Pretty as a Picture

by Elizabeth Little

  “Do you think something’s going to happen to me on the stairs?”

  His shoulders rise, fall. “Marissa—”

  I tilt my head to the side and try for a joke. “It’s okay, you can tell me. Are you afraid of stairs?”

  He sighs. “Just go inside already, would you?”

  I mean to obey, really I do, but my body’s slow to respond, and before I know it, his fingers are at the small of my back, urging me forward.

  I—don’t hate it.

  * * *

  —

  Something else I don’t hate: the hotel. It’s better than I could have hoped for. Even on a hot summer night, the lobby feels bright and airy and open, an impressive display of elegant furnishings and tasteful architectural detail. Along the southern wall, a series of French doors lead out to the sundeck; they’ve been left open to let in the breeze, their cream-colored curtains fluttering in the evening air. To my left, a wicker seating area is set amidst a collection of lush potted ferns; just past that is a grand mahogany bar. Overhead, polished brass chandeliers shine down on the high-gloss checkerboard marble floors.

  Prestige drama has its perks, I suppose.

  Isaiah makes some vague noises about needing to check his messages and points me toward the far end of the lobby. Anjali’s waiting for me there—past the elevators, the dining room, and three more seating areas—leaning against the front desk as if she’s been there for hours, when in reality it can’t have been more than three minutes. Her fingernails tap out an indistinct rhythm on the gleaming wood surface.

  “You’re awfully small, aren’t you?” she remarks once I’m in earshot.

  I draw a breath, open my mouth—

  She blinks, her attention drawn to something behind me. “Hold that thought.”

  I turn to follow her gaze. A man in tortoiseshell aviators has just pushed through the lobby door, flanked by two bright-eyed teenage girls in shorts and flip-flops. Anjali mutters an exceptionally rude comment about actors and crosses the room in a flash.

  I revise all my earlier assessments. She’s clearly a producer.

  The man says something that makes Anjali clench her jaw so hard I can see her muscles tense from all the way across the room. She jabs a finger at a nearby chair; the man lifts his hands in surrender. But as soon as Anjali turns to talk to the girls, he executes a neat pirouette and heads in the opposite direction—to the bar. He signals to the bartender and slips off his glasses.

  As soon as I see his face, my hand goes to knead my forehead of its own accord.

  It’s Gavin Davies, former teen idol, current adult misery. I’ve tried on at least six separate occasions to get a plausible explanation for his enduring appeal, but so far I’ve come up empty. He was the star of a billion-dollar trilogy ten years ago, but it’s been ages since he’s done anything that isn’t obscure, demented, or disgusting. For some reason, though, the studio guys still love him. My best guess is he runs a poker game or flips houses or dabbles in a little light human trafficking. Or maybe he’s just moderately talented and has an English accent. Who knows. Forget it, Jake, it’s Hollywood.

  We’ve never met, but we’ve worked together on three projects, so I know him fairly well. I’m not concerned about his acting. With the right material, he can be great. A little fluky, maybe. Out of every ten takes, three will be completely unusable because he forgot when he was supposed to sip his drink or stub out his cigarette or deliver his lines. But five will be fine and two will be brilliant, which is more than most actors give me. And anyway, it’s not my place to complain.

  What worries me is I know the kind of parts he picks.

  What am I going to get stuck with this time: A sadistic enforcer for a coastal meth ring? A racist small-town cop? A deadbeat dad with a penchant for revenge porn? A racist big-town cop?

  I scan his appearance for some hint of what I’m in for. He’s lost the muscle he usually carries in his back and shoulders, and the cheekbones teen girls swooned over in 2010 are too sharp now to make me think about anything other than feeding him a sandwich. His hair, traditionally the cornerstone of his artistic process, is bleached and badly styled.

  Best-case scenario, his character’s an ordinary awful person. But that’s what he played in Amy’s last movie—and I know he doesn’t like to play similar roles in back-to-back projects—so I’m guessing he’s trying to switch things up. Probably by playing an extraordinary awful person.

  Like a pedophile.

  A white supremacist.

  A pedophile white supremacist.

  Although maybe that’s not so extraordinary these days?

  I rub the bridge of my nose, ignoring the lingering ache.

  Even if nothing else comes of this job—even if Tony fires me the second he places my face—at least I can say I’ve learned my lesson: I’m never taking a job again without reading the script.

  EIGHT

  At the other end of the lobby, Anjali has just spotted Gavin at the bar. She storms over, and I’m leaning forward, my eyes glued to the scene, when I feel something nudge my shoulder. I look down. It’s a scraggly calico.

  “Hello, there,” I say.

  She turns two tight circles and flops down in front of me, tucking one paw under the wattle of her belly. I reach out to rub a knuckle along her jaw, and she stretches her neck to give me better access. Her throat vibrates with an intense, immediate purr.

  I scratch under her chin and along her spine. Her fur’s dry and slightly dusty; I suspect this is the most attention she’s gotten all day. It’s not that she’s not soft, per se. She’s just not as soft as she looks. So even though she satisfies a cat’s basic requirements, she still doesn’t meet the unspoken expectations, and now she’s stuck out here on the front desk waiting for new arrivals because the only people she still has a chance with are the ones she hasn’t already let down.

  “Who’s a good girl?” I murmur.

  “Are you new?”

  The cat leaps off the desk and scurries away. I look up. Standing in front of me is an older white man who must have just emerged from a back room. His face is friendly but oddly immobile, as if it’s been permanently carved into a shape that’s open and welcoming.

  “Uh, yes,” I say. “I’m the editor.”

  I was wrong. His face can move: from smiling to really smiling.

  Clearly a civilian. I’ve never seen such a glowing response to that particular statement.

  “—so worried about the delay,” he’s saying. “Not that it ever made much sense, mind you, making such a fuss about just one crew member—especially the editor. Seems to me editing’s something you wait till the end to do anyway, right? But what do I know, I’m just a humble innkeeper.” He sticks out his hand. “Wade Metcalf. Nice to meet you.”

  I give his fingertips a squeeze. “Marissa Dahl. Lovely hotel you have here.”

  “Can’t take much of the credit, I’m afraid, but I’ll be sure to pass that on to the wife. Will you be needing a room? Or will you be bunking down in the projection room like the last guy?”

  I may be wedded to my job, but even I have limits. “I’ll take my own room.”

  “Sure thing,” he says. “Just give me a second to run to the office—computers are on the fritz, wouldn’t you know. Don’t go running off before I’m back!”

  His laugh is a sudden roar, like the blast of heat you get when you open an oven door, and before I can recover, he’s gone.

  I check back in on Anjali. She’s sitting at the bar next to Gavin now. Still arguing. Meanwhile, the bartender’s polishing glasses and pretending not to listen, and the staff in the dining room is cleaning up after service and pretending not to listen, and a housekeeper’s sweeping crumbs into a pile and pretending not to listen. None of them are any good at it. But give it a few more weeks, and I’m sure they’ll figure out what the rest of us have: that
no one in this business is actually worth listening to.

  The lobby is largely empty, which strikes me as odd. I’d expect more activity on location, especially in the bar. But I suppose the crew’s probably prepping for tomorrow and the cast is—I don’t know. Doing whatever it is actors do when no one’s around to look at them. Becoming one with the void, probably.

  I dig my cardigan out of my backpack and wrap my arms around my middle. I must have worked up a sweat while I was chasing after Anjali, and I realize now how cold it is.

  I’ve just stopped shivering when, over in the dining room, a busboy apparently decides stacking plates isn’t nearly as much fun as dropping them onto each other from a great height. Wincing, I take a few steps in the opposite direction—which puts me in range of an air freshener. And not even a nice air freshener, it’s one of those cones my grandmother kept behind the toilet. Less Alpine Meadow than Astringent Jell-O. And now that I’ve started noticing it, I can’t stop. I press the back of my hand against my nose, but it’s not enough.

  On the reception desk is a vase filled with five perfect white chrysanthemums. I slide it toward me and bury my face in the flowers, breathing them in.

  Damp soil. Cold metal. Radishes.

  Not much of a perfume flower, I’ll grant, but they’re good for gardens—or at least that’s what my mom says. She has a huge patch out back, mixed in with her vegetables. Apparently, they repel aphids.

  I breathe in again, slowly this time.

  A bit unfair of the aphids, really. The scent’s not that bad.

  The unpleasant buzz in my body is just beginning to fade when I’m confronted with one final sensory intrusion: the bell rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  I lift my eyes over the top of the flowers. It’s Gavin, of course, pounding his fist on the service bell at the other end of the counter.

  “Wade’ll be right back,” I say, my voice more tremulous than I would like.

  His hand freezes, hovering a bare inch above the bell. He turns to me and raises an eyebrow in a precise, controlled fashion that screams formal training.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  With most anyone else I wouldn’t know how to respond, unsure whether he was saying he genuinely didn’t hear me or asking me to repeat myself or apologizing for disturbing me or just telling me, in exceedingly British terms, to fuck right off. But I’ve spent hundreds of hours alone in a dark room with Gavin, scrutinizing his face, his movements, his diction. I know what he looks like when he’s irritated or excited or exhausted or triumphant or reluctantly aroused. I know which of his costars he liked and which he loathed. I have cataloged his every careless word. I know him better than he’ll ever know me—not that he realizes it.

  Which is how I know I need to apologize.

  I sigh—

  —and something tickles my nose. A chrysanthemum.

  The relief is so strong it nearly knocks my knees out from under me. I still have my face stuck in the flowers, and I must have been mumbling into them. I was wrong: Gavin’s not mad. He simply couldn’t hear me.

  “I said, ‘Wade’ll be right out.’”

  “Yes,” Gavin drawls. “I heard you the first time.”

  I shift my weight to the balls of my feet and gauge the shortest route to the front door.

  Gavin comes around the corner of the reception desk, stopping a good six inches closer than I’m comfortable with. When he stretches a hand out in my direction, I can’t help but recoil.

  He draws back. “My reputation precedes me.”

  I shake my head. “Oh, no, I’m just being weird.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I’m sorry.”

  His face crumples a little. “Do I seem upset?”

  “Kind of?”

  He presses a palm to his cheek and wrinkles his nose. “I was aiming for rueful. Amazing what people will forgive if they think you have a sense of humor.”

  “Oh, I would never think that.”

  “Yes, darling, I can see that. I only wanted to tell you—you’ve got a petal.”

  I brush at my face—

  “No,” he says, pointing to his temple. “Here.”

  My hands fly up to pick out the petal before he can offer to do it himself, because that would be intolerable. This, however, creates a new problem. I don’t see a trash can nearby, and I can’t leave the petal at reception—the desk is too shiny, too clean, someone would have to pick up and polish after me. But I don’t want to put it in my pocket either because I can only stand having two very particular things in my pockets: my phone and my lip balm. I make an exception for a walkie from time to time, but only begrudgingly. Having anything else in there would feel like a splinter or a kidney stone or a LEGO in my shoe.

  I settle for rolling the petal into a ball and dropping it back in the vase.

  There.

  When I finish, Gavin has a funny look on his face.

  “You’re the new editor, aren’t you?”

  Three projects. We’ve worked together on three projects. I could probably hand him my passport and he still wouldn’t be able to place me.

  I nod, weary, the day catching up with me all at once.

  “Why didn’t you say so from the start?”

  “I’ve found it’s generally not the best thing to lead with.”

  Anjali materializes at my side.

  “Jesus Christ, Gavin.”

  I turn to her, desperately. “Please tell me what I’m supposed to be doing.”

  “I thought I told you to go to your room.”

  “But I don’t have a—”

  She shoots me an impatient look. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Come the fuck on,” Gavin groans. “You can’t confine me to quarters. You’re not Napoleon.”

  “Would you rather take it up with Tony?”

  “I’d rather take it up with my agent.”

  Their voices rise, clashing with the clatter of the dining room, the whine of an air handler that needs to be replaced, the intermittent clinking of glass at the bar, and a piercing, high-pitched tone that probably has something to do with the fluorescent light I can see shining from behind the office door. Beneath it all, faint but inescapable, is the sound of the ocean.

  I wonder if they’d notice if I got my earplugs out.

  I realize Gavin’s looking at me expectantly.

  “What?”

  He tilts his head to the side. “I asked if you’re having second thoughts yet.”

  Anjali steps between us. “Yeah, you’re not supposed to talk to her, either.”

  This time Gavin’s eyebrows actually seem to move spontaneously. “What? She’s crew.”

  “Like you said, I’m not Napoleon. I don’t make the laws—I just enforce them.”

  Gavin’s lips twist. “Javert, then.”

  “Totally different time periods, pal. And don’t pretend you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

  “He’s overreaching. Even for him.”

  “Well, luckily, you can leave whenever you want to. You’d be doing me a favor, really. I’ve got Dan Radcliffe on speed dial, and I bet he’d love an excuse to do something awful to his hair.” She strides over to the reception desk, boosts herself up, and speaks in loud, crisp tones that stop the dining room servers in their tracks. “Wade! Mr. Davies would like to leave as soon as possible!”

  She slides back onto her feet and puts her hands on her hips. Wade comes bolting out of the back office, his mouth slack.

  “Mr. Davies is leaving? But he can’t—”

  “He can and he will,” Anjali interjects. “Right, Gavin?”

  She and Gavin stare at each other so long I half expect an Ennio Morricone music cue.

  After what must be nearly a minute, Gavin rel
ents. “No,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m not leaving.”

  Wade lets out a breath. “Oh, good. I mean, I’m glad to hear that. I was just telling Francie about Marissa here, and she was so happy you’d finally found a new editor because, you know, this movie means a lot to her, and—”

  “Yes, thank you, Wade, that will be all.”

  I open my mouth to add my thanks, but Anjali drags me down the hall before I can say anything.

  She already knows me so well.

  GRACE PORTILLO: So, Gavin, why were you so eager to work with Tony?

  GAVIN DAVIES: Because, Grace, mainstream critical validation is my love language.

  SUZY KOH: At least you’re honest, I guess.

  GAVIN DAVIES: Plus, that part. An unattractive outcast unfairly accused of a crime he almost certainly didn’t commit? Delicious.

  SUZY KOH: I’m not sure that’s how Tony saw it.

  GAVIN DAVIES: Yes, well, to Tony’s eternal displeasure, he can’t actually control his actors’ minds.

  SUZY KOH: Yeah, what’s that about?

  GAVIN DAVIES: His penchant for psychological manipulation is well-known in the industry.

  GRACE PORTILLO: Can you give us another example?

  GAVIN DAVIES: He was an absolute nightmare to Annemieke, of course. On Persephone, rumor was he’d doctored a pregnancy test so for the first two days of the shoot she thought they were going to have a baby. She was, naturally, devastated when that turned out not to be the case.

  GRACE PORTILLO: Are you kidding? And she stayed married to him?

  GAVIN DAVIES: She won Best Actress, didn’t she?

  NINE

  Would you please slow down?”

  “No,” Anjali says, her hand tightening around my wrist. “We’re late enough as it is.”

  “And where is it we’re going again?”

  She glances back, a frown working its way between her eyebrows. “If I tell you, it will ruin the surprise.”