by Gigi Blume
Jaxson
We finally had a full cast although Emma wouldn’t agree with me. Beth Bennet rang me Monday night to tell me she’d been cast as the lead in a found-footage thriller. It was a gritty flick by two young up-and-coming filmmakers and a good opportunity. Although I was disappointed she couldn’t stay on with us, I knew she deserved better than a bit part. True, she wasn’t a big name, but she soon would be, and it wasn’t fair to tease her with the role of Isabelle only to take it away again. I would have to go over the contracts with Pinky to make sure she didn’t make the same mistake again in the future. Even so, I took all the responsibility upon myself; I should have paid closer attention to the particulars of the movie instead of buying a karaoke bar. My timing couldn’t have been worse.
Field of Hearts was too big a project to leave to chance, yet I found myself second-guessing my choices. It was the wrong time to take Pinky on as line producer no matter how wild her enthusiasm. It meant I had to carry some of her load. I needed more support above the line, but the budget was wearing thin. I couldn’t hire anyone else at this point.
Thank heavens for Martínez. If it weren’t for him, Karaoke Unplugged would have gone down the drain. I soon discovered running a nightclub wasn’t as easy as it looked, especially if you know nothing about the hospitality industry. He kept in touch with me every night—usually by text—to tell me how business was picking up. The club was in the black for the first time in several months, and I knew it had very little to do with my input and everything to do with his fresh ideas. He was a brilliant manager.
My attentions were better focused on making movies. With only a few days until the studio sent execs to green light the film, time was precious to rehearse scenes and choreography. It wasn’t required—a dramatized table-read with songs performed behind music stands were all they expected. But I wanted to give them the unexpected. I wanted to give them absolutely no reason to turn us down. I wanted their tears. I wanted to rip their hearts out, pass them around the room, and have every single actor leave an imprint. Kind of like the hand and footprints at the Chinese Theatre Forecourt but on the psyche instead of wet cement.
And then there was Frank. I knew early on he’d bring musical fans in droves to the box office. He’d be the one people would come to see, not me. I should have been over the moon he agreed to the project. But there was something about the man. I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t be sure if my judgement was clouded by my irrational claim on Emma’s attentions, or if I was finally losing it. I had to cut the kiss between Frank and Emma from the script. There was no way to leave it in and maintain my sanity. It didn’t help when Frank challenged me in my decision.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” he said when I passed out the revised pages. “You can’t cut out love scenes in a love story. We have to give the audience what they want.”
“And what exactly do they want, Frank?”
“Well, first, I think it’s a mistake there are no bedroom scenes. Take Outlander, for instance. Do you think people watch it for the history?”
That earned him a few laughs. Pinky fanned herself.
“I appreciate your opinion, but that is not the story we’re telling here.”
“It’s exactly the same story. One woman in love with two men. She’s got to have a roll in the hay with both.”
“I never intended this film to be about cheating. It’s a love story, yes. But it’s also about the parallels between the Civil War and the war in her heart between these two brothers. It’s a story about choices and loneliness and redemption.”
“And bodice ripping—”
“No bodice ripping. It’s a musical, remember? There’s no bodice ripping in Hamilton.”
“There would be if it was a feature film.”
Wow. This guy wouldn’t let off. I was done with this discussion and ready to get to other business.
“Moving on. Slight change in the Fort Sumter battle scene—”
“That scene would be much more powerful between the Donwell brothers if the stakes are higher,” Frank challenged. “What if George knows John loves his fiancée? He needs a reason to be jealous.”
“We’re going for a PG rating, here.”
“Stolen passionate kisses, then.”
“If you so much as kiss Emma anywhere but the back of her hand, it’s outright cheating.”
I may have said that a little too forcefully; all the other conversations in the room hushed, and the air dipped into a dead silence. The only sound was from the cars rushing by on Santa Monica Boulevard. Frank’s lip twitched with amusement, and Emma blushed severely. I squeezed my eyes and let out a breath that had been building in my chest. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“I mean if John Donwell kisses Penelope… it won’t go over well with a lot of audiences.”
Frank threw up his hands in surrender. “Okay, man. You’re the boss.”
Yeah, mate. I’m the boss.
Perhaps I jumped from one project to another too quickly. I’d barely wrapped the postproduction on the steampunk flick I filmed last fall. I pushed myself too hard and now I was blurring the lines between fact and fiction. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to take on an acting role and how to separate my own reality from my character’s feelings. It was probably time to check myself before getting too method. I had to remember Frank wasn’t my rival. I wasn’t a Union General, and Emma wasn’t my love interest waiting for me at her Yankee mansion. Heck, two thirds of us weren’t even American. To rectify my dignity, I pat Frank on the shoulder and breezily said, “Hey, mate. We’ll work in an ‘almost kiss,’ okay? That won’t offend anybody.”
By anybody, I meant me.
Rehearsal was nearly done for the day when Pinky commanded my notice by her tensed shoulders and deep frown. She was clutching her agenda binder with one hand and her mobile phone with the other. She may have also been sweating profusely, which wasn’t a good sign in February. For the last half hour of the day, I could feel her eyes on me as though she was trying to have a telepathic conversation with her intense stares. By the way she was trembling and biting her lip, I could tell this was a discussion I’d want to have in private.
“It will be better if you come right out and say it,” I told her once we had a moment alone.
“I’m afraid to.” She shifted her weight back and forth from foot to foot.
“If you don’t tell me, will the problem magically go away?”
“No, I guess not.”
I sighed impatiently, hoping she’d give me the news quickly before Emma came around the corner and discovered another reason to mistrust Pinky.
“Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together.”
“Okay. Well, remember when you told me to call and confirm with the studio for this Friday?”
“Yes. It’s just a formality, though. Once it’s in the books, they’re not likely to cancel.”
“You see, that’s just the thing.”
“Pinky, what did you do?”
“When I called Mr. Perry’s secretary in December, I scheduled the pitch for this Friday. At least I thought I did. I could have sworn I did. I have it written down here. See?”
She fumbled through her stack of binders to find her calendar.
“Pinky, I believe you. What happened?”
“The secretary—her name is Judy—such a nice woman. She has three dogs, two cats, and a tortoise. Can you imagine having a tortoise? She says they’re very low maintenance—”
“Pinky,” I warned. “What happened?”
She let out a heavy breath, the kind that made one’s shoulders sag.
“Judy said—I just called her an hour ago—she said we never officially scheduled it. That I was supposed to call her back after the holidays because she didn’t have Mr. Perry’s travel schedule at the time. And now he’s in Bali.”
“What about the other execs?”
“She never scheduled anyone to come. Oh, Mr Knightly, I’m so so
rry. I screwed it up royally.”
“I’m not going to say this isn’t bad, Pinky. It’s bad. It could take months to schedule another pitch. We could lose half our cast.”
“Judy said she’d try to squeeze us in a couple weeks from now if she can. She felt just as bad as I do. We bonded over our love of knitting. She made sweaters for all her animals. Even the tortoise. His name is Wyland. After the artist.”
“Okay, okay, Pinky. Can we focus, here?”
“Yes. I’m all about that, Mr Knightly.”
“I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Jaxson.”
“Of course, Mr Jaxson. What are we going to do?”
“We’re gonna go home. You will have a relaxing dinner, knit your sweaters, or whatever you like to do, and forget about the movie for one night. And one night only. I’m going to take the evening to think about what our next steps are and tomorrow morning, get here before anyone else, and we’ll jump into our plan. Got that?”
She nodded vehemently. “Yes. Got it. Olive Garden take-out, knitting, Wheel of Fortune.”
“Okaaay. Right, if that’s what you do to relax. Brilliant.”
She gave me a weak, grateful smile and shuffled toward the door.
“And Pinky… don’t tell this to anyone yet.”
“Okay. Bye, Mr Jaxson.”
As she walked away, I wondered if it was too late in life to pick up a different career. Maybe something less stressful—like a tightrope walker or one of those Deadliest Catch guys. If I had something to bang my head against, no time would be more appropriate than at that moment.
On my way to my car, I spotted Emma and Harriet having a rather animated conversation with Frank.
“There you are,” said Emma, waving me over to their little pow wow. “We were just making plans to meet up at Unplugged later on.”
“Actually, Emma, there’s something quite pressing I’d like to discuss with you tonight.”
Harriet pressed her lips together and grabbed Frank by the arm.
“We… just remembered we have to go over there.” She pointed to the other end of the car park. “See you tonight.”
The women hugged and did that female air kiss thing, and, like a complete dude, Frank fist bumped me. I didn’t want to be a complete jerk, so I reciprocated. Emma smiled sweetly at me as if I came bearing chocolate chip bikkies. She always looked at me like that—not that I deserved it.
“So, you wanna come over for dinner before karaoke? Mum’s making a flaxseed eggplant parmesan. And by parmesan, I mean nutritional yeast sprinkles. It’s actually not so bad if you drench it in marinara sauce.”
“It would be better if we make it at my house. I love your Mum and all, but I’d rather not have distractions.”
“Brilliant. Her marinara is rubbish. What’s on the menu?”
“Food. And bring your workout clothes.”
I needed to blow off some steam and, although I worked out better alone, there was something comforting about having Emma on the treadmill while I took my aggression out on the stationary bike.
She arrived on my doorstep two hours later sporting exercise clothing that would make Olivia Newton John green with envy. She even wore a terry cloth headband. It was a good look for her. Then again, every look was good on Emma.
“Prepare to be amazed, sir. I’ve been practicing my moves.”
“I think I’ll pass on the Jazzercize.”
“Oh, you’re hilarious. I’m talking about weights. Pumping iron like a boss.” She got in my face, waving her hands like a street thug.
“Oh? Well, let’s get to it, shall we?”
She led the way to my home gym, and I watched her swagger before me.
Crikey. I needed to clear my mind, not fill it with a fantasy in spandex.
“What kinds of moves are we talking about exactly?” I questioned as she positioned herself in front of my free weights. “Do you dance with them?”
“No. I murder them.”
“Murder them? Sounds a bit harsh.”
“You have to show them who’s in charge,” she said with a wink. “It’s mind over matter.”
“All right. How much can you lift?”
She shrugged nonchalantly. “Two hundred.”
“Ha! Emma, you can’t lift two hundred pounds.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Okay. Pick me up.”
“What? No.”
“Why not?” I challenged.
“Because you’re soft and squishy. I need something sturdy. Like barbells.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I sauntered away from her to get myself a clean towel, showing her my back so she couldn’t see the big grin on my face.
“What?”
I turned back around with a playful scowl.
“Oh, that you’re all talk. That’s okay. I’m just gonna go over here and start with the—”
I was unable to finish my teasing because she knocked the wind right out of me when she ploughed her shoulder into my belly, pushing me off balance. She wrapped her arms around my legs and… lifted me off the floor. It wasn’t much, maybe an inch, but it was enough to catch me off guard with nothing to hold on to except Emma. And let’s face it, she wasn’t exactly sure-footed on a good day. Her legs wobbled, her shoulder crumbled, and we tumbled to the floor in the most ungraceful way imaginable.
It hurt just a little but, after a quick assessment of our damages, we laughed and laughed. She was probably laughing at my awkward descent and subsequent kerplunk to the floor, but I was laughing because it felt good to let it all go. All the stress, all the anxiety, all the worry. I thought I needed to work it out of my system with physical exertion but laughing with Emma made it all melt away. I almost forgot about the fiasco with Pinky.
“Look at the pair of us,” she said, flat on her back on my gym floor.
“Yeah. If only your Aunt Stella could see us now.”
“Quite,” she agreed and inhaled a deep, satisfied breath. “I could lie here all night.”
“And miss your bench pressing?” I teased.
“I dressed up for the part. That’s half the work. And I picked you up, so I think I’m done for today.”
On any other day, I would have found all sorts of arguments to rile her up, but I didn’t have it in me. It was surprisingly peaceful to lie there and let the world pass by over our heads. We stayed there, looking at the ceiling for who knew how long. It was quiet and meditative and probably just what I needed to unclog my busy mind.
“We should do this more often,” I said on a whisper.
“Yeah. It feels like forever since I’ve been here.”
“That’s because the last time you came over was when you played that prank on me.”
“That wasn’t… I mean,” she stuttered. “I didn’t play any prank on you.”
“Then explain how a hundred garden gnomes appeared on my front lawn.”
She laughed. “I promise you, that wasn’t me. How could I possibly sneak a hundred gnomes without you catching me?”
“You had help. It was probably one of those guys in FX makeup. They’re always pranking everyone.”
“Maybe they did it without me, then.”
“You’re the only one who knows the gate code. It had to be you.”
She was quiet after that. It was definitely her. After a long moment, she took my hand and squeezed. Turning her head, she regarded me with a soft expression and said, “You made quite the compelling argument today when you cut out the John and Penelope kiss.”
“Do you side with Frank on the subject?”
“No. The world doesn’t need a film about a woman with a weak mind and no scruples.”
“I’m glad you agree.” It was interesting to hear her point of view. I saw it purely from my character’s perspective, but she revealed a new layer, and a much more noble one.
“Are you going to cut our kiss, too?” Her question was quiet and tentative, like she was almost afraid to ask.
<
br /> “No. We’ll leave that in.”
I could feel a little twitch in her fingers, but she didn’t let go of my hand. I didn’t want to let go just yet either, and I certainly didn’t want to cut our kiss from the movie. George Donwell was Penelope’s choice at the end of the movie. There was a grand sweeping duet at their reunion. The audience needed that kiss… and so did I. A few moments passed in silence, and I knew she wanted to say something else by the way her mouth opened but then closed when she thought better of it. Maybe she wanted to cut both kisses.
“Is that okay with you?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t ask to cut it.
A soft shade of pink overspread her features, and she nodded. “Mmm hmm.”
“Good.”
“Jax?”
“Yes, Emma?”
“Do you want to practice?”
“Practice what?”
A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Our kiss.”
Did I want to practice the kiss? The short answer? Yes. Oh, yes. But I wouldn’t go through that again. To feel her soft lips on mine with no cameras, no crew watching to act as a buffer. On set, it could be as benign as choreography. But alone with her in my house, sharing a moment of bliss only to pretend it didn’t mean anything… I couldn’t do that. It almost ripped my heart out the last time that happened.
“No,” I replied, feeling a lead ball settle somewhere behind my navel, and I regretted my answer before the word completely left my lips.
20
Strictly Professional
Emma
Lately, when it came to Jaxson, I turned into a sassy tuna. Why, why, why did I ask if he wanted to rehearse the kiss? Who does that? Of course, he said no. It was just another one of my barmy ideas. Clearly, he had better things to do than kiss me… like organize his shoelace surplus or colour code his closet. Then I remembered it was he who invited me over. He had something ‘quite pressing’ to discuss, and the ‘pressing’ part had nothing to do with lips… obviously.
And so, mainly because I was embarrassed, I laughed as though it was just a joke. I laughed so hard and so long, it made Jax second-guess his reaction.