The Art of Pretending

February 6, 1998 | Luesby Residence, Oxfordshire

POV Oliver

Oliver already deeply regretted following Mrs Luesby into her house. The woman wasn't nearly as friendly as she'd initially led him to believe.

"Emma, we're coming in," she said, opening the bedroom door without knocking or waiting for an answer.

The girl was lying on her bed with her face buried deep in a pillow and made no attempt to look up as they entered the room.

"Hello!" Oliver called cheerfully, hoping to prevent any further mother-daughter drama.

Emma lifted her head from the pillow and glared at him. "I told you to go away! I don't need tutoring!"

Oliver froze in sheer horror. For the first time, he could properly see her face—and he knew exactly who was lying in front of him.

"Oh, fuck off!" Oliver blurted out.

Emma stared at him with wide eyes, while Mrs Luesby beside him looked as though she wasn't entirely sure she'd heard him correctly.

Emma fucking Watson!

"Okay, let's all calm down for a moment!" Oliver said, mostly to himself.

Of all people. Emma Watson.

This wasn't just some random girl he was going to tutor for a few hours a week anymore. She would become world-famous as Hermione Granger in Harry Potter and later campaign for women's rights. She wasn't just some actress. She was a fucking VIP.

And now he was supposed to sit next to her three times a week and mess around with her life?

"What is wrong with you?" Emma's voice pulled him from his thoughts. Mrs Luesby merely watched him closely and made no attempt to interfere.

Ah, fuck it!

"What's wrong with me?" Oliver finally snapped. "You yelled at me, slammed the door in my face, and now you're lying in bed sulking. Should I come back later when you're done, Princess?"

"Mum!" Emma gasped, turning to her mother. "He's mean!"

Mrs Luesby couldn't suppress a laugh, which only made her daughter's outraged expression worse. She glanced between the two of them once more before slowly retreating towards the door.

"I think you two will manage," she said before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

"Oh, what now, Princess? Mummy won't help you?" Oliver mocked, giving her a deliberately provocative look.

Emma glared at him and folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. "Don't call me Princess!" she snapped. "And I don't need your stupid tutoring either. I'm not dumb!"

"You haven't exactly been very smart so far," Oliver replied calmly.

Emma's mouth fell open. For a moment, she simply stared at him in disbelief. "I am smart!"

Oliver looked at her for a moment. "Then prove it."

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***

Half an hour later, Oliver had to reluctantly admit that Emma had been right about at least one thing.

She wasn't dumb. Just annoying.

"We haven't learned this at school yet," Emma protested after struggling with the problem for a while.

"I thought you were smart?" Oliver teased before she could get worked up again, pointing at the sheet in front of her. "I need to figure out what you already know before I can teach you anything."

Emma gave him an offended look but turned her attention back to the next problem.

This could work. Emma was intelligent enough that he could help her without much trouble, and everything else was none of his business.

Don't change anything.

A few hours of tutoring each week. Explain the schoolwork, check her assignments, and make sure her grades stayed where they should be. That was all he had to do.

"How do you know so much?" Emma suddenly asked without looking up from her paper.

Oliver looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"You know things we haven't even learned yet." She frowned at the problem in front of her. "You're the same age as me."

Oliver gave her a provocative grin. "Because unlike you, I'm smart."

Emma looked as though she was about to say something, but this time nothing came. Her gaze dropped back to the paper in front of her, and her eyes began to fill with tears.

Oh God! No!

"I was only joking, Emma!" Oliver said hastily. "You are intelligent. I'm just a little... unusual."

Her face broke into a huge grin, and she burst out laughing. The tears were still in her eyes, but the hurt seven-year-old had vanished completely. Instead, she sat there laughing herself silly.

It took Oliver a moment to realise what had just happened.

"You actually believed me!" Emma managed between laughs, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm not just smart, I'm a good actress too!"

Oliver stared at her in disbelief. For a moment, he couldn't help thinking of Hermione Granger, but immediately dismissed the comparison. Hermione might have been annoying, but this was on an entirely different level.

Emma Watson!

***

February 28, 1998 | Theatre, Oxford

POV Oliver

"Stop!" Arthur called.

Oliver lowered his arms and looked irritably towards the auditorium. Arthur had interrupted him for the fourth time in the last twenty minutes, and Oliver was slowly beginning to wonder whether the thousand pounds were really worth the effort.

"What now?" Oliver asked.

Arthur came a few steps closer to the stage and studied him for a moment, as though trying to work out how to explain it to a particularly slow child.

"You're not acting."

Oliver frowned. "Of course I'm acting."

"No. You're reciting your lines."

Oliver grimaced. Of course he knew his lines. He knew where he was supposed to stand, when his cues came, and what Arthur expected from him. He hadn't spent the last few weeks memorising every damn line just for the man to tell him that none of it was enough.

"You're doing everything right," Arthur continued. "That's the problem. You're saying the right lines, standing in the right place, making the right movements. But I don't see Peter Pan. I see Oliver Bennett trying to play Peter Pan."

Oliver fell silent and looked down at the script in his hand.

That was annoying. Mostly because he knew Arthur was right.

He could memorise what Peter said. He could learn how Peter moved, when he was supposed to laugh or get angry. But no matter how many times they repeated a scene, Oliver was still thinking about how he was supposed to play it.

Apparently, acting wasn't just another thing he could memorise.

Arthur studied him for a moment. "You're trying to show me what Peter feels," he explained. "When he's angry, you get louder. When he's happy, you smile. When he's scared, you try to look scared."

Oliver looked at him questioningly. "What am I supposed to do instead?"

"Stop thinking about what it's supposed to look like." Arthur pointed at the script in his hand. "Ask yourself why Peter says it. What does he want at that moment? If he's angry, think about something that actually makes you angry. If he's scared, think about something you're genuinely afraid of. Don't try to imitate Peter's emotions."

Oliver looked back down at the script.

The principle felt familiar.

He'd learned the same thing with the piano eventually. It wasn't enough to hit the right keys at the right time. He could play a piece technically perfectly and still make nobody feel a damn thing. Only when he felt something himself could he pass that feeling on to his audience.

Apparently, acting wasn't so different.

Except this time, he didn't have a piano to hide behind.

"So I'm supposed to imagine it's actually happening to me?"

Arthur shook his head slightly. "Not necessarily. You just need the feeling. Take something you know and give it to Peter."

Oliver grimaced.

A thousand pounds were definitely not enough.