the other for an explanation. Mikhail sighed, still looking rather pleased with himself.

“When we were filming Sun Into Midnight, and I met Juliette for the first time, rather than shaking her hand, like I just did yours, I laid a wet one on her.”

“What?” I exclaimed, looking at Derek for confirmation; he nodded and shook his head in amusement and exasperation. “Why would you do that?”

Mikhail shrugged nonchalantly. “It was an intense film. I needed to make sure we had the right kind of chemistry to pull it off.”

“So what did she do?” I had to know.

“What do you think?” He said, exchanging a look with Derek. “She slapped me.”

“And do we have the right kind of chemistry?” I heard myself asking.

“I don’t know, let me see,” he said, darting a hand quickly behind my head and pressing his mouth against mine. Fair enough, I’d asked for it—and was glad I did. His lips felt soft and solid at the same time. My mouth was slightly open, as was his. I felt the tip of his tongue just barely touching my bottom lip. I got shivers on top of my goose bumps.

When he finally let go—just as abruptly—and sat back in his seat, sipping his noisette as though nothing had happened, I felt drunk. I had no doubt that we had the right kind of chemistry for a Derek Jackson film. I couldn’t wait to start.

We didn’t see each other again until a month later when filming began. At the time, Mikhail was in the throes of a vicious divorce with wife number two, a French songbird named Maxine. His cell phone was constantly ringing off the hook and it was understood that he might be scarce around the set.

This time, we bumped into each other over the lavish breakfast buffet at the Cassis Hotel, located in the heart of the fortressed French town of Carcassonne, where most of the main crew was staying for the duration of filming.

“I recommend the banana pancakes,” he grinned and offered, slapping his cell phone shut, dressed more casually in a white T-shirt and frazzled jeans. There was a hint of a British accent, his Rs and Ss hardened by having Russian as a second language—a real European mutt. He also looked a lot younger that morning than he had at the café, more like his thirty-five years. His light brown eyes, almost the color of desert sand, danced mischievously as he continued to stare at me.