by Lee Winter
The room was silent. Had she missed a question? “I’m sorry, what?”
“Do you like Badour’s movies?” Brian repeated. “Rowan and I saw Quand Pleurent les Clowns last year. Divine. It was like an unstable still life.”
What did that even mean? “I did appreciate it for what it was,” she said. “An ambitious film-maker showcasing his skills. I’m curious to know what Hollywood makes of him when they meet the man, not just his films.”
“And what it makes of you,” Grace noted. “They’ll see you, not your on-screen villain for the first time, as well.”
“Um…” Elizabeth frowned. “No, I’d still be playing a role. It’s no different.”
“It’s very different.” Grace leaned forward, giving her a close look. “It’s a trademark of all Badour films. He reveals the actor as well as their character. It’s why his films seem so real. I, for one, will be very intrigued by what he finds under your skin. You’ve been holding out on us for far too long.”
Elizabeth blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You hold your cards so close, dear Bess. Soon we’ll get to see all of you. Your secrets. What’s behind the mask you always wear. I cannot wait. In fact, an unraveling would do you a world of good.” She thrummed delicate fingers against the leather arm rest.
Blood rushed to Elizabeth’s face. Her secrets? These were not for anyone’s consumption. Certainly not for Grace to pick over. Or the wider cinema-viewing population.
Silence coated the room like ash. Alex’s eyes had gone squinty, like she was trying to understand what Grace was getting at.
Brian slid his gaze between Elizabeth and Grace. “Um, Grace, dearest, no one’s expected to share anything they don’t want to, here or elsewhere. Besides, Bess’s a big girl. I’m sure she can handle a demanding Frenchman. She’ll be fine at drawing a line in the sand she’s most comfortable with.”
Thank God for Brian. Elizabeth exhaled. He’d been her first friend when she began her law course at Cambridge. He’d discovered her in the cafeteria one day, hunched over a textbook, and had amused her with an impromptu sketch: Woman Eating Alone. He’d invited her to see him and his friends in a play. That had been the start of everything.
Her shift from law to drama had felt like the most natural thing in the world. And then came Grace. A decade older, she’d entered their world as a guest lecturer and decided Elizabeth was a talent to be refined. That was the day Elizabeth’s small, safe world tilted on its axis.
Grace laughed suddenly. It was light and pretty, and a complete affectation—Elizabeth had heard her stage laugh often enough to know that. “Sorry, Bess, I was just playing. Ask someone to tell you their secrets and they’ll deny they have any. Intimate to someone you know their secrets and their horror is palpable.” Grace waved carelessly. “I’m sorry, though. I see that wasn’t the nicest joke.”
“No.” Amrit peered at her. “It wasn’t.”
Her expression shifted to one of actual regret. “Oh dear. I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? Can you forgive me?”
Elizabeth eyed her friend. Irritation rose up. But then memories flooded her, of all the times Grace had helped her, taught her tricks for remembering lines or projecting her voice, as well as tips for dealing with handsy producers or star-struck fans. She’d also given Elizabeth the biggest gift of all, when she’d first arrived in LA. Grace was the reason Rachel had agreed to represent her. She smiled. “Of course. Forgiven.”
“Excellent,” Grace said with a satisfied purr. “I know my sense of humor’s always been lousy. I hope you still like me anyway?”
What a fine performance of contrition. Even so, Elizabeth gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Always.” Lifting her tea, she tilted it in silent toast toward Grace.
Chapter 3
Make-up done, Summer stifled a yawn while Sylvia, the set’s hair stylist, fussed around her. Next to her sat Molly Garcia, who played a second-year medical intern on the run from her handsome, unhinged twin brother.
Fidgeting, Summer stared at her fingers. She had survived four hours with her mother and had the green fingertips to prove it. With any luck, she’d be able to keep her hands in her pockets for her upcoming scenes because Skye Storm’s Heavenly Homemade Dyes vlog had been more demonic than anything else.
It was barely seven and she was dying for the tea steaming in her cup on the table three feet away. But that would require moving, and Sylvia was lethal with jerking her hair if she so much as twitched.
That tea was the liquid of the gods. She couldn’t, of course, confess to Elizabeth exactly how she’d come by her habit. She pursed her lips at the thought.
“No duckface!” Jon, the make-up artist, leaned across and rapped Summer’s knuckles with an eyebrow pencil, then resumed listening to Molly’s story about some hot new club.
“Sorry.” Summer’s mind drifted. Her first scene required her to trail around with a group of other residents while the Head of Cardio, Dr. Mendez, explained various patients’ conditions. He would ask the residents questions. She had to answer one. She’d been practicing her line.
Could there be a problem with the chordae tendineae, doctor?
It was something to do with a heart valve. She’d looked it up.
Could there be a problem with the chordae tendineae, doctor?
Could there…
“…heard she’s a bitch. Guess that’s where she got the nickname.”
Her brain suddenly tuned into Molly’s conversation. Unless there were two women on set nicknamed ‘bitch,’ it was a safe bet as to who she was insulting.
In the mirror, Summer caught Jon offering one of those neutral nods that sought more juicy gossip, rather than signaling agreement.
Sylvia frowned. “Well, don’t believe everything you hear,” she said. “Ms. Thornton is a total pro. It’s not her fault what they did to her character.”
“Pity our social media team, though.” Jon waved his eyebrow pencil. “Hunt and Thornton both get a ton of hate on the official fan forum board. Several hundred posts, easy.”
“A week?” Molly asked. “Holy fu—”
“A day.”
Summer’s lips pressed together, earning her another sharp look from Jon. How would that mess with a person’s head? It might explain Elizabeth’s bad mood.
“Perfect casting, if you ask me.” Molly grinned. “She has resting bitch face.”
“She does not!”
Everyone’s eyes darted to meet Summer’s in the mirror.
Jon snorted. “And here I was thinking you were a mute, darling.” He tapped her cheek. “A beautiful mute, of course.”
Molly eyed Summer too. She had an attractive face, a buzz cut, and olive skin and played a scared, butch, loner Haitian refugee. She was none of the above in reality, and especially loved dropping the name of her boyfriend into every conversation.
“Well, Rico says…”
Case in point.
“…that Elizabeth Thornton’s sour face would leave any man limp for life. Not that he has to worry about that with me around.” She smirked.
Ew. Also total BS. The men Elizabeth dated, all manscaped British hunks, were elegant, immaculately dressed, and refined, with names like Brian, Rowan, and, lately, Amrit. They seemed more than happy with Elizabeth’s company. And, unlike the infamous Rico, none of those men looked like they’d make tacky comments about any woman’s looks.
Sylvia sighed. “It’s a shame. Ms. Thornton is nothing like Chief Hunt.” She gave Molly a warning look. “She’s just reserved. British. And you’ve got to admit it was a mean thing they did to her character. That’d annoy anyone.”
“Good ratings, though.” Jon beamed. “My God, we hit top ten.”
“Oh come on,” Molly shrugged. “It’s just drama. The usual stupid TV crap. It went down with Hunt the way it does with everyone.”
“Why?” Summer asked.
Sylvia gave her a curious look and squirted gunk all over her hair as if readying it to survive cyclonic winds. “Ay-yi. Good question. No idea.”
“Maybe she pissed off someone upstairs?” Molly said. “Or all of them. Gah, she’s so uptight and boring, who cares? Moving on.” She pulled out her phone. “Jon, tell me which Instagram filter brings out my eyes best? I need to look put together and shit, but not too posed or plastic.”
Jon’s eyes lit up as he launched into an answer.
Sylvia murmured that Summer was done. She made to move her chair back, but was stopped by Sylva’s hand on her arm.
“It’s good you see past the nonsense,” the hair stylist said under her breath. “Don’t get sucked into the rumors. It’s mostly bull. Especially about her.”
“I know.”
Sylvia’s eyes crinkled. “Well. I like you.” She released Summer’s arm. “And Ms. Thornton’s one class act. She has more talent in her pinkie than most of the rest of the cast. You could do well watching her.”
As if I could stop. Summer reached for her tea to avoid saying anything that would give away her unchecked admiration. Damn. Lukewarm now.
Sylvia gave an impatient cluck as she glanced at Jon and Molly, deep in conversation on the merits or otherwise of sepia filters. She waved her comb. “We’re behind. Too much talk-talk-talk. Not enough work-work-work.”
Summer left them to it. She’d have loved to have picked apart Sylvia’s words, but business came before curiosity.
Could there be a problem with the chordae tendineae, doctor?
“Could there be a problem with the tendineae chordae, doctor?” Summer asked.
Raif shook his head and began to reply.
“CUT!”
Crap. Summer blushed. “Sorry. Um, of course I know it’s the chordae tendineae, and I’ll…”
Ravitz was staring at her. “Not that! What the hell’s on your fingers?”
Oh no! She’d pulled her hands out of her pocket on the second take. “Um, dye?” Her voice rose an octave. Summer offered an apologetic smile. “From a tie-dying incident gone bad?”
There was a silence. Then a masculine guffaw.
Well, at least Raif found it funny.
Then Molly, right beside her, lost it in a series of squeezed out snorts. Then Steve, Kaylah, Jeremiah, Malek, Tori, and… Oh hell. There goes everyone.
Summer rammed her hands back into her pockets, forming fists. Not funny at all.
Dread filled her when she saw that Elizabeth had just arrived, ready for her next scene with Raif.
Still Ravitz hadn’t spoken. He simply stared at Summer. His gaze flicked to Elizabeth, and then his eyes positively gleamed.
“I could just put them back in my pocket again,” Summer offered, cheeks aflame.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened incredulously as she worked out what the issue was.
Okay, great. Now Summer was a laughing stock with everyone. Including the one person she really didn’t want to appear a fool in front of.
Ravitz was now on his phone, having an intense exchange while waving in her general direction. She caught the name Hugo. The head writer?
She was so dead. Maybe literally. Was he working out with Hugo how to kill off Joey? She glared at the green stains on her fingertips. Death by gangrene? On this show, nothing was too crazy.
Ravitz crooked his finger at Elizabeth. She approached him and bent her head to listen.
Finally, she nodded and walked to the edge of the set, her mask firmly in place. This was Chief Hunt’s detached expression, one part pure ice, nine parts derisive sneer. All parts intimidating.
“We’re going to go again,” Ravitz announced. “Ms. Hayes, leave your hands out of your pockets. Say your line—correctly this time—and then Mr. Benson,” he turned to Raif, “before you answer, Chief Hunt will enter, interrupt, and say something about the fingers. Ms. Hayes, respond to her line exactly as you did to me. And Ms. Thornton will then reply, okay?”
“Um, sure? Why? I mean, could just…” Summer pointedly shoved her hands back in her pockets, appalled to be the cause of a rewrite, even just a short one.
“Because I said so. Any other questions?” His eyes dared her to challenge him again.
The set was silent, and behind her she felt her cast mates stiffen.
“No, I’m good,” she said brightly. Far, far too brightly. Christ. Take it down a notch.
“Good girl,” he nodded, then waved at the camera operator.
Summer winced.
“Positions, people,” he called. He looked at Elizabeth, who was on her mark, then glanced around, and called, “Speed. Rolling, and…action.”
“Could there be a problem with the chordae tendineae, doctor?” Summer asked. Relief flowed through her that at least she’d got that bit right. Her anxiety spiked, though, when Chief Hunt stepped into her field of vision, with a face like soured milk.
“Dr. Mendez,” Hunt said, voice clipped, “I need a word about your last report. It’s simply not acceptab…” Her gaze drifted to Summer’s hands. “What is that?” she pointed.
“Um…” Summer actually withered a little under her sneering scrutiny, and hoped they’d chalk it up to brilliant acting. “Dye? From a tie-dying incident gone bad?”
Hunt’s gaze turned challenging. “Be careful what you dip your fingers into around here, doctor.” She looked bitterly at Mendez. “Everything can harm you.”
So they’re playing up Hunt’s bad breakup again? Okay.
Summer found herself saying the first thing that entered her head. “That’s okay,” she smiled, aiming for unfazed with a hint of brazen, “I can take care of myself.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Elizabeth said in an ad-lib of her own, suddenly taking Summer’s hand, flipping it over, and examining it, her arched eyebrow mocking.
In spite of all Summer’s experience and every ounce of acting skill she had, the only thing in her rapidly emptying mind was the feel of Elizabeth’s fingers around hers. She took a step closer, right inside Elizabeth’s space, then said words that bypassed her brain entirely. “You don’t know me, then. But you will.”
Summer had meant it to come out determined, strong, cocky. Instead she sounded wistful. Joey Carter, second-year resident, sounded like Summer’s former self, whispering to that ethereal woman on stage in London. Her line also sounded, well, a tiny, little bit like a come on, if you thought about it. She desperately hoped no one would read it that way. It was probably only in her head anyway.
Elizabeth—definitely not Hunt this time—started and inhaled sharply. She dropped Summer’s hand instantly. Her eyes darted to Raif. “We’ll talk about that report later, Dr. Mendez,” she snapped. “See me after rounds.” Then she pivoted on her heel and stalked out.
“CUT!”
Everyone was staring at Summer. There was no sound.
She wasn’t exactly sure where to look. Ravitz’s jaw was hanging open. Maybe he hadn’t expected the newbie to toss out a bunch of ad-libs? But if that was it, why hadn’t he stopped the scene sooner?
He gave her a slow smile. It reminded her of a snotty kid up to no good. “Thank you, Ms. Hayes. Most…ah…unexpected. Okay, people, let’s finish the scene. Mr. Benson, start with: ‘All right, back to business. No, Dr. Carter, it’s not the chordae tendineae’. And then resume the scene as written.”
Sliding a bowl of salad and a water bottle across an emp
ty table near craft services, Summer slumped into a chair. She dropped her head onto the chipped laminated surface and left it there. She was sooo tired and still in a world of stress over this morning.
“Long day,” said a voice near her. Next came the rattle of a tray landing opposite.
She lifted her head. Tori Farmer. The pleasantly rounded African-American actress played a Bronx-born doctor on the show. Funny thing was, her real accent was as broadly Texan as Summer had ever heard. It was kind of cute. Actually, so was she. Tori radiated energy, warmth, and charisma. And, boy, the camera loved her.
Summer attempted a friendly smile and sat up straighter. “I thought children’s TV was bad. The pace they set here is pretty full-on.”
“Yup.” Tori nodded. “You get used to it. I’ve been here a year and it’s like second nature now.” She bit into a cheeseburger that looked considerably more interesting than Summer’s salad. After swallowing, Tori said, “Saw you had an ad-lib today. Ravitz thinks the fact he allows them every now and then is a sign he’s in touch with his creative side.” She snorted.
“Ah, okay.” So that’s what that was about?
“It was an interesting scene though. Your take with Thornton.”
“Uh, yeah.” Summer scratched the label on her water bottle with her thumbnail.
“That was somethin’. I’ve never seen the British Bitch look shocked before. I actually think you knocked her out of character for a second. Amazing.” Tori beamed at her. “No one’s ever done that.”
Summer swallowed, unsure where Tori was going with this. “I just said the first thing that came to mind.”
“It was clever. We’ve all been talking about it.”
“You have?” Summer squeaked, then cleared her throat. “Any…conclusions?”
“That it was genius. By throwing down the gauntlet to the Chief, you just guaranteed yourself a ton more scenes with a lead.” Tori lifted her coffee and tilted it in salute. “I don’t think I’d have thought of something like that in a million years. Or if I did, I don’t think I’d have the nerve to try it.” She laughed. “I might be a tough Texas kid, but Hunt and Thornton both are scary as shit.”