by Ember Casey
Not that I’m complaining about watching. It’s fascinating to see a master at work, even though I know absolutely nothing about filmmaking. There’s nothing as attractive as a guy who’s damn good at what he’s doing—and knows it. It makes me think about what other things he might be damn good at.
Damn it, Maggie—if you wanted to imagine having sex with Orlando then you should have remembered to put on underwear today! I can’t be too hard on myself, though—the guy is basically sex on legs. Who am I to deny that?
Ford’s character is the star of the scene today. He has a couple of big speeches, including one where he gets to slam his fists on the table and threaten to fire everyone else. The first time he does that, I nearly leap out of my skin.
Orlando, however, isn’t completely satisfied.
“Let’s try that again,” he tells Ford. “This time, pull it back a little. We want some subtlety here.”
Ford’s mouth tightens, but he nods. Like any actor, I’m sure he’s used to having to do the same thing multiple times.
The next time, though, Orlando tells him he’s pulled back too much. The time after that, he rushes. The time after that, Ford actually fumbles his lines, tripping over words he got right the first few takes.
The same speech is shot over and over again. It’s not always Ford’s fault—once one of the other actors at the table sneezes, and another time one of the lights flickers out and has to quickly be replaced—but for the most part, each new take comes with new instructions for Ford. And despite his nods, it’s obvious that Ford is growing more and more frustrated. And sore. Between takes he begins to rub the sides of his fists, and the pain only seems to make him more irritable. After the fifteenth take he snaps at the makeup assistant who rushes in to brush a little powder on his nose and combat the growing sheen on his forehead.
But Orlando is having none of it.
“You’ll treat the crew with respect,” he demands from his director’s chair. “It’s not her fault you’re sweating.”
“It’s not my fault, either!” Ford snaps back, his agreeableness gone. “It’s too fucking hot in this room!”
Several of the other actors shift uncomfortably. Orlando, rather than shouting back, responds with measured calm.
“As a professional actor, you should know that filming conditions won’t always be perfect,” he says to Ford. “It’s your job to endure them. And to do your scene as many times as it takes to get it right.”
But Orlando’s tone only seems to aggravate Ford’s temper more.
“I’ve already done it right a dozen times!” he snaps. “It’s you who can’t make up his mind about what he fucking wants!” His face is red, his eyes wide with unrestrained temper.
Orlando rises from his chair. Most of the other extras sitting at the table are trying desperately to look anywhere but their director or Ford, but most of the crew is openly watching this scene unfold. I spot Karen glaring at Ford, looking ready to leap at him and give him a solid thunk with the tablet in her hands. But my eyes refuse to stray long from Orlando’s face.
He stares at Ford with a steady gaze, his eyes as sharp as I’ve ever seen them. Anyone who reads celebrity entertainment news has seen stories about some actor or another being “difficult” on set, but I never thought I’d witness it in person.
And I’m almost ashamed to admit that watching Orlando handle this situation is turning me on. He’s like an alpha wolf facing down a challenger—confident and steady, but ready to tear out a throat if necessary.
Orlando strides slowly around the conference table toward Ford. The room is eerily silent except for the sound of his shoes coming down on the carpet. I see a flicker of something in Ford’s eyes—fear? Regret?—that’s quickly pushed back down again. Orlando’s expression never changes. He stops in front of Ford, and I’m pretty sure every single one of us in the room is holding our breath.
“This is my movie,” he tells the actor. His tone is firm, and low enough that under normal circumstances no one else would be able to hear, but he must know that everyone in this room is hanging on to every word. “If I say you’re too loud, you’re too loud. If I say you’re too soft, you’re too soft. If I say your acting is about as subtle as some fourteen-year-old in their first school play, then you listen and you damn well do it better the next time. This is my movie, and if I tell you to do your scene a hundred times, you do it a hundred times. You don’t question it. And you sure as hell don’t take out your frustrations with yourself or with me on any other member of this crew. You’re not indispensable, Mr. Grand. There are a hundred actors who could easily take your place. Do I make myself clear?”
Ford swallows, the blood draining from his face. “Perfectly.” He doesn’t sound as sure as he usually does, but his voice is mostly steady.
“Good,” Orlando responds. “I won’t tolerate a bad attitude on my set. Not from you or from anyone.” His tone makes it clear that the conversation is over, and he turns and strides back to his chair without waiting for a response from Ford. When he reaches his seat, he gestures toward the makeup assistant. “Powder his nose. Then we’re going to run it all again.”
The tension in the room doesn’t automatically disappear at those words, but it least everyone collectively begins breathing again.
I remain pressed against the wall, trying to stay as out of the way as possible. Something just happened here. Something important. It started in the elevator—or maybe before that, when I wasn’t here—but Orlando has tried to end it, one way or the other.
It’s a relief to everyone in the room, I suspect, when Orlando finally announces that he’s happy with the scene. Shortly afterward, he tells the room that it’s time to break for lunch. We haven’t gotten to my part yet, but I’m okay with that. Maybe things will be back to normal after a break.
I slip quickly and quietly out of the room, hoping to avoid Ford. He wasn’t exactly my favorite person before, and I’d hate to have to deal with him when he’s in a bad mood. I follow the rest of the crew downstairs to the craft services table—which isn’t nearly as bad as Ford made me believe—and grab a sandwich and chips.
There isn’t really anywhere to sit inside, so I end up braving the humidity and finding a bench beneath a tree just outside the lobby. I slip my feet out of my heels and curl my legs up on the bench beneath me, grateful to have found some shade. If I eat fast, I might be able to avoid sweating too much. Clouds have been forming over the last few hours, and judging by the size of some of them, I was right when I predicted we’d get some afternoon thunderstorms today.
I’m halfway through my sandwich when I hear a familiar voice call my name. My stomach sinks.
Ford strides toward me, a plastic take-out container in one hand and what I suspect is an alcoholic drink in the other.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks.
“Actually, I—”
“Great,” he says, plopping down next to me.
I decide this is one battle that’s not worth fighting. The guy’s had a rough morning—the least I can do is humor him for a few minutes while I finish my lunch. I begin eating a little faster, though.
His pleasant small talk runs out really fast.
“Let me give you some advice,” he tells me, jabbing his fork into his salad. “You have to put up with a lot of crap when you’re an actor. And the bigger your name gets, the more crap you have to deal with.”
I flick a couple of chip crumbs off my skirt. “I guess every job has its drawbacks.”
“There are a lot of big attitudes in this business,” he goes on. “Some people let a little success get to their head. And others just like looking down on people.”
He’s not exactly being subtle here, and it’s obvious what happened with Orlando is going to rankle him for a while. Even though I think he’s overreacting, I don’t completely blame the guy—it’s rough being criticized and told off in front of a room full of people. But I try to lighten his mood.
“Everyone
has ‘off’ days,” I say. “And people’s moods go up and down. But things have a way of coming back around.” I take another bite of my sandwich. I have some amusing ideas for my next Ford sketch, but he’d probably be offended if he knew what I was thinking.
“True,” Ford says, turning his face toward me. A small smile returns to his lips. “You know, Maggie, I think you’re going to do just fine in this business. You have the resilience for it.”
It takes great pains not to roll my eyes. How many times do I have to tell this guy that I have no intention of moving to L.A. to become a star? But I try to take the compliment.
“Thanks, but I honestly have no intention of turning this into a career. I’m just here for the paycheck. And for the fun life experience. Come tomorrow it’ll be back to sending out resumes.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” he says. “I really think you have a shot.”
Maybe if I repeat myself a dozen times, my words will finally sink in. But I’m beginning to suspect this guy never actually listens to what women have to say.
“You haven’t even seen me say a line yet,” I remind him with a shrug. “I could be terrible.”
“Oh, I doubt it. I can smell talent from a mile away. And you, sweetheart, have talent. I can tell.”
Laying it on a little thick there, aren’t you, buddy? “I bet you say that to all the extras.”
He doesn’t catch my sarcasm. “Just the ones with talent.” That million-dollar smile widens, and his teeth practically glint in the sunlight. “I mean it. You’re the full package.” His eyes travel down my body. “You’ve certainly got the figure for it.”
Oh, boy. Here we go.
“And your eyes,” he says, reaching up and catching me by the chin. “Your eyes were made for the screen. They’re stunning.”
I bat his hand away. “Okay, you can stop that now.”
“Stop what?” He catches my chin again, then sandwiches my face between both his hands so I can’t just brush his touch away. “Come to dinner with me tonight. We’ll talk about it more then.”
“I can’t,” I say firmly.
“Of course you can.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but—”
“Trust me, Maggie, you’ll want some friends on your side in this business.” He’s still smiling, but it’s far less friendly now. Almost sinister.
And I’m starting to get really uncomfortable. Fortunately, the universe is on my side. Big fat raindrops begin falling, and with his smile dropping to a frown, Ford glances up at the sky. I take advantage of his momentary distraction to slip out of his grip and jump to my feet.
“Maggie!” he calls after me as I dart back up the sidewalk.
I don’t look back.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m so determined to escape Ford that I’m not paying attention to where I’m going. Only a dozen steps into the building lobby, I run smack into another person so hard that I literally almost bounce off him. If it weren’t for the pair of strong hands that grab me, I’d be flat on my ass on the ground.
“Easy, there,” Orlando says, his hands steadying me. “What are you running from so fast?”
I look up into his wild, ever-intriguing eyes.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly. “Just the rain.” I notice suddenly that I grabbed his shirt as I was trying to regain my balance, and I’m still clinging to him like some sort of lovesick hussy. I unclasp my fingers, but the way he’s gripping me still leaves me pressed against his body.
He glances over my shoulder, back the way I’ve come. He frowns, and something that looks like anger flickers in his eyes. His fingers tighten on my upper arms.
I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Ford turn and walk the other way. His white-toothed smile is gone, and he appears to be grumbling to himself as he flicks his wet hair away from his face. Outside, thunder rumbles.
“Did something happen with Ford?” Orlando asks.
I turn back and look up at him. Orlando’s eyes are like two pieces of flint. They make me want to shiver.
“No,” I lie. There’s already enough tension on set—I don’t want to cause any more trouble. “We just got caught in the rain.”
He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. Those eyes seem to take in everything, to read my mind, even though I know that’s impossible. And he still hasn’t let go of me. This close, I can smell that delightful, woodsy scent of his. It kind of makes me want to throw my panties at him again. Or at least lean into him and take a nice, deep breath.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks me. “I meant what I said in the elevator. I want you to be able to come to me with anything.”
“It’s fine.” I smile at him. “Really.”
I step back, and the moment I move he seems to realize he’s still touching me. His hands fall away.
“I’m sure you have lots to do,” I say cheerfully. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” I continue smiling at him as I back away. When I’m sufficiently free of the pull of those eyes, I turn and dart into the nearby restrooms.
Well, you wanted an exciting life, I tell myself. And you got it. Cast in a movie, hit on by one of the actors, reduced to a ball of fluttery nerves by the director… I guess this is my life now. For today, anyway.
Fortunately, a quick glance in the mirror reveals that the rain didn’t do much damage. My hair is only slightly damp, and my makeup is all still in place. There are a couple of wet spots on my shirt, but they should be dry by the time we start filming again.
Still, I end up hiding in the bathroom for the rest of the lunch break. I don’t want to risk running into Ford again. Anytime someone else walks in, I pretend to be touching up my makeup in the mirror.
When it’s finally time to return to set, I pull out my phone and pretend to be glued to something on the screen. I keep my head down as I walk to the elevator and ride it up to the top floor.
When I reach the conference room, the crew is already caught up in the usual chaos. Karen spots me as soon as I walk in the door.
“There’s been a slight change in plans,” she tells me. “Orlando has decided to switch things around a bit since this morning’s scene took longer than anticipated. Stay close, but we won’t need you for a while.”
She directs me toward a chair in the hallway outside the conference room. Apparently I’m too important to be sent away but too much in the way to stay in the room. I’m okay with that. When they begin filming, I slip back downstairs to grab my sketchbook and pen. I spend the next few hours watching the production through the tall, plate glass door and sketching what I see—cameramen bent behind cameras, Karen chewing on her lip while she watches from beside Orlando, members of the lighting crew fidgeting with angles and bulbs. I draw just about everyone but Ford and Orlando. Ford just gives me the creeps now, and every time I look at Orlando, my body gets all hot and I start to sweat again. It’s safer just to focus on someone else.
As the day creeps on, I fill up pages and pages of my journal. They should have warned me that seventy-five percent of an extra’s job—even a featured extra’s—is sitting around waiting. I’m beginning to think they’ve forgotten me. People slip in and out of the conference room, but most of them don’t give me a second glance.
Eventually, my stomach begins to rumble again. As if on cue, I hear Orlando say, “Okay, that’s a wrap for today,” through the conference room door. It’s not until I glance at my phone that I realize it’s nearly eight o’clock. I’ve literally been sitting here for almost six hours.
Everyone who filters out of the conference room looks exhausted. I don’t dare leave without talking to Karen, and I need to know when and if they need me back to film my part of the scene. She spends the next half hour giving directions to a dozen other people before she finally turns her attention to me.
“We’re doing your scene tomorrow,” she tells me. “I expect you in the makeup tent by six.”
“I can do that,” I assure her. I won’
t turn down another day of pay. Or another day to make moon eyes at Orlando.
I’m one of the last people to make it to the elevators. Almost everyone else is already back downstairs, and fortunately, that means Ford is nowhere to be seen. Orlando isn’t either, and though I’m disappointed, I’m not sure why I expected him to wait around to talk to a lowly extra.
When I reach the lobby, it’s nearly deserted. Everyone cleared out of here fast, but I’m not sure I’m surprised. I spent most of the day sitting and I’m exhausted. Everyone else is probably dead on their feet.
As I walk outside, I begin to fantasize about what I’m going to do when I get home. Maybe I’ll take a bath. Or maybe I’ll just pull on my pajamas and dig into some leftover pizza.
I’m almost to my car when I hear someone calling me. I glance back over my shoulder, and to my dismay, I see Ford jogging toward me.
Instinctively, I slide my car key between my first two fingers. After what happened earlier today, I’m not sure I want to talk to him alone. I’m right next to one of the tall parking lot lights, but the glowing circle doesn’t feel like very much protection. Maybe I should just make a run for my car and pretend I didn’t hear him.
But he catches up with me quickly. The rain has stopped, but the air is still muggy, making it hard to breathe.
“Hey,” he says, jogging along beside me. “I’m glad I caught you.”
My grip tightens on my keys, and I quicken my pace. “I really should be getting home.”
“I know. I just…” He runs his hand through his hair. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. For lunch.” He breaks into one of his smiles. “I’m not normally such an ass, Maggie. I was just frustrated about this morning and I lost my head. Forgive me?”
He’s not getting back on my good side, but it seems better to go along with this than to argue with him.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ve really got to be going now.”
I’m only a few spaces away from my car, but he’s keeping pace with me.
