Piper Day's Ultimate Guide To Avoiding George Clooney

by Vanessa Fewings

  “Here you go.” Sally stopped abruptly. “That’s Francis, the woman wearing khaki pants. She’s the assistant director. Go and introduce yourself.” Sally turned on her heel and headed back down the corridor, dodging the extras.

  Francis was deep in conversation with a short, bald middle-aged man, his Spanish accent loud, his tone confident.

  “Hello Francis,” I interrupted with a forced smile. “Sally wanted me to report to you.”

  “And you are?”

  Although there wasn’t a hole in the ground I could jump into, I feared I’d faint from the stress and hit my head so hard that I’d actually make one. “I’m Nurse Riley?” I made it a question.

  Francis stared down at her script.

  The man next to her had raised his hands into a square and was peering through them right at me.

  “Come on,” Francis said.

  We entered an operating room decked out with all the latest medical equipment, silver cabinets, a large central light which shone down on the operating table below, upon which lay an actor covered in a blue sheet.

  “Squeamish?” Francis whipped off the blue sheet, revealing a large incision in the gentleman’s abdomen with his entrails artfully hanging out.

  The patient winked at me, which made the moment even more surreal. Like I’d stepped into one of those post-modern movies that make no sense, but you pretend that they do just to prove you too can be cool.

  “The sight of blood doesn’t bother you then?” Francis studied my reaction.

  No, I thought, but having my patient smiling away, oblivious to his entrails hanging out, does.

  Francis stare was still locked on me.

  I shrugged, hoping she’d avert her gaze and I’d get this behind me and get off this set as quickly as possible.

  Francis made a wide sweep of her hand, as though seeing the scene play out before us. “Dr. Forbes is operating and when Dr. Pike bursts into the operating room he yells, ‘You’ve misdiagnosed the patient.’” Francis narrowed her gaze, zeroing in on me. “Ellie, your line--”

  “Cease the incision,” I said the words with confidence.

  “Good. Rehearsal in five.” Francis brought her radio to her mouth. “Leads to set.”

  “Copy that,” squealed someone on the other end of the radio.

  “Um, there’s already an incision.” I gestured to the actor’s abdomen.

  Francis re-read her script. “Maybe the surgeon’s extending the incision.”

  We both peered down at the wound.

  I pursed my lips, barely stopping myself from mentioning how the media had been known to skewer the role of nurses to make it fit.

  “Is there a problem?” Francis asked, her tone sour.

  “I’m good to go.” I resisted the urge to chew my lip and give away that I wasn’t.

  Francis ambled off.

  I peered down at my script again and re-read my line. “Cease the incision. Cease the incision. Concision the incision…Argh!”

  There came a low chuckle.

  I peered up to see a dashing thirty-something doctor, dressed in a white coat over pristine blue scrubs, standing on the other side of the operating table.

  A tingle ran up my spine when he flashed a bright white smile my way.

  It was Jamie Hale, the golden globe nominated actor who starred in the 15th century British drama about Queen Elizabeth that I’d watched back to back episodes of last weekend on HBO.

  “Hi,” he said, holding his smile as though fully aware of its effect. “I’m Jamie.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said, my tone embarrassingly high.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  “That you’re Jamie Hale?”

  “No.” He pointed to the entrails. “That?”

  “Oh my goodness,” I said. “Look.” I reached into the gaping hole and nudged the fake spleen up and toward the right. “Much better.” I wiped my scarlet stained fingertips on the inside of the surgical drape.

  Jamie’s expression was a mixture of awe and horror.

  “Authenticity’s so important,” I explained.

  “Too right.” A lock of hair fell over his eyes. “I don’t even know where the liver is.”

  With a nod of permission from the actor, I pointed to the right upper quadrant of the abdomen.”It’s right here. It’s the largest organ in the human body, weighting 1.5 to 3kg in an adult. See, just below the diaphragm.”

  Jamie swapped an impressed look with the patient and asked, “Ellie, where did you learn that?”

  “Just something you pick up...” I said, realizing I’d nearly given myself away. I mean Ellie didn’t even know where her funny bone was.

  “You’re handy to have around.” Jamie peered down at the patient, engaging in polite conversation with him.

  Though I wasn’t really listening. I was too busy recalling the article I’d read about Jamie in Cosmopolitan regarding his serious stunt accident that nearly rendered his career over. Pulling back on my frown, I resisted the urge to lean over the operating table and check out his right leg.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” he said, turning his attention back on me.

  “Um...yes.”

  “Welcome.”

  This warm fuzzy feeling inside dissipated as I flashed back to the conversation I’d had with Agatha in the makeup trailer, remembering her warning about not making eye contact with the lead actors. Worse still, I’d broken the golden rule and was actually engaging in conversation with one of them.

  “Where are you from originally?” Jamie asked.

  “Madison.” I turned away, trying to find something else to focus upon.

  “I’m from Sydney.” He raised an eyebrow. “Bet you guessed that.”

  I was on the verge of getting fired due to my lack of knowledge of set etiquette and thus impacting Ellie’s acting career irrevocably. I looked away, trying not to make any further eye contact with Jamie, relieved when one of the wardrobe assistants handed me a pair of surgical gloves.

  I feigned being busy, focusing on making sure they fit just right, splaying my fingers and concentrating hard on the intricate movement of my hand.

  “They fit okay?” Jamie asked, seemingly caught up in the drama of my well fitting gloves.

  “Rehearsal’s up in one minute,” someone shouted from nearby.

  “Francis scares the shit out of me.” Jamie threw another earth shattering smile my way.

  There was a brief moment of bonding with my fellow actor as I allowed myself to stare into those dreamy brown eyes of his. It wasn’t exactly my fault. His brown irises kind of sucked you in like some mysterious vortex of loveliness.

  Sigh.

  “So, what other films have you worked on?” Jamie asked.

  “Can’t ruin my process,” I blurted out.

  He stared down at his script. “You’ve only got one line.” He looked amused. “But it’s a good one.” He beamed another dreamy smile.

  Holding his stare, I realized I was holding my breath.

  The property person nudged me aside and poured a cup of fresh fake blood over the wound, giving it a fresher appearance and me a momentary break from Jamie’s radiating aura of perfection.

  This was ridiculous. I was a normal, grounded young woman and yet this man had a way of wooing you in the most dramatic manner. I put it down to his accent and his rugged good looks, as well as his tall, dashing, heroic demeanor that hinted he’d save you no matter what the circumstances. The fact that I could reach out and touch him...

  Frankly I was uncharacteristically smitten.

  I refused to let him know the effect he was having on me and feigned fascination with the actor’s entrails that shined all too brightly, running my fingertips along them. Though after catching Jamie’s amused expression, I realized this wasn’t working either.

  From around us came a flurry of activity: cameras moving in closer, lights brightening above us, and several more people flooding into our small space.

 
; “Ready for your close up?” Jamie winked at me.

  His words brought me back to the reality of what I was meant to be doing and caused a wave of panic in my already churning stomach.

  A young woman introduced herself as the first assistant camera operator, and then she knelt at my feet, sticking a small strip of yellow tape to the floor, right in front of my toes. She informed me this was my ‘mark’, or as Ellie once told me, “You have to imagine your feet are glued to it.”

  From the crew, there came a ripple of energy that hung thick in the air.

  For the first time I understood the reality of movie making. It had always seemed so glamorous before, but now, as I looked about at the seasoned cast and crew, all of them going through the paces of their usual routine, the reality became evident. The only glamour belonged to the stars who got to go back to their trailers and take a nap.

  Someone’s radio crackled. “Clooney to set in one minute.”

  I sucked in my breath and time slowed.

  The pain in my lip, where I was biting down hard on it, kept me focused.

  Jamie was staring at me. “You’ll do great,” he said, as though reading my fear.

  My thoughts raced with how George would react when he stepped foot on set and caught sight of me.

  Would George insist I be dragged away by security? Would he refuse to continue to work until the police had removed me from the lot? Would I be photographed by the paparazzi as his number one stalker that had infiltrated his place of work, causing undue stress and psychological trauma?

  The terrifying variables of how George would react caused wave after wave of panic to swirl in my chest, and I suddenly needed a restroom break.

  “How you doing down there?” Jamie asked the prone actor, his gaping abdomen shiny with the freshly poured blood.

  The man gave a thumbs up.

  “I need a mask!” I yelped, excited with how quickly I’d come up with the solution. If George couldn’t see my face I was safe. All he’d see was another extra just going about her business, not harming or stalking anyone.

  The same young woman who’d handed me my gloves secured the surgical face mask, and with a quick flip it covered my nose and mouth.

  “Take off your mask.” Francis directed me.

  “I’d never be this close to an open wound without a mask.” My voice was muffled through the paper mask. “Viewers would know that,” I added, with more authority then I knew I was capable of.

  “Then we’ll have to cut your line,” Francis answered. “We don’t loop extras.”

  I knew that by “loop” Francis meant dub my voice, and I was delighted with that revelation. I was off the hook.

  “We don’t need to do that,” Jamie said, coming to my defense.

  “Authenticity is way more important,” I said, hoping Jamie would drop the heroics and see my side, albeit an uncharacteristic one for an extra.

  “That’s fine,” the short, bald headed man shouted over to us. “Cut her line.”

  “Okay then.” Francis stepped back. “Picture’s up!”

  “Who is that guy?” I whispered over to Jamie.

  He followed my gaze toward the short, bald man. “The director?” Jamie arched his eyebrows in amusement. “Ellie, you’re so cute.” He waved his hand. “I know, I know, mustn’t talk with you and effect your process.” He held my gaze again, his lips curling into a mega-watt smile.

  I repositioned my mask, hoping he’d not caught my blush.

  “First team’s on set,” shouted Francis over the chatter.

  “What does that mean?” I whispered.

  “It means...” Jamie fixed on someone behind me, nodding in greeting. “The star is here.”

  Facing my fears, and testing my mask theory, I followed Jamie’s gaze.

  George Clooney was five feet away, dressed as a surgeon, with a white coat over his scrubs and seemingly concentrating on our imminent scene.

  A state of calm came over me and I knew that I could pull this off. After all, I’d faced scarier challenges, like holding the hand of dying patients when nothing more could be done for them, or working out complex mathematical calculations in order to administer the correct prescription to a patient through an IV. I’d even taken in my stride that one Saturday shift in the ER when I’d run out of the department, responding to a woman in labor. I’d delivered her newborn right there in the backseat of her Volvo.

  She’d even named her daughter Piper.

  Compared to all those events this was going to be a piece of cake, like the large slice of red velvet cake with extra icing I was going to shove into my face as soon as I was out of here. A delicious, well earned reward for pulling this off and proving once again I was the best friend a girl like Ellie could have.

  And then my worst nightmare was realized. Sarah Thompson, dressed as a surgeon, was heading my way. The actress I’d met my first day on the lot, the woman who’d taken pleasure in sparring with Arthur, the girlfriend to the head of the studio, and she was glaring right at me. Her surgical gloved hands were elegantly raised in the air as though she really was going to operate.

  Sarah took her place directly opposite me and stood right next to Jamie, beaming him a big, flirty smile with a mouth full of pure white teeth and far too rouged lips for the surgeon she was meant to be.

  To my relief, Sarah didn’t seem to recognize me.

  “Where’s my Ellie?” came a voice from behind me.

  I could only assume this was Paul Ratner, the producer who’d given Ellie the line to say. He was apparently visiting the set, probably wanting to chat with Ellie about this fantastic opportunity he’d given her.

  I swallowed hard, wondering how I was going to talk my way out of this.

  Even more disturbing was Sarah now staring at me, aghast, her face flushed, her slow gurgle an obvious response to realizing I wasn’t Ellie. She’d obviously recognized me as Piper, that studio nurse she’d taken an immediate dislike to on my first day. Somehow I’d infiltrated her world, worming my way into acting and, worse still, I was on her turf, rubbing shoulders with Hollywood’s A-listers. Sarah’s eyes glazed over. Her hands clutched the operating table as though this was all too much for her.

  And then I realized--

  Sarah’s flush was increasing and her short gasps were that of someone having difficulty breathing. All symptoms of an allergic reaction.

  “Are you all right?” I asked through my mask. “Are those gloves latex?” I gestured with insistence. “Jamie, get those gloves off her.” I turned to Paul Ratner. “Call a medical emergency. Get the studio nurse over here now. Tell security to call 911.”

  Paul flipped open his cell phone and dialed.

  I bolted over to Sarah’s side of the operating table and guided her to the ground and she flopped back into my arms.

  Trying to reassure her, I told her that now the gloves were off she’d find it easier to breath and she relaxed a little. Though her red and swollen hands remained at her throat in a pose of terror. Her breaths came short and her eyes bulged.

  “Tell them she has an allergy to latex,” I said to Jamie, who was sitting beside me now.

  Looking around, I realized the true irony of the situation. I was surrounded by numerous men and women all dressed in scrubs and yet not one of them had any medical skills.

  “Tell them to give her epinephrine and Benadryl,” I said. “Got that?”

  Jamie nodded he would.

  I watched Natalie burst through the fake doorway with her kit. With my mask still over my face, I smoothly stood up and stepped back, sliding into the shadows.

  Natalie knelt beside Sarah, yanking open the oxygen bag and swiftly applying a mask, and then she cranked up the oxygen level.

  “She’s having an allergic reaction to the gloves,” Jamie told her. ‘“She needs...epinephrine?” He scoured the many faces watching, seemingly looking for me.

  “Benadryl as well,” said Natalie. “I agree.” She reached inside her bag for the medi
cations.

  “Let’s continue this tomorrow,” Francis called out to everyone.

  And with those few words from the assistant director, I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped away unseen, back into my comfortable world of being Ms. Anonymous.

  CHAPTER 8

  Guilt has its benefits.

  Especially when a best friend feels it like Ellie, after tricking me into pretending to be her at Gemstone. Over several cups of home brewed Starbucks, I’d relayed in detail the grueling experience, though it’d been hard to persuade her that acting was stressful, for me anyway.

  Eventually she had come round to see it from my point of view and swore to make it up to me.

  She honored her promise to arrange an Anti-Valentine’s Day party in my apartment and inviting all her cool friends. I’d also shoved an invite beneath the door of my new neighbor Dave, hoping he’d be able to make it. After all, this party was a ruse to get to know him.

  And our guests were due to start arriving at any moment.

  Under Ellie’s bossy direction, we made the final touches to decorating my apartment. I’d held back on telling her about George Clooney being on set because the last thing I needed was to prolong the embarrassment. Anyway, she’d soon find out for herself when she returned tomorrow as the real Ellie Lopez. Only Ellie would have the boldness to turn up on a film set as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and she’d easily talk her way out of any questions as to why she was not the same person from yesterday.

  I did convey, however, the part about her getting a line, and that Jamie Hale had made eyes at me in that dreamy way of his. Though I quickly added it was more likely Jamie had sustained a left-eye foreign body injury, thus the long, twitchy stares. Her jealous gaze became a confused one much to my relief.

  Ellie had transformed my living room into the spookiest of dens, placing all manner of Halloween decorations around the living room, such as the aged fake tombstones lined up against the far wall, or the cobwebs artfully hanging off my picture frames, and the several ravens made a nice touch. The numerous gothic candleholders she’d brought over from her place threw off eerie shadows, rounding out the spooktacular mood. The black love hearts strewn here and there were the only token of a Valentine’s celebration.