Fat Funny Famous

Chapter 3

"Righto, dude, what are we doing here?" I casually toss out the words to my co-star as we enter my trailer.

Erik's face twists in bewilderment. "We're rehearsing? Aren't we?"

"Oh, my dulcet-toned Adonis..." I shake my head in mock-despair. "So beautiful, but so confused."

As I plonk on the narrow couch, I sigh and explain. "I know we're rehearsing – we've been rehearsing all day. But we can't nail this scene and we need to figure out why."

Erik sits beside me, his nearness making me flush as he smooths the fabric of his immaculately tailored pants. "Perhaps it's because every time I get close to you, you make a joke."

"Soz, Eton!" I sass, using the pet name I've coined for him ever since I found out he actually attended the elite private school. "This is how I roll, baby!"

"To be honest, I'm not used to women making jokes around me."

"They're probably all too nervous," I say, then gesture at him. "Dude, look at yourself! You're like a poster boy for non-threatening good looks specifically engineered to make teen girls swoon. Probably some of the boys too..."

I wasn't kidding. Erik Brear was a cultured Viking dream-boat; tall, blonde, flawless skin, clear bright eyes, and a killer smile. The son of a Nordic mother (an actual citizen of the real life kingdom the prince was from) and an English lord, he was the perfect combination of genuine charm and aristocratic bearing.

"But not you."

"Sorry, what?"

He cleared his throat, his eyes darkening. "You don't swoon. You barely seem impressed by me – or by any of this, really. Isn't this your first real acting role?"

"Uh, excuse you, sir, but I happened to play Jar Number Three in my primary school production of Vegemite Adventures."

"See! This is what I mean!" Erik stood, pushing a frustrated hand through his perfect hair, mussing it slightly. "I know you were in that indie short that won the Oscar last year and you are one of the most awarded young theatre actors in Australia. Most people would boast about their career credits, not deflect with humour."

I kicked off my sneakers and slid my socked feet onto the coffee table in front of me. "Is here where I say, 'I'm not mooost girls!'" I sing the last two words, giggling to myself. "Oh, man – can anyone say that with a straight face? 'I'm not like most girls, I'm a coooool girl.'"

Erik stares at me in what might be described as wonder. "You are completely bonkers, aren't you?"

"Mate, I'm nineteen and my life feels like a dream. I'm in Europe, playing a princess, getting paid to do what I love – all of this is bonkers!"

I stand up, wanting him to understand. "That's why I can't take any of it too seriously. It could all be gone tomorrow. So, don't take it personally if I make jokes. It's the only way I know how to understand the world." I poke him gently in the chest. "You know, you could stand to be a little less serious. You might even like how it feels to not always have to be Mr Suave-and-Sultry."

His fingers move suddenly, capturing mine. "I'm not entirely certain that would be allowed. I have a public image to maintain, you see."

I can't help but focus on the feel of his hand over mine, his warm fingers enveloping my cooler ones. My voice is low and husky as I say, "How about just around me then? We can watch some Vines, make up inside jokes, develop a stand-up routine and take it on the road, snort-laugh occasionally. And I promise not to tell your adoring fan base that their favourite hunk actually has a sense of humour."