“I don’t drink to feel better. I drink only to feel even better.”
In other words, you should drink to celebrate something. Not to bring yourself out of a funk, because everyone who has ever gotten drunk when they were depressed knows that it doesn’t work. Ever since I read that line, I tried to apply that to my own life. And, for the most part, I’ve been pretty successful. But now, I really want a drink.
While I sit on the couch with my cup of coffee, flipping through the channels and marveling at how there are like a million of them and yet there’s absolutely nothing on, my phone rings. I look at the number. It’s Josh, my agent.
“Hey Finn. How are you? Are you sure you want to do this movie?” Josh asks. The “how are you” is purely rhetorical. He’s a busy guy. Even on his days off, he isn’t the kind for pleasantries.
“Have you seen the news?” I ask. He’s not really a bad guy to talk to about problems, when you catch him in a good mood.
“Yes, of course. But who cares? It makes you look vulnerable. Irresistible. Every woman loves a guy who’s had his heart broken.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say sarcastically. “I wasn’t thinking that this whole thing with Ariel would have a positive effect on my career.”
“Of course, it will. You’re not some jerk who dumped her for a hotter model. As if that’s possible. No, you’re a nice guy who got cheated on. Now, you are a shoe-in for that Sexiest Man Alive cover. You’re all over the news. People Magazine won’t be able to resist. They’ll sell out.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I mumble. I hate to admit it, but I sort of like that at least one positive thing is coming out of this.
“Oh trust me,” Josh says, taking a sip of something. Probably Red Bull. He doesn’t seem to live on anything else. “But I want to talk to you about that little indie movie. Are you sure you want to do it?”
“Yeah, I’ve been looking for something more serious, and I like the script a lot. It’s smart.”
“Yeah, it’s not bad. But it has NO marketing budget. How the hell is it going to make any money?” Josh asks.
“I think they’re going to do the festival circuit. So, if the critics like it…” I say. I don’t really know how else to justify it. Josh knows why I’m doing this. I want to be offered more serious roles.
“It’s going to take up a month of your time,” he says.
“Listen, I know you’re disappointed that I’m not doing that action movie with Mark Wahlberg, but this movie just feels right. I know that I can do more than crack jokes and play the same exact brash asshole all the time.”
“Hot, brash asshole,” Josh corrects me.
I know that I’m not going to fully convince him why I have to do this, but that’s okay. I’m doing it for me, not for him.
Chapter 4 - Chloe
Two weeks after our first meeting, I arrive on set. This is my first real set. They show me to the wardrobe trailer, which is filled with clothes that I’ve preselected for all the principal actors. It’s fall, so most of the colors are warm. I’ve organized them according to scene with today’s scenes at the front. There are three people in the scene – sixty-five year old patriarch, fifty-five year old matriarch and their famous son. I haven’t met any of the actors yet, but I have their basic sizes and measurements. I also picked out clothes in a couple of sizes smaller and bigger, just in case the clothes that I have here aren’t a great fit. I think I brought too much – I’ve been prepping for this day ever since I landed the job – but I want everything to go perfectly.
We’re shooting the first scene at a real house in North Hollywood. It’s a little bungalow, which is set up in a French country style. I’m glad that I got here about an hour earlier than I should have, because I used the hour to prep and gather my thoughts. I can barely contain my excitement, and my thoughts are running a mile a minute. After all the clothes and accessories are just how I want them, in order of my preference, I walk outside and head to the craft table. Time to meet some people, I say to myself.
The craft table is filled with bagels, donuts, cookies, a variety of fresh fruit and vegetables, including bananas, strawberries, sliced up oranges and grapefruits as well as bacon, scrambled eggs, and sliced cold cuts.
“This looks delicious,” I say to the woman next to me.
“Oh Chloe, you’re here already!” she says, turning around. I suddenly realize that it’s Barbara from the meeting.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you, Barbara,” I smile and we exchange hugs. Barbara is big woman in her early thirties. She has a beautiful face and disposition. Her smile is contagious.
“Are you settling in okay?” she asks. I nod.
“Yes, everything’s great. I have all the outfits set out. Just need the actors now.”
“Perfect. Well, they should be arriving soon.”
Barbara excuses herself and disappears into a sea of people buzzing around the set. I pour myself a glass of orange juice. I always crave something sweet when I’m nervous. Orange juice is at least somewhat healthy, right?
I thought that the craft table would be a good place to make a friend, but everyone looks rushed and busy. I decide to head back to the wardrobe section and wait until someone comes to see me.
Suddenly, my phone beeps. I pull it out of my pocket as I walk.
Good luck on your first day! Lila texts.
I smile. She can be quite self-centered, but she can also be super sweet. She knows how nervous I have been for this day. I’ve been worried about it ever since I got the job, and it was she who appeased my fears to a large degree. It was she who made me feel like everything’s going to be okay. Or at least, tried to make me feel that way.
Thanks! I text back.
And then, splat!
For a second, I don’t know what’s happened.
My phone crashes to the floor. I’m covered in orange juice.
“What the hell?” some guy yells in my face. “This is a set. You can’t just walk and text and carry orange juice around with you and not look where you’re going.”
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize. Though, I have my doubts that it’s really my fault.
My white tank top and skinny jeans are completely wet. I look over at the guy. He’s dressed in a white button down shirt, and a very nice pair of grey slacks. Both are drenched in orange juice.
“You should be. I’m just walking here and then this happens!”
And then suddenly, I get upset. “Hey, I already told you that I was sorry, okay? And I am.”
“Whatever,” he shakes his head and walks away.
“Oh my God,” a girl who looks like she’s in college runs up to me. “Don’t you know who that is?”
I’m blotting my tank top and jeans with napkins, all to no avail. Orange juice stains, badly. I need some club soda or baking soda or something, but I don’t know if I can get any here.
“What?” I ask.
“That guy you spilled orange juice on?”
“What about him?” I ask without looking up.
“That’s Finn Dalton. I can’t believe that Finn Dalton is here! What did he say to you?”
I stare at her as if she had lost her mind. “I yelled at him,” I say after a beat. She walks away from me, shocked to her very core. I just shake my head. No, she’s wrong. That wasn’t Finn Dalton. That couldn’t be. Tim said he was getting someone famous for the main role, but not Finn Dalton famous. What the hell would he be doing shooting a movie this little? The script is great, of course, but the budget is like half a million. If Okay Magazine is right, Finn Dalton doesn’t get out of bed for less than $20 million. No, that was just some guy who looks like him. I don’t know much about him, but I know one thing for sure. He’s an asshole.
I pick up my phone and head back to the wardrobe trailer. The screen is cracked – perfect! This day is not getting off to a good start. I slam the door behind myself and start to search through the clothes for something that I could wear today. The actors will be he
re any minute, and I need to look like a professional. The back of my head feels like someone is hitting it with a mallet. I let out a breath and realize that I’ve been holding my breath for some time.
Breathe. Just breathe, I say to myself. It’s moments like this that make me wish that I actually went out and got that cliché tattoo, with the words ‘Just Breathe’ on my wrist. It’s funny how often you actually forget to do just that.
Chapter 5 - Finn
When I arrive on set for my first day of shooting, I immediately regret the decision of signing up for this thing. I’m already having a bad day. Ariel called early this morning in a fit, demanding that I drop everything and look for her Cartier diamond necklace. Apparently, she couldn’t find it anywhere, and it’s somehow my job to look for it.
“I took it off at your house. I remember that precisely,” she hollered into the phone.
I look around the bedroom and the bathroom. I check the dresser and the closet. It’s nowhere to be found.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “I don’t see it.”
“C’mon look harder! It costs over fifty grand.”
“Well, I hope you had it insured. ‘Cause it’s not here.”
“Fuck you!” she yelled.
“Maybe you should call Chateau Marmont and check if maybe you left it there,” I said and hung up.
This was not the way I wanted to start the day. As much as I try to put her out of my mind, I’m still fuming over the whole thing when I arrive in North Hollywood, and my mood does not improve when I see the set. The bungalow is fine enough, but the crafts table is rather small, and there are clearly not enough trailers to accommodate the entire crew.
Tim shows me to my trailer.
“Thank you so much again for joining our production,” he says over and over, nervously, cracking his knuckles. What an annoying habit!
“Yeah, sure. I love the script,” I say. At least that part is true.
I don’t bother to go into the trailer and instead head straight to the crafts table. I need some coffee and maybe a Greek yogurt in my system if I have any hope of getting a fresh start on the day.
Bam! Splash!
Before I realize what’s going on, some girl’s orange juice is all over my brand new Calvin Klein shirt and my grey Marc Jacobs slacks. Perfect. Just perfect.
Her phone falls to the floor, and I’m sure that she was walking and texting.
She starts to apologize profusely, but that just pisses me off more. I put on these clothes precisely so that I didn’t have to be fitted by wardrobe for some cheaper clothes that won’t work as well. I’m supposed to be a drunk asshole celebrity and, given the look of this place, I’m not really certain that they have it in their budget for $1000 pants and a $500 shirt. That’s probably how much the director’s getting paid.
After she disappears, I debate whether I should go to my trailer and freshen up or just head straight to wardrobe and get them to find me something to wear.
“Hello? Excuse me? Is this wardrobe?” I ask, knocking on the door of the trailer on the very end. Who’s bright idea it was to put wardrobe so far away from the rest of the set is beyond me, but whatever.
“Yes, it is,” I hear a girl’s willowy voice coming from inside. “Come in, come in.”
When I open the door and step inside, I see a girl looking away and wiping her eyes as much as she can to hide the fact that she was crying, but her eyes are bloodshot and her mouth is red around her lips. Sure signs of tears.
Oh shit. It hits me. That’s her! That’s the girl who spilled the orange juice on me!
“I’m sorry, I can come back later, if you want,” I say, hoping that she will just let me go.
“No, no, I’m sorry. Please come in.”
“Is the main wardrobe person here?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m pretending that I don’t know that she has been crying, but both of us know that I’m not doing a very good job of it.
She looks straight at me with her piercing hazel eyes.
“I am the wardrobe stylist,” she says furrowing her brow. Oh crap! I’m just making this worse and worse. She puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes are dry now and she does not look happy.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally say. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Yes, I think so too,” she says. Neither of us says anything for a moment. I take the pause to admire how stunning she actually is. She’s dressed in a tight black skirt and ruffled blouse with polka dots (not what she was wearing earlier) and her light brown hair sparkles in the sunlight. She doesn’t look older than twenty-two, though she could be thirty or more. This is LA, who the hell ever knows? She’s about five foot five and average weight. Not too tall or skinny, like Ariel and other girls that I’m used to. When she tucks hair behind her ear, I see that she’s wearing dangling Tree of Life earrings. They glisten and catch my eye, bringing me back to reality.
“Let’s start again, okay? Hi, my name is Finn Dalton, and I’m a total jerk for getting so upset with you for absolutely no reason.” I extend my hand to her.
She smiles and her whole face lights up.
“Hi,” she says, taking my hand. “My name’s Chloe Nichols, and I should not walk, text and carry open containers of orange juice with me because I’m a total klutz. And I’m really sorry that I spilled it all over your gorgeous Marc Jacobs slacks.”
“So you do know clothes,” I say.
She shrugs. “I work in wardrobe, don’t I?”
“Well, yes, you do. But you’d be surprised,” I say.
“I’m really sorry again about the orange juice. And I’m actually even more sorry now, because we don’t have anything nearly as nice for you to wear to replace those pants.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“Let me take them to the dry cleaner’s to make this up for you, at least.”
“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” I say.
“Please, I’d like to.”
“You really don’t have to,” I say. She looks disappointed, so I cave and let her do it.
Chapter 6 - Chloe
I smile and nod and smile again and act like everything is normal. I act like I’m totally cool with just standing here chatting with Finn Dalton. As if he were just any other guy walking down the street. But the thing is that he isn’t. He’s Finn Dalton! The Finn Dalton. He’s the guy who was nominated for an Oscar when he was 18 – a boy actor genius – who played a ninth grade paraplegic who taught us all to live every moment of life to the fullest. He’s also the star of Monday Night Football, the show that made him a star. He played the fast talking, smooth as hell quarterback who loved the ladies a little bit more than he loved football. That’s the role that got him all the magazine covers. That’s the role that got him the starring role in To Live and to Die in the West, the record-breaking action flick about a guy who goes back in time and starts a gang robbing trains.
“So what should I change into?” Finn asks me. Luckily, I organized all the actors’ outfits this morning and labeled them appropriately. I grab the first outfit and hand it to him. It’s a tight-fitting black t-shirt and slim fit jeans.
“There’s a little space back there where you can change,” I say pointing to the back of the trailer.
He nods, flashes me a smile. The space in the trailer is pretty tight and he squeezes me a little as he moves past me.
“Sorry,” he whispers. I inhale a little bit of his breath. Mint and ginger. It sends shivers down my spine.
“I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly and move out of the way.
A minute later, he emerges behind the curtain. Shirtless.
Every muscle of his body is toned and bronzed. Even though he isn’t flexing, there’s a definite six pack. It takes all of my strength not to reach out and run my fingers along each indentation.
“Did…um, did I not give you a shirt?” I ask, stumbling over my words. I look down at the ground and then back up to him. He smiles again, cle
arly enjoying this moment. I bet he’s had experiences with hundreds, if not thousands of girls, each month and from the look on his face it’s not getting old.
“Yes, you did,” he says holding up the shirt. Finn puts his head down a bit, when my eyes meet his, a few loose strands of hair fall into his face. Damn. He’s hot.
“I was just wondering what you thought of the jeans.” He spins around and gives me a good look at his butt. The jeans aren’t designer, but the fit is magnificent. To the T. They squeeze his thighs in just the right way, accentuating the firmness and plumpness of his perfect ass.
“They are…perfect.” I say, licking my lips.
“Did you just lick your lips?” he asks.
“What? No, of course not!” I say a little bit too quickly. He smiles again, his teeth are so white they’re almost blinding.
“Okay,” he says, pulling the shirt over his head. Once again, a perfect fit. It’s a little tight, but he’s pulling it off nicely. The character is a douche bag, but not one incapable of redemption. The shirt, which hugs his pecs and six-pack, doesn’t make him look entirely slimy. Just a little slimy. But in a good way, if that makes any sense. Oh no, this is all too much for me. I’m starting to feel faint.
“Are you okay?” Finn walks over to me. His hand is around my shoulder. Finn Dalton is actually touching me! I’m not really a fangirl, I never swoon over celebrities. It’s Lila who always has her head buried in all the celebrity magazines. But something about him, here, touching my shoulder is making me even fainter.
“I just feel a little sick,” I whisper. “I need some air.”
Finn helps me outside. The set is swarming with activity and, luckily, no one notices me. In case anyone asks, just remember not to tell them that you feel sick. Not the truth. Anything but the truth. I mean, what is this? Middle school? Or the nineteenth century? Am I really about to pass out because some guy touched my shoulder? But then again, he’s not just some guy. He’s our generation’s Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Paul McCartney all rolled into one.
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