Changing the Script

by Lee Winter

  “So why not leave town for a break? Didn’t you want to travel?” Gina asked. “I’m sure you made plans way back when, with…”

  Sam narrowed her eyes, daring her to finish that sentence.

  “Fine, burn yourself out and get all surly and unapproachable then.” Gina huffed dramatically.

  Sam grinned. “How’s that any different to me at any other time?”

  “I know you think you’re doing your job by being all standoffish with everyone. Actually, you’re only reinforcing the rumors Dino’s spreading about you.”

  “What’s he saying now?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Let’s just say that if you get called hukapapa, you’ll know who started it.”

  Great. It meant ice, snow, and frost in Maori. But the subtext was “frigid ice bitch.” Probably also meant lesbian frigid ice bitch, knowing him.

  “I hope you bring Dino down a peg one day. He’s bad news,” Gina said. “Always has been, even as a boy. I remember him back when you went to school with him.”

  “Me, too.” How could Sam forget the number-one asshole who’d made her childhood so miserable? “And I’m working on him. I’m building my case and laying down the groundwork.”

  “Please just be careful? I worry about you, bub.”

  “I know. Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’d give you a hug, but I know how much you squirm.” Gina chuckled.

  Thank God the woman was capable of occasional restraint. Sam’s ribs might never recover if Gina offered one of her trademark stuffing-squeezer hugs right now.

  With a deep sigh, Gina became rueful. “You’re such a good girl. So loyal and dedicated.” She cupped Sam’s cheek before she could dodge. “I’m sorry folks don’t see you for who you are. You’re always so alone.”

  Sam shrugged. “People are naturally cautious around cops. That’s life.”

  “But—”

  “No. I’m fine with it.” She was so done with this conversation. “Anyway, I’d better see to Mason and his cows, and get Bruce back to Mrs. Fenley before he eats my police scanner.”

  Gina laughed. “All right, I’ll let you get on with your day.”

  A tray of apricot danishes slid out onto the counter, courtesy of the cook, who immediately retreated to the back of the kitchen. “They look great, Dutch,” Sam called.

  He grunted his approval.

  Man of few words.

  Sam reached out to snag one, but Gina’s hand flashed out and slapped it away.

  “No. They’re for the movie people. They asked me to make them.”

  Sam pouted.

  “Oh, don’t look so put out.” Gina cackled. “Come by tonight. I’ll cook you something special myself. No arguments. You need to get out of that depressing house of yours.”

  “I get out. I hit the trails on Tiger.” And she stalked the local bikie-gang elements regularly. Never let it be said she didn’t have hobbies. “And I visit you.”

  “I meant interacting with people who aren’t family.” Gina tsked. “It’s been a while since you had…a close friend.”

  “Gina…” Sam warned.

  “Fine, fine. I won’t push. Get on with ya. See you tonight.” Gina bustled off into the kitchen, calling to Dutch that the bread had been delivered.

  “About time,” came his grouchy reply.

  You’re welcome.

  With a final mournful look at Dutch’s fine pastries, Sam hauled her aching body back into the street.

  CHAPTER 5

  Thorn in My Side

  Alex was shunted out of sleep by some loud thumps and her trailer rocking. Sliding up the blind shuttering her bedroom window, she looked outside. Sunlight clawed at her. Distant bird calls and sheep baaing reminded her exactly where she was. But not why she’d been jolted awake.

  A grizzled, bearded male head bobbed past her window, stopped, and turned at the sight of her. “Oh, mornin’,” he said, far too chirpily. “I’m Frank. Frank Buddins from You Dump, We Pump.”

  “What?” She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

  “We’re the number-three sewerage-removal company in all of the Waikato region.”

  “Number three?”

  “I know! It’d be funnier if it was number one or two.” He cackled.

  Alex rubbed her eyes harder.

  “See now, I know what you’re thinking.”

  She was pretty sure he didn’t.

  “What exactly is it we do? Well, You Dump, We Pump specializes in reaming out caravans and motorhomes and the like. Which is why I’m here. Gotta clean out yer system.”

  “Um…”

  “So could you not use the loo for a bit? Gotta do yer black water tank. Also, it could get a little whiffy. Best not to breathe in during The Process.” He punched the words like they were a top-level military codename. “Well, not through your nose at least,” he continued. “Also, before I forget, if you love the way we ream you out today, could you leave us a good rating on Google? Cheers!” He disappeared from view.

  She stared after him.

  Moments later, her entire trailer thrummed with vibration and pumping sounds that made her head hurt. That and the decree to not use the bathroom suddenly made her want to go. Sod’s law.

  Alex instead rose, put a mug of tea in the microwave, hating herself a little for it—her British DNA shuddered at the flagrant tea abuse—and grabbed her phone. She checked the time—6:47 a.m.—and did a quick conversion to LA. Almost midday yesterday for Bess.

  She sent a flurry of texts, demanding to know whether she was completely bonkers for participating in a certain cinematic cluster-fuck.

  Bess replied almost immediately.

  You have exactly the same quotient of bonkers as you’ve always had. 73%.

  A pause. Then…

  Okay, Summer thinks I’m being a bit unkind. So, you’re only 71% bonkers. But remember, it takes some degree of crazy to pull off what you have in mind. Therefore, you’re exactly the right person for the job. You CAN do this. And if all else fails, Skye will help make it a beautiful-looking cluster-fuck. Oh, btw, Rowan has asked if you could take copious notes? He needs more material for his new comedy show.

  Alex rolled her eyes and typed a reply. Ha-ha. Glad my nightmare exists to be fodder for our friends.

  I don’t make the rules.

  Alex smiled at that. Bess’s next text landed a second later.

  If you’re really worried, I could call?

  Nah, I’ll be fine.

  That’s the spirit.

  She could almost see Bess’s wry smile as they said good-bye.

  Next she texted her old Cambridge friend, Rowan, whose long-faced comedy routines were well received in clubs around LA for their general “being pathetic at success and adulting” themes. It was a troubling sign he suddenly wanted to borrow from her experiences.

  No, Mr Blagge, you can’t use my sad life in your stand-up. Nice try.

  “Hold on,” Frank called. “Just gotta jiggle you a bit, make sure there’s no sediment sticking to your bottom.”

  My bottom. Right. She resumed writing as the vehicle began shuddering a little.

  Isnt yor claim to comedy fame being pethetic yoursefl, anywat? :)

  Christ! Her phone beeped.

  Sorry?

  The microwave pinged. Her bladder complained. And…Alex realized she’d accidentally sent the text to Alice, her production assistant.

  Great.

  That kicked off a frantic day of catch-up. Paperwork piled up, studio calls were made, and notes were compiled to understand what she’d been left to deal with.

  Alice appeared mid-morning to explain excitedly how there was only one forest anywhere which might support an indigenous tribe of female warriors
that also had flora matching New Zealand.

  “Valdivian Temperate Rainforest,” the bright-eyed assistant said. “It’s in South America, partly in Chile and Argentina. All the ferns and moss and trees look like you’re in New Zealand. It’s uncanny.”

  “Excellent.”

  “It’s much cooler than most. I mean, it’s the only rainforest on earth which includes glaciers. But, um, there’s one problem.” Alice opened her iPad. “These are the main creatures that live there.”

  Taking the device, Alex scanned it. Her eyes widened at the adorable fawns, frogs, otters, owls… “Where are my damned predators!”

  “I know. Everything seems miniature there. Smallest deer. Smallest cat. Cute frogs, too.”

  “Jesus, it’s like Bambi’s forest. Why even give our Amazons weapons if this is what they’re up against? Our warriors could just tickle their furry little bellies and send them on their way.”

  “Well, we could cheat?” Alice suggested. “There are pumas in the closest forests. Wolves, too. Maybe some of them got…lost?”

  Alex snorted. “God knows the domesticated varieties love to wander. Well, since we’ll be inventing a fictional name for our movie forest, we may as well value-add some carnivores, too. So find me a waylaid puma for the poacher’s wall of shame. Oh, and get all the rainforest’s flora and fauna details to Skye. And thanks for your work.”

  Alice shot her a brilliant smile and disappeared.

  One irritation solved, a thousand more outstanding. Alex headed over to Production to tackle whatever fresh hell was waiting.

  Quincy proved helpful as the morning dragged into lunch, but Alex could see it in his eyes: The mountain of work wasn’t going to get any smaller.

  Just after lunch, her executive producer, assistant director, and half a dozen crew escorted her to the two forest sets. The photos didn’t do them justice. They were breathtaking. Wild, beautiful, otherworldly.

  Shezan’s tree house was an exceptional piece of engineering. Bamboo hid its steel construction, and the rigging on one side would allow the cameras to clip on and focus on the star as she slept, ate, petted the animals, and whatever else Mistresses of the Forest got up to. All this with a stunning waterfall crashing into a lagoon framed over her shoulder. So, it all looked the part. Director One had been right. It would be a crime not to use this glorious natural backdrop. And the sets had already been built. But…

  Shooting in the forest sets would be a technical nightmare. It wasn’t like they could just turn down the volume on the waterfall. So much sound looping would be required to fix the audio in the studio later. And then there was the constant rain, the mud, and the leeches.

  Alex’s afternoon slithered downhill after that, landing at rock bottom thanks to a strange meeting with actress Melody Howard. The woman lived down to her reputation as a spoiled young woman whose mediocrity was the only thing greater than her over-confidence. Really, she should be in middle management.

  Melody was sitting opposite Alex in the deserted Craft Services area. Aged twenty-four, she had glorious, long blonde hair and perfect eyebrows that probably had their own Instagram page. Everyone was beneath her. That apparently included Alex, who had gently tried to coax an impromptu acting performance out of her, hoping to showcase Melody’s abilities and thereby find some inspiration.

  “No.” Melody eyed her. “No way.”

  “No?”

  “I am not going to re-audition for you. It’s not my fault an earlier director approved my hiring. Deal with it.”

  Deal with it?

  “And I won’t be singled out for discrimination. I notice you haven’t asked anyone else to comply with this…” she whirled her finger between them, “irregular process.”

  Alex peered at her in surprise. She’d yet to meet a performer who didn’t love to show off a little. And exactly what “discrimination” was she experiencing here? Were entitled, white, rich divas suffering somehow and Alex hadn’t been informed?

  “It’s not a re-audition.”

  Melody gave a withering stare.

  “I’m trying to find your strengths so I can work with you to bring them out on film.”

  “Sure.” Melody folded her arms. “And no.”

  This attitude would get most actors fired, but Melody clearly knew she was bullet-proof. Alex’s head started pounding again. “Well, how about we rehearse the Poacher’s Daughter’s lines a little?”

  Melody tilted her head. “I can do that.”

  Thank God.

  “On the condition that you rename my character from Anna to Jennifer.”

  “Why?” Not that Alex cared. What was one bland name over another?

  “It’s in honor of my good friend Jennifer Aniston.” Melody shook her hair back. “She’s completely underrated.”

  “Underrated.”

  “And a dear, dear friend.” Melody smiled beatifically. “Do it, and I’ll even tweet about my part. I have eighty-seven thousand followers. I’m a social media influencer.”

  Alex was doubtful that Melody, despite her father’s connections, was best friends with any A-lister. In her experience, name droppers rarely had famous friends for long.

  Gritting her teeth, Alex said, “Jennifer it is.” Sliding a copy of the script across the table, she added, “Begin from ‘Father, I don’t know why we have to stay out here so long. It’s so wild and strange and I just want to go home.’”

  It soon became apparent that Quincy had actually understated Melody’s lack of talent.

  Melody’s range never got above the level of a read-through. She punched all the wrong words, inserted unexpected pauses mid-sentence, and her gaze roamed so much that Alex started to wonder if she had an eye condition.

  After the fourth awful run-through, Alex put down her own copy of the script and asked: “Why are you doing this? Shezan, I mean?”

  “My father thinks it would be a good fit to showcase me.”

  “Your father? Not you?”

  She shrugged. “My boyfriend thinks so, too. How hard can it be?” Melody reached for her phone and started scrolling through it. “Acting’s not exactly rocket science, is it?”

  Just perfect.

  The rest of the day involved a blurring montage of paperwork, inspecting crew builds, and placating tearful twin sisters. Apparently some local had tormented them the previous night over their Amazon costumes. That had taken time to deal with. She’d sat down with them, handed over a box of tissues, told them the outfits were changing, and explained, amid hand pats, that certain obnoxious men could be trash and not to take their attitude on board, because it was about those men, not them.

  “Not all men,” Christine helpfully added between great gulping sobs.

  “Right,” Alex replied dryly. “Thanks for that always-forgotten clarification.”

  After Alex recruited Skye to help explain about the empowering new outfits she was making, the twins left looking happier.

  Alex collapsed into her chair. The emotional heavy lifting of being responsible for so many people was exhausting. These kinds of spot fires were usually handled by assistants, but Alex wasn’t quite sure she agreed with outsourcing upset people to others, even if she could. She retreated to her trailer to try to figure out the main logistical issues without people talking at her constantly. She’d lost track of time when a knock sounded.

  “Seven o’clock, Alex,” came Alice’s voice. “Everyone’s leaving for the pub now. Want to come?”

  Slapping down the notes that were starting to blur, she sighed. Food sounded like a perfect distraction. She’d begged off last night due to jet lag and was looking forward to seeing the heart of Ika Whenu’s social scene.

  CHAPTER 6

  Beers, Bribes, and Brawls

  Te Wharariki Hotel was loud, old, drafty in the corners and smelled, unsurprisingly, of stale beer. The at
mosphere, though, was jovial, with bubbles of laughter from dozens of groups sitting around low wood tables. Easy-listening pub-rock music pumped through the aged speakers near the ceiling.

  Alex fell into step with Sid, the set’s security guard.

  “Grub’s ordered over there.” Sid pointed to a counter and a till. “Mum’s the cool chick in the green cardie behind the counter. This is her place, eh. Her name’s Gina Mahuta, but everyone calls her Mumma G.”

  “Okay.” Alex took in the wide-smiling woman bending an ear to one of the patrons at the bar. A large Maori woman in her late sixties, ‘Mumma G’ had bushy, gray-streaked black hair and bright fashion tastes that ran to a green cardigan and an orange sundress. “Right. What do you recommend on the menu?” Alex asked, following him to the counter.

  “Anything’s good but the schnitzel’s a real treat. Trout’s choice, too. It’s caught locally every day on Lake Tarawera.”

  “Choice, huh?” She smiled. “Chloe says that a lot.”

  “I do.” Chloe slapped Alex on the shoulder, coming up behind her. “Old habits die hard.”

  Alex was pleased that Shezan’s star was looking so refreshed and relaxed after her trip home.

  “By the way, the salad’s decent, too,” Chloe continued. “If you’re not into inhaling half a cow.”

  “That sounds more my speed. Can you order me one? I need a quick pit stop.”

  Alex found the Ladies and headed inside, praying the facilities were empty, because the hubbub outside was starting to give her a headache.

  No such luck. The stalls were empty, but someone was at the sinks. The woman had her shirt pulled up in front of the mirror, twisting to prod a dark shadow on her back. A well-muscled, smooth back.

  Hot.