"We're about to roll."
When he saw someone approaching, Matthew said to Britney, "Let's talk later if we get a chance."
Britney took his polite remark as a promise. "Great! Next time I'll invite you to my party."
A shared hobby—or a shared object of dislike—made chatting with Matthew feel effortless. "Give me your number."
Matthew opened a notebook, jotted down a string of digits, tore out the page and handed it to her, then walked back to his seat.
The Crew was almost ready; Britney's assistant came to tell her it was time.
They were shooting Britney and her dancers first. She left to join them, leaving Matthew alone under the talent tent. Sunshine blazed outside, but with his makeup on he couldn't wander; smudges meant headaches.
After a few minutes of waiting, Agent Helen Herman arrived.
"Thought you'd left," Matthew said offhandedly.
Helen pulled over a chair and sat beside him. "Britney likes you?"
Matthew didn't deny it. "She seems to."
"There's a shortcut right in front of you," Helen said, eyeing Britney in the distance. "Land her and your fame skyrockets—fast."
"I know," Matthew admitted, lacking any confidence. "But why would Britney want me?"
Helen's tone held encouragement. "You'll never know if you don't try."
"Would it really help?" Matthew asked seriously.
If he kept plodding along, bad luck could leave him a nobody for years.
"Publicity is always useful, even if the media manufactures it," Helen reasoned. Handle it well and her plan accelerated; handle it poorly and Matthew Horner would drown in headlines and fan hate.
A small actor could be discarded; she could always sign another.
Matthew weighed her advice, undecided.
"As far as I know," Helen added, "Britney Spears is currently single."
"Oh…" Matthew answered absently, then blurted, "I've never chased a girl."
Though the previous guy had fooled around plenty, he'd never actually courted anyone.
"All right." Helen stood to leave. "When you have time, write me a detailed relationship résumé—the fuller the better."
To her, the present Matthew differed from the old one. "And if you start dating anyone, tell your Agent immediately."
For a minor actor that was enough; stardom was still galaxies away.
Helen left; once again Matthew sat alone under the tent. Ahead on the sand, Britney stood before eight dancers, low-rise pants and a cropped tee baring her slim waist and tiny navel. When the track dropped, she began riding the beat.
Matthew couldn't name the dance, but he could see she'd traded any hint of a muffin top for a killer serpentine waist.
That hypnotic sway snared every eye, his included.
"Maybe… maybe…"
Watching her steam up the lens, Matthew rubbed his chin. "Helen's idea isn't crazy?"
Yet he shook his head—how could he, in his current state, catch pop's golden girl?
Whether in that other country
or here, he'd never had a girlfriend and had no clue how to pursue one. Scenes and stories glimpsed across the Pacific had drilled in one lesson: without money, status, or position, winning a girl was near impossible.
True or not, he hadn't tested it.
Still, he figured chasing someone in his own league might work; going after Britney Spears now would be hell-mode.
Matthew sighed. None of this seemed worth dwelling on today.
Of course, if an opening appeared he could try. Failure cost nothing and might even earn experience.
The routine had been rehearsed for weeks with her regular troupe, so filming sailed along—most shots wrapped in two or three takes. Soon it was Matthew's turn.
Three films under his belt had at least cured him of nerves and glancing at the lens. Acting-class drills hadn't been wasted either; basics he could handle.
The Crew moved to the beach. Matthew stood barefoot where the tide barely reached.
A makeup artist dabbed fixes while a Stylist adjusted his clothes.
Director Zack Snyder studied monitor and set, barking orders.
"Roll the pant legs to the knees!" he shouted to the Stylist. "Show those calf lines!"
The Stylist immediately dropped to one knee on the wet sand, rolling Matthew's white chinos up to the knee to reveal the sharply defined bulge of his calf.
Matthew was tall and long-limbed; the muscle line didn't ruin the look but made him appear even stronger and more masculine.
"Good! Clear the set!" Zack Snyder called. "Let's run a test take."
It was a solo close-up for Matthew—no other actors in frame.
"Sometimes, take three!" An assistant clapped the slate in front of the lens. "Rolling now!"
Matthew stood in profile to the sea, a bounce board on his left, the camera on his right. He tuned it all out, hands in his pockets, chin lifted slightly, showing off every advantage this body—half genetics, half gym—could offer.
David Astor, his teacher at the Los Angeles art school, had said his acting skimmed the surface, leaning too hard on looks; most of his performances came off as posing.
This shot happened to need exactly that: Matthew posing.
A wind machine roared, whipping his hair back.
He stood in the sun like carved marble, waves licking the sand at his feet, spray sometimes kissing the sharp contours of his calves… "Cut!" Zack Snyder sounded pleased. "Good, that's a keeper!"
The bounce board moved away, the camera rolled off, and Matthew followed the Crew to the next set-up.
Under the rest tent the dancers gathered, watching the shoot. Several girls never took their eyes off him.
"He's so hot!"
A brunette sighed. "Young but grown-up—so manly!"
A Black girl disagreed. "Hot? You need your eyes checked. That face is stone, and all that muscle? Gross. Leonardo DiCaprio's way better."
"Different types!" a blonde said, setting down her water. "Look—zero femme, all alpha. That's a real man."
Men gossip about women; women, given the chance, gossip about men.
"All right, enough chatter!"
The choreographer strode in. "Your bit's coming up—get ready."
The four girls and four boys fell silent and queued for touch-ups.
At the far end of the pier the Crew had the set dressed. The moment Matthew and Britney arrived, Zack Snyder ordered final prep.
He came over to walk them through the beat.
Standing on the sand near the cliff, Zack said, "Ms. Spears, when I roll, start from here and walk forward—slower than normal, let us feel the hesitation."
Britney simply nodded.
Zack stepped closer to Matthew. "Hold your spot. When she moves, look at her—surprised, happy."
Finally he placed himself between them. "When the heroine hits this mark, lock eyes—give me sparks."
He glanced at each. "OK?"
"Got it," Matthew said.
Simple stuff—easier than most classroom exercises.
They rolled. Matthew watched Britney start toward him and stared hard.
Both faces were limited in expression, but for a music video it worked.
Britney reached the mark, looked up; Matthew met her gaze—only each other existed.
Through the lens Zack saw two pretty but mostly empty stares—hardly electric.
But this was an MV; looks trumped depth.
"That's a wrap on the take!"
Matthew couldn't believe how smooth—and how undemanding—the day was.
"Your eyes are glowing," he told Britney. She smiled, stepped closer, and whispered, "Color contacts."
"Britney!" someone called from the pier. "Change shoes, touch up—back in five!"
Matthew grinned. "Go."
He was done till afternoon.
He grabbed his kit, drank some water, and headed for the temporary makeup trailer. As he crossed the planks, shooting resumed on the sea-side of the pier.
Another dance number—Britney and her dancers.
Matthew had just started toward the catering tent when a scream cut through the air, followed by shouts: "Get a medic—now!"