Jump Cut

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Now he led me into the family room and sat me down on the sofa. “So, what happened?”

  I explained how Charlotte Hollander had torpedoed the project. “It made no sense. Teresa had said there was a buy-in at the top levels of the company. But she just came at us out of left field, and then the other guy wouldn’t say a word, and—”

  Luke raised his palms. “Wait. You’re going ninety miles an hour. Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”

  I did. I went over the history of the project. How excited Teresa was. How her enthusiasm was contagious. How, after I’d unveiled the concept and my proposal, they approved it. How hard we’d worked on the filming and post. “It looks terrific, Luke. Hank was unbelievable.”

  He frowned. “And you’re sure this woman sabotaged it?”

  My eyes filled again. “Of course I’m sure. Plus, she was nasty about it. She said her twelve-year-old son could have done a better job. She was out to humiliate me. And Teresa. And she did.”

  “I don’t get it. Who is this woman?”

  “Vice president of engineering. She’s pretty high on the Delcroft ladder. She might even be CEO one day.”

  Luke was quiet for a moment. Then: “There had to be a reason she went bat-shit crazy.”

  “I don’t know what it is, but if word gets around, I’ll never work in this town again.”

  “You think you may be just the slightest bit melodramatic?”

  I leaned back against the couch. Now that I was calmer, I felt oddly removed from the events. I suppose it’s because a human being can endure only so much shame. It might have been self-protection. Then again, it could just have been the wine kicking in. I massaged my temples.

  “There had to be a trigger,” Luke was saying.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t like other women encroaching on her territory.”

  Luke shook his head. “You don’t become VP of engineering doing that. Did something in the video set her off?”

  I sniffed again and tipped my head to the side. “Let’s see. Everything was great during the first segment. I saw nods and smiles. In fact, I thought they were enjoying it.” I paused. “It was good, Luke. No puffery, just, well—you know—sincere. Even a tad self-deprecating.”

  “Put your personality into it, did you?”

  “Stop sweet-talking me.” I managed a wan smile.

  He grinned. “You got me.”

  “Hey, can I show it to you? I need an objective opinion.”

  Chapter Ten

  Monday Night

  We screened all four episodes. I watched Luke’s reactions, but he could be a cipher sometimes. When it was over, I asked impatiently, “Well?”

  “I’m no expert in this stuff.”

  I nodded.

  “But I liked it. It was clear, convincing, and warm. And accurate as far as I know.” Luke was a pilot. He owned a couple of small planes, and he knew a lot about flying and aviation.

  “Not unprofessional?”

  “Not at all.”

  I frowned. “Then what’s the deal? She knows that corporations are marketing themselves to consumers as partners and buddies these days. She understands the benefits of social media.”

  Luke stood up, went over to my credenza, and took out a bottle of bourbon. He poured himself a shot, then came back to the couch. “It could be one of a million things, Ellie. Delcroft is a huge company. I mean, the frigging CEO advises the president of the United States on technology and national security. Anyone high enough to be in the corporate suite is sitting on top of a cauldron simmering with envious sycophants.”

  I stared at him.

  He checked himself as if I’d just noticed a stain or tear in his shirt. “What is it?”

  “What did you just say?”

  “That Delcroft is a simmering cauldron of people who all want the top job.”

  “No. The part about advising the president on technology and national security.”

  I didn’t wait for his response. I slid the video back to the head end and started watching it again. Midway into the second segment was where Hollander had started to have problems. I paused the show, reviewed my notes, and backed up a few seconds. We were in the middle of a fast-paced montage. I advanced slowly. Then I found it. It was only a one-second shot, but there was Gregory Parks, the “consultant” at Delcroft’s trade show booth at McCormick Place. He was sitting in the audience listening to Hollander speak. I paused the show.

  “This guy. She saw this guy.”

  “So?”

  I told him about how he’d been hanging around the trade show, and the arctic reception Charlotte had given him. “Of course, she’s that way with most people, I’ve discovered.”

  “So?” Luke repeated.

  I fast-forwarded to the next segment and slowed it down. I checked my notes again, found the time code I’d jotted down at the point Hollander got upset. Sure enough, there was another shot of Parks, this time examining the model airplane at the booth.

  “This is it! This is why she was so upset. I’d bet my next bottle of wine on it.”

  Luke leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You don’t know that. You just can’t make an assumption.”

  “I think I can. She didn’t like the dude. It was clear.”

  He folded his arms. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. What can you do about it?”

  “Go back and ask her why she hates the guy. Tell her we’ll delete every frame of him from the videos. I don’t know. Beg.”

  “Sure, babe. She’s certainly going to forgive and forget after what she did to you today.”

  I straightened up. “Then I’ll go over her head.”

  “Not good.”

  “Why not?”

  “You have no leverage. None at all. This is a company that hires three-and four-star generals when they retire. You’re just a grain of sand, comparatively speaking. If you want my advice, I think you should find a new client. There are plenty of other companies in Chicago.”

  “But—”

  “Ellie, if you make trouble for them, they’ll make even bigger trouble for you. They probably have your dossier already.”

  “They do. They did a background check on all of us.”

  Luke spread his hands. “Well, all it takes is a new report from them about your conduct, your professionalism, maybe even your politics…”

  I cut him off. “And I’m screwed.”

  He nodded.

  “That’s creepy. You make it sound like we’re living in a country like Russia. Or China.”

  Luke drank his bourbon.

  We were both quiet for a moment. Then I said, “Well, then, if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad…”

  “Ellie…” He was quick with his reply. “Don’t even think about it. Promise me.”

  I smiled, leaned over, and kissed him. “You’re right, of course.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday

  I was feeling much better the next morning, especially after Luke brought me coffee in bed. I had a few sips, and then we did what we usually do in the morning. And the evening. And afternoons too, if we can. Afterward he went back up to Lake Geneva. I showered and dried my hair.

  I was getting dressed when the computer in my guest room, which doubles as my office, chirped to tell me I had an email. I went in cautiously, unsure if I really wanted to read any emails this morning. I sat at my desk.

  It was from David Foxhall at Delcroft. Foxhall was the executive VP in charge of corporate communications, the man who hadn’t said word one during the meeting yesterday. Still, as Teresa’s boss, he was my “official” client contact and had seemed enthusiastic when I proposed the videos. I pressed my lips together and read.

  “Good morning, Ellie. After much internal discussion, we’ve decided not to proceed with the video. We will, of course, compensate you for the entire production, but since we still have issues with the concept, we’re going to call off any further production. I hope this doesn�
��t cause too much disruption for you and your crew. We wish you nothing but the best. As I said, please invoice me for the entire project. I’ll make sure to expedite payment. Sincerely, David.”

  There it was. I’d been fired.

  My first reaction was relief that Teresa still had a job. My second was less charitable.

  “Damn those cowards.” I stomped out of my office, went down to the kitchen, and stacked dirty plates and cups in the dishwasher. A minute later, though, my irritation faded, and I marveled at how powerful Hollander must be to have killed the entire project. A minute after that my mood improved even more, and I was grateful that we would be paid for work we didn’t have to finish. That would make Mac happy. It might even pay for a long weekend for Luke and me; I entertained visions of flying down to Florida or the Caribbean.

  A few seconds later, though, I was infuriated again. I’d been brushed off by a Fortune 100 company. I’ve been a professional filmmaker for more than twenty-five years, and I fumed as I threw a load of laundry into the washing machine. How dare they? On some level, I probably knew my anger stemmed from those never-ending feelings of insecurity lurking just under the surface. Feelings that were just waiting to wreak havoc on my ego.

  During times like these, I’d usually call my friend Susan, and we’d work out our problems with a power walk around the village. But waves of snow flurries outside didn’t bode well for a walk, and Susan worked at an art gallery on Tuesdays.

  I started pacing around the house. The voices of insecurity mimicked the tone and words of my late mother. “Yes, a B-plus is nice, but where is the A?” or “Sheila got into Vassar. And you’re just going to Michigan?” Still, her best role, worthy of an Oscar, had been that of an enabler. “You need to find out who did this to you and why. And fix it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday

  I found Gregory Parks’ number in my bag and punched it in. I wasn’t surprised when a ubiquitous female voice recording instructed me to leave a message. Consultants are very busy people.

  “Gregory, this is Ellie Foreman. We met at the aviation trade show last week at McCormick Place. I was producing a video for Delcroft. I wonder if you could give me a call.”

  I left my cell number, disconnected, and wondered what to do. I couldn’t bring myself to call Mac with the news. Or commiserate with Teresa. I decided to binge-watch a season of Homeland—watching a bipolar CIA agent in trouble always cheers me up—and was just punching “Play” when my phone rang.

  I picked up. “Ellie Foreman…”

  There was a click on the line that I couldn’t figure out. Then a male voice, which sounded like it was coming from a distance. “This is Gregory Parks.”

  “Mr. Parks, thanks for returning my call.” He obviously screened his calls. “I hope you remember me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” He didn’t sound impatient. More curious.

  “I wonder if you’d be willing to meet with me.”

  There was a long pause. Then: “Why?”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, we’re in the middle of our project for Delcroft, and I know how interested and knowledgeable you are in aviation. I thought perhaps you’d like to see the workprint. I have it on a flash drive, which means I can meet you pretty much anyplace. I’d really like your input.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m no aviation expert. I don’t see how I can help.”

  I thought about how to proceed. I didn’t know this guy, and I didn’t know a thing about his relationship to Hollander. I needed to be circumspect.

  “Well, Gregory, we met with Charlotte Hollander yesterday and she seemed to react to your presence on our B-roll. I figured that was because—”

  He cut in. “What is B-roll and how did I end up in your video?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” I explained how B-roll was cover footage used to set the scene, cover narration, or transition between sound bites. “You did have an”—I searched for the polite words—“active presence at the booth.”

  “I see.”

  A wave of noise came over the phone connection. Then it vanished. I frowned. “She had a few—er—concerns about the videos, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on her thinking, since you two are obviously acquainted.”

  “Ms. Foreman, I still—”

  “Call me Ellie.”

  “Yes. Ellie. I still don’t see what I can do for you. I hardly know Ms. Hollander. I’m just a simple consultant.”

  My senses went on alert. Beware of anyone who claims to be an aw-shucks consultant. Especially if he looks like Keanu Reeves.

  “I’m just asking for a few minutes of your time. Delcroft is an important player in the Chicago market, and I want to make sure my reputation is—um—A-plus going forward. Ms. Hollander has a lot of influence. Coffee or tea is on me. We could meet at Ann Sather’s if you’d like.” I snuck that one in. I wanted one of their cinnamon rolls. I needed one of their cinnamon rolls.

  Parks didn’t reply. He was probably wondering what he was going to get out of the meeting. Honestly, the answer was nothing. I was going to pump him. So I was surprised when he said, “I’m not downtown. And you live in the suburbs.”

  “How do you know that?”

  There was a slight hesitation. “I—I assumed. At the trade show your director told me he was from Northbrook.”

  I frowned. Mac wasn’t the chatty type. Especially with strangers. Which meant Parks must have been checking me out. But why? This was getting strange. Maybe I should forget about connecting with him. On the other hand, we would be meeting in a public place. Not some hidden back alley.

  Then: “I suppose I can take the el in. I have an errand to run downtown anyway. Do you know the station where the Blue and Red Lines intersect?”

  Parks must be west of the city if he was taking the Blue Line in. “Yes,” I answered. “At Jackson.” I hadn’t taken the el in years. “As I remember, there’s a pedway to get from one line to the other.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “There’s a Starbucks in the pedway. I’ll meet you there. In two hours.”

  It wasn’t as public a place as I would have liked, but it was better than nothing. “Okay. I’m pretty sure I remember you—I’ve certainly seen your face enough on the videos. Just in case, though, give me something to recognize you by.”

  “I’ll be wearing a Burberry scarf and black North Face jacket.”

  How preppy. “Great. I’ll look for you at Starbucks.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday

  I parked at the Linden CTA station in Wilmette, hopped on the Purple Line down to Howard, then transferred to the Red Line for the ride down to the Loop. As we passed Rogers Park, Ravenswood, and Lakeview, bullet-fast glimpses of humanity flashed by. A bungalow with snow on its roof, a sagging porch, a tire swing hanging limp from a bare branch, a kid’s tricycle.

  I remembered my Lakeview apartment. I was a few years out of college, about the same age as Rachel now. Barry and I had just met, and the spark between us was explosive. We spent as much time as we could getting to know each other’s bodies. Winter Sundays were my favorite. A long day and even longer night, our fishermen sweaters, jeans, and boots strewn along the hardwood floor, marking a telltale path to the bedroom.

  The train went underground at North and Clybourne, and I caught my reflection in the window. I was smiling. A few minutes later, I got off at Jackson. Mayor Rahm was refurbishing the el stations—funny how he could always find a few million dollars when he wanted to—and the Jackson station had been one of the first upgrades. I started across the pedway. The homeless, who used to designate this spot, along with Lower Wacker, as their overnight accommodations, had vanished. So had the cracked walls and hollow echoes. The once seedy area was well lit, decorated with murals of commuters coming and going, and bursting with trendy shops, including, of course, Starbucks.

  I hung around outside. People stopped in, and I watched the swishes and belches of all the machines until I fi
gured I could always have an alternate career as a barista. I checked my watch. Parks was fifteen minutes late. I knew what he’d be wearing, so I decided to walk toward the Blue Line.

  It was after lunch, but it wasn’t crowded. The bustle of rush hour wouldn’t begin for another hour. I followed the signs, walked up a flight of stairs, and wandered toward the Blue Line tracks. It was your average station, two tracks, each going in a different direction, separated by a concrete platform. I saw another set of stairs similar to the one I’d just climbed at the far end of the platform. The lights were dimmer here, or maybe it was just the fluorescent lighting. There was graffiti on the walls, and the slight rancid odor of urine. Remodeling had clearly stopped with the pedway.

  I stayed at the foot of the stairs, figuring I would spot him getting off the next train. The train came about five minutes later, but there were so many cars attached—they must have been gearing up for the afternoon rush—that I couldn’t see the end of the train. The doors swooshed open, and about two dozen people got off and headed up the stairs. I looked toward the far end of the platform and spotted a few people emerging from the train. I hurried over. Maybe Parks didn’t know Starbucks was behind us. I could probably catch him before he finished climbing those stairs. I started to jog.

  As I did, I heard a train approaching behind me from the opposite direction. The whoosh of an artificial breeze blew across the platform, and its noise grew from a growl to a roar, finally crashing like thunder as it slowed. It, too, seemed to have a lot of cars attached, which meant it would take longer to come to a full stop. Like the other train, which was just leaving, this train’s cars extended beyond my sight line.

  All at once, a blur of movement flew across the platform at the far end. A woman screamed. Then a man shouted. The train lurched to a stop, its brakes screeching long and loud, like a wounded animal. A few seconds later, two men raced toward me. Someone else ran up the flight of steps at the far end of the platform.