Ready On Set Drama

by Maisie Dean

  If Nate noticed any of my feelings show up on my face, he didn’t say so.

  Nate looked apologetic and sheepish. “I may have given into my paranoia. But you’re here now, so why don’t you stay for the full week?” Nate grinned.

  “I like having you around. And you can never be too thorough, right?”

  “Exactly,” I said. I felt relieved. Two days was too fast to complete any job, and when would I get the chance to be on-set again? “Of course I’ll stay if that’s what you want.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Nate said. “Was there something you were going to tell me?”

  I’d nearly forgotten about my earlier encounter with Keiko. “It’s probably irrelevant now,” I said with a wave of my hand. “It was just the director’s PA, Keiko. She was filming you earlier, and not in a he’s-so-cute or fangirl kind of way. She actually looked angry,” I added. “Does that make any sense?”

  Nate scratched behind his ear. “Kind of,” he said. “She’s best friends with my ex, Trudy.”

  “Trudy? As in Trudy-Debeaux-on-the-call-sheet Trudy?” I asked.

  Nate looked taken aback that I was able to quote her full name. “How did you know?”

  “I have a talent for remembering names,” I said with a shrug. “I saw it on sheet yesterday and again today.” The truth was that I didn’t always have a talent for remembering names. Years ago, after arriving in LA, I learned quickly that, as a tiny fish in the gigantic acting ocean, it helped to know people’s names. Who doesn’t like someone who remembers their name? It had taken years of practice, but now a quick read-through of a call sheet or script lodged names solidly into my brain.

  “She’ll be a recurring guest star on the show,” Nate said. “Which makes our breakup less than ideal, but I thought everything had been going fine. We don’t talk much, but when we do, it’s friendly and light-hearted. Things ended a couple months back and she seemed to be cool with it, but she could potentially have motive to sabotage my career. Trudy was the other person I suspected, not Keiko.”

  “Keiko could just be a loyal friend,” I offered. “Do you have any idea why she’d say that you were irresponsible?”

  Nate frowned. “Irresponsible? I can’t say anyone’s ever accused me of that before. I can’t think of anything. Can you?”

  “Me? Based on the two days I’ve known you?” I asked. “As long as that was the first skull you’ve stepped on, you’re in the clear. Accidents happen.”

  Nate let out a warm chuckle. “Touché,” he said.

  Thomas rounded the edge of the still-dripping stone-wall set. “Nate, my man, find your jockstrap! Lou and the boys are heading out for a few rounds of paintballing,” he said in his smooth, resonant voice. “Oh, hi, Kacey,” Thomas said with a smile. “You’re welcome to join if you like. I was kidding about the jockstrap. We only go that crazy on Fridays.”

  It appeared that all hard feelings had been forgiven now that he and Nate were thick as thieves again.

  “I try not to mix business with pleasure, but I appreciate the invite,” I said, sliding off Nate’s chair. No one needed to know that while I hadn’t tried, I was really enjoying my work that week.

  “Let’s go, man, Lou’s waiting!” Thomas said. “See ya, Kacey!” Thomas headed back to the door, answering another call from Lou by the sounds of it.

  “I should go, but thanks for your work today,” Nate said. Then, once Thomas was occupied on the phone he leaned in and spoke again in a lower voice. “Tomorrow, let’s see if you can work your detective magic on Trudy.”

  “I’m on it. Have fun tonight, but not too much. If anything happens to either of your pretty little heads, it sounds like Tina will have a conniption,” I said.

  Nate nodded. “You’re absolutely right. Jockstrap it is,” he said with a wink.

  CHAPTER 9

  I arrived home feeling worn out but satisfied with my day’s work. Truth be told, it was Nate’s realizations rather than mine that had essentially solved the case, but he seemed grateful toward me anyway. I felt a lightness and excitement about getting to show up to set again the next morning. Without much to do work wise, besides casually looking into Trudy’s feelings about Nate, it might even feel like I was taking a few days off.

  “Hi,” Rosie called out from the living room.

  I could see down the hallway to where she sat on our old couch. Both of our laundry baskets had been emptied onto it. It looked like my evening plans were going to be a little less exciting than Nate’s.

  * * *

  By the time I’d given Rosie a rundown of the day, we had folded nearly all of our clothes. While Rosie tackled the towels, I sorted the rest.

  “Whenever you tell me about your job, I feel like I’m getting my daily dose of drama,” Rosie said. “I don’t even need to watch my soaps.”

  I shrugged, placing a lacy bra in my pile and a sports top in Rosie’s. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it—every day being something new, I mean.”

  “I love hearing about it, but I prefer my daily shtick. It’s black and white. Pick up the package, drop off the package, get paid. And you, my friend, your job is all kinds of gray. Fifty Shades, if you will,” Rosie said with a smirk.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice,” I responded with a wink. At least getting to privately crush on my client on this case was better than daydreaming about my bosses. All three of them.

  “It never gets too routine for you?” I asked.

  Rosie shook her head. “No. I still get to vary the routes I take, it’s not like it’s exactly the same each day.”

  “I know,” I pressed. “But do you ever think about doing something else? Something bigger?”

  Rosie stopped mid-towel fold. Her shoulders sunk and she let her eye contact drop. “You know I’m only renting this cheapo apartment so that I can build some savings. I own my van. And I actually enjoy my job and the people on my route, not to mention navigating LA traffic efficiently, which is a major job and skill in itself…” Rosie trailed off. She resumed folding the beige towel but still kept her eyes off mine. “When I’m planning a route through the city, everything else just fades to the background. It’s the one thing that makes me calm. Zen, almost. Like the way I imagine monks must feel.”

  I finished sorting through the stacks and leaned in toward her. “Rosie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

  “It’s okay. I know it’s strange. I wouldn’t expect you to get it. Clearly, you need a lot more going on to feel happy with your work,” Rosie said. She finally looked up and gave me a weak smile. “I might watch my soaps tonight. I’m pretty tired.” Rosie scooped up her pile of clothes from the couch cushion and stood up. “Goodnight. See you in the morning,” she said.

  “Rosie, I really am sorry, I didn’t mean it like that at all,” I said, turning my body on the couch to follow her as she left the room and walked down the hallway.

  “It’s all good,” she called back, but she turned the corner into her bedroom without looking back.

  After reheating some pizza and throwing together something resembling a Caesar salad, I climbed into my bed to watch some TV too. It wasn’t as enjoyable alone, but Rosie had made it clear that she needed space.

  I fell asleep early, feeling guilty and sad about offending my best friend. I knew she had a point. I did always seem to be searching for something more, never quite satisfied with what I had. I realized I’d been seeing her and what she did each day all wrong. I couldn’t imagine enjoying her work exactly, but she was onto something with finding her bliss, or Zen, or whatever it was. I, on the other hand, seemed to still be getting stuck on my failure-to-launch acting career when I had an amazing, exciting, satisfying job at the Booker Brothers Detective Agency.

  That night I dreamed that the agency had accepted a reality TV contract, and camera crews followed me everywhere, every minute of the day. Rosie moved out because she couldn’t stand having no privacy, and America got a close-up view of all of my flaws. Especially the way I still u
sed plastic straws when they were available, even though I was aware of how bad they were for the environment. I woke up with sweat beading on the back of my neck, and subtle pressure on my feet from where my clean laundry pile still sat.

  CHAPTER 10

  Traffic was exceptionally bad the following afternoon. I had been tasked with driving a small stack of documents from the Bookers over to Nate’s agent. Why they couldn’t have been emailed, faxed even, was beyond me. Being in the car on a hot day was one of my least favorite things to do, and it didn’t help that the AC was functioning on a nearly nonexistent level. I was ready to pull my hair out when I remembered I had access to an even better navigation system than the one in my phone: my roommate, the delivery superwoman. A few rings later and I had Rosie on the phone.

  Rosie said in a confident, reassuring tone, “Now that you’re off the freeway, take the next left and stay on it for a couple miles.” Then she gave me more directions.

  “Thank you, thank you,” I said.

  The roads weren’t too jammed after all. My shoulders finally relaxed.

  I let out a sigh, which made Rosie laugh.

  “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” she said.

  “I don’t know how you do this every day. It takes mad skills and bucket loads more patience than I’ve got, apparently,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have taken the ten to begin with. That was your first mistake.” Rosie’s voice was calm and collected, even though she must have been weaving through traffic of her own.

  “Rosie, I’m really sorry about last night. I know I offended you, I was totally inconsiderate–”

  “And insensitive,” she offered.

  “Insensitive, and… out of line,” I said. The guilt from the previous evening still gnawed at my chest, but it sounded like Rosie had let it all go. She laughed.

  “Kacey, it’s fine. No hard feelings at all, okay?” she said. “Just don’t forget these times when I save your butt from sitting in traffic for hours.”

  “Deal,” I said. “You’re sure you forgive me?”

  “Positive!” Rosie replied. “Which is why I’m now telling you to hang a right at the next major intersection. There’s a secret shortcut…”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later, I was moving through the congestion more easily. Rosie had left me with a string of instructions which I had repeated in my head so many times I’d basically internalized them.

  I’d finished my orange juice and craved another. I wish I hadn’t needed to leave set. I was getting re-accustomed to the routines and hustle and bustle of it all, and I was keenly aware that I only had two more days on the job. That morning had been uneventful, however, and there was no reason I needed to stay. Nate and Thomas’s bromance was continuing to blossom, and Keiko had been glued to the director’s side with her phone in her pocket all morning. I was supposed to be checking in on Trudy, Nate’s ex-girlfriend, but the schedule had shifted around and she didn’t end up having any scenes earlier that day. If there was something to discover where Trudy was concerned, I’d only have Thursday and Friday to get to the bottom of it.

  I felt foolish to have thought I could wrap up the case in two days. I still had no idea where the whisper campaign stemmed from. Nate had his hunches, but really it could be anyone in the massive cast and crew. I was glad that Nate was feeling confident about his career regardless of whether or not I solved the case, but I always solved my cases. Had I let myself get too caught up in the film world? Did I lack focus on this particular case? No. I was focused. I was determined. It often felt this way, bleak and confusing, right before a big break. Tomorrow would be the day I cracked it. Today even.

  I tightened my hands on the steering wheel and sat up straight. I had two and a half days. I’d done more in less time. I would find the origins of the whisper campaign for Nate, for the Bookers, and for myself.

  ***

  Finally, I arrived at the correct address according to the GPS and parked in the shared parking lot. The office building was on the outskirts of the downtown core. It was only about six or seven stories tall, but it looked large and important all the same. The exterior of the building was a deep gray, nearly blue, with large windows laid out generously across each floor. A stainless steel sign above the oversize doors read Zimmerman Talent Inc. I was in the right place. I hadn’t expected Nate’s representation to be so impressive. I’d heard that Iris Zimmerman had been expanding her agency, and it looked as though she’d built her own empire.

  The extra-tall glass doors opened automatically when I approached. The lobby inside was air-conditioned and the large space had an aroma like fresh, cold water. A long, black reception desk was laid out prominently right in front of me. Somewhere beneath the high counter were lighting strips that illuminated the shiny marble floor beneath—and my simple leather flats.

  I felt sweaty and sticky from the long car ride. The wall behind the front desk was so shiny that I could see hundreds of my tiny baby hairs sticking out at odd angles. This was not how I ever wanted to get signed by a talent agency. Not that I was looking for an agent, but just in case.

  Three model-type women sat behind the desk. They all had their smooth hair in neat and glamorous buns or high ponytails, and plenty of defining eyeliner.

  I cleared my throat and stood on tiptoe to appear taller on the other side of the tall desk.

  “I’m here to see Iris Zimmerman, I have something to drop off,” I said.

  The woman with copper hair and a high ponytail appeared to be suppressing a smile, while the other two glanced at each other.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the copper woman asked, raising a perfectly waxed eyebrow.

  “No. I came to deliver these from my office,” I said, setting the documents on the black counter.

  Something in the woman’s face changed. Her eyebrow descended off its high horse and she nodded. Her colleagues stopped staring at me and returned to their large, fancy desktops.

  “I see. I can take them,” the woman said.

  “Actually, I was told to deliver them personally,” I replied.

  And just like that, the eyebrow was back. My receptionist looked annoyed.

  “Fine,” she said, returning her own gaze back to her screen. “As long as you don’t have headshots in there, I couldn’t care less. Ms. Zimmerman does not accept any unsolicited headshots in any circumstance.”

  It sounded as though Copper-head was quoting something. Her tone made my skin prickle. But instead of instinctively smoothing my hair or shrinking, I raised myself up taller on my toes.

  “None of those,” I said, tapping the folder of files. “Just good old-fashioned confidential documents,”

  “Excellent,” Copper-head said with a terse-lipped smile. “Floor seven, second elevator to your right.”

  “Thank you,” I replied in a cheerful tone. I knew plenty of people just like those women, and I’d promised myself a long time ago that I’d never stoop to their catty level.

  As I neared the elevator, I saw a women’s washroom down the hall. My face was in need of freshening up. Luckily, I had a small makeup bag with the essentials in my purse.

  In the fancy bathroom that matched the upscale lobby, I splashed my face with cold water and patted it dry. I swiped on some lipstick. It was red, but an understated red. I applied some fresh mascara, used a couple oily skin-blotter sheets, refreshed my deodorant, and dabbed a few dots of concealer under my eyes. The transformation was uplifting. I felt revived, and like I belonged in the building.

  The small hairs around my face were still damp from getting splashed but I was confident that using the hand dryer, even in the air-conditioned room, would get my sweat glands activated again. Before I left the bathroom, I straightened my spine and swept my hair behind my shoulders. I pushed open the door and walked straight back to the elevator to find floor number seven.

  When the elevator doors silently slid apart, I wasn’t inside a hallway, but directly in another open
lobby. The positioning of it all was reminiscent of a swanky penthouse and the similarities didn’t end there. Inside Iris Zimmerman’s office, things had taken a turn for the white. Besides the polished concrete floor, everything was white. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture. If I squinted, it felt as though I was a two-dimensional doodle walking around on a blank page.

  The reception desk, and the receptionist for that matter, blended into the wall so well that I was startled when the young woman spoke.

  “Hello, do you have an appointment?” the young woman said. She had platinum blonde hair and wore a white blouse that hung loosely on her small figure. Her voice was high and nasally but her blue eyes were open and kind. A small silver sign on the white marble desk read “Mabel Boyd.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “No worries. It happens more often than you’d think,” she replied. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m just delivering some paperwork from my office to Ms. Zimmerman.”

  “Ms. Zimmerman is out at the moment. I can make sure she gets it.” Mabel held out her hand for the folder.

  I shifted my weight from flat to flat. “I have specific orders to give it to Ms. Zimmerman herself. It’s for a private matter concerning Nate Pavel and–”

  There was a flash of brown in my peripheral vision. “Nate Pavel?” said a man’s voice.

  I turned to see a man who was not much taller than myself wearing a brown suit. He was mid-forties, round in the middle, and had a receding hairline. The overall brown aura his clothes gave off stood out starkly against the clean white of marble and reflective glass walls.

  “Bob Bukowski,” he said, extending his hand.

  I took it only to find it exceedingly sweaty. Beads of perspiration were also collecting around his temples.