“No, of course it’s not… but I get the feeling you can’t help it. You’re on the ball with everything, Sydney. I don’t believe you would cause drama on purpose.”
The heaviness in my stomach eases just a little. “Thanks.”
She looks thoughtful. “What happens now?”
I shrug. “He told me my job is secure no matter what. Of course, that was before Friday night.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You told him off? Is that what happened on the sidewalk?”
“In a nutshell.”
She blows out a heavy breath. “That was crazy, him showing up like that. Like he was one of the kids or something. It didn’t seem like him at all.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just don’t know what to think of it.”
“That’s understandable.” I hesitate, then decide to go ahead and ask what I want to know. “When do you think he’s coming back?”
She takes a bite of a taco and looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure. It’s weird that he’s not here on a Monday.”
I murmur my agreement. “I need to find a new job.”
“No, you don’t,” she quickly says.
I sigh and look across the lot at the gate that seemed so holy on my first day here. It has now been reduced to nothing more than metal and some strips of reflective tape. “I’m going to screw myself over big time if I stay here. Things will just get even more complicated.”
Dana is silent. She knows I’m right.
“I can’t stop thinking about him,” I whisper. “I wish that was a good thing.”
Dana purses her lips. “Damn. That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll ask around and see if anyone is looking.”
Her words — added to my own promise to leave the job — make my departure final in a way it wasn’t before. I push the burning back down my throat and force a smile. “Thanks.”
I try to eat my lunch, but can’t manage to choke down more than a couple of bites. Standing, I chuck the paper container at the trash can. “I’m going inside.”
The AC blasts me as I open the door and head for the office. Entering the doorway, I slow down. The inner office door is closed, and I’m fairly certain Dana left it open after going in there this morning. I freeze with my hand against the door frame.
A scuffling noise comes from the other side of the door. He’s definitely here.
I’m debating going back outside or maybe just running down the hall and hiding in the bathroom, when his door opens.
For some reason, he looks surprised to see me. Simon.
Now that I know once and for all I can’t have him, I seem not able to think of him as Mr. Mulroney anymore. He is and will always be Simon, the man who took me to Bronson Caves and revealed to me a childhood secret. The man who kissed me tenderly and told me he wanted to treat me better.
Supposing I leave this job and never see him again, what will that be like? Will he stay on my mind for decades, becoming the infamous “one who got away?” Will I meet and marry someone else, but always feel like that relationship is lacking; always think of the harsh and yet sensitive man who gave me thrills that no one else could?
At seventy or eighty, will I stop in the middle of some mundane activity — sweeping the kitchen or filling the bird feeder — and realize… he’s dead now. Our lives went in separate directions and his faded away. The funeral announcements were sent out and I didn’t get one. The hole was dug and lowered and, meanwhile, I was at the bank checking my account balance or in my bedroom hanging up some curtains, all the while never suspecting what the world just lost.
And as I lay dying, in a hospital bed, or wherever else my last breath might take place, will I draw that final inhale and think: I should have taken what he had to offer. I shouldn’t have asked for so much.
No matter what the world holds, there will never be another person like Simon Mulroney.
His throat works as we stare at each other from across the room. In the space between us, hovering between the floor and ceiling, a dozen possibilities rest.
He nods, looking like a robot. “Ms. Andrews.”
I blink and take a step inside the office. As if that’s his cue, he moves forward and blows past me.
*
The entire week, Mr. Mulroney’s trips to the office are extraordinarily brief. He never once talks to me. When he needs something done, he addresses Dana. Chuck and Daniel love his absence and half of me is of the same mind.
The other half of me is getting twisted in the gut by a knife.
Thursday afternoon, I’m scrolling through Craigslist, which is what I’ve resorted to in this desperate need to find a job ASAP. Chuck and Daniel are out, taking another one of their extended lunch breaks, and Dana sits across from me, typing away while she cracks her gum.
Someone knocks on the door. Dana and I lock eyes and then she slowly stands up.
“Who is it?” I softly ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I’m not expecting anyone. He asked me to schedule all of his appointments for downtown.”
Of course he did.
She opens the door to reveal a portly man with balding salt and pepper hair. As if the guest were made of electricity, Dana jumps back.
“Hello, Mr. Mulroney,” she says, standing even straighter. “How are you?”
He nods at her. “Fine, Daphne. How are you?”
“Can I get you anything? Mr. Mulroney is not in right now,” she says, not correcting his mistake.
“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “When will he be back?”
Dana noticeably shifts her weight. “He hasn’t been in much this week. He’s mostly working downtown.”
His brows furrow. The news seems to displease him. His gaze sweeps across the room and we catch eyes. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” I stand up. “I’m Sydney Andrews.”
He nods sharply. “David Mulroney.”
Ah. Just as I suspected. The former head of Mulroney Pictures — Simon’s father. I try to inconspicuously wipe my suddenly sweaty palms on the side of my pants.
“Getting along well here?”
“Yes, sir.”
Or would you like the truth? Because it’s a long story, and you’ll probably want to sit down.
“This is just like Simon,” David Mulroney says, shaking his head.
Dana weakly smiles.
It sure is, I think. Here one minute and gone the next.
“Nice seeing you, Daphne,” he tells Dana.
“You too, Mr. Mulroney. Are you sure there’s something I can’t get you?”
“No, no. I can’t stay. I just came to see how The Dawn Companion is doing. Have you girls gone down to set yet?”
“Just to deliver papers,” Dana says.
“No,” I respond when his eyes flick to me. “I’ve never been to the back lot.”
The elder Mr. Mulroney looks surprised. “Truly?”
I smile. The man has a hard edge to him — which he must have bestowed to Simon — but I kind of like him already. “Truly. We, ah, stay pretty busy in the office here.”
He nods toward the door. “Come with me. Come take a look. I’ll bring you back before Daphne has time to miss you at all.”
I glance at Dana.
“You go,” she says, shooing me with her fingers. “There’s time. You don’t need to hurry back.”
“Okay.” I nod, trying to conceal my enthusiasm. What I told the elder Mr. Mulroney is the truth. I never get to go to the back lot. As in, not once have I stepped foot in that direction.
Mr. Mulroney heads into the hallway and I scurry to catch up.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you, sir,” I tell him.
“You like action movies?”
“I like every kind of movie.”
We pass Stacey’s desk. When she sees Mr. Mulroney coming, she sits up straighter and stares at her computer screen like the most interesting email in the world is grabbing her atten
tion.
It’s probably just the most boring game of Solitaire.
There’s a sleek black SUV out front, and a man in a matching suit waiting next to it. When he sees Mr. Mulroney coming, he goes to open the front door. I’m so shocked, I almost fall over. After all, I’d assumed we’d be walking to the back lot. Instead, it looks like we’ll be escorted there by the Secret Service.
Mr. Mulroney climbs into the car and I scamper in after him. The seats are leather and the windows all tinted.
“This is the second day of production,” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“I assume you knew that.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiles. “You seem too nice to work for my son.”
Yes, sir.
I only smile back. “Mr. Mulroney is a different kind of boss,” I reply, choosing my words carefully.
“That Daphne,” he continues, “She’s got thick skin. She can handle it.”
“She’s pretty strong,” I agree. “And so are the other two in the office. But I would like to think I’m not as flimsy as I look.”
He chuckles. “Kudos to you.” For a moment, he studies me. “You’re wrong about one thing, though. You don’t come across as weak at all. You’ve got some strength shining through yourself.”
I flush under the compliment.
The SUV glides past low white buildings, then takes a turn to the right. A parking attendant directs the driver up to the side of a building. Cloistered near it is a massive grip truck and beyond that a few tents. Past those, trailers — likely either for makeup, wardrobe, or actors — are visible.
The SUV parks in the shade of the building and the driver comes around to open Mr. Mulroney’s door. I get my own door open — hoping it’s not a breach of propriety — and scramble out.
My heart is thudding. I’ve been on multiple sets before, working as an assistant during summer breaks, but never on the set of a megalithic action film. Every film I’ve so far been a part of was an independent one, and none of them had more than fifty crew members. The Dawn Companion is the second in a trilogy starring the Hollywood hunk Devin Gaughen, and it employs hundreds of people each day. The first film grossed nearly double what it was predicted to, and its success has led to the studio pouring nearly everything they’ve got into this second flick.
Other films are being made by the studio at the same time, but hardly any talk about them. Instead, the hurricane of chatter and activity in and off the lot almost solely surrounds The Dawn Companion. Nearly every email or phone call that passes through the office is related to its production in some form or another.
Someone goes past me pushing a long rack of costumes. What appears to be police uniforms rustle underneath the clear plastic. People rush around everywhere, walkie talkies clipped to their belts.
David Mulroney sidles up next to me. “Let’s go see if they’re actually shooting a picture here, or if they’re just kidding around.” He laughs at his own joke.
“All right,” I breathlessly respond. I wonder for the tenth time why he invited me to the set with him.
Maybe he’s just the polar opposite of his son. Maybe he’s just a nice man.
I follow Mr. Mulroney through a maze of tents. A man with brown hair and glasses approaches, his hand extended. I’ve seen enough pictures of him to automatically know he’s Miles Lee, the director of Dawn Companion. Several people hover behind him, complete with clipboards and miked head pieces. They must be the me, Dana, Chuck and Daniel set versions.
“David,” Miles says with a slight Texas drawl. “How are you doing?”
Mr. Mulroney shakes his hand. “Good. I came by for lunch.” He winks. “Only joking. I wanted to see how things are going. I’ve heard only the best.”
Miles laughs and places his hands on his hips. “Well, we’re trying.”
“This is Sydney Andrews.” I start when Mr. Mulroney says my name. We’ve only known each other a few minutes, and I’m certainly not worthy of being introduced to the director of one of the biggest blockbuster trilogies ever made.
Poor Dana. David Mulroney has probably known her for years and he still thinks she’s one of the kids from Scooby Doo. I would have been happy if I got introduced as “Sara” or “Sabrina.”
“Hello,” I rasp. “Nice to meet you.”
“She’s Simon’s new assistant,” David explains.
Just the name sends a little tremor through my body. I do my best to ignore it and smile at the man I’ve just been introduced to.
“Ah.” Miles nods and tries to act interested, but my presence is, of course, anything but compelling. “Would you like to see the plane crash?” he asks David.
I try not to squeal or answer for him.
“We’re just finishing lunch,” he continues. “It takes a good twenty minutes to reset.”
“All right.” Mr. Mulroney nods.
Miles calls for a golf cart and one is there in a matter of seconds. We climb in and zoom past the long white tents and rows of trailers. In only about a minute, we arrive at a big patch of green. On two sides, tall trees tower up, and on the other two sides, crew members wrestle with equipment and lights. Video village is nearby, the monitor and chair from which the director watches the takes, covered by a small blue plastic canopy.
But the best part of it all by far is the “plane crash.” It must have taken the set designers weeks to build what’s in front of us. It’s an actual jet laying on the ground. The aircraft is ripped in the middle, cushioned seats tumbling out of it. One of its wings has been ripped off and lies dejected in the carnage of metal and tree limbs. The whole thing looks so real my heart starts speeding up, my body actually believing it’s standing near a literal plane crash. I almost feel as if I should be tearing through the scene in front of me looking for survivors.
“Looks good,” David Mulroney says.
I can think of a dozen other words to describe the set, all of them much more than a notch above “good.”
Miles is going on about logistics and time count, but I’m not listening. More of the crew is trickling in, arriving back from lunch, and I watch the frenzied activity with awe.
Someone puts their hand on Miles’ shoulder and speaks softly to him.
“All right,” he says, his voice and expression serious. He reaches over to shake David Mulroney’s hand again. “It was great seeing you. Stick around for some takes if you like. We’re only a few minutes away from starting.”
I hold my breath while I wait for Mr. Mulroney’s response. When he agrees to stay, I nearly shout with glee. Finally, after weeks stuck in the office, I’m on the back lot. I can’t just mosey away without watching so much as one take.
I slink off to the side, to where the golf cart that carried us over is still parked, but Mr. Mulroney motions for me to follow him to video village. Nervously, I trek behind him. People press in all around me — so many people I can’t imagine there can even be enough jobs for them — and Miles comes and begins a low conference with the director of photography.
The two actors are brought to set. Along with Devin Gaughen, there’s the female lead, Marissa DeLisle. She’s smaller than she always looks in movies and pictures — so fragile, actually, that it seems like if a slight breeze were to come along, she would be done for.
The assistant director calls for quiet and the scene begins. I’m torn between watching it on the monitor and watching it play out in front of me in real life. The entire shot is the two actors hurrying up to the plane wreckage. From contextual clues — such as their tattered wardrobes — I pick up that they are returning to the scene of the crash in search of something. Cut is called, and everything reset. They do the action several times more.
I could watch all day, but David Mulroney is clapping several people on the shoulders and making his way through the small group gathered under the tent. He nods to where I stand at the back edge of the blue canopy and I follow him back out to the golf cart. We leave in between a take wh
ile the actors are being touched up by makeup artists and the director and cinematographer are talking about what needs to be changed.
Back in the SUV, I clasp my hands in my lap. “That was amazing,” I sigh.
I don’t care about acting cool and pretending being on that set didn’t blow my mind. I highly doubt I could hide my enthusiasm if I tried.
“The process still holds some of its appeal even sixty years later,” Mr. Mulroney says.
“That can’t be when you started working here.”
“That’s when my father first brought me to a set. I was five.”
“Wow,” I breathe, trying to imagine growing up in the world David Mulroney — and Simon — did. “How come you’re not still here?”
“I am, in a way. Just because I’m not physically present and my names aren’t in every credit roll doesn’t mean I don’t still make a lot of decisions.”
“Oh.” I clamp my mouth shut, wondering if my question was too invasive. I look around. We’re almost back to the office.
“Did you bring Mr. Mulroney to set when he was a kid?” I ask. “Like your dad did with you?”
His brows push together, like he’s trying to remember but can’t quite get a clear picture. “Simon didn’t have the same interest I did,” he says, then guffaws. “He liked television shows.”
“Star Trek.”
He looks at me in surprise. “Did he?”
“That’s what he told me,” I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious. Perhaps I’ve just given away a tidbit that will prove to be too revealing of mine and Simon’s relationship.
“I miss being like you,” Mr. Mulroney muses.
Glancing back at him, I ask, “Really? In what way?”
“I wish I could wake up every day and say ‘wow, that was incredible.’”
I giggle. “You can.”
“It changes the older you get.”
My laughter dies off. I hate how much I suspect he’s right.
“Being twenty-two isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” I argue. “It can be pretty confusing. Sometimes it’s like being caught in the middle of a hurricane.”
He chuckles. “I haven’t forgotten about that part of it.”
The SUV comes to a stop and I go to open my door. My fingers slow down, curling snail like around the handle when I catch sight of the familiar sports car parked near the building’s front door.
Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) Page 41
