“That’s how I had mine,” Sister Tommy commented. “They were all ten and eleven months apart. Twelve months is the longest.” It still seemed rough to Alex, but Brigid didn’t mind at all, couldn’t wait to do it again and come home with another baby. Alex could guess now that she intended to stay pregnant for the next four years.
Alex left for the airport by cab the next morning. Everyone was busy, and she said goodbye to them at the house. She wasn’t going for as long this time, and they were accustomed to her leaving. She was taking one suitcase of summer clothes. She didn’t need anything fancy to work on the set, and she had packed one decent dress in case she had to go anywhere.
The flight took six hours, and when she arrived at one o’clock local time, there was a limo waiting for her, with a driver holding a large card with her name on it. She had told them that Mr. Green would be flying in by private jet that night. The producer’s assistant had made separate arrangements for him. Hers were made by the studio, as Mr. Green’s assistant. The driver carried her bag in when they got to the house in Bel Air that had been rented for “them.” It had been rented from an actor who was on location in Thailand for eight months shooting a movie. They had asked that there be no staff in the house. Mr. Green would bring his own personal staff, because Alex didn’t want anyone reporting that he wasn’t there. She was going to have to hire a cleaning person for herself. It was complicated creating an identity for a person who didn’t exist.
The driver set Alex’s bag down in the small bedroom at the back of the house where he assumed she would stay. She carried it to the master bedroom herself after he left. The house was spectacular. It was mostly made of glass with pale travertine floors. The art was beautiful, the furniture was upholstered in shades of ivory, and the pool was enormous. It had a sound system they could have used for a rock concert, and a theater-sized movie screen. She walked around grinning to herself as she checked it out. She felt like she was in a movie, not working on one. The bed looked like a football field with another wall-sized movie screen facing the bed, and you could have catered a party for three hundred in the kitchen, and they had. Alexander Green was being treated royally. Alex wished she had someone to show it to, but she didn’t. Fiona and Brigid would have loved it.
The producer’s assistant called her shortly after she arrived and asked if everything was to Mr. Green’s satisfaction.
“He’s going to love it,” she assured her. “He’s not here yet, he’s coming in on his own plane tonight. But he’s going to be very pleased. Thank you so much.”
“Anything we can do for you?”
“I’m fine.” There was a white Cadillac Escalade in the driveway for her use. And a white convertible Rolls in the garage for Mr. Green, which she would have loved to sneak out but didn’t dare, although she might at some point.
There was food in the refrigerator of every kind, and liquor, magazines, soaps, cologne, body washes. The studio had asked for a list of all of Mr. Green’s favorite brands and products, and she had had a ball filling it out, and they were all there, including some she hadn’t thought of. It was luxury to a degree she had never seen before, and in a way it seemed like a shocking waste. They had money to burn, but Hollywood behaved that way and they wanted their phantom writer to be happy. She was, and would have been with a lot less. But she and Rose had to make requests suitable for the persona they had invented, and Alex thought the white Rolls they’d added as a surprise was the final touch. She went out to the garage to look at it, and then sat in it for a few minutes. It smelled wonderful, of new leather. She had to call Bert on her cellphone and tell him about it.
“You’ll go to jail if they ever catch on to you,” he teased her.
“No, I won’t. And they won’t. I’m going to be very careful.”
“You’d better be or your cover will be blown forever.”
“I’m not that stupid, Bert.”
“Well, enjoy every minute of it, and kiss the Rolls for me.”
“I will,” she promised.
Alex watched two movies that night, and slept in the master bedroom. She was up at six the next morning and swam in the pool, which was heated to the perfect temperature. She was dressed and ready to leave the house at eight o’clock to be at the studio at eight-thirty. She set the GPS in the luxurious Escalade, and arrived at the studio right on time. They were expecting her at the studio gate. They were going to be filming mostly in the studio, except the location shots. She parked outside a building and walked inside. A studio assistant was waiting to escort her to a meeting room when she said she was Mr. Green’s assistant.
“Did he arrive all right last night? Was everything to his liking?” the assistant asked anxiously.
“It was perfect,” she reassured her. “He came in about midnight and loves the house. He swam in the pool right away.”
“Are the staff quarters working out?”
“Also perfectly.” It reminded her again that she needed to find a maid for herself, or she’d be scrubbing bathtubs and toilets for six months, which she didn’t want to do. She was going to call a cleaning service that afternoon. Rose had gotten the name of one for her from a friend in L.A.
The assistant ushered Alex into a room, and there were already several people sitting at a long oval conference table when she walked in, carrying her briefcase, and they introduced her. She was wearing white jeans, and they were all wearing short shorts and flip-flops.
The director introduced himself to Alex immediately. His name was Sam Jackowitz, and he introduced her to the screenwriter she would be working with, Malcolm Harris.
“Thank you for facilitating this process for us,” the director said gratefully, as Malcolm looked her over and didn’t say anything at first. Half a dozen production assistants filed into the room. It was their last chance to go over final details before they met with the actors the next day, to hear their notes and comments about the script.
They’d been in the meeting for an hour before Malcolm spoke to her. “You work for the greatest writer that ever lived,” he said in an undertone as she stared at him for an instant, finding it hard to believe his enthusiasm.
“He’ll be very flattered to hear it,” she said politely.
“I’ve read every book he’s ever written. I’ve learned so much from him as a writer,” he said. “He must be awesome to work for.”
“He is,” she assured him.
“How long have you worked for him?”
“A long time. Ever since I started working. I was an intern for him in college.” She was making it up as she went along, but it sounded convincing even to her, and Malcolm was eating it up.
“Darkness is my favorite of his books,” he said in awe.
“Mine too,” she agreed. “He’s very pleased to have this one made into a movie.”
“We’re going to make an incredible picture,” he promised. “What does he think of the script?”
“He hasn’t seen it yet.” And neither had she.
“They were supposed to give it to you yesterday.” He said something to one of the production assistants and she scurried off to get two copies for Alex. “That reminds me, there’s something in it I want to show you, so you can ask him how he feels about it. It’s a piece of dialogue I lifted from the book, but I put into another character’s scene.” He opened his dog-eared copy of the script to the correct page and showed it to her. She read it and nodded.
“That should be fine,” she said to him. “I like it.” And he looked at her dismissively.
“I didn’t ask if you like it. I want to know if he likes it.” She had almost forgotten her role for a minute as the assistant with no authority to make decisions, and she apologized immediately.
“Of course. I’ll ask him tonight.”
“Will he take calls during the day?”
“He won’t answer a cellphone,” she said simply, and Malcolm nodded. He was willing to accept any quirk his idol had.
The meeting was
long and wasted a lot of time. A catering group set up an enormous buffet at noon, and they were trapped in the room till six o’clock, going over meaningless details, but Alex had no choice but to sit there. She had a list of questions to ask her alleged employer, and had promised to email the answers that night. She knew the answers to all of them obviously, but had to play dumb. She was getting into the Escalade when Malcolm walked over to her. He had a swagger, and a great body, and his muscles rippled as he walked. He had thick dark hair to his shoulders, a tan, and blue eyes. He looked like a beach boy in the standard flip-flops and shorts.
“Tomorrow is going to be rough,” he warned her. “The actors always come in with a list of dumb questions and complaints about the dialogue. Tell Mr. Green not to worry about it and don’t take it to heart. I’ll run interference for him.”
“That will mean a lot to him,” Alex said reverently, trying not to laugh as he lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“Look, I know what the ground rules are here, but if I swear not to tell anyone, do you think you could get me in to see him for a few minutes? It would be the best day of my life.” She decided to squash his pretensions early so as not to run into problems later on, with him, or anyone else.
“I can’t do that. He’s my employer, and he would fire me on the spot.”
“As one writer to another,” he whispered, “maybe if he likes the script…”
“He doesn’t see anyone,” she said firmly. “He never makes exceptions. He’s been a recluse ever since a family tragedy. I wouldn’t dare cross that line with him.”
“Oh my God, I didn’t know…who died? His wife? A child?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it, and actually I’m not sure.” She wanted to get off that hook quickly now that she had made it up. “It happened long before I came to work for him. I’ve only heard rumors, and I don’t know if they’re true.”
“Well, if you see an opening, put in a word for me, will you? I want to meet him just once before we finish the film.” She wanted to scream, “You have, you idiot,” but she continued to look respectful and in awe of him, with no authority of her own.
“I’ll email you tonight, with the answers to today’s questions,” she said efficiently.
“Do you know when? I have a date tonight. Should I cancel it? Will he talk to me on the phone?”
“No, he won’t. Don’t cancel your date. I’ll be meeting with him as soon as I get back to the house. And I’ll let you know right away.”
“Thanks.” He sauntered away again, and Alex got in the car, set the GPS, and drove home. None of the staff or crew was supposed to know the location of the house that had been rented for him, and she hoped there would be no slips, or worse, paparazzi at the gate. She was beginning to see how complicated it was going to be on the set. It was workable, but she was going to be lying through her teeth constantly.
She headed for her computer as soon as she walked in the door, to put Malcolm out of his misery. She knew all the answers he wanted, and she reeled them off in five minutes and hit send.
He responded ten minutes later.
“Wow! He’s amazing. Thanks for the quick answers. Please thank him for me. This is going to be a piece of cake.” But not for her.
“No problem, I’ll tell him,” she sent back, walked out to the patio, peeled off her clothes, and dove into the pool. It had been a long, incredibly boring day full of inane questions and people puffed up with their own self-importance who had nothing to say. The director was the only one in the room worth listening to, and Malcolm’s gushing praise of Alexander Green was so excessive that it made her feel slightly sick, like eating way too much chocolate cake.
The next day was even worse. With four major stars in the room, each one was competing for attention, wanted to be heard, had problems with almost every page of the script, wasn’t sure “they really felt the line in their gut” or if “it just wasn’t them.” Sam handled them masterfully, Malcolm just got into arguments with them, and all Alex could do was make notes about things to complain about later in the voice of her alleged employer.
There were several heated arguments, the female lead and a supporting actress hated each other, and the male lead lightly touched Alex’s breast when no one was looking when he walked by and then winked at her. “Are you kidding?” she muttered after he left, and Malcolm walked over to her.
“I saw that. He does it all the time. It wasn’t about you.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asked him and he laughed.
“Maybe both.” He complained about the female lead to her then, who he claimed was a bitch to work with. He’d been on a film with her before. But in Alex’s opinion, at least she was honest and outspoken about what she didn’t like. The other woman and the male lead seemed worse to her, more wheedling and passive-aggressive. And Malcolm had his hackles up over the script. So far what he’d written didn’t bother Alex, although it wasn’t great. But it wasn’t terrible either, and she realized you had to compromise in the movies. Every word was not going to be true to the book, and she didn’t expect that.
Each of the stars left earlier than they were supposed to. They had costume fittings and rehearsal the next day. And Alex’s head was spinning by the time she left at eight o’clock, after wasting two hours with Malcolm, talking about himself, and then asking her again to arrange a private audience with Mr. Green, which she told him again she could not do. And Rose Porter called her that night.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m not sure. A lot of temperaments and personalities, a lot of maneuvering for position, and the screenwriter thinks Alexander Green is God.”
“That must be nice to hear.”
“Not really. He wants me to sneak him into the house so he can kiss his feet. He treats me like a messenger, or the maid.” Rose laughed at the description.
“Even when there are no secret identities, Hollywood is crazy.” But the money was good, and the prestige enormous. “Did you hire the cleaning service I recommended to you?”
“I did. They’re starting tomorrow. I don’t need much. I’m not going to entertain or anything.” She couldn’t, or it would blow her cover. She couldn’t have anyone to the house for the duration, nor take the risk. “It will be a long six months.”
“You might enjoy it,” Rose encouraged her.
“They’re all so full of themselves, even the assistants. It’s fun watching the stars, though.” She sounded very young when she said it.
She made a salad for dinner, took a swim, went to bed early, and watched another movie. There was a fabulous library of DVDs. And the next day the fun began with one actress having a tantrum over a costume, and the other arguing with Malcolm about the script, and he stormed off the set. The director calmed both women down, and then came to sit next to Alex for a little while. He was quiet and even tempered and handled everyone with incredible sensitivity and grace. Malcolm, on the other hand, was a diva, and slunk back to the set after lunch with a scowl on his face. He acted like an angry child, despite the dazzling physique.
“I can’t wait till we get to the murder scene and smear blood over both of them,” he said through clenched teeth, and Alex laughed.
“I won’t tell Mr. Green you said that.” He looked mollified after that, and handed her a Coke as they watched the rehearsals, which were pretty rough. Sam worked with each of the actors to explain the psychology of their role, and he had nailed it perfectly, as Alex paid rapt attention. She made some notes and Malcolm asked her about them.
“Why are you taking notes?”
“Mr. Green expects me to tell him what happens on the set. I’m his eyes and ears here.”
“And he listens to what you say?” Malcolm was impressed.
“Most of the time. Our relationship is based on mutual respect.”
“He doesn’t need advice from anyone,” he said reverently. “What did he think of the script, by the way?”
“He likes
it. There are a few rough spots here and there, but nothing he can’t live with, or we can’t fix.”
“I expected him to be tougher than that.”
“It’s a good script,” she complimented him.
“Tell him thank you,” he said and disappeared again.
They worked until dinnertime again, and Malcolm surprised her by asking her if she wanted to stop for something to eat on the way home, if she had time and Mr. Green wouldn’t mind.
“Sure. Why not? He’ll be fine with it.” Malcolm seemed like an important ally to have, and was worth getting to know for that reason.
They stopped at the Polo Lounge on the way home, and he asked her a thousand questions about her employer and none about her. But she learned that he had gone to USC film school, had worked in television before moving on to feature films, and wanted to write his own series. He was thirty-three years old, had never been married, had no kids, and had recently broken up with a rising young starlet who had left him for someone else. “I didn’t really care. We’d only been dating for three months.” She had the feeling, from listening to him, that Hollywood was some kind of shell game where everyone switched partners constantly in order to get ahead, and traded the last partner in for someone more important. It sounded exhausting to her, and incredibly manipulative and superficial.
“It must be complicated here.”
“It is,” he admitted. “Dating is all about who you want to be seen with. Like what car you drive. It’s about where they can get you and how far. The person is a vehicle to the next level. Then you switch and cover the next fifty or a hundred miles up the mountain with someone else.”
“Does anyone ever go out with real people?” It was an insider’s view of a world she didn’t want to know, where everything was false, hair, teeth, breasts, and heart.
“Not really,” he answered her question honestly. “That’s a waste of time.”
The Right Time Page 20
