by Alison Bond
‘Just seven? Poor guy.’
‘Hey, seven’s okay, Max worked really hard on that deal, it’s a record.’
‘I was kidding.’
‘Let me give you a tip,’ said Jerry. ‘Drop the jokes.’
The phones sang out again and Jerry turned away. ‘Max Parker’s office? Hey, man, we were just talking about you. What’s up?’
And that was the thing. There were no jokes, no office banter, no quiet moments to make small talk or gently mock the boss, or the clients, or each other. No chance to introduce herself. She still didn’t know which one was Charlie and which one was Kaia. Or even which one was male and which one was female. And they didn’t know her. The pace and the intensity intimidated her and as the day wore on she started to feel miserable. Doubt crept in. Would she be happy here? Wouldn’t she rather be cracking open a beer with Fiona in London, doing an impression of the client that had been giving her grief all day before gatecrashing a wrap party? It would be late when she got back to her motel and she had listed dozens of films she needed to watch. She wondered where she could buy a VCR.
It was dark by the time the telephones started to calm down. Sheridan took off her headset and stood up from her desk. ‘How you doing?’ she asked.
‘Great,’ she lied. ‘How come people have two head-shots?’ She held up two shots of the same actor; same clothes, same backdrop but a different expression.
‘Happy face, sad face. Depends on the part. You know, one for comedy one for…’
‘Tragedy?’ suggested Lynsey.
‘Exactly.’
‘Good tune.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ said Lynsey, remembering her last attempt at conversation, but with the sound of the Bee Gees chorus dancing in her head.
‘Any more questions?’
‘Nope,’ said Lynsey and pulled a happy face. ‘Don’t think so.’ She wanted to ask what time she was allowed to go home (after all, she needed to buy a car and some trouser suits and a VCR) but didn’t want to sound like she was desperate to leave.
‘Lynsey?’ said Charlie or Kaia. ‘There’s a call for you. Riley Daniels?’
A nasty look passed over Sheridan’s face. ‘Riley Daniels?’ She looked at Lynsey as if waiting for an explanation.
‘He’s a friend,’ said Lynsey.
‘He’s an asshole,’ said Sheridan.
‘Didn’t you and Riley have a thing?’ said Jerry, observing the exchange with amusement.
‘Fuck you, Jerry,’ said Sheridan and gave him the finger. ‘We were just buddies.’
Lynsey smiled and perked up. This was better, a bit of office gossip and some good-natured piss taking. Nice.
‘Can I take the call?’ asked Lynsey, feeling like she ought to ask permission.
‘Don’t let me stop you. You can even take my desk. Tell him I said “hi”.’ Sheridan turned on her heel as Lynsey and Jerry shared a grin even though Lynsey wasn’t entirely sure of the joke.
‘Hey, Disco,’ said Riley. ‘How’s it going?’
Riley always seemed to be in a good mood. Maybe that’s why she liked him.
‘Sheridan says “hi”.’
‘Yeah? You tell her I said “I’m sorry”.’
‘He says he’s sorry,’ shouted Lynsey.
‘Tell him he’s an asshole,’ shouted Sheridan.
‘Don’t worry, I heard. Tell her I know I’m an asshole, I’m a total jerk, but I’m sorry and if she lets me take her out for a drink tonight I’ll buy her enough martinis to forgive me.’
Lynsey repeated this word for word.
Jerry watched on in amusement as Sheridan tried to look casual. ‘Yeah, okay.’
‘She says okay.’
‘Excellent. Now, on to you. Any luck with our blonde beauty?’
‘I told you,’ said Lynsey. ‘I don’t know anything about her.’
‘Did you tell her about your job?’
‘I don’t know, I think so, probably. I told most people.’
‘So she might get in touch?’
‘I doubt it. We weren’t exactly friends.’
‘The magazine’s on the stands tomorrow. I bet you ten bucks by the time the week’s over we’ll find her. You saw what she was wearing, she’s looking to get noticed. Publishing her picture’s like asking her to call. Hey, I’m planning on checking out a few clubs tonight, just in case. You want to come?’
‘I thought you were going out with Sheridan?’
‘Yeah, after. Sheridan won’t want to. She has work tomorrow.’
‘So do I. Besides, Serena didn’t seem like a clubber.’
‘No?’
‘No, she –’
Sheridan pushed a button and suddenly the phone was on speaker. ‘Riley? She’s gotta go, I can hear Max coming.’
‘No problem. You and me, AD? About nine?’
‘Done,’ said Sheridan. She ended the call before Lynsey had even had a chance to say goodbye. ‘Get out of my chair.’
Lynsey moved as Sheridan took back her seat.
‘Max!’ said Jerry, like they hadn’t all been prepared.
Max Parker was in a bad mood. He had missed his overnight plane because he fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon. That had never happened. He was furious with himself. A wasted day in the sky meant a day’s worth of calls to follow up on. In-flight communications were good, and a definite improvement on the old days when you felt isolated and impotent for the entire flight, but he needed Sheridan listening in on the important calls if he was to remember every detail. And he really should run down to the Justice set and check in on Melanie Chaplin after her first day.
‘Lynsey,’ said Max. ‘Good to see you. Settling in okay?’
‘Hi, Max. Nice to meet you.’
‘Sheridan? Get in here.’
Sheridan grabbed her organizer and followed Max into his office. He slammed the door behind them.
A few minutes later they re-emerged. Sheridan got straight on the phone.
Max pointed at Lynsey. ‘You,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Lynsey grabbed her bag and followed him out of the office.
‘Wait,’ said Jerry. ‘Don’t you want to take some tapes?’
Lynsey figured it was easier just to agree rather than explain the whole ‘haven’t got a VCR and surely by the time I get home it will be bedtime’ situation. ‘Where’s Fabien Stewart’s stuff? He’s working with Melanie so I should start with those.’ And he was the perfect bedtime companion but that was just a bonus.
Max and Lynsey rode down to the basement parking lot.
‘Sheridan says she’s not sure if you’re taking this seriously,’ said Max. ‘Are you taking this seriously?’
Lynsey felt a stab of betrayal. Sheridan had no right to make that judgement based on the few words they had exchanged.
‘Because if you’re not,’ continued Max, ‘you should say so now. We can’t carry anyone. This isn’t some Hollywood theme park, this is business.’
‘I’m taking it seriously. It’s just, you know, first-day nerves. I’m sorry if Sheridan got that impression. I’ll speak to her.’
‘You’re mad at her?’
‘A little,’ said Lynsey.
‘Don’t be, it’s nothing personal. I asked her, and she knows she has to tell me the truth. We don’t have secrets. That’s how offices fall apart, people not being honest. So tell me, honestly, you think you can do this?’
‘I can do this,’ said Lynsey.
‘Good. Now get in.’
Max drove a Bentley, an elegant car with a powerful engine that purred beneath them.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Lynsey eventually.
‘We’re going to see Melanie. Anywhere I go to do with Melanie you come, any call I make to do with Melanie, you listen. It’s called an education. I’m sure Sheridan put it in your schedule.’
What schedule? Sheridan hadn’t said anything about a schedule. What was she supposed to do? Learn these things
by osmosis? But she kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t about to start a bitching contest, simply because she could tell from Max’s voice when he spoke about her that Sheridan would have Max on her side.
‘Did you send Melanie flowers?’
‘No,’ said Lynsey.
Max frowned and checked his rear-view mirror before pulling over sharply. They were outside a liquor store. ‘Get a bottle of champagne, the best they have.’ He pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and passed it to her and then added another as an afterthought. He didn’t sound angry, just organized. Lynsey jumped out.
The liquor store had bars on the windows and all the bottles were behind the counter. They had a wide range of chocolate bars, most of which were unfamiliar and hence twice as tempting, but she didn’t think it would be right to spend Max’s change on satisfying her sugar craving.
‘What did you get?’ said Max when she got back.
‘Melanie doesn’t really like champagne. I got a good Californian wine, you know, kind of welcome to the neighbourhood.’
‘You got wine? Local wine?’
‘Max, she doesn’t like champagne. This is what she was drinking at Moonshadows on Saturday and she said it was lovely.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I checked the label because I know nothing about wine and I was interested.’
‘Is it chilled?’
‘Of course.’
‘Okay, good, well remembered. That’s going to look real thoughtful.’
Melanie Chaplin had arrived on set for her first day of work trying to appear nonchalant. As a result she was making a very bad impression. She was hiding her natural shyness behind an overly confident facade. The cast and crew thought she was stuck-up. Anglo-American relations suffered a setback as Melanie reinforced all their preconceptions about the ice-cold Brits.
Melanie was oblivious to this and concentrated on trying to keep up with a dizzying pace. The high production values of Justice were a first for her. Each shot was choreographed like a dance, with camera and grip equipment dominating every set-up. Tracks and cables tangled across the floor like snakes and ladders and for the first few hours it took all of Melanie’s effort simply to stay on her feet. She was clumsy by nature but knew that tripping over a no-doubt hugely expensive camera would be a bad move.
She had four lines in her first scene and spent all morning saying them, waiting for an hour while trying to keep out of everyone’s way and then saying them again. The director, Randy, seemed pleased with her work. The actors, or the talent as they were deferentially referred to, seemed to have the least to do and yet were treated the best. Melanie had been collected that morning by limo, not a stretch but still, and had her own dressing room. Waiting in that dressing room between takes she spent a lot of time thinking about Fabien Stewart. It would be another two days before he joined her on set and she was nervous.
Having sex with her co-star was a really bad idea. She knew that Fabien would be able to treat their encounter casually, but Melanie had never had casual sex before. And she’d enjoyed it enormously. Already she was confusing sex with love. She constantly caught herself daydreaming about him or reliving the feel of his strong hands on her skin. In her overdeveloped imagination she was thinking about continuing their affair. He had a reputation, sure, but perhaps she would be the woman to tame him. She wondered what he was thinking, did he like her at all or had she just been a body? He must like her. The sex had been incredible. More than once her hand strayed towards the phone with the notion of calling him up, just to say hello, keeping things casual, but suggesting another casual encounter. The sex was just too good. It had to mean something.
She was about to walk into make-up to be retouched before the next scene when she heard her name mentioned.
‘Melanie Chaplin won’t stay the distance. I guarantee it.’
Two of the make-up artists were discussing her.
‘I heard she’s fucking Fabien Stewart.’
‘So? It hardly makes her special. She won’t stay. They do this a lot, try out new faces and see which ones work. I know faces, and hers doesn’t work.’
‘Really?’
‘Did you see the look she gave Randy when he asked her to move to the side so that she didn’t get in the reaction shot?’
‘No.’
‘Two days in town and she’s already a diva.’
Melanie didn’t know what to do except walk in there and be exceptionally nice. It wouldn’t have occurred to her to confront these women with what she had overheard and protest that far from being a diva she was slightly overwhelmed to be here.
‘Hi, ladies,’ she said, as pleasantly as she could given the circumstances. She immediately regretted saying ladies, it sounded condescending. ‘I looked fabulous this morning, thanks.’ But that came out wrong too and just sounded like she was vain. ‘I mean, you made me look fabulous.’
‘You wanna sit down?’
The rest of the make-up session passed in silence.
How the hell did they know? She had told no one, which meant either Fabien had bragged about his conquest or someone else at the party had started a rumour. Or maybe the make-up lady (artist, make-up artist, she had to remember that) had just made it up right then on the spot for want of something bitchy to say. If anyone asked her what was she supposed to say? Was she supposed to deny it or give him marks out of ten? Nine and half, she supposed, with half a point deducted for the less than romantic seduction technique. She was convinced that Fabien had a deeply romantic streak just like her; if she could uncover it then he would be perfect.
On her next break she called him. She wanted to. She wouldn’t mind making more casual love. Fabien would respect her for not playing games.
‘Hello?’
It was Davey Black.
She almost hung up but she’d already come this far so she went for it. Hopefully he wouldn’t recognize her voice. ‘Hi, is Fabien there?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s, um, Melanie.’ Damn.
‘Hey, Melanie, it’s Davey. How are you?’
‘Oh, fine, you know… And you?’ Great Small talk.
Davey talked for a while about the film and how it was shaping up. Melanie tried to concentrate, especially during the bits about her, but when he ran out of steam she jumped in. ‘So is he about?’
‘Fabien? No, he took off to Catalina this morning with Honey. A final night of hedonism before he starts shooting, you know?’
‘Right.’ Honey with her class-A drugs and fabulous breasts. Something told her that they wouldn’t be spending their time learning his lines.
‘Can I help?’
What a question. She might have laughed were it not for the quiet disappointment that she felt about Fabien. Had their encounter meant so little to him that he was on to the next girl already? She knew the answer but she didn’t like it.
‘It’s okay.’
Davey heard something in her voice. The same defeated tone she had in the jungle when she’d thought she might be fired. ‘Melanie,’ he said. ‘You know what Fabien’s like. Everything you’ve read about him is pretty much true.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know what happened to you at the party but I’m guessing he tried to get you into bed. You can’t take him too seriously.’
‘Davey, I only wanted to talk to him about…’ About? About? ‘… about work.’ Hal
‘Okay, right, sorry, forget it. I have his cell. You want it?’
So Melanie dutifully took down the cellphone number, knowing that calling him and interrupting the sex visions of Fabien and Honey she was having, but trying to ignore, would be ridiculous. But knowing that now she had the number she would be tempted.
As soon as Lynsey heard Melanie speak she knew that she wasn’t the only one in need of a little sympathy. But any hopes of a chilled glass of Californian wine and a girly session of mutual admiration and ego-boosting chat were soon forgotten. Melanie grabbed the wine wi
thout looking at the label and pretended to be in a good mood. She gave them a brief tour around the studio and Lynsey became painfully aware that Melanie was not being herself. At least she hoped not. Maybe the racing voice and the total lack of concentration were the real Melanie and the friendly, open Melanie was a calculating facade. Melanie seemed to want to get out of there as soon as possible.
‘Rewrites,’ she said. ‘I have to learn the new stuff for tomorrow.’
But Lynsey suspected that there were no rewrites and Melanie was experiencing a similar kind of culture shock to her own. Tired as Lynsey was, she would have loved to crack open the expensive local wine and try and make a good night turn a bad day better.
Max and Melanie disappeared to meet one of the executive producers and Lynsey hovered by the water cooler sipping a paper cone of the cold liquid that proudly claimed to have a mineral count of 1,000 ppm, whatever that meant. A girl in silver combat trousers asked if she needed any help and Lynsey didn’t know if it was her imagination but the girl seemed to sneer when she said she was with Melanie Chaplin. After that, no one came to speak to her and she started to feel self-conscious. The minutes dragged by, and Lynsey was acutely aware of every inch of her body taking up the space. Paranoia crept in and she changed her expression and her posture. She didn’t know where to look and wished that she could sit down, preferably with a book or a magazine. There was a desk nearby that was empty of paper or people. There was nothing except a small television with an integrated VCR. She remembered the tapes of Fabien in her bag.
‘Hi,’ she said to the nearest person wearing a headset. ‘Can I watch something here?’
‘Hey, JD!’ hollered the headset, drawing everyone’s attention. Lynsey cringed. ‘Can she use your station?’
JD agreed and Lynsey popped in a tape and pulled on the set of headphones.
Fabien Stewart was Nice. Nice with a capital N and a drawn-out I.
It wasn’t his broody good looks, although they certainly helped. It was the twinkle in his eye when he needed to be soft and the passion in his voice when he needed to be hard. It was the way his characters could be despicable and yet attractive, or funny and yet dangerous. He was wasted on television, but Lynsey knew that wasn’t the sort of statement that would go down well in her current surroundings.
