by Mel Gough
She showers, calls her driver, and arrives on location at half past seven. Her crew are all in a flutter to see her so early, but after some flapping around and with raised eyebrows they get her into her costume and makeup before nine a.m. She’s just admiring herself in the costume department’s floor-to-ceiling mirror when Stef hurries into the trailer. Her assistant’s face is flushed and she’s shaking from head to toe.
“I, uh… you’re here,” the girl stammers. “Was…is...is something wrong? Was there a change in the schedule?”
“No,” Viv says. “I just woke up early and wanted to get a head start.”
“I’m really sorry,” Stef stammers.
Viv, feeling generous, waves the apology away. “Never mind. Go get me a coffee and some pineapple.”
Still red in the face, Stef leaves. Viv pulls out her phone. She has neglected her Instagram lately, feeling too wretched in the heat to post any pictures. But today, she feels beautiful and hasn’t had to endure the sand and the heat yet. She takes some pictures of herself in the mirror, smiling, then selects the best one and posts it with the hashtag #yourdesertqueenisearly, watching the likes and comments flood in. Satisfied, and bolstered by the admiration, she makes her way onto set.
As she follows the rubber-matted walkway that protects the ground from the dozens of feet, she contemplates her luck. This is such a beautiful location, nestled inside the nature reserve. Not many people even get to see this part of it, let alone are allowed to work here. Viv takes pictures of the rocks and the brilliant blue sky as she walks. She should document their adventure. Victor will be pleased with the added publicity on her social media.
There’s a little flutter in her belly as she arrives on today’s set—a dais in front of green-screen, with scaffolding and camera cranes dotted around—and looks around, eager to spot Damien. She conjures up the feeling of his solid, warm body on top of her, and a delicious little shudder travels from her navel to her groin.
But Damien isn’t anywhere to be seen. There are people milling about, but most don’t look like they’re working. They’re just standing in the shade, sipping water and waiting.
Viv spots Bob under the marquee that protects the camera monitors from the sun and sand, and makes her way over to him. Their interim director is talking to one of the ADs; Viv has forgotten the guy’s name. Bob seems agitated. He gesticulates and talks fast, and doesn’t notice Viv approaching.
“Morning,” she calls over. “Aren’t you supposed to have all this ready by now?” She points at the set that still looks half done.
Bob turns to her, his eyes a little wild. “Damien is at the hospital. We gotta rejig the entire day!” He sounds frantic, but Viv doesn’t care about anything but the first part of Bob’s statement.
“Damien’s at the hospital?” she echoes. “Why?”
“Migraine, apparently,” Bob says, distracted.
“Migraine?”
“Yeah. Says he’s gonna be back tomorrow. Apparently, he took himself to the ER.” Distraught, Bob runs his fat fingers through hair that hasn’t seen a comb in months, never mind a barber’s scissors. “Listen, I gotta get back to planning how to salvage this day.” He sighs as he turns back to the AD, muttering, “Why does it all have to go pear-shaped while Victor’s away, that’s what I wanna know.”
Viv leaves him to it and retreats to her trailer to await instructions. She toys with the idea of calling Tracey again to get Damien’s cell number, but decides against it. Victor’s assistant might not be the brightest bulb in the shop, but she will mention to Victor if Viv seems too interested in her new, handsome colleague. Tracey is very Hollywood; she loves to gossip.
At least the day isn’t a loss as far as filming goes. Bob does a decent job coming up with a couple of alternative scenes that don’t require Reymund. Only, the first scene he lines up doesn’t require Viv’s presence, either. Ordinarily, she would now go back to Vegas, cursing Bob under her breath and feeling unwanted. But the second scene he has planned for the afternoon does require the Empress, and, more unusual, Viv even has some lines.
So she applies herself to the reprinted pages of script, learning the dialogue as thoroughly as she can. But it’s not even lunchtime by the time she has committed the few lines to memory. Cranky and bored, she stays in her trailer, gets Stef to bring her fruit and champagne, and settles down with her phone for some research on Damien.
The thing with the migraine has piqued her interest. What else is that gorgeous man hiding? She types his name into the iPhone’s browser and starts to read. She soon learns that Damien has a five-year-old daughter, with Idil Phoenix, the famous model of Somali descent. He and Idil were married but separated when their daughter Zoe was one. Apparently, they’re now embroiled in a custody battle. That Damien lives in New York Viv already knew from what he’d said on the terrace. He also spends a lot of time in Winnipeg, where Gaukur, his TV show, films. Idil and Zoe live in LA, which can’t make joint custody any easier.
While Viv is immersed in one of the gossip rag stories about Idil’s and Damien’s difficulties, Stef appears in Viv’s trailer.
“Bob says they’re ready for you now,” the assistant says. So Viv abandons her research and goes to work.
Filming continues until darkness has fallen. Bob, absorbed in a brand-new drone camera which arrived on set at noon, decides that the actors aren’t needed to film the drone scenes of the spectacular desert sunset, and he sends them all home.
It’s nine p.m. when Viv gets back to the penthouse. Victor had finally sent her a text while she was busy on set that afternoon, informing her he’d be on the last flight back and landing just after midnight at McCarran Airport. When she’d seen the text, Viv had realized with some guilt that she hadn’t once wondered that day why he hadn’t called her yet.
So Victor will still be a few hours. That suits Viv just fine; it gives her enough time to check on Damien. She couldn’t find anything about him suffering from migraines on any of the gossip sites, and she half wonders if he didn’t make it all up.
A basket of chocolates and expensive snacks arrived for Victor and her a few days ago. It’s from one of the catering companies they use on set. Viv plucks out the card and tosses it in the kitchen trash. Then she picks up the basket and heads out the door.
After she knocks on Damien’s door, she has to wait almost a minute before there’s movement in his apartment. When he sees her, he raises an eyebrow in surprise. Then his features crease in discomfort, and he rubs his temple.
“Viv, hey,” he says. His voice sounds rough.
His face is very pale, and his eyes are watery and bloodshot. He’s wearing only boxers and a white T-shirt, which, Viv notices with distaste, has large sweaty patches on the front and under his arms.
“Bob said you weren’t staying in the hospital overnight, so I wanted to check on you.” She tries her best to smile. “How’re you feeling?”
Damien shrugs. “Been better.” He steps aside to let her in.
Viv goes straight over to the coffee table and puts the delicatessen basket down. “Not for now, obviously,” she says, pointing at it.
Damien has followed her into the living room on shaky legs, and now crawls onto the sofa with a groan. He rolls onto his back and winces. “Could…could you dim the light?” The ceiling light is very bright, and Viv hurries over to the wall dimmer. When the room is bathed in the merest hint of a glow she perches on the sofa by his side. Hands in her lap, she doesn’t know what to do or say next.
“Uh…is there anything else you need?” she asks, feeling uncomfortable. She’s not very good around illness. The last time Victor came down with the flu she hired a private nurse and decamped to a hotel, terrified of catching the virus. Migraine isn’t contagious, but even so. Any kind of weakness causes her a vague sense of disgust.
“Nah, I’m good,” Damien murmurs. “Nice that you came, though.” He takes her hand in his. His fingers are clammy and hot, and Viv suppresses a shudder.
>
“That’s okay,” she says, trying to sound sympathetic. “Have you…I mean, do you get this a lot?”
Damien shrugs. “Sometimes. Stress sets it off, and being somewhere new. And it doesn’t help that it’s so bright out here. If I get the meds in time, it usually goes away after a day or so. I went to the hospital as soon as I felt it coming, and they gave me a special IV. That should do the trick. I just need to get a decent night’s sleep now.”
“In that case, I’d better let you rest.” Viv extracts her hand from his with some relief. When Damien makes to sit up she says, “I can see myself out. You stay put.” But he keeps pushing himself to sitting. Viv hovers, feeling helpless and a little annoyed that he isn’t doing as told.
“Could…could you help me back to bed?” he asks when he’s finally sitting on the edge of the sofa. He breathes hard and doesn’t look too fresh. “Meds make me dizzy.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Of course.” Viv extends her arm, and Damien pulls himself to his feet. Viv isn’t sure how much help she actually is. She doesn’t know where to hold him, and it frightens her that he clings on so hard. Damien is heavy and clumsy, and Viv’s back hurts when she has finally lowered him onto his bed.
It occurs to her that this is where he lay sleeping when she knocked, and that she woke him up. Having to get up and answer the door probably wasn’t good for him. Well, she wanted to make sure he was okay, nobody can fault her for that. And maybe he should’ve stayed in the hospital if he’s this unwell.
When Damien is horizontal again, he gives her a tight smile. “Thank you. Sorry, that was pretty difficult.”
“No problem. Now, sleep.” Viv tries her best to sound motherly and seems to succeed. His smile widens a notch as she pats his shoulder. “See you tomorrow, okay?”
“Definitely. Is Victor coming back tonight?”
“He is, yeah.”
“Tell him I’ll be okay in the morning.” He sounds anxious, and Viv feels a little sorry for him.
“Sure thing,” she says. “Night!”
She doesn’t exactly run from the apartment, but exhales deeply nevertheless when she regains the hallway.
Victor’s bag sits inside the door when Viv lets herself back into the penthouse. She peeks into the kitchen, and there he is, getting a beer from the fridge.
“Hello,” she says, keeping her distance, not willing just yet to forgive the slight he offered her before they parted.
“Hey,” he says, glancing in her direction before starting to hunt around for a bottle opener. “Where were you? Bob said you finished a couple hours ago? I thought you’d be home by now.”
It doesn’t even occur to Viv to come up with a lie. “I went to check on Damien Thomas,” she says. “He was off sick today with a migraine.”
“That was nice of you,” Victor says, sounding a little surprised. “Yeah. Bob mentioned he missed a day of work already. How is he?”
Viv shrugs. “He says he’ll be okay tomorrow.” She hesitates a moment, then adds, “You were right, by the way. He’s a great Reymund.”
Victor beams, appreciative of the compliment. “I knew he’d knock it out of the park. Though I hope he won’t make a habit of the migraine thing.”
“How come you’re already home?” she asks.
“Got done early, and Trace managed to change my flight.” He ambles over to her and takes a swig from his beer. “Listen, I was really stressed out the other day.” That’s as much of an apology as anyone ever gets from Victor.
Viv shrugs. “I know. It’s okay.” Now he’s here and has acknowledged what he did, that’s all water under the bridge. And she’s had her revenge, even if he’ll never know. “Did you sort the issue with the permit?”
He nods. “Yeah. Took a minute, but they caved. We’re good for the rest of the shoot.”
He takes another step toward her until their bodies are almost touching. His green eyes bore down into hers. Viv can feel the heat start in her belly. She knows what he wants.
“I missed you,” he says in a low voice. With his free hand, he pulls her close, and Viv can feel his arousal against her.
“Did you now?” She grinds against him and he groans, then leans down for a kiss.
As Viv gives herself up to Victor’s caresses and the taste of beer on his lips she’s surprised that she feels no twinge of guilt about what she did with Damien the other night.
That was just a bit of fun. This man is her husband, and even if he can be an ass sometimes, she still remembers why she married him.
12
It has been a warm June, and a sweltering July, but by mid-month the heatwave is extinguished in several torrential downpours that make the dust and trash choked gullies overflow.
One undesired side effect of the weather uncertainty is that Brad’s weekend plans keep changing. Kyle and Jay, Maria and Peter’s twin boys, turn five, and the party morphs from an elaborate fun-for-adults-and-kids outdoor affair at a new venue in the Botanical Gardens on Saturday afternoon to a house-with-backyard-BBQ option on Sunday, since the only catering company Maria can bully into agreement on short notice is booked for the Saturday.
“They’re driving me insane,” she assures Brad on Thursday when he calls her at lunchtime to see how she’s holding up. “I’ve ordered a dozen lamb cutlets, thirty burger patties and twenty German sausages for the grill, but the yard is a mud field. The chef refuses to come out under ‘such appalling conditions’—his words. I guess, if it’s raining again, Peter and his guy friends can cook the meat on the patio under a tarp, and then we eat indoors.” She sighs. “You have no idea what it feels like, dealing with a bunch of crazy people.”
Brad tries not to feel the sting of that. She’s stressed, and it was a throwaway comment, but his mind returns to what it was like to live with Aiden and his tenuous hold on sanity. He reminds himself that Maria knows very little about how unwell Aiden really was.
The night before the twins’ party, Brad receives a strange phone call. He’s at home, cooking pasta arrabiata, when his cell buzzes on the kitchen counter. The number on the display is unfamiliar, but since it’s local Brad picks up. It might be work-related.
“Yes?” he says, clamping the phone to his ear with one shoulder and pulling the pasta pot off the flame as it starts to froth.
There’s silence on the other end. Brad puts the pot down and transfers the phone to the other ear. “Hello?”
He hears someone breathing for a few seconds, but before he can get irritated enough to think of something else to say, the line goes dead.
Brad holds the phone for a moment, thinking. Then he chucks it back onto the counter, a little harder than planned. He drains the spaghetti and finishes off the sauce without paying much attention. He’s no longer very hungry.
It was probably just someone misdialing a number. Brad hates that he gets rattled by a misdialed call. Pre-Aiden, something like this wouldn’t have fazed him, and it’s bad for his professional peace of mind.
But he can’t shake the memory of how Aiden used to call him at work when he had an especially bad day, and how he would just sit there for minutes at a time, not saying a word. Sometimes Brad would talk to him, and sometimes he just put the phone on the desk by his computer, or on the dashboard of the unmarked car, so Aiden could hear some of the chatter from the incidence room or the noise of the road. That always seemed to soothe him.
But why would Aiden call him now, after all this time? He’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want to see Brad again. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he’s in trouble. That thought chases an icy feeling through Brad’s gut. He gives the phone a long look, and even touches it with the tip of his finger. The number showed up on the display. He could call back. But he’s sworn to himself that he’ll no longer cater to the madness that possesses Aiden and transforms him into that ungrateful stranger Brad doesn’t recognize. It only ever made things worse for both of them when they were still together. Now, trying to help Aiden would put them bo
th in an impossible situation.
Brad dumps some pasta on a plate and splashes sauce on top. Then he takes the food and a bottle of beer over to the sofa. His standards are slipping, but at least he can plonk himself down in front of a Barbra Streisand movie he seems to have seen before and forget about the phone call, and Aiden, for a short time.
But when the movie is done, and the pasta has disappeared, Brad makes a beeline for the phone. He snaps it up and hits the Return Call button before he can think about what he’s doing. It rings and rings, but nobody picks up.
Finally, Brad lowers the phone. Without looking at the number again he clears the call history and turns the phone off. He leaves it on the table by the coat rack and ascends the stairs to bed one at a time, even though it’s not even nine p.m. yet.
He sleeps badly that night and wakes a few times to nightmarish images he thought he’d long forgotten of reddish puddles on bathroom tiles.
13
Brad can hear the sound of children playing from the back yard before he even starts climbing the stairs to Maria and Peter’s house. He shifts the two large, wrapped gifts from his right arm into his left and presses the doorbell. He waits for twenty seconds, but there’s no movement behind the frosted glass door. He rings the bell again. No wonder they can’t hear the door, with the music and chatter that’s loud even from out here.
Finally, on the third try, there comes a hurried clatter of heels on tiles and the door swings open.
“Brad!” Maria pants. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you over that racket.”
“Hey Maria,” he says, hugging her with one arm. “Am I late?”
“No,” she says, exasperated, and waves him inside. “Everyone else was early.”
Maria closes the door and leads the way down the elegant corridor. When she and Peter bought the house shortly after Brad had inherited his, they had opted to renovate it in the classical style it had been built for, rather than follow Brad’s post-modernist lead. Now, chrome, marble and mirrors glint and gleam everywhere, and while it’s not his personal style Brad has always admired the job their interior decorator did on the place.
