The Spawn of Lilith

by Dana Fredsti

  Jack looked a little sucker-punched, but rallied admirably. “Well, okay. Sure. Whatever you want. Lee, you okay with that?”

  I gave a little wave from the sidelines. “Whatever you want, Jack.” He already had enough shit from Portia. He didn’t need any more from me. Besides, I had a feeling he’d been expecting this. Why else was I here?

  “Okay, then,” he said, animated again. “We’ll film the front angle first. Lee, take a break and we’ll film it from the back in about an hour.”

  Coffee, I thought. Because it was too early for beer. I hurried away from the set and toward the craft service table.

  “She’s a charmer, ain’t she?”

  I jumped at the sound of the deep voice next me, then grinned when Ben fell into step beside me with a big smile of his own.

  “Hey there,” I said, happy to see an actor with a good attitude. Too bad I couldn’t double him, instead. “I didn’t think your call time was until two.”

  “I’m here to feed Portia lines.”

  “The script supervisor can’t do that?”

  “Portia doesn’t do lines with someone who’s not playing the actual part.”

  “Can I assume she’s gonna stick around and do the same for you, when she’s not actually onscreen?”

  He laughed then, a big bark of genuine amusement. “Assume that and it’ll make an ass out of you and me.”

  “That’s a ‘no’, then.”

  “Big damn ‘no’.”

  “Well, if I’m not working on fight choreography with Darius, I’d be happy to read lines with you.”

  Ben cocked his head to one side and nodded slowly. “That would be greatly appreciated, and I’d be happy to take you up on it.”

  “What’s your first scene today?”

  “First scene with Jake and Jeanette on the bridge.”

  “Ooh,” I said, “if memory serves me, it’s one where Portia has lines, and her face will be on camera. I might actually get to work on the fight scenes.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t count on it.” Ben shot me a wry grin. “You never know when they’re gonna wanna film Portia from the back. And if that’s the case, it’s going to be your ass on screen. Not hers.”

  I groaned. “I swear, she’s one butt-cheek short of half-assed.”

  Ben’s laugh was more of a roar that time around.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I got used to the early-morning wake up, painful as it was, and driving over the mountains. The breakfast spread and coffee waiting for me on set made the pain a little more bearable.

  My job as Portia’s stand-in didn’t look to end any time soon. Either they couldn’t find anyone willing to put up with her abuse, or I was just so good at the job and immune to her bitchiness that they didn’t want to replace me.

  I found it oddly easy to let Portia’s verbal jabs bounce off my thick skin. There was something pathetic about her. Sad and worn out, as if she wasn’t only over the hill, but had fallen down the slope and rolled a few times on her way to the bottom. It wasn’t her age either, although I’m sure she felt the pressure of being a woman nearing forty in such an unforgiving industry.

  Maybe Pale Dreamer was her last gasp, a swan song of sorts, or she had some hope that it would rekindle her career. She may not have known herself. Either way, there was something desperate about the woman.

  Connor Hayden and I achieved an uneasy truce. I continued to make his job easier and he continued to treat me like a piece of lighting equipment. I suspected he treated his lights better than most people, so that was fine by me.

  Herman split his time between the set and his office. It might have been my imagination, but it seemed as if with each passing day he got a little skinnier, his face just a little more drawn. As if something was dining on his insides. Yet he continued to be gracious and even tempered, even when dealing with Portia. I wanted to ask him if he was okay, but didn’t want to cross some invisible line with concern that might not be welcome.

  When I wasn’t butt-doubling Portia, Darius and I worked outdoors on the choreography. We needed to run it on the actual set, but that would have to wait until the day before we were scheduled to start filming the fight.

  I also helped Ben run lines. We usually sat in the lobby, enjoying the air-conditioning and comfy chairs. I liked getting away from the soundstage and the mini-dramas going on between Jack and the Tymons, Jack and Portia, Portia and—

  Well, Portia and everyone.

  Joe and Angel finally arrived on set, and Portia had walked past them without a word, setting a new standard for rudeness that flummoxed us all.

  Angel was absolutely gorgeous, approaching her fifties with the kind of beauty and dignity I’d always associated with actresses from the thirties and forties. Cascades of dark hair shimmering with highlights. Golden-brown eyes with long lashes. It was ironic, really, since she was known for movies like Space Planet Slave Girls, Ghosts of Bikini Island, and Call of the Sex Vampires.

  Joe Scout was a quirky character actor in his fifties with mobile features, equally adept at playing the amiable sidekick, uptight cop, or psychotic villain. I could see why Portia would see Angel as a threat, but Joe? Go figure.

  As soon as Portia was out of earshot, Ben quickly introduced me to them as “Portia’s non-evil twin.” When they found out I was willing to run lines with them, I became their new best friend—and very busy.

  * * *

  Given my newfound popularity, free time became a rare commodity. So when it appeared as if I wasn’t needed, I decided to stretch and get in a little workout before anyone noticed I was gone.

  Slipping outside helped alleviate the slight nausea I felt whenever I got too close to the Morganti ship. The paint used on that part of the set had dried, but the smell still lingered. I’d definitely be taking Dramamine when we were shooting on that set.

  I grabbed my TRX and went to find a good place to sling it. There were some trees at the back of the parking lot, on the other side of Portia’s trailer—a couple of big oaks with sturdy branches poking over a chain-link fence. I picked one at just the right height and attached the suspension trainer. Then I unzipped my jumpsuit, shrugged out of the arms, and rolled it down around my waist. My exercise bra covered more territory than most bikini tops.

  The temperature was nice, in the low eighties with a light breeze blowing. Definitely summer, but a real contrast to the eyeball-boiling temperatures we got in the San Fernando Valley.

  I started with some basic rows. Doing the reps nice and slowly to get the maximum results for the effort. Got to love the TRX—it looks like it’d be so easy, but it was a kick-ass workout if done right. The first time I’d used it, I thought it was going to kill me.

  I went from the rows to leg lifts, then triceps extensions. I put down a small foam pad under my knees and tortured myself with some fallouts, a particularly grueling exercise that targeted the arms, shoulders, back, and, oh yes, the core.

  “That looks like fun.”

  Startled, I nearly finished by falling on my face, catching myself with a jolt that wrenched my arms. Pulling myself back to an upright position, I looked over to see Portia leaning against the backside of her trailer, watching me while smoking a cigarette. Her expression, while not what I’d call friendly, lacked its usual hostility.

  It was weird.

  “Hi,” I said warily.

  She took another drag off her cigarette. “Do you do this kind of thing all the time?”

  “The TRX? Or exercise in general?”

  “Exercise in general, I guess.”

  “Well, yeah, it’s pretty much part of the job description.”

  She nodded, moving her hand so the ash spilled onto the asphalt instead of the grass. I liked her just a little bit more because of it.

  “I hate exercise,” she said conversationally. “Always have, except walking and horseback riding. Going to the gym? Forget it.”

  “I like horseback riding, too,” I agreed, “but I don’t get a lo
t of chances to do it, and I can’t pack up a horse and take it with me on set.”

  That actually got a smile out of her. “I guess not.” She took one last puff and then stubbed her cigarette out on the pavement.

  “Show me how to do that.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “Which part of ‘that’ do you want to learn?” I asked after a cautious moment.

  “Whatever you were doing last.” She shrugged. “I figure it’s all pretty much the same.”

  I laughed, I couldn’t help it.

  “What?” Portia frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Hey, sorry,” I said quickly, not wanting to jinx the moment. “It’s just that, it’s not all the same. This thing may look easy, but it’s not and I wouldn’t be doing you any favors if I tossed you into it right off the bat.”

  Even if some people might pay me to do it.

  Portia looked at me suspiciously, almost as if she could read my mind.

  “Fine,” she said. “Whatever you think I should start with.”

  I nodded. “Okay, let’s start you off with some rows.”

  “This hurts,” she said after two repetitions. “That’s because you’ve never done it before,” I replied with what I thought was admirable patience. “Try a couple more.”

  She did and then glared at me. “It’s too hot.”

  “Unzip the top of your jumpsuit, roll it down, and you’ll be fine.”

  I gestured to myself as an example.

  “Not going to happen.” Portia glared at me, as if offended I would even suggest such a thing. I rolled my eyes—couldn’t help it.

  “Fine. Then don’t. If you want to do this, great. If you don’t, then whatever. I’m not a fucking personal trainer.”

  “Well, you’re my stunt double.”

  I stepped back from the TRX and looked at her.

  “Yes, and this means that when you do stunts, I will double you. This does not mean that I’m required to put up with your shit the rest of the time.” I was careful to keep my tone even. “If you want your very own personal trainer to abuse, then you’re going to have to pay an hourly wage for that, and you’ll be paying someone who has a lot more patience than I do.”

  Her glare intensified, as if she thought it could get me to do what she wanted. Except I don’t think she had any clue what she wanted me to do. Kind of like a cranky toddler who needs a nap.

  I matched her glare with a calm look of my own. It would’ve been far too easy to lose my temper and yell, but it wouldn’t have helped, nor would it have made me feel better. So I waited.

  Portia let go of the TRX handles.

  Time to storm off in a huff, I thought.

  To my surprise she heaved an aggrieved sigh, unzipped the top of her jumpsuit, and pulled it off of her arms, tying it off below her chest.

  Okay, so Portia wasn’t in the best of shape. Not a lot of muscle definition and maybe slightly thicker through the middle than Hollywood likes, but she had nothing to be ashamed of either.

  Sometimes I really hate this business.

  “Okay, give me a set of ten.”

  She actually got back on the TRX, doing some rows. It was hard for her—a lot harder than it should have been—but I doubt Portia had done anything by way of strength training in years, if at all.

  I also got the feeling she didn’t have a lot of friends. That she was so used to either rejection or disappointment that she used insults and a shitty attitude to deal with it. Her constant demands were the equivalent of a little kid throwing a tantrum in order to test boundaries.

  Or maybe I was full of shit, and Portia was just a bitch.

  Fifteen minutes later I’d led her through the rows, some triceps extensions, and a couple of standing fall outs. There was some swearing involved on her part, but overall she didn’t do badly.

  Cracking open a bottle of water, I took a swig, then offered it to her. There was hesitation, as if she was tempted to demand that I fetch her her own water, but she must’ve thought better of it. She did, however, drain the rest of my bottle, and she didn’t bother to say thank you.

  I hid a grin.

  “You’re probably going to be kind of sore tomorrow.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Okay, it wasn’t that hard.”

  “Uh-huh. Who’s done this before? Not you. Just remember the first time you went horseback riding, and how you felt the day after the day after.”

  A reluctant grin flickered across her face.

  “So if I’m too sore to do any of my scenes, you’ll be working double-time.”

  I almost said something snarky, but then I realized Portia was trying to make a joke. Not something that came easily to her.

  So instead I said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use some more water. How about I go grab us a couple of bottles?”

  She smiled, and I swear it was the first genuine smile I’d seen on her face since I met her.

  “I’ve got some in my trailer,” she said. “If you want, you can—”

  “Lee!”

  I looked up to see Eden, of all people, waving at me from the other side of the parking lot. All blonde and pretty in sandals and a rose-colored dress circa the ’60s, looking fresher than anyone had the right to look. Then again, she hadn’t been working out.

  “Eden!” I waved back, surprised and delighted to see her. She hurried across the asphalt and gave me a big hug.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” she laughed. “I’m working on a film on the soundstage over there.” She pointed at Dobell Productions.

  “Oh my God, I don’t believe it. You’re our Zoe?”

  “How did you know…” She stopped, her smile growing wider with delight. “Oh my God, don’t tell me this is the stunt gig!”

  “It is! I’m doubling Portia Lambert and… Well, hey, let me just introduce you.” I turned to Portia. “This is—”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Back was the uptight, bitchy façade. “You two go and have your slumber party or whatever the hell. I have work to do.” She stalked back around to the front door of her trailer and vanished inside.

  I just stared after her.

  “What the hell just happened?”

  “How about I get my stuff from the car,” Eden said, “and you can show me around set?” I shot her a puzzled glance. She flickered her gaze up at one of the trailer’s windows, definitely open. I saw the curtains inside flutter as if someone had pulled them aside and then let them fall back.

  Still confused, I unslung my TRX from the tree, tucked it into its bag, and walked with Eden back to her car where she retrieved her purse and a large tote. Then we went through the front office door and were safely out of earshot of Portia’s trailer.

  “Okay, so tell me what that was all about,” I demanded.

  “Well, it’s easy to see that she doesn’t like to share, and that includes friends. Things blew up big time during the third season of Brentwood High, because she thought the actress playing Angie got too chummy with one of the extras. Same thing with Enchanted Pages. Portia Lambert doesn’t make friends easily and when she does, I guess she’s a cross between Single White Female and a very clingy limpet.”

  “That’s sad,” I said, and I meant it.

  “That’s one word for it,” Eden said. “Rumor has it she’s so possessive of the people in her life that she’s actually had restraining orders filed against her by former assistants, when she wouldn’t stop calling to demand intimate details of what they were doing and with who. That woman is in dire need of therapy.”

  Damn. Imagine having to hire friends.

  As badly as I felt for Portia, I couldn’t get involved in neuroses at that level of fucked-up-ness. There were enough issues of my own to contend with. I smacked Eden lightly on one arm as we went past the reception desk.

  “You already knew I was working on Pale Dreamer, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eden said seren
ely. “I thought it would be more fun to surprise you once I realized we were on the same movie. Was I right?”

  “You were.”

  “So I need to get into costume and makeup, and I’m just dying for some coffee.” We went through the first set of double doors.

  “Wardrobe there and Makeup there,” I said, pointing. “The coffee at craft service is good, but the producer makes some kick-ass brew of his own.”

  “A very interesting man, our producer,” Eden commented. “And not bad looking either, although he needs to eat a few decent meals.”

  I shrugged, feeling oddly protective of Herman. So I changed the subject.

  “You’ll never guess who the DP is.”

  Eden raised an eyebrow.

  “Do tell.”

  “Remember Dark Magistrate…?”

  “No.” Her eyebrows shot even higher.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Has his personality improved at all?”

  “Sadly, no.” I heaved a sigh. “Why are the cute guys such assholes?”

  “Ah, you think he’s cute?”

  “I didn’t think so when I first saw him, but his looks have grown on me. Kinda like mold.”

  “It’s the accent,” Eden said with utter confidence.

  “Must be,” I agreed glumly. “But he’s still a jerk.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Portia’s attitude, already crappy, took on new depths of suck after Eden joined the cast. The brief flicker of friendliness she’d shown as we bonded over the TRX had vanished, and she was worse than ever.

  It had to be difficult for her. I mean, men practically dislocated their necks checking out Eden as she walked past. Even Michael gave her an approving once over. I don’t know that Portia had ever commanded that sort of attention, even in her Hollywood prime.

  Portia sat in a pilot’s chair on the bridge of the Bootes, one foot tapping on the floor in what sounded like ill-tempered Morse code. All of the shots in the scene showed Portia’s face either full-on, in profile, or reflected in the bridge viewport, so no stand-in was needed.

  As a result, I’d been free to work on fight choreography with Darius for three hours in eighty-degree weather. We decided to take a much-needed break in the cool air-conditioned set and hear what Jeanette’s lines sounded like coming out of Portia. The Tymons and Eden stood down on the sidelines next to me, Eden still in her Zoe costume, all sexy silver jumpsuit and makeup heightened to give her a perfect but not quite human appearance as befitted a good “entertainment model” android.