“Sorry,” I mumbled, knowing it was fairly obvious I was anything but okay.
“Maybe you should take a walk,” he suggested.
I nodded. “I’ll be back in—”
“Take your time,” Jackson said.
“You’re gonna shoot the scene on the schedule, though—”
“Yes. I can handle it. Go get some air.” He pointed toward the door. “Breathe.”
Brian was fiddling with the scrim as I squeezed past it, and his mirthful eyes caught mine. “That was kinda awesome though,” he whispered. “You said exactly what I was thinking.”
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
Feeling out of body, I walked out the back of the house and down the grassy hill to the beach, where I shed my shoes and rolled up my jeans. The sun was too bright, the air too humid. I didn’t know what had gotten into me. I’d never snapped like that on set before in my life, and I’d been in far worse situations, dealt with much bigger egos.
I picked my way across bits and pieces of broken shells to stand at the shoreline, staring across the blue dappled ocean. The warm water rushed over my ankles, excavating the sand from beneath my feet as it returned to the sea. Thunderheads gathered way out on the horizon, turning the morning’s glassy surface choppy.
Why was I so on edge today? Maybe I was hormonal. I blocked the month in my head. I should be getting my period this week, and that often made me bitchy. But not psychotic. More likely it was the strain of the past few months finally taking its toll—at the very worst moment, of course. My therapist said it was okay to be angry with my father; the danger was in allowing that anger to bubble over into other parts of my life.
Fifty yards out, a giant brindled gray bird dive-bombed the clear water, coming up with a silvery fish in its beak. It tossed its head back, swallowing the fish whole, and swooped away, wide wings beating. I wished I had wings to fly away.
The way I’d behaved with Stella and Madison was emotional and unprofessional—exactly how my father would have expected a woman to act, which made me doubly angry with myself, and them. Damn actresses.
There was a time when I’d wanted to be an actress when I grew up. I vividly remembered the moment I’d made the decision. I must have been about eight. I was standing in the dark drizzle outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard at the premiere of some film my father had produced, my pink sequined dress heavy with the runoff from my flimsy umbrella, feet squelching in my kitten heels. Twenty feet away, the actresses posed on the red carpet under blazing spotlights in their beautiful gowns, protected from the rain by a maze of massive clear tents as reporters fawned over them and drenched fans snapped pictures from behind the barricade erected on the sidewalk. I was transfixed. They were like real live princesses, the mere mortals scurrying after them turned to mice by juxtaposition. Like any little girl, I didn’t want to be a mouse. I wanted to be a princess.
My father was under the tent as well, of course, and at some point he remembered he’d left me out in the rain and had an assistant escort me inside. He didn’t sit next to me, as there were far more important people to share his time with, but afterward, in the car on the way home, I told him my decision.
He laughed. “Sweetie, you’re never gonna be pretty enough to be an actress.”
The back of my throat closed, and tears stung my eyes. My mother had always told me I was beautiful, and I’d never thought to question her.
“Oh, come on,” he said tersely. “Stop crying. You don’t want me to lie to you, do you?”
I sobbed, embarrassed I hadn’t realized my own homeliness.
“Get it together!” he snapped.
“But…not all actresses are pretty,” I protested.
“You want to be one of the plain ones? Go ahead, if you think you can take it. But it’s always going to be about what you look like. It’s a visual medium. Plain actresses only ever play the plain girl until they get to the age where none of the other women are particularly good-looking anymore anyway. I’m just telling you the truth.”
That was the end of my acting dream.
I didn’t blame my father for what he said to me that night. For years after I was grateful he’d told me the truth; it was what I needed to hear. I wasn’t plagued by imagining myself to be something I wasn’t. I stopped messing with dresses and bows, because what was the point? If my own father didn’t find me beautiful, I knew no other man would.
At school the girls ostracized me when I became a tomboy, so I hung out with the guys. I laughed at their fart jokes and, later, listened without judgment to stories of their escapades with the other girls. They picked on me, but I was tough and could give as good as I got. I won their respect.
I developed sizable boobs around the time I turned sixteen, but I kept them hidden under sweats and baggy T-shirts, never wore makeup or straightened my kinky curls, and never let on when I periodically crushed on any of the guys from our group. Predictably, I made it through high school with my virginity intact and not a single girlfriend to share secrets with. Not that I had any secrets.
I discovered sex in college, but after a quick and brutal heartbreak, swore off relationships. My tomboy persona worked so well throughout film school and beyond that even after I discovered the magic of high heels, flat irons, and eyebrow shaping—and to my surprise learned there were in fact plenty of men who found me quite attractive—I continued to fight for the respect of the guys I worked with by styling myself as the perennial cool girl. DTF but uninterested in anything further. Which was, of course, how I ended up having an affair with my married colleague and ruining my life.
I gazed out at the electric-blue sea and inhaled the salt air, turning my face up to the warm sun. Maybe my life wasn’t totally ruined. Plenty of people who were told they’d never work in Hollywood again lived to tell the tale.
Out on the ocean I spied a fishing boat about the size of Rick’s and couldn’t help but wish I was aboard it. He’d laugh hearing about my outburst today. The thought of it made me smile. But no. He was taken, and admittedly, I didn’t like him as just a friend. I had to stay away.
I looked up at the house on the hill, where a giant light was shining into the kitchen window. They must have started filming; I should get back. I’d eat crow, blame it on—sleep, or the lack thereof. Awesome.
I dusted off my feet, slipped on my shoes, and trudged back up the hill, dreading the task before me. I shouldn’t have behaved the way I did, but really, Stella should have come prepared, and Madison should have known better than to live stream on set. Did she not remember the NDA she’d signed? I checked myself. No matter what they did wrong, it was on me to keep the thing running smoothly, which meant taking whatever they dished out with a smile. I was just so incredibly sick of taking people’s shit. It was exhausting.
As I neared the house, I heard a baby squalling. So this day was only getting better. I found Price on the patio talking with Jackson while through the archway in the living room, three women tried to calm not one but two screaming babies. Madison, Stella, and Cole were nowhere in sight.
“Welcome back,” Price said as I approached. “You’re right in time for the latest crisis.”
“The babies hate Madison,” Jackson clarified.
I swallowed a chortle that didn’t go unnoticed by the men. “Sorry. That’s terrible.” I peered through the open doorway at the twins playing Stella’s child, both screaming bloody murder while a woman, presumably their mother, sat with them on the couch, desperately performing peekaboo while an older woman sang a lullaby. In the film, Marguerite had one child, but babies could only work for such a short time that it was necessary to cast twins.
“That’s the mom and grandmother,” Price pointed out. “And Tawny just arrived as well. Her flight got out after all.” Tawny, currently waggling a ducky in the face of one of the babies, was the actress playing Cherry, the pregnant nanny replaced by Madison’s character, whose scenes we’d planned to shoot today, before storms
delayed her flight. She was a striking Black woman in her thirties with large round eyes, her long box braids swirled into a bun atop her head. “They like her a lot more than Madison, but not enough to stop screaming.”
“How do you know they hate Madison?” I asked.
“They were the happiest babies on the block until they saw her. Each of them, in turn, lost their shit the minute they laid eyes on her.”
I snickered, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. In the script, Madison was supposed to be the dream nanny that Stella’s character had to hire regardless of her doubts because she was such a great influence on her child. “Perhaps we should have consulted the babies on casting.” I laughed.
Both men stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Sorry, sorry.” I cleared my throat. “So can we hire different babies?”
“Casting is on it,” Price confirmed. “But finding ten-month-old twins with working permits and passports is gonna set us back a week at least.”
“How are they with Stella?” I asked.
“Fine, as long as Madison’s not around.”
I sighed, the producer in me rumbling to life. “Okay, are we lit for the scene in the kitchen?” They nodded. “Great. We’ll shoot the baby only from behind or frame him out. After that, let’s revert to shooting what we were originally going to do today with Tawny, since she’s here and the babies like her, while casting looks for more twins. Until we find them, we film as much as we can without the babies. For shots where one is necessary, the baby will be sleeping or we can use a doll—”
“No doll,” Jackson objected. “Fake babies ruin everything.”
“Put that on his tombstone,” I said, trying to lighten the tension. “Okay, no doll. We can shoot the baby’s reaction shots without Madison present.”
“But the whole premise is that the baby loves her.” Jackson groaned. “It’s the reason Marguerite keeps her around, even when she sees her husband become enamored with her. We have a ton of shots ahead where she’s calming him, singing to him, rocking him…”
“Okay, for those we can use a baby that’s not one of the hero babies as long as it’s the same size and skin tone. Price will find one. Right, Price?”
He nodded. “On it.”
“And for shots where the baby is featured, we’ll use…” I peered through the doorway, and my gaze landed on Felicity, who had appeared out of thin air while we were talking. Odd. I could have sworn Stella said she gave her the day off, but there she was, crouched on the floor before the babies, a pinkie wrapped in each of their curled hands.
The crying had finally stopped, the babies hypnotized by Felicity singing softly, “Hush, little babies, don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”
We entered the living room slowly and hovered inside the archway, not wanting to disrupt the equilibrium. The mother smiled at us, whispering, “They love her. We ran into her in the restaurant this morning, and she played with them the entire time they had their breakfast. They’re enamored.”
Of course. Once again Felicity saved the day. I knew I should be grateful to the Goddess Who Was Good at Everything, but what I felt was suspicious. Had she somehow turned the babies against Madison? I nipped my paranoia in the bud. That was impossible, of course. They were babies. I was losing my mind. I caught Jackson’s eye and nodded toward Felicity. “Ask her to stand in for Madison,” I whispered.
Felicity and Tawny now each held a smiling baby, bouncing ever so slightly and cooing at them with hyperfocus. Tawny looked up to see me watching her and flashed a warm smile. She bobbed over, waggling the ducky before the child on her hip.
“Glad you made it, Tawny.” I returned her smile. “Did someone get you all set up in your bungalow?”
“They took my bags, but I came straight here. Wanted to say hello to everyone before I got settled.”
“Do you mind working today?” I asked. “I know it’s a quick start, but with the situation with the babies—”
“No problem. I’m totally prepared.”
I sighed with relief. “Bless you.”
“Only thing is I haven’t had a fitting.”
“Your wardrobe is scrubs, so I think we’ll be okay.”
The baby in her arms gazed up at me, and for a moment I was terrified the screaming would start again, but instead the child giggled and reached for me. “She likes you.”
“Go on. You can hold her,” the mother encouraged as Tawny held her out to me. “She loves people.”
Everyone but Madison, apparently.
“Hi there,” I cooed, awkwardly taking the baby. She was wiggly, and I didn’t quite know how to hold her. I’d never babysat, and none of my friends had babies. “You’re a pretty little girl, to be playing a boy.”
“Not the first time,” the mother said.
The baby wrapped her chunky little arms around my neck and rested her head on my chest, gurgling happily to herself. I’d never been particularly fond of babies, but I felt a sudden rush of warmth for the child. Her skin was velvety soft and smelled of talcum powder. “Hi there.” I smiled into her big brown eyes.
She grabbed my nose, and I laughed.
“Baby fever out here,” Cole goaded as he entered the room. “Didn’t know you had it in ya, Wasserman.” He clapped me on the back.
I hurriedly handed the little girl back to her mother. “We should keep rolling,” I declared. “It may rain this afternoon, and we need to be wrapped before it does.”
Price announced the change of plans and gave everyone their marching orders as I took out my phone and checked my weather app, which claimed it was raining right now and predicted clear skies for the afternoon. Awesome.
Stella
I’ve brought you six qualified candidates and you’ve turned them all down,” Tawny said as Cherry, bouncing the baby on her hip. “I’ve run out of options.”
I was curled in bed as Marguerite in the depths of depression, my hair a mess, my complexion paled by makeup. “They’re not you,” I mumbled.
“I’m due next week. I’m gonna have my own baby to take care of. I can’t give you the help you need anymore.” She said it with compassion, but it was clear Cherry’s patience was wearing thin.
“Peyton’s coming home this afternoon,” she went on. “And he’s bringing a girl from New York with him.”
I sat up, my eyes wild. It wasn’t a stretch to put myself in Marguerite’s shoes. “A girl?”
“A nanny. Someone recommended by a friend. Her US visa is about to expire, but it won’t be a problem for her to work here.”
“And I’m supposed to trust a stranger with my child?” I demanded.
Cherry sat on the edge of the bed. “She’s trained as a nurse, so she can help you as well.”
“I don’t need help!”
Lightning flashed out over the windswept sea, followed closely by a tremendous clap of thunder, which shook the walls of the house. The heavens opened, and the rain poured onto the roof like deafening applause. Dramatic timing, but the lighting and audio levels would never match with the angles of the scene we’d shot before the bottom fell out.
“And that’s a wrap on today,” Price called over the din.
It was just as well we were wrapping early. My horoscope this morning had been spot-on: undue stress and roadblocks in both career and love all day long.
Tawny was a fantastic actress, and working with her was a pleasure, but I was so frustrated by my earlier scene with Madison and Cole that I was off my game. I didn’t feel guilty I hadn’t been prepared—it wasn’t my fault no one confirmed with me about what we were shooting—but attempting to emote while endeavoring to remember lines made for a taxing day. Cole and I improvised most of the scene, which should have been fine had Madison been able to keep up. But every time I went off-book, she looked lost and stopped, announcing that wasn’t the line. Total nightmare.
It didn’t help that I was already beyond annoyed with her for that damn picture she posted of me sleeping on
the boat. She’d taken it down after my outburst this morning, but not before 107,498 people had liked it. I had to keep reminding myself she’d nearly died of cancer to avoid scratching her eyes out. I wished it were Felicity in her role. When she ran lines with me, she was so much better than Madison. A natural.
Cole, however, was unusually patient with Madison, gently encouraging her and guiding her back every time she got lost, and she ate it up with a spoon, gazing at him all googly-eyed even when she wasn’t in character. I could practically see her salivating over what a fling with him would do for her celebrity status. I knew he’d blame their obvious flirtation on method acting if I confronted him about it, and that it was in fact probably good for my character work for me to feel what Marguerite was feeling; still, it was upsetting after what had happened between us last night.
Upstairs in the cheery yellow bedroom designated as my dressing room, I found Felicity sprawled across the flowery comforter on the brass bed, reading over the script changes we’d been handed this morning. “It would be so much more interesting,” she said over the drum of rain on the roof, “if instead of fighting over the husband, the women bonded together against him.”
“You’re saying you want to give Madison a larger, more complicated role?” I scoffed, turning my back so she could unzip my dress. Out the rain-lashed window, palm trees bowed to the wind; the sea beyond was heaving and gray. “She can hardly handle one note. You want to hand her a symphony?”
She snickered as she unzipped me. “Too true. But think about it. What if…? What if it was the women who fell for each other?” She hopped off the bed, excited, and began pacing while I wiped off my sick makeup with a towelette and quickly applied a layer of tinted moisturizer and bronzer. “Your character’s a former model. She could become a photographer—it’s not uncommon—and Madison’s character could become her muse. Perhaps she’s the siren, not the younger woman. She’d shoot her with the female gaze instead of the male gaze; it would be a celebration of femininity!”
The Siren Page 17
