The Fandom(42)

You look like a Willow.





WILLOW


And what does a Willow look like?

ROSE

Tall and lanky.





WILLOW


(laughs)

And you are?

ROSE

Just another Night-Imp.





WILLOW


Really, I hadn’t noticed.

Fortunately, the dialogue from the film remained pretty true to the book, so we at least don’t feel torn about which lines to choose. I have a different problem: the words have lost all meaning and swirl around in my head like a series of disjointed sounds. And I can’t believe I never noticed how cheesy they sound. Saying them out loud makes me cringe.

I raise a hand to show I’ve had enough. ‘It’s not helping, sorry.’

‘It’s OK, you know it backwards anyway.’

I stand next to the plum tree, my hands sweaty, my breathing shallow. I try leaning against the trunk like Rose, but my hair sticks to the wood and I worry I’ll get a bark pattern imprinted on my forehead.

‘I don’t think I can do this.’ My voice seems to disappear upwards, between the leaves and branches.

‘Of course you can,’ Nate replies.

‘But Rose and Willow . . . they’re like Edward and Bella, Lancelot and Guinevere, Tristan and Isolde . . .’

‘Kermit and Miss Piggy.’

This makes me laugh, but only for a second. ‘What if he doesn’t like me?’ I wish I hadn’t said this, because even in the dark, Nate’s face acts like a mirror, reflecting my anxiety.

He catches himself and smiles. ‘Course he will, just stick to the script. Say the lines and try to look, you know, half decent . . . Don’t dribble or fart or pick your nose.’

‘But what about that connection,’ I say.

Nate recites a line from the book. ‘And after only the briefest of encounters, Willow knew that he could wander the earth for the rest of his life and never find another soul who made him feel so complete. It’s like they were born to slot together.’

‘Seriously, Nate. I don’t need to hear that shite right now.’

The clock tower strikes midnight. I imagine a stage curtain lifting.

‘You ready?’ he says, handing me a knife.

The knife. In all my anxiety, I totally forgot about cutting myself. Thank goodness Nate remembered. He must have lifted the blade from Saskia on the way here.

I hold it above my outstretched palm. I am Rose. I am strong and fearless. I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to stab my own hand. But my arm just wavers mid-air, puppet-like and uncertain.

‘Violet,’ Nate hisses.

Panic forces my eyes open. ‘I can’t.’

‘You have to, it’s canon.’

‘But I don’t do pain.’

The clock finishes chiming, the curtain has lifted, and yet here I stand, unbloodied and wobbling like a giant marionette.

Nate grabs at my overalls and whispers in an urgent tone, ‘Come on, you’ve got balls of steel, think Rose, think Tris, think Katniss.’

I flatten out my palm, now dappled with sweat. ‘Balls of steel, balls of steel.’ I say it like a mantra, letting the adrenalin build inside. And just as I’m about to thrust the knife blindly downwards, hoping I somehow hit my palm, I hear the crack of twigs.

‘It’s him.’ Nate dives behind a nearby trunk, his slim frame easily swallowed up by the orchard.

Necessity pulls the blade down in a graceful arc, but I lose my nerve at the last moment and whip my palm away. The tip of the blade just catches my thumb, sending a sharp pain up my wrist like I’ve been stung. ‘Ow! Bastard knife!’ I drop it – handle first – on my foot. Mid hop, I remember Rose leant seductively against the tree, and I kind of headbutt the trunk in my eagerness.

Willow skids into view. I clasp my foot with one hand and my head with the other, my heart tries to escape my ribcage, and I think I may be mumbling a stream of swear words. But when my eyes fall upon his face, everything stops. My head empties. I forget it all – the mission, my insecurities, my pirouetting feet. I see only him.

He looks a bit like Russell Jones – same high cheekbones, same full lips – but his eyes seem kinder, like two puddles of molten copper. And his bone structure looks more delicate, his Adam’s apple less pronounced, lending him a more feminine quality. The film didn’t do him justice. Even my own imagination didn’t do him justice. The man before me is an Adonis. I suddenly become aware of the fullness of the moon, the scent of apples and woodsmoke, the bite of the cold on my throat.

‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’ His voice sounds like the chiming clock, resonant and lyrical and yet somehow distant. He ambles towards me with long, sinuous steps. I notice the top two buttons of his white linen shirt have come undone, revealing a triangle of honey-coloured skin. I freeze, unable to blink, unable to breathe. He stops an arm’s length from me. Even in the dimness, I can see the warmth of his colours – copper eyes, honey skin, caramel hair – like a sliver of sunshine in the night. I inhale quickly and the tang of his aftershave finds me. Citrus and coriander.

I know it’s my line, but my thoughts mush together. I open my mouth and my breath uncurls in a single wisp.

He studies my face for a moment – in the book he’s supposed to be reminded of tree sprites or nymphs or something. I suddenly feel very awkward in my overalls, more goblin than sprite.