by Karen Grey
CHAPTER FIVE
BEEP. MONDAY, 12:37 p.m.
Steve, it’s Kate Bishop. I’m calling from a pay phone at the convention center at the northeast end by the, uh… Swatch booth? I thought we were meeting here at noon? Okay, well, I’ll stay here for another few minutes and then, I guess, work my way around clockwise. Page me if you can’t find me.
KATE
“Katie, sorry I’m late. I was on a call that ran long.”
Just because I’m still frustrated that Will abruptly walked away from a date I’d thought was going well yesterday doesn’t mean I have to punish Steve for being fifteen minutes late—or calling me Katie instead of Kate again—so I try to make a joke. “Too bad we can’t just carry our phones around with us everywhere so we could let people know when we’re running late.”
“Yeah, but then everyone would trip on the cords.”
When I laugh, he claps his hands together. “All right. What’s the plan?”
“Plan?”
“Yeah, how do you want to play it? Good cop, bad cop? I play dumb, you swoop in with the unexpected questions? What?”
Even though I know I should be making contacts at this trade show on top of doing research, I’m already exhausted by the crowds, so I hold up the stack of brochures I’ve collected. “Actually, I think I have what I need. These are all the fashion brands that are expanding into athletic wear. I’ll order their 10Ks from the document service and—”
“Yeah, yeah, but who did you talk to?”
“Um. No one. I mean, I said hello or whatever when I picked up the literature. And I got some business cards.”
He lays that heavy arm across my shoulders. “Katie, Katie, Katie. You gotta play the game to get the 411. We don’t want the lame facts they’re willing to publish in those glossy brochures. We want the dirt.”
I remove his arm. “I know how to dig up dirt, Steve. It’s amazing what gets buried in the footnotes of an annual report.”
“Okay. Wager time. I bet I can find info no one’s ever going to report, unless it ends up on the nightly news.”
“Like what?”
“Like who has a pending lawsuit over a patent infringement. Who has workers organizing. Who has some feebleminded old grandpa CEO running the place into the ground.” He holds out his hand. “Come on, Katie, don’t give me your mad face. Five bucks says that in five minutes, I can get you some intel you can take to the bank.”
Even though I want to get back to my desk and get going on the work I’m comfortable with, I also know that he’s probably right, so I shake his hand. “Okay. You get five minutes. But not five bucks.”
He laughs. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Okay, let me see that stack of propaganda.” He rifles through them and then scopes out the booths nearby. “All right, I know the guy in the Catalina booth. He was in my frat at Tufts, but he’s kind of a Dexter, so this should be easy. Follow my lead.”
The moment he takes my elbow to steer me toward the guy, my stage fright kicks in—heart races a mile a minute, the whole routine. But then I remember the breathing thing Will taught me yesterday and try it as Steve greets his friend. “Richie, homeslice, I haven’t seen you in a dick year.”
As the pair execute some ridiculous handshake with sound effects and everything, I surreptitiously keep up the slow deep breaths. By the time they’re finished and Richie turns to me, I actually feel okay. “Hey, didn’t I see you earlier?” he asks.
Steve places a hand on my shoulder. “Richie, meet Katherine Bishop. She’s an analyst at Rhodes Wahler.”
“Oh, okay.” Richie smiles and then leans in conspiratorially. “You looked kind of disapproving when you stopped by so I thought maybe you were quality control for the convention center and you were gonna bust my balls for having too big a banner or something.”
“Nah, she’s here to check you out, man.”
As Steve gossips with Richie about their college buddies I tune them out, fingering the samples on the table to check for fabric quality. But when Richie starts going on about some friend of theirs who works in operations for the company who’s strung out because he’s having to live on Chinese time, my ears perk up.
“Yeah, poor Max. He’s having to deal with all kinds of issues moving production overseas. Talk about quality control. Heh heh.” Richie’s laugh is slightly uncomfortable like maybe he knows he just leaked something shouldn’t have. “Hey, you look like you’re a size six. Want some samples?”
“Um, sure. Thanks.”
While he sifts through a bin of colorful sweatpants, Steve manages to tease out a few more details on Max’s—and therefore the company’s—troubles.
Once we’ve said goodbye and are out of earshot, Steve puts his arm around my shoulder again. “That was clutch. Did I or did I not get you some good gossip?”
“You did. Also some new workout gear.”
“If it’s samples you want, homefry, I can get you a whole outfit to sweat in.” His square jaw juts at the brochure on the top of my stack. “I got an idea. This guy I used to play poker with is at Gitano.”
“Really? They’re gearing up for an IPO.”
“Schweet. You get to play this time.”
“I don’t know.” Standing back and watching Steve do his thing while I ferreted away facts was just my speed. Not sure if I’m ready to do what he does.
“Kate, come on. Do you not know what a legend you are?”
This has me stopping in my tracks. “What are you talking about?”
He shakes his head. “Besides the fact that it’s so fun to get you all flustered, the other reason the guys tease you so much? They’re intimidated by you.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re always right. Even when you’re wrong, you catch it before it’s a problem. Like the other day in the morning meeting, when you realized you’d made a mistake in that model?”
“Oh my god. That was so embarrassing.”
He knocks on my forehead. “Wrong. It was scary. Right in front of everybody, you caught the error, recalculated and fixed it before anybody else caught on that you’d even made a mistake. Nobody’s brain works as fast as yours.”
All I can say to this is “Huh.”
Then the Hot Steve smile is back. “But you’re no salesman. That’s where I excel. Really, we’re a perfect partnership. Which we’re going to put to work. I’ve got an idea. Grant is kind of a hoser. You put that mad face to work and be bad cop. Everything I bring up, you knock it down.”
“What mad face?”
He shrugs. “You just look mad all the time.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m probably just thinking.”
“Whatever. We can use it. Come on.”
Five minutes later, our improvised routine has squeezed some very useful nuggets of information regarding the timing of the Gitano IPO. Some of it skirts on the edge of insider trading, but some of it I can use. The role-play has me feeling more predator than prey, and I kind of like the feeling.
Before we move on, though, Grant mentions something that has Steve’s perfectly tanned face turning beet red. “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
Grant’s smile is wide; clearly, he’s happy to have gotten to Steve. “Take a chill pill, Steve. I’m just saying you’re doing great for somebody who didn’t even finish college.”
Steve doesn’t even say goodbye. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he storms down the corridor and around the corner.
“Thanks for the samples.” This time I scored an entire tracksuit. “Nice to meet you.”
Grant’s smile is smug as he waves goodbye.
I find Steve slumped at a cafe table, head in his hands. “God, I hate that guy. I forgot what a complete dickwad he is.” When I sit down, he grabs my forearm, his face paling. “Katie, you can’t tell anybody what he said. I could lose my job.”
“Um, okay. If you’ll stop calling me Katie.”
“But that’s your name.”
“Kate is the nickname that I
prefer.”
“Same difference.”
“No. Not the same.”
“Okay. Kate it is.” He squeezes my arm. “Seriously, though. This stays between you and me?”
“You really didn’t graduate from college?”
“I didn’t graduate from Tufts. My last semester was at a place that’s practically a community college. I got into some trouble—I bought a paper and got caught—and was asked to leave. It was stupid. I learned my lesson. My uncle managed to gloss it over when he got me the job, but if anyone found out all the details, it could be bad.”
I’ve never seen Steve look so unsmooth. It’s actually kind of endearing. “Sure. No problem. Not my business anyway.”
He heaves out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Katie—Kate, I mean. I owe you. Big time.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slaps me on the shoulder. “There you go. No more mad face!” He stands and claps his hands together. “All right, let’s get back in the game. Couple more plays, and then I gotta get back to the office to make some calls.” Cocking a finger gun at me, he winks. “This time, we play hard to get. Girls all know how to do that, right?”
Man. Just when I’d started to kind of like the guy.
CHAPTER SIX
BEEP. THURSDAY, 6:02 a.m.
Hi Will. This is the assistant AD on the Garelick Farms commercial shoot this morning. We’ve had to push back your call time so we don’t need you for hair and makeup until ten a.m. Sorry about the switchup; see you soon.
WILL
On the set of my very first commercial shoot, my knee bounces a mile a minute. What a nightmare. We’re way behind schedule. Which means I’m probably going to be late to my show tonight. If that happens, the stage manager will go ballistic. There’s no one to replace me. They might have to cancel the performance. Refund tickets. It’s a tiny nonprofit theater, so one night of lost revenue might mean they can’t pay rent. They could lose their lease on the building. Have to cancel the rest of the season. I could bring down an entire company. Just to do one stupid commercial about a carton of cream.
I grip my knees to keep from scrubbing my hands through my hair or over my face, because the hair and makeup lady yells at me if I touch what she now considers her territory, and sort through various disaster scenarios.
God, I hate this.
Well, that’s not completely true. If I’d started at seven this morning like I was supposed to, filming this commercial might’ve been fun. I had a blast at the audition making everyone in the room laugh. I still can’t believe I booked the first on-camera thing I went out for. I wonder what that investment banker Kate would have to say about it. That I’ve found my niche in the commercial market? I’ve been keeping an eye out for her at the Bull and Finch, but she hasn’t returned. Maybe if she sees the commercial on TV, she’ll come in just to say, “I told you so.”
Of course, for that to happen, I have to successfully perform the thing. Under a time crunch.
Watching the little girl do her version earlier this morning helped ease my nerves a bit. Unfortunately, the fact that the kid took forever is the reason we’re so behind.
I sit up, blow out a big breath and check my watch again. It took five hours to shoot the girl’s version. She had to go first because of child labor laws. They also started late because the crew had to work out some kinks with the props. Pretty sure they have that figured out now.
A guy with a clipboard leans into the room. “We’re ready for talent.”
Makeup Lady jumps up from the couch. “Let me go over him one more time.”
“You can do it after we check the lighting,” Clipboard Guy says.
I wish I could remember their names. When I’m nervous, my brain doesn’t hang on to that kind of stuff. I shake out my hands as I follow him into the kitchen, so lit up it’s as bright as a sunny day at the beach. Trying not to squint as I take my place, I stretch the muscles of my face.
Just focus. Be here now.
I scan the props in front of me: coffee cup, sugar bowl, spoon and carton of no-name cream.
A hand waves at me from under the table, making me laugh.
“You ready for this?” the voice belonging to the hand asks.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“You’ll do great.”
This crew guy may be hidden under the table, but he’s key. When I auditioned, I had no idea how they were going to pull this trick off.
The concept is that the no-name cream is so bad that a cup of coffee doesn’t want to have anything to do with it. So much so that when I try to pour the bad cream, the coffee cup dodges it. Just an inch at first, but it escalates into a frantic chase. In the final shot, I’ll pour from a carton of Garelick Farms cream—the good stuff—and finally, the coffee cup stays in place.
When I watched how they created the effect this morning, I was pretty impressed.
The coffee cup has a metal bottom rigged into it. The man under the table has a magnet and a monitor. It took some finessing this morning for him to coordinate his movements with what he could see on the screen—in the little girl’s version, it was a bowl of strawberries—but now he seems pretty adept at leading the chase. I just hope I’ll be able to keep up.
“Last looks!” somebody yells.
Makeup Lady swoops in, powders me and futzes with my hair. “Don’t touch yourself.”
I grin. “Excuse me?”
She swats me. “You know what I mean.” She looks me over one last time. “Have fun. You’ll be great.”
“Let’s go to one,” the assistant director calls.
I’d figured out that means the same as places: everyone has to be at the starting point.
The time slate claps inches from my face. “Aaand… Rolling… Action!”
I yawn and stretch before picking up the carton. Just as I start to pour, the coffee cup moves. I think, Wait, did that just happen? I shake my head, Nah, and try to pour again. The coffee cup moves again. I freeze, put the carton down and stare at the cup. What the fuck? Then I kind of peer at it sideways and dart at it, but the cup’s quicker and gets away.
The director yells, “Cut!” After some discussion and moving of lights, we do it again. Four more times. Finally, we move on to the next bit, and then the next. By the time we’re shooting the cat-and-mouse game, I’m having a blast. On my feet chasing it back and forth, I am determined to catch that damn cup if it’s the last thing I do. At the peak of the cup’s zipping around, I slam the carton on the table as far away from the cup as possible. At this, the coffee cup finally stops, and I stare at it, panting.
“Aaand cut!”
I hold my breath until I hear, “That was great. Let’s check the gate, but I think we can move on to the last setup. Great job, Will.”
Slumping into the kitchen chair, I check my watch. If I can keep this up, I might actually make it to the theater.
“Alright, it looks good. Let’s do it one more time to make sure we have it, and then we’ll move on,” the AD announces.
I shake off my worries. The more focused and present I am, the quicker this will go.
An hour later, I yell my goodbyes and run out the door. One of the crew members called the theater for me to let them know I’d be arriving later than usual. Pulling out my keys, I jog to my bike, strap my bag down and pray to the Boston traffic gods which, unbelievably, smile upon me. I pull into the theater parking lot at seven thirty-five, swerving to avoid a couple audience members walking from their cars to the lobby. So much easier when I get here before the public does.
Finally finding an open spot, I park my bike, grab my bag, and sprint for the backstage doors yelling, “I’m here!” to the assistant stage manager as I blow into the empty dressing room, throw on my costume, check my face in the mirror—the makeup from the commercial will just have to suffice—and then run to the greenroom where everyone stops what they’re doing to stare at me.
Jessica jumps up from a
couch. “I knew you’d make it on time!”
“Places,” crackles over the loudspeaker.
I close my eyes and consciously slow my breathing. I’ve never done a show without doing a full vocal and physical warm-up, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BEEP. TUESDAY, 6:02 a.m.
Kate, this is Gail. Apologies for the early call but Roland asked me to have you meet him at Logan as he’s running late. A car will pick you up at 7:30.
KATE
As Roland pilots us down the nearly empty two-lane highway winding through fields, forests and small towns, I enjoy the view. Everything’s greener here in North Carolina. Dogwoods are bursting with white blossom crosses, and bright pink and yellow wildflowers sway by the roadside. A huge contrast to gray, rainy, still-chilly Boston.
The landscape reminds me a lot of where I grew up, but I don’t remember seeing so many failing businesses near my parents’ place in northern Virginia. Towns here are full of boarded-up shop windows, fading signs and parking lots with more weeds poking through the asphalt than cars.
“Did the recession hit harder here?”
Roland turns down the radio and Kenny Loggins stops letting us know that he’s all right. “Sorry?”
“I was wondering if the recession was worse here. These little towns don’t seem like they’ve recovered.”
He stops at a light and juts his chin at a shop on the corner, where a screen door hangs off its hinges. “Well, many of the mom-and-pop establishments have been decimated by the rise of chain retail. Unemployment may be high, but as you’ll see, the factories we’re visiting have done a remarkable job utilizing robotics and other upgrades to stay afloat.”
A man sits smoking on a bench in front of the neglected storefront, his eyes hard. “Seems like some people paid a price.”
The light turns green, and Roland moves on. “If the entire company had gone under, then greater numbers would be out of a job. The positions that are left are better paying, less repetitive.”
