by Josie Brown
A lot of the crew are made up of locals, but the core group—assistant directors, second- and third-unit directors, the cinematographer, the key grip, the property master and Leda, our set dresser, not to mention Emma’s boss, Gerard Pruitt, who is head of the make-up department—have worked with Addison on several of his films, and have a non-spoken shorthand that keeps things moving between takes.
The tardiness of the picture’s star has had them all on pins and needles.
Whomever she is, Film Donna has got to be a very big star! Otherwise, why would everyone be this nervous?
And from what Whitford just said, she’ll be here any minute.
Oh my God, I can’t meet her like this—in a yellow polka-dotted sundress and sandals. The dress is one of my favorites, but still—I need to change!
I turn to head back to our cabana when I see Jack trotting my way. “Hey, guess what? Abu has located Serena La Costa. She’s on the mainland, in Caracas, and she’s at least willing to talk to us. Abu’s coming to get us, in a speedboat. Once we’re in town, we’ll have a car to get around. He’ll be here any minute, so we better get cracking.”
“Super! But”—I hesitate, because I know how this will sound: star struck. I take a deep breath and, as nonchalantly as I can, I say—“Whitford just got word that the movie’s Donna will be here any minute. Can we hang around to see who she is?”
Whenever Jack is exasperated, he runs a hand through his hair. I’ve never seen it get stuck in his nice thick dark locks—until now. “You’re kidding me, right? Serena’s testimony gets us off the Most Wanted list, and you’re more concerned about who plays you in this silly movie?”
“You’re just being cruel, Jack. You heard Sebastian—it’s brilliant!”
“Ah, well there you go! The writer of the damn thing says so himself.” He folds his arms against his chest in protest. “And, as both his subject and his supplicant, you agree with him, I presume?”
His remarks are totally uncalled for. I’m just about to tell him where he can stick his sarcasm when an arm goes around my waist.
Sebastian’s.
From the wince on his face, I know he heard what Jack called me. “I say, old boy, it’s not every day one sees one’s life made into a movie. Surely whatever caper you have in mind for—how did you put it? Oh yes, ‘my subject and my supplicant’—can wait until the fake Mrs. Smith has the honor of meeting the woman she’ll bring to life on the screen.”
It’s Jack’s turn to frown. He doesn’t like another man coming to my defense. A girl is supposed to have just one knight in shining armor.
When he sees I’m not budging from my stance, let alone out from under Sebastian’s arm, he bows slightly and mutters, “Theory proven and point taken. Come find me when you’re through paying homage to yourself, so we can get on with our real lives.” He walks off.
“Cheeky bastard,” Sebastian murmurs.
“No, he’s right. It’s truly silly of me to be this…this…silly over something so…well, silly.” He’s got me flustered. We supplicants get that way. To shake it off, I murmur, “You’ll have to excuse me. I was headed back to our cabana.”
He smiles. “Not to change into something else, I hope. You look ravishing as is.”
“Oh! Well, that’s kind of you to say.” I’m still red from all the sun we’re getting, so perhaps he can’t see me blush.
“Donna, I meant what I said to Jack. You’ve done her—and me, for that matter—the honor of bringing you to life on the big screen. Take a few moments to savor it, even if Jack won’t.”
“He’s not used to all this attention. For that matter, I’m not either.” I sigh. “I don’t know how you do it.”
He laughs. “Celebrity has its perks. In my regard, I get to hone my craft, to travel, and to meet those whose lives are a bit more interesting than my own.” He winks at me. “Right now, I’m living vicariously through you.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Then I guess I’ll have to make it as exciting as possible for you.”
His eyes sweep over me. “Thus far, you’re living up to all my expectations.”
I don’t know how to answer him. The whirring sound coming from overhead—a helicopter, from what we can see—saves me from having to do so.
“Ah, she’s finally here! Shall we join the welcoming party?”
He holds out his hand.
Of course I take it. I don’t have time to change, after all—but so what? Sebastian is right, she won’t even notice.
She’ll just be happy to meet me.
I know I’ll feel the same way.
We reach the helicopter just as it starts its descent dead center onto the circular green in the center of the resort’s driveway.
We’re not the only ones there to greet it. The cast and crew are streaming out of the plantation house like the Munchkins, running to meet Glinda, inThe Wizard of Oz.
She was the good witch, so I’ll take that as a hopeful sign of things to come.
The chopper lands, but it’s hard to see through its tinted glass windows. Finally, the engine is cut and the blades still to a lazy turn.
The door lifts up, and the pilot extends the air stair.
The first to clamber down is the reporter from Variety.
Finally, the long legs of our star, clad in five-inch Christian Dior over-the-knee stiletto boots.
Boots…on a beach?
I’m so fixated on her fashion faux pas that it takes a moment before her face registers with me—
Willow Higginbotham.
Really? The she-devil?
She’s not alone. A harried woman is practically falling out of the helicopter beneath the weight of a six-piece matching set of Louis Vuitton luggage. Considering that the poor thing is wearing chinos from last decade and a turtleneck from the last millennium, I’m guessing the luggage isn’t hers.
Behind her is a very thin man—also in thigh-high boots, and wearing even more makeup than Willow. He too carries luggage, but just one piece: a retro choo-choo case.
The last person to step out is another very thin man. He could be the first one’s twin, down to the boots and the choo-choo. I guess Willow scored a matching set of acolytes as her posse.
Since I’m anything but, I storm back into the plantation house, and directly into Addison’s suite of offices—
Where Addison is dictating an email—
To my son, who is tapping it out on his iPad.
“—on the studio lot. Please note that I did not agree to any terms which some sorry son-of-a-bitch pissant third-rate actor deems necessary—”
“Excuse me?” I shout.
All eyes turn my way.
“Yes, Mrs. Smith, is there something I can do for you?” Addison rolls his eyes—in front of my son, no less.
“I’ll say”—I take a deep breath—“but not in front of my son.”
Addison gives Jeff the high sign. “Scram, kid.”
Jeff frowns as he passes me on his way out the door.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Addison’s congenial tone could lull a baby into a happy stupor.
I am not a baby. Neither am I stupid. It’s time I made that clear to him. “First off, you will not use expletives in front of my son!”
“Wait…” Addison shakes his head in awe. “That kid…he’s yours?”
“Who the heck did you think he was?”
“I don’t know just another of my revolving-door interns.” He picks up the cup on the table beside him. “Wow. I’m impressed. The kid makes a mean cappuccino.” He motions toward it. “Would you like one?”
“Frankly…yes.” Jeff made that? Why hasn’t he made one for me before now? Grrrrr. “I mean, no! I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, everyone in this business starts out as an unpaid intern. But hey, since it’s your kid, I guess I can swing at least minimum wage for him.”
“No, that’s not why I’m…I mean, yes, of course Jeff should get paid
for being your lackey!” All of a sudden, I miss the surf, and the sand and the sun. But no, this is why I get paid the big bucks—to knock heads. “What I mean to say is that I’m here because I don’t approve of Willow Higginbotham as the actress to play Donna.”
“Oh?” Addison takes a loud slurp of his cappuccino, then licks the foam mustache from his upper lip.
Classy.
“Sorry, but she just won’t do,” I insist. “Granted, she’s a pretty woman, but let’s face it—she can’t act her way out of a paper bag. Not only that, she doesn’t have the chops to pull off the gravitas and pathos of a thriller with this depth.”
“I see.” Addison nods sagely.
“Good! Then we’re in agreement that she goes.”
“Sorry, no can do.” He looks at his watch.
I’m oblivious to broad hints. It’s time he learned this first hand. “She goes, or we shut down production.”
“Nowhere in the contract that you signed are you given approval of the actress to play you on the screen.”
Ah, hell, he’s got me there.
“How can you compare her to Amy Adams, or Jennifer Garner, or Jennifer Lawrence—let alone to me? She’s the furthest thing from me!”
“You’re right. You’re a hard act to follow.” He’d be easier to believe if he weren’t yawning when he says it. “But Jeff thinks she’ll grow into the role—”
“Who? You mean my son, the intern? Since when do you listen to a damn intern?”
“What can I say? He’s got his finger on the pulse of the twelve-to-twenty-nine-year-old males who like movies where things go bang and boom.” Addison wags his finger at me. “By the way, I thought we were doing away with the expletives.”
“You’re right, we are.” A mother sets the example for others to follow. Addison, that asshole, is the perfect case in point.
“Listen, ‘Mrs. Smith,’ let’s be honest with each other, okay? You’re getting paid a pretty penny to put up and shut up. So, go lay on the beach. Or take in some target practice. In other words, do whatever it is you paid assassins do to unwind, okay? Now, would you like a cappuccino?” As he stands up, he pretends to brush imaginary lint off his producer’s standard-issue black tee-shirt. In truth, it’s a broad hint for me to get out of his face.
Even my son knows it, because as I stalk out of the room, he ducks his head in shame.
“Really, Jeff? You think that—inflated Barbie doll can play me in this movie?”
Jeff’s head pops up. He squints as he contemplates the best way to answer the woman who gave birth to him after nine months of a pregnancy that straddled the hottest summer in California history, followed by a sixteen-hour natural labor. The best he can come up with is, “Granted, she’s bigger on top, but I thought women like it when men think they’re young and pretty.” He shrugs. “Besides, she’s not really supposed to be you. She’s Jane Smith, the spy.”
I guess for an eleven-year-old on the cusp of puberty, this is what passes for a compliment.
He’s right about that. At my stage of life, I take them no matter how small. It’s the thought that counts.
Still, I have to ask, “When the heck did you learn how to make a cappuccino?”
“Mom, if you’re going to survive in this business, you have to pull out all the stops,” he says mournfully.
He’s right.
Okay, time for me to lead by example, to take control.
Maybe if I take Willow under my wing, she’ll grow into the part, exceed my minimal expectations—
And earn that Oscar the role certainly deserves.
She came here a B-film rom-com queen, but she’ll leave here a star. I’ll see to that.
Chapter 9
Reality Bites
“Sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship.”
—Janeane Garofalo, as “Vickie”
Is that really her—you know, your favorite actress? Oh my God—yes! Since it’s just the two of you in the ladies’ room, she’s now your captive audience. Your goal: to be just as captivating to her as you find her onscreen. With that in mind, here are a couple of things you never say to a celebrity when you see them for the very first time:
Wrong Sentence #1: “Hmmm. For some reason, you look much younger onscreen.” Yeah, duh, that’s because she has an army of hair and make-up people who work on her for hours fussing and gussying every inch of her face, body and hair. She doesn’t need a perfect stranger to remind her that she’s less than perfect.
Wrong Sentence #2: “Hmmm. For some reason, you look a lot thinner onscreen.” You would, too, if you wore three sets of Spanx under every outfit, and the few extra pounds on your thighs were removed, thanks to digital movie magic.
Sadly, in real life, what you see is what you get.
You know this, just by looking in the mirror.
I guess that’s why you’d shoot anyone who has the nerve to say these sentences to you, too.
When I get to the set, I find Jack is there, too. He must have the very same idea about encouraging Willow to bring her A game because he’s chatting her up.
Yeah! He likes her! He really, really likes her!
From what I can tell, he’s turning on the charm he’s so famous for: the deep laugh, the naughty grin, that way in which he leans in close, as if he’s known you all his life.
No woman leans away.
Take Willow, for example, not only does she lean in, she reaches up—
And pulls him down, into a lip lock.
Um…no.
I tap her on the back. “Miss Higginbotham?”
Jack’s eyes open wide when he sees me. He tries to shake his head, as if to tell me what I can see with my own eyes: It’s all her fault.
On the other hand, Willow must be lost in thought because she doesn’t even bother to turn around.
I clear my throat loudly. “Miss Higginbotham, I’m honored to finally meet you!”
She straightens up. Despite the amount of Botox in her forehead that may be masking any frown, her posture says it all: I am not happy.
The cast and crew gasps. Apparently, they’re impressed with my gravitas, too.
Good, I’ve broken the spell Jack has over her—
But when she turns to face me, she’s glaring. “Whitford! Who is this person? Have you forgotten that it says in my contract that no one is to make eye contact with me? Fire her…immediately!”
Whitford is turning fifty shades of gray. “But—but Willow, this is the woman whose life you’re portraying. This is Jane Smith.”
Slowly she turns back toward me. When she does, her stony frown has been transformed into a cherubic pout. “Oh! Mrs. Smith, I’m so sorry!” She takes both my hands in hers. “Do forgive me! You would not believe how, at times, I become overwhelmed by fans.”
There, that’s better. An olive branch has been extended. I’m gracious enough to forgive and forget. “I can see where a lot of autograph requests would get tedious after a while.”
“Well, yes. But that’s not what I meant.” Her chuckle floats on the air like a feather in a summer breeze. “It’s just that I had no idea that ‘Jane’ is…well, middle-aged.” She thinks for a moment. “I envisioned you—her—much younger. You know, my age.”
I’ve read profiles on Willow in Vanity Fair and People. At the most, she’s a few months, not a few years, younger than me.
If Jack thinks his coughing fit will divert me from the task of testing the brittleness of her not-so-much-younger bones by pummeling her within an inch of her not-so-much-younger life, it’s not working. But before I can throw my punch, Sebastian guides Willow just beyond the range of my fist, and toward the plantation house. “Let me introduce myself—Sebastian Gillingham, your screenwriter and humble servant.” He takes her small-boned hand in his in order to bow over it, grazing it with his lips. “Alas, as much as I’m sure you and Mrs. Smith would enjoy getting to know each other, duty calls. I’d be honored to answer any questions you have regarding the script and
my own thoughts on your character’s sensitivity, which no doubt will grow under your gentle touch.”
Willow responds by licking her lips, leaving him no doubt that something sensitive will be growing under her touch.
I presume it won’t be her character.
This is confirmed as Willow purses her Collagen-inflated lips into a pout and opines, “I’ve been such a bad girl, Mr. Gillingham! You see, somehow I’ve lost my script.”
“Yes, that was a very naughty thing to do! A severe dressing-down is in order, to be sure.” His admonishment is more of an alluring promise than any serious threat. “Alas, not today. Your writer and your director await with bated breath your insightful interpretation of your character in her very first scenes, and they’ll accommodate you in any way they can.”
It must be the response she’d hoped for because she rewards him with a dazzling smile. “Will I be able to read it off of cue cards?”
Whitford slaps his forehead with his hand and motions for a production assistant to get right on it. Seeing him on the move, everyone else is, too.
Including me. In three strides, Jack is at my side. “I take it you’re ready to hit the mainland now?”
“The sooner, the better.” I’m too ashamed to look him in the eye. If I was ever Sebastian’s sycophant, I’m not anymore.
I understand why he feels the need to fawn over Willow. She is, after all, the real star of this picture.
At the same time, I don’t have to respect him for groveling to her whims.
By now, Jack and I are practically running to the pier where we’re to rendezvous with Abu.
Time to hit the mainland for a much-needed reality check.
In the streets of Caracas, we duck and dodge to avoid two roving armies: the National Guard and paramilitary troops known as colectivos—both of whom support the current regime.
