Eyes Like Those

by Melissa Brayden

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ve worked your way into the characters’ heads nicely. However, I am concerned about your lack of experience writing a series. This script shows what you can do on a one and done, but can you map out a season? Can you track characters over time through growth and change? There are big differences from the world of features, and shorts too, for that matter.”

  Isabel nodded because Taylor was right. “No, I get it. But it’s actually the ongoing narrative that attracts me to the work, the chance to write a character for an extended amount of time. To really explore their internal lives in a way a two-hour film doesn’t allow for.”

  Taylor nodded. “It’s not easy, though, to tell a story so rich that it has enough staying power to extend over several years. In some cases, over a decade.”

  Isabel took a breath. “Ms. Andrews, if I could—”

  “Taylor is fine. We drop most pretense around here.”

  “Taylor, then.” She took a deep breath and ran her fingers across the gravelly surface of the coffee mug. “I feel more than ready for this challenge. No one works harder. I feel like everything I’ve done has led me to this moment, and I’m not about to let anyone down. Myself included.”

  “As a staff writer, you won’t be writing your own scripts,” Taylor said, sitting forward. “You should know that up front.”

  “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  A long pause hit and circled the room. A chill moved across Isabel’s skin and she braced herself for whatever Taylor would say next.

  “Fine then. Can you start next Monday?” Taylor asked. “We’re into August and you’ve missed weeks of season planning already. If you’re not there for this week’s meetings, you’ll have even more catch-up.”

  And just like that, she was in. Wait. She was in? Tiny leprechauns danced a jig in her head in some random celebration both perplexing and enjoyable. She didn’t even like leprechauns.

  Hired.

  She refrained from leaping out of her chair and leading a parade across the Paramount lot, and took the more professional approach. “Sure. I just need to head home and pack. Figure out where I’m going to live.”

  “If you want more time, we can hold off. I’m anxious for the help, though. Losing Celeste has been a blow that has us all pulling more hours.”

  “No, no. I’ll be there on Monday. I’d like to jump in as soon as possible.”

  Taylor stood. “I have to run to a production meeting, but I’m looking forward to having you on the team, Isabel.”

  “Me too,” she said, smiling, like she could help it if she tried. “Not looking forward to having myself. To being on the team, I mean. That’s more what I was going for.”

  Taylor had the decency to chuckle. “I understand. If you’ll wait here, Scarlett will get you set up with new-hire paperwork and you’ll need to check in with security for your studio credentials. See you on Monday.”

  “Monday it is.” She leaned forward to set her mug on the desk only to overreach and send it tumbling onto its side, opening the floodgates of rushing coffee that covered Taylor’s desk, her papers, and splashed onto her crisp white jacket.

  Oh no.

  That did not just happen. Satan on a Triscuit. That did just happen. She glanced up at Taylor and winced, leaping into action, looking around the room for some way to rectify the situation, to save this awfulness from spiraling further. Taylor’s only reaction was a step back from the coffee and the rescue of a nearby file folder from the attack.

  She held up a hand. “It’s fine. Scarlett will take care of it.” She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. “See? Good as new.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Isabel was shaking and doing anything in her power to roll back the last two minutes of her life. How quickly the pendulum had swung. Elation to mortification in the span of seconds. That could be the title of her jaded little memoir.

  “No need. It was an accident.”

  “Right, but still.” Isabel surveyed the brown, soggy mess, frustrated with herself. “I’ve ruined everything on your desk.”

  Taylor tilted her head from side to side. “All replaceable.” She seemed to act on an impulse and took a seat in the chair across from her desk and next to Isabel’s. “I’m getting two things from you. Tell me if I’m right.”

  Isabel met Taylor’s eyes. For the first time that day, they didn’t cause her pulse to race. In fact, staring into their depths, she found an unexpected calm, prompting her to release some of the shock and horror from the coffee catastrophe. “Okay.”

  “You seem like a person who probably comes with some strong opinions. You know what you want and you go after it. I’m getting that from your work.”

  “That’s true. Sometimes to a fault.” Why was she being so honest? Stop that.

  “You also seem incredibly anxious.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Also true.” She gestured around the room. “All of this. It’s what I’ve worked so hard for, and I guess it has me freaking out, which is the most unprofessional thing in the world to say to someone who just hired me.”

  Taylor took both of Isabel’s hands in hers. She had nice hands, Isabel realized absently. Feminine and warm and strong. “Well, you can relax because the hard part is over. You’re in. You’re one of us now, and I look forward to the strong opinions.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Isabel said, managing a smile. She gave Taylor’s hands a squeeze. “And thank you. For the pep talk. A slap across the face might have been quicker.”

  “I’ll file that away,” Taylor said with a wink and stood to go. “Scarlett will be in about those credentials. Try not to destroy the rest of the place in the meantime.” And then she was gone, leaving Isabel alone with a myriad of warring thoughts. Two words floated to the top.

  Studio credentials.

  They were arranging for studio credentials. She closed her eyes and swallowed, taking a moment to commemorate the occasion, pushing aside the last ten minutes to fully focus on just how many years she’d slogged away on her laptop, script after script, character after character, one festival entry followed by another to get to this very moment. Finally. Her limbs numbed. Her mind slowed down. Her spirit soared. She hadn’t skipped since the fourth grade, but she was feeling a distinct pull in that direction.

  Days like today didn’t happen to her. They just didn’t. She was a nobody who kept her head down and spent all her time putting words on the page. For the first time in years, she could breathe, and she welcomed the abundance of fresh air as it infiltrated her lungs, and what glorious air it was! Maybe she was turning into a somebody after all. Fennel oversights and server shoes might just be a thing of the past. Isabel basked in that thought before snapping into action.

  So much to accomplish in a very short amount of time. Packing. Planning. Panicking.

  Monday was right around the corner.

  Chapter Three

  Taylor checked her watch. Six minutes to the production meeting, which was cutting it closer than she’d like. She swung by Scarlett’s desk on her way, in need of some help.

  “Coffee spill. Mayday. All over everything, including my jacket.”

  Scarlett’s eyes went wide. “The white designer one? No.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “No, no, no. I love that jacket. You said I could borrow it.” Scarlett placed her hand over her heart. “This is awful. Are we going to have to have a funeral?”

  “Probably, unless Bernard in wardrobe can save us. He’s the only one who could.”

  Scarlett pointed at Taylor and pushed her glasses up on her face. “I’ll send him a bottle of the 2004 Cabernet he likes. He’s a sucker for it. He’ll save the jacket and life will return to normal.”

  “This is why I never want you to leave me.”

  “So, do we have a verdict on our new staff writer?” Scarlett pushed right on to business. She kept Taylor on track in that way.

  “She’s in.�
�� Taylor relaxed her hip against Scarlett’s desk. “A little on edge, but her work is killer if not, well, dark. Celeste was spot-on in her recommendation, though. Maybe we should send her a bottle of the Cabernet.” Scarlett began to scribble a note. “I was kidding.” Scarlett lifted her pen. “But can you get Ms. Chase set up with paperwork and credentials and everything you do so expertly and then take a look at what’s salvageable on my desk. I rescued what I could.”

  Scarlett nodded. “You got it, boss. Production meeting in three.”

  She squinted at her friend and assistant. “It never slows down, does it? My life is like a roller coaster without an off switch.”

  “Good analogy.” Scarlett held up her hand, and Taylor smacked it in their high-five ritual. She headed off to the meeting, getting her agenda points in order as she walked the narrow streets of the property. All the while, she couldn’t help but ruminate on the meeting with the new hire. Isabel Chase showed a lot of promise, and if that hint of spunk in her work came to fruition on the show, she might just be a great addition to the staff. But there was something else about Isabel, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, that had Taylor…circling.

  The production meeting flew by in a hail storm of bargaining, planning, and budget workarounds. “What this essentially comes down to is that we can’t afford for it to rain in Ashbury Pass for the rest of the season?” she asked Emily Tanner, her line producer.

  “Not if you want to bring in those two guest stars,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “We can’t afford both.”

  She sighed. “And I do. No rain it is, then. I’ll let my staff know not to write any. Are we done for today?” She glanced around at the faces of everyone assembled. The team nodded, and no one seemed to have anything new.

  “Great. I will see you at tomorrow’s table read. Email me with fires to put out, but maybe give me a fifteen-minute head start to my office.”

  A typical Monday.

  When Taylor arrived back at the writers’ headquarters, she ran into Isabel Chase exiting the building just as she was entering. “All set?” she asked. Isabel looked noticeably more at ease, which was nice to see. She even smiled.

  “Almost,” Isabel said. She’d worn her hair in a slicked-back ponytail earlier. It was down now, medium length with the gentlest of waves. “I have to have my photo made in the admin building, which I’m told is…” She shielded what Taylor had come to realize were blue eyes with her hand to her forehead.

  Taylor pointed. “Right over there. Fourth Street.”

  “Fourth Street,” Isabel repeated. “Thanks! Have a great one, Ms. Andrews. Taylor.”

  “Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

  Taylor watched Isabel walk away, noticing the modest heels, the simple black pants and pink cuffed shirt. The dark hair swung ever so slightly across her shoulder blades as she walked. She was pretty, Isabel Chase. Not that it mattered. Nor did the flush that came over Taylor as she watched. What she needed more than anything was Isabel’s brain, her imagination, and her dedication.

  Time would tell if she got them.

  *****

  At 9:33 on what had been the best day of her life, Isabel huddled in the farthest corner of the closet in her hotel room. The light was off. She’d wrapped her arms around herself and clung tightly, unable to move. Her pulse skyrocketed and she had trouble taking normal breaths, wondering distantly if this was what it felt like to drown. Beads of sweat pooled above her eyebrows though it was cold in the room.

  “You’re doing fine,” she managed to whisper to herself. It was the sentence that had seen her through panic attacks as a child. “You’re doing fine,” she repeated. She wanted badly to give her face a scrub, imagining that the sensation might help jar her to a feeling of control, but her muscles coiled tight and rigid and it felt like the world was crashing in on her. The impending dread only increased as the seconds ticked by.

  It had been over a year since her last attack, and honestly, Isabel should have seen it coming. She was at her most vulnerable when there was something to lose, and today she’d just been handed an opportunity that she heavily valued. She could screw it up in her first week. Find herself on a plane back to Keene, devastated and embarrassed and right back where she started.

  She shoved her back against the wall, hoping that the cool and steady surface would ground her. The stability should be comforting. It wasn’t. She still couldn’t get air, and no matter how small the space, the world felt too big. She sat in that closet for over two hours, clenched and miserable and praying for an end. She listened as the distant sound of the television slowly moved from garish and terrifying to everyday. She blinked and took a very slow inhale, pleased to find she could control her breathing.

  She’d made it.

  In that tiny, dark room, she’d survived one monster of a panic attack. Still not quite ready to move, Isabel sat there listening to the sounds of her breath slowing down, underscored by the local weather. Tomorrow, she would wake up and go back to life already in progress and push this whole thing behind her.

  “You did fine.” She relaxed her hands until they rested in her lap and forced her fists to unclench. “You did just fine.”

  Chapter Four

  The sun seemed to shine all the time in Los Angeles. Well, at least in August it did. Isabel added this to the list of things she was learning about the Golden State, her new home for the foreseeable future. She reminded herself to invest in a decent pair of sunglasses as she squinted against the sunlight as it slanted through her windshield. She lowered her head to better see the passing street signs and aha, there it was. She turned onto Shores Drive in Venice, looking for #7. Celeste had been nice enough to sublet her apartment to Isabel, even going so far as to float her for the first couple of months until she was on her feet enough to pay her back. She would forever search out a way to return the favor to Celeste, who’d gone above and beyond. Saint Celeste was how she should henceforth be known and hailed. Some sort of statue seemed in order, but knowing Celeste, she would demur.

  Shores Drive, it turned out, was palm tree lined and a tad too cheerful, probably named for its proximity to Venice Beach, just a few blocks south. Brightly colored storefronts whizzed past and folks in flip-flops dotted the street looking relaxed and at ease. She didn’t identify with them in the least, black being the most abundant color in her wardrobe. Did these people have jobs? Didn’t they have somewhere to be? The ambling indicated that no, they did not. She abandoned her curiosity, realizing that she’d arrived at her destination, #7 Shores Drive. The little complex had a white stucco exterior with black trim and shutters. A sign with the words “Seven Shores” written in script hung from a post in front. The complex was relatively compact, just as Celeste had described, but surprisingly quaint. Not your cookie cutter apartment building, which came as a welcome revelation.

  “You ready for this?” she asked Tony, who blinked back at her in toleration from his carrying crate. Together, they’d driven forty-one hours over five days to get here, bringing only what they could fit in the car, though her dad would be mailing a few more boxes in the coming days. Tony stared hard back at her. He was over the car, and she felt for the guy. “You’re a California cat now, so you’re gonna have to mellow. Eat veggies. All of it. It’s the law here.” He closed his eyes, much preferring to take a nap.

  Leaving her belongings in the car while she investigated, Isabel made her way with Fat Tony through the black iron gate that marked the entrance to the complex. The units, on two levels, faced inward to a central courtyard. A quick scan had her estimating twelve total apartments. The courtyard was attractive, outfitted with a handful of wrought iron circular tables and chairs. Across from them sat a comfortable-looking outdoor seating area. Two couches with green patio cushions faced each other, flanked by four matching club chairs. Did people actually congregate here? How unexpectedly social. Her apartment experience had been limited to an occasional nod to that older couple who lived next door
and occasionally stole her parking space. Making friends with her neighbors was a foreign, though not unwelcome, concept. After all, she knew very few people in town. Maybe she’d actually make a friend.

  “Hey,” a brunette said in greeting, as she crossed the courtyard. Speak of the devil, an actual neighbor. She looked to be close to Isabel’s age and had come out of a second-floor unit, carrying a surfboard—which explained the jeans and bikini top.

  “Hi.” Isabel nodded as the woman passed.

  The neighbor turned back. “You look lost. Need help?” Her thick dark hair was in a ponytail and she showed off an athletic physique and a remarkable tan. As in, a really good one. Beach people made her own northern skin glow white, a fact that she’d never been more aware of than in this moment.

  “Oh. Yeah, actually. Looking for apartment 1F.”

  “Over there.” The woman pointed to the black door of a first-story unit behind Isabel. “But I should tell you that Celeste is out of town. Not sure when she’ll be back.”

  “Right. No. I’m subletting her—well, pretty much her whole life, now that I think about it. Apartment included. We’re friends.”

  The woman brightened and leaned the surfboard against the staircase. “In that case, we’re neighbors, and I should introduce myself. Gia Malone.” She extended her hand. “I live up there in 2D and my best friend, Hadley, lives next door in 2E. I’m sure you’ll run into her soon enough.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” she said, trying not to be socially awkward.

  “Welcome to Seven Shores. We’re a pretty casual group. Cups of sugar are never a problem.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Isabel. Izzy. Either is fine.”

  “Well, Izzy or Isabel, it’s a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around and whatnot. Gotta head to my office before I lose the waves. Let me know if you need anything. That cup of sugar or eats recommendations.” With that, she picked up her surfboard and was on her way to her “office.” Were these people real?