by Sara Forbes
“Sure,” I say, but I’ll only actually mean it when we’re back in our cool editing studio in LA. “So, is everything going OK between Scarlett and Mia?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just checking.”
“Mia,” she calls suddenly. Before I can escape, her niece struts toward us, wrenching off the red arm-length gloves and the torturous-looking wiry brassiere thing and thrusting them into Helen’s arms. She has a bikini top on underneath—black, minimalistic.
She then proceeds to peel off the legs of the alien costume, revealing the bottom half of her bikini. Also black. Also minimalistic. I’m mesmerized by the smooth musculature of her thighs extending up into the vee of dark fabric. The skin on her thighs looks red and irritated where the costume was pressing.
Every ounce of my willpower is needed to hike my gaze up to her eye level like a decent human being.
Her gaze, meanwhile, is fixed on Rita. “How was that?”
“Yeah. I’m liking the first bit,” her aunt tells her. “The second bit where you ask Carter why he’s there? We need some fear when you mention the Federation. But we can probably run with this as long as you remember to bring in that emotion next scene.”
“Got it,” Mia says. Then, with a casual toss of her hair, she turns to me. “What did you think, Jack?”
“OK, I suppose,” I say, more out of surprise at being asked than any great conviction.
Her face falls and her green eyes flicker over me. “Oh,” she says tonelessly.
“And that’s being generous,” I add.
Her eyes grow huge with disbelief.
“Your aunt is being far too lenient on you. She’s blind to your faults. Your inexperience is showing, for example, in the way you don’t use silences to underline the gravity of your delivery.”
Still wide-eyed, she turns to her aunt for confirmation. Rita shrugs and says in a strangled tone, “Yeah. Maybe.”
Mia’s expression is frozen. “Well, thanks for the acting lesson.”
The words I think she’s looking for are fuck you.
“There’s always scope to work on your craft, Mia,” I say, attempting to inject some diplomacy into the proceedings because she’s starting to look like she can’t handle criticism. “And I’d have thought that given the circumstances of your being here, you’d keep an open mind regarding feedback.”
We stare each other down. I’m not giving in first, that’s for sure.
Rita clears her throat. “Right. Well, I’m going to find Jim so we can lock up the cameras for tonight.” She waves and heads off toward the tents.
Mia finally breaks the gaze and calls out, “Wait, I’m coming too.”
And off she goes. I greedily take in the full beauty of her taut little ass as she runs after her aunt. This time I have no reason to curtail where I’m looking.
But I’ve made up my mind. While we’re stuck on this island, I’m going to go hard on that girl, turn that lump of coal into a diamond.
Because there’s something in her that goes beyond her looks and her sexy exterior, something that made the whole crew sit up and watch when she delivered her lines. She may be raw, untrained, but Mia’s got a rare instinct for this job, the raw ability to shut out the real world and completely immerse herself into the character, to give it her unfiltered all. And the camera adores her. She just needs to refine her poise and her delivery, but these things are surmountable when you’ve got that magnetic quality all actors want but so few possess.
Yes, even though I’m supposed to be tightening the budget, talent is talent, and I’ll support her development and see that her scenes are executed properly, no chopping out of her lines. I’ll tighten the budget elsewhere.
She’ll thank me later.
On second thoughts, best not.
9
MIA
WHETHER IT WAS JETLAG or the muggy heat or the proximity to others in a small tent, not a single soul I talked to this morning said they felt well rested or energetic. My tent-mates were noisy—snores, cellphones bleeping, and general moaning about the bumpiness of the ground.
Despite that, the early morning scene with Scarlett went better than anticipated. It helped that Jack wasn’t watching. He’s putting me off my game—so critical, just standing there in the background all the time, poking his nose in where it’s not wanted. If he were just the usual intrusive boss, it would be OK because I’d feel free to loathe him. But he’s not. Jack is…well, it’s complicated. How he makes me feel when he looks at me that way is a whole jumble of things I can’t explain.
I’m trying to keep things simple so I can pull off this incredible opportunity, get home, type up a new résumé and tell Al to go stuff himself, find a new waitressing job, and get on with the business of getting my next audition. It really is that simple.
The makeup assistant rushes up to me to dab the sheen on my face with red powder. In less than a minute, I’m due to step into this scene where John Carter and Scarlett are arguing about the plans to infiltrate the blue planet’s atmosphere. Once that’s done, I can go sip coconut juice under the palm trees like the rest of the off-duty staff, and I can’t wait.
I’m standing in position, yawning, when, like an unwelcome genie, Jack shows up. Strutting around in his white T-shirt, designer stubble, and khaki shorts, he is the epitome of eye candy, but right now I wish he’d go back to his office in LA where he’d be of more use to his company.
“Action,” Rita calls. I walk out, hovering behind Scarlett. This is one of the very few moments in the movie where the focus leaves Scarlet to home in on me. Quite nerve-wracking, stealing the limelight from a huge star, even for a few seconds.
So nerve-wracking that, when it’s my cue to say the crucial line, it goes clear out of my mind. What the hell does Sola say now? My heart’s hammering as I search my memory wildly. Nothing.
I’ll improvise. What would make sense? OK, I’m the princess’s sister. I’m jealous of Carter’s attention. What the fuck should I be saying here? Panic rises up my throat, strangling me. Say something. There can’t be that many options. Suddenly, the story seems farfetched and random and impossible. The moment stretches on forever until finally Rita calls out, “Cut!”
Everyone looks at me with varying degrees of sympathy, as if they can see how the bottom has fallen out of my world.
“Sorry,” I mouth to Scarlett and Chase.
Scarlett nods and mouths, “’s OK, hon. Happens to me all the time.”
That’s generous of her, because it doesn’t.
Chase wipes sweat off his forehead and seems too hot to have the energy to react. He gazes out longingly toward the sea, the sea I’d like to drown myself in.
I’d wring my hands only the gloves will stick together if I do. I’m getting hotter and hotter under the costume. Maybe some part of my brain has fried up. That would explain the sudden memory loss.
Rita shoots me an “are you OK?” glance; I give her a weary thumbs up.
Rita’s assistant comes over and shows me the relevant page of the script. I wave her away. Of course I remember it now. “Are all earthmen like you, Carter?” I mean, how could I have forgotten a line so ridiculous?
I make the mistake of looking at Jack. He’s shaking his head. Dismissing me, no doubt. If only a tsunami would come and wash him away. But the sea looks as calm as ever in the backdrop as he strides over. My only consolation is that he looks tired, as if he’s had as little sleep as everyone else.
“Everything all right?” he asks, stern as ever.
“Fine,” I mutter. Would be even finer if you went away.
“Do you need a break?”
“I said fine. I’ve only just started here. I know the lines. I’m not going to fuck up. I’m not going to hold the team up, and—”
“Easy, easy.” His frown softens to a look of concern as he pats the bony appendage at my shoulder. “Remember, use the pauses, slow it all down. You’re royalty on this planet, so keep it slow, gracious, and reg
al. And don’t forget to breathe.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “You’re not wearing this.”
“Yes, but you’re a professional. Now, go show the Earthman what the red alien race is made of.” Then he thrusts his hands in his pockets, backs off, and continues on his path toward Rita.
I zap his tightly muscled butt with my laser eyes so that all’s left is a puff of red smoke.
***
TWO HOURS LATER, I flop down in the shade of the palm trees. There’s only Cara here, as the others have gone to grab the lunch being served by the tents. I need rest more than food. I asked Rita to save me a sandwich. Any type. I’m not fussy.
Cara’s tapping on her phone. She offers me a friendly smile as I settle in the shade beside her. With her wiry body packed in an athletic black tee and shorts, she looks like an advertisement for Brazilian jiujitsu. How does she manage to look so cool and collected all the time?
“How’s it going?” she asks.
“Not bad,” I lie, flopping down beside her. The coconut juice is sweet and cool, heavenly. “OK, pretty terrible,” I admit.
Cara’s in a yoga seated pose, her spine straight against the tree trunk. She’s silent for a moment that elongates to the point where I wonder if her meditation has sent her to sleep. Wouldn’t be hard in this heat. But then her eyes ping open and they’re dark and watchful. “You’re doing OK from where I’m sitting. Jack’s giving you a hard time though.”
Yep. Glad she noticed that.
“Plenty of free acting lessons anyway,” I grumble.
She laughs.
“It’s not like he’s even an actor,” I add bitterly.
“How much do you know about him?”
I shrug. “Well, he’s one of Hollywood’s up-and-coming producers. His company won best production for Rednecks last year. Uh…yeah, he dated Elaine Madison and Audrey Weir.”
“And Alicia Palatone.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah, her too.”
God, Jack, bad taste.
“But what else? Do you know how he got started?”
“No,” I admit. Nobody cares what people did before they became successful. Scorsese? Tarantino? Does anyone know what they did before they became world famous directors slash producers?
“Jack used to be an actor, just like you.
An actor? “Really?”
She smiles. “One Google search would have confirmed that.”
“I’ve been busy,” I say defensively. Too busy looking at the yummy pictures to read much text. I just didn’t expect to find anything interesting there. I assumed he came from money and fell into producing out of some prestigious business school via a series of capitalistic decisions that I have zero interest in learning about.
He has the looks, I’ll grant him that. And the voice. But why haven’t I seen him in anything?
“He gave up,” I conclude aloud. “He gave up acting because he got nowhere—otherwise I’d have heard of him. God, I can’t believe he’s needling me about learning the craft when he’s the one who couldn’t stay the course!”
“Needling?” Cara asks.
“No. Yes. Kind of.” My face heats, and it’s not just the sun. I’m remembering the dream I had last night about him. We were together in that first-class lavatory on the plane. There was no room between us as he clutched me in his arms while the plane was in free fall. No wonder I woke up in a pool of sweat. “Well, now I know how to answer when he gets belligerent with me again.”
Cara laughs. “You’d get vindication for all of two seconds and it wouldn’t be worth it, Mia. It may be difficult to hear this, but I do think he has your best interests at heart.”
I don’t know whether to believe that, nor how I would feel about it if it were true, so I remain silent.
“But I agree with you that he changed careers,” she says, “with what some might consider undue haste.”
“Do you know why?” I ask. As agent, Cara’s job is to know everything about everyone in the business, so she’s a good person to pump for information.
“I can only surmise that when the going got tough in acting, he turned to producing as a better way of making the big bucks.”
“Yeah, he’s all about the money.” I groan.
“Thing is, you generally have to own a lot before you can produce a movie.”
“Rich parents?”
“Actually, no,” she counters. “Poor as paupers.”
I grab this piece of information to chew on later. It doesn’t gel at all with my image of him as wealthy heir to a fortune of some sophisticated, upper-crust family with their fingers in all kinds of political pies. I have to rewrite all my prejudices about him now. “Where’d he get the money from then? Acting?”
“Very good question.” She smiles warmly. “Maybe you can ask him.”
I smile back. Yeah, nope. Not striking up that conversation with him. Or any other, for that matter. Sooner we’re back in his studio with the usual corporate divisions between us, the better.
10
JACK
WHEN THEY CLEAR AWAY THE lunch, I unplug my phone from the solar charger, dive into the tent, and make a call to Felix who’s probably lounging by a pool in Vegas after a poker tournament there he had last night.
“What’s going on?” my twin says, chirpy as usual. Slot machines jingle in the background. I got the Vegas part right anyway.
“You’re still alive.”
“Ah, total breeze,” comes his arrogant drawl. “Usual suspects. Weak hands. What’s happening on your secret island? You kids having fun in the blue lagoon?”
“We’re focusing on making the movie and winning some awards,” I reply tartly.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Sure thing. Anyway, Jack, did you screw Scarlett Keane? I’m asking for a friend.”
I pause. “Did you bet on this?”
“Maybe.”
“That I did or didn’t?”
“Didn’t.”
Huh.
“Well?” he asks.
“Didn’t.”
He whoops in victory. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
“How much did I just earn you?” I ask wearily.
“Just a thou. See, I know you too well, Jacky boy. She’s not your type.”
“No, she’s not.”
One look at Mia, on the other hand, and he’d bet more than a grand the other way. Or try to nab her himself. But I don’t want to think about that.
“Felix, do I need to clear up something on your end or not? Anything at all?”
“No, I’m hunky dory. Don’t owe nothing to no one.”
“Good. Can you keep it that way? I—I need to plan.”
“What’s wrong with you? Ooooh, I get it. You’re getting the wobbles. Look, man, this happened last time too. And then you went ahead and earned ten-x along with another of those shiny things you like to stick on your bookshelves instead of books like a civilized person. Is the heat getting to you?”
“This whole fucking scenario is getting to me,” I tell him in a lowered voice. “It’s dire. I didn’t see it on paper, or I had some lapse in judgment, because the movie stinks. It’s a campy, cheesy, outdated piece of pangalactic crud. My lead actress, far from wanting to sleep with me, wants off the movie. Her performance lacks…everything. It’s not her thing. She’s being upstaged by—oh, never mind. I’ve got a bunch of amateurs holding the fort out here. Christ, I’m not getting out of this alive.”
It’s more than I meant to say, more than I’d normally share with him about work, but I need to vent.
“Nothing that your Midas touch can’t rectify, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad one of us is so sure.”
“Take a walk on the wild side, bro. There are no guarantees in life.”
“You’re right there,” I grind out. I can’t expect him to understand how unforgiving Hollywood is, and that if this movie is a financial flo
p, my reputation will be in tatters.
I throw the phone into my travel bag and head out into the blazing sun to seek the crew. Maybe Felix is right: I’ve hit some kind of confidence rock bottom and things will swing up again, and all will be OK. Maybe the heat is getting to us all. Scarlett’s acting skills will be revived once we get back to the cool studio.
I can put it down to bad decision-making on my part, dragging everyone out here to this furnace, but it’s not a show stopper. I’ve learned my lesson. If I get out of this intact, I will never take a dumb risk again.
Head pounding, I make a beeline for the set, which appears before me as dots in the distance. This simple, dual-view scene takes place by a cliff face, mercifully in the shade of large cacti. I step around the camera crew, who are hand signaling to each other. The pain on their sweat-drenched faces tells me they’re almost at breaking point.
This is another of Sola’s scenes where she has to stop Captain Carter in his tracks. With a kiss.
Scarlett’s loitering under a palm tree with Cara, both watching.
“How she’s doing?” I ask.
Cara cocks an eyebrow. “You mean Mia?”
“Yeah.” I grunt. How many other actresses can she see in this scene?
“Oh, pretty good. She’s a good kisser.”
I find myself unable to comment on that, and I can’t help my gaze being magnetically drawn toward Mia in her kinky, bony costume.
“He’s the problem.” Scarlett shakes her head in mock tragedy. “Ten takes so far.”
My throat goes dry. I walk away from them and lean against a neighboring tree.
“Take eleven,” Rita calls out. She’s sitting cross-legged in the sand, glaring.
Chase is a nice guy and all, but there is no chemistry whatsoever between these two. His body language is lumbering, his movements clumsy. I know Mia’s in a weird getup, but surely he can imagine that he’s in love with this…intergalactic being, and how much he wants to taste her exotic lips. Isn’t he paid to imagine it, even if he doesn’t actually feel it?
