by Fox, Sylvie
Both sides were progressing on a number of issues. But they were still at loggerheads on the issue of studio and producer contributions to the union’s retirement fund when the moderator called for a ten-minute break. A group of people immediately surrounded Sophie, including a man who touched her far too often and too intimately for Ryan’s taste and a couple of women he’d seen at the negotiating table during other meetings. They finally broke their animated discussion and he was able to pull her aside to snatch a few seconds with her.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” he hissed, probably too harshly. “And who is that guy with his hands all over you?”
“That guy—Gregg—asked me to be on the committee, and I thought it was the least I could do,” she said.
“Sophie, you have to know that they’re using you. It’s not your expertise they want you here for,” he whispered when he realized others on the committee were watching them with interest. “Unions can’t be trusted blindly.”
The moderator cleared his throat and a few people shuffled back to their seats, closed their cell phones, and put PDAs in pockets.
“What do you mean? I know exactly why I’m here, Ryan,” she said, starting to sound exasperated.
He obviously wasn’t explaining himself well. He had to communicate to her that the union was using her in the worst way. She would be devastated when she found out, but he knew he’d be there for any fallout.
He lowered his voice still more, and she had to lean in closer to hear him. “Before the meeting, your friends over there circulated information about your dad and uncle.” Her eyes widened, and he was relieved she finally got it. “I’m sorry that you had to hear it this way—”
She cut him off. “I know that, Ryan. It was the least I could do.”
The flush of anger rose high on his cheekbones. How could she come on his turf, wielding all sorts of influence, but fail to mention it to him? He was about to quiz her on those exact issues of openness and trust, but the moderator firmly requested that everyone return to their seats for another negotiating session.
Ryan was in top form this time around. He argued, yelled, and pressed the position of his clients, the movie studios, until the union backed down on certain issues. The committee argued long into the night. Ryan did not get another chance to talk to Sophie alone. Union members crowded around her during every break.
The committee had made a tentative agreement on every issue but one. Ryan insisted they take one last break so they could bring in coffee and some food. Then, fortified, they could get to the final issue. He might not be able to talk to Sophie, but he thought of one way to get her attention. He pulled out his Blackberry and sent her a text message. “Is someone looking after Sasha today?”
When the phone buzzed in her hand, she pulled away from the group and flipped open the top. She read the message and slid her gray eyes over to him, the expression in them unreadable. But she texted him back. “My neighbors have her at their house.”
He sent her one more message. “Can I come over later?”
“Fine,” she replied.
Satisfied with the response, he shoved the Blackberry into his pocket.
Sasha was in good hands, and he’d be at her place later. No matter how misguided her motives, he would be able to forgive her after he explained where she’d gone wrong. He knew she’d see it his way, and then they could get on with carving out some kind of relationship. If the union and studios were able to reach a deal tonight, he probably wouldn’t be back at the negotiating table, with this union for years at least, until this contract expired.
During the long break, opposing sides exchanged pleasantries, and some of the hairdressers shared tales of the biggest stars, making everyone laugh and putting everybody in a jovial mood. The shot of caffeine no doubt helped the mood as well. The group returned to the table refreshed.
The moderator cleared his throat. He used a laser pointer to draw everyone’s attention to the blackboard mounted at the far end of the conference room.
“We’ve reached a tentative agreement on the first six points on the board,” he said, highlighting each with the red light of the pointer. The last and only issue we need to address are AMPTP residual payments to the health and pension funds.
“Ryan, why don’t you go first?” the moderator said. “What is AMPTP’s position?”
He cleared his throat, deliberately averting his eyes from Sophie. He pointedly looked at everyone else around the room.
“Look, the pension and health benefits that I.A.T.S.E. union members enjoy are better than most Americans’. Local 706 members can qualify for comprehensive benefits for themselves and their families with less than two months of full time work. Health costs are skyrocketing across the board. We’ll do our part to shoulder those increases, but ask that union members share in that burden.
“Our direct and residual contributions to the union’s retirement fund average six hundred million a year, and this amount climbs annually. Employees add zero. Currently there is no standard for payments based upon new media content. The future of Internet content is too speculative for us to agree to a framework of contribution. We’d like to defer it three years until the next contract. Thank you.”
Mitch gave Ryan a surreptitious thumbs up sign. The moderator looked over to the other side of the table. Ryan hoped his jaw did not drop when Sophie began to speak. She’d been quiet during all of the early hours of the negotiation.
“My name is Sophie Reid and I’m a makeup artist and a union member,” she started. Obviously not used to public speaking, she cleared her throat, and nervously looked down at the prepared statement. “Like many other union members, I make a living exclusively from work on television shows, movies and commercials. I live in Southern California, one of the most expensive areas of the country. I stay here because my family is here and because I love my job.
“In the last few years, costs have skyrocketed. Housing has increased over 200 percent, and health care costs are not far behind. The costs of food, gas, and other necessities have increased in tandem.
“We’re only asking for our fair share of the millions of dollars producers and studios make as a result of our work. That means payment for footage, no matter where it’s used. That also means increased payments for healthcare and retirement so union members don’t have to shoulder the cost. We don’t want to go bankrupt now from sudden catastrophic illness or later from an under-funded retirement. Thank you.”
Ryan shook his head, amazed that Sophie was involved with these people.
He looked directly at her when he spoke. “Wouldn’t you rather have this residual money in your pocket? History is fraught with unions squandering pension money. If the union members have the dollars in their pocket, then you all can invest it responsibly, like workers in many other industries do with their 401k plans.”
Gregg broke in. “Mr. Becker, I resent your implication. Our union is not enriching itself at the expense of its members.”
Ryan shuffled through the stack before him before brandishing the offending document. “Then why has the union pension underperformed in the stock market for the last five years? Sophie or anyone could do better investing in a garden variety index fund.”
“Every fund manager has good years and bad years,” Gregg countered.
“That may be true, Mr. Mackins, but if you have many more bad years, you’ll be back in our pocket looking for us to make up the difference.”
“I wouldn’t ask you or anyone for money,” Sophie said. “Fluctuating stock performances shouldn’t scare us. The benefits of being in the union far outweigh the detriments.”
“That’s your sense of entitlement speaking.”
The look she gave him could have frozen water. “We’re not asking for a handout. We’re asking for our fair share of what we earn for you. Without us, you would have actors on screen looking as bad as their tabloid photos. Who would watch your shows then? It’s difficult to believe a twenty-five-y
ear-old with bad acne is a super popular sixteen-year-old teenager without good hair and makeup.”
Voices rose and sparks flew—Sophie’s and Ryan’s two of the loudest. AMPTP members argued that union members wanted benefits in a climate where employers offered these benefits to fewer and fewer workers. Local 706 members thought the producers and studios were money hungry, trying to keep the proceeds of an exploding DVD and Internet market to themselves.
Once she got into the groove, Sophie argued no less vociferously than her union cohorts. Sparked by anger, or competition, Ryan did the same. An hour in, the moderator blew a whistle, startling everyone into silence.
“I don’t know what exactly is going on here, but you’re arguing, even though you’re only a few dollars apart. Please choose one person from your group to speak. And in my opinion as your moderator, that person should not be Sophie Reid nor Ryan Becker.”
Sophie turned as red as her hair. Ryan glared at the moderator, but a stiff hand on his arm from Mitch helped him keep his mouth shut. And the moderator was right—after he and Sophie got out of the discussion, the group was able to hash out a tentative agreement on the final points within half an hour.
“After the respective representatives take the agreements back to their members for a vote, we’ll agree to meet back here in five days and set a date for a tentative signing ceremony,” the moderator said. He closed by thanking each member of the committee, personally shaking each and every person’s hand.
Everyone looked as exhausted as Ryan felt, and despite his simmering anger, he wanted nothing more than to spend the last few hours of the night with his arms around Sophie. When he caught up with her in the parking lot, though, she had other ideas.
“I’m going home, Ryan. Alone.” Clearly, she was still angry. They were on the ground floor of the indoor parking lot. She pointed the key fob at her yellow car. The doors unlocked with an electronic beep.
“I think we should talk,” he said. Then, noticing the others around them walking to their cars, he lowered his voice. “But not here.”
“I’m not going to your house and you’re not coming to mine, so if you have something to say, this is your chance.” She tapped her foot impatiently.
“Fine,” he said, walking to his car, their public discussion over.
She wasn’t surprised when he pulled up behind her in her driveway. She ignored him, walked into the house, and greeted the dog who was sleepy but excited. She could have told Ryan he wasn’t wanted. She could have locked the door. But she wanted him to follow.
Sophie let Sasha out back, and Ryan was waiting for her, sans tie but otherwise still very buttoned up in his navy pinstripe suit, when she came back to the house. He stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, breathing hard. Despite the anger radiating from him, he was still sexier than he had any right to be. And she wanted to smack herself upside the head for even thinking about how attractive he was in the present mood. She wanted to kiss him or kick him, or both, as feelings battled within her. But lashing out was easier than admitting to her feelings for him.
“You’ve been lying to me since Big Bear,” she said, her voice quiet.
“I told you we were on the verge of a strike. The bigger question is why didn’t you tell me you were on NegCom?” he asked, not altering his wide-legged stance.
“I did tell you, Ryan. It’s not my fault that you passed out when I was talking to you last night and didn’t hear me.”
He ignored her admission. “They were using you. I can’t believe you participated in something so unethical.”
“Unethical?” she said, her voice rising. “I did no such thing. I’m a union member. I had the same right as anyone to be there tonight.”
“Oh, you were the player to be named later?” he said. “They used the implicit threat of your family connections to browbeat the AMPTP into submission.”
“I’m supposed to believe that the reputation of my little old daddy and uncle bullied a forty billion dollar industry into submission.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, and propped her hands on her hips, chafing in her severe charcoal pants. “Please, Ryan, tell me something plausible.”
“I just can’t believe that you of all people would trade in on your family name. Did you want to be at the negotiating table that badly? Is this an ego thing?”
“I did not do anything wrong.” She spoke slowly in case he’d lost half his brain cells. “The AMPTP hires all you folks from good schools and impressive law firms for one reason: to intimidate the hell out of whomever you’re negotiating with. We did the exact same thing, that’s all. Everyone on your side of the table knows that I wasn’t going to whisper in Daddy’s ear or Uncle Billy’s about the strike. You know better than I that they would have to recuse themselves anyway,” she said referring to a judge’s obligation to take themselves off a case if they have any relationship to the participants. “I think the bigger issue here is why didn’t you tell me what was going on? I asked you point blank and you gave me some BS about contracts and closing deals.”
“Attorney-client privilege—”
She didn’t let him finish. “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.” She pointed a ring free finger at him. “I may not have gone to law school, but I wasn’t raised on a dirt farm either. This is not the kind of thing covered by that. I know you couldn’t tell me how much the AMPTP was willing to offer, but you could have mentioned that you were on the committee. I might have made a different decision.”
She pulled the tight pearl encrusted barrette clip from her hair and dropped it on the dining room table. One by one, she undid her suit buttons and slid the jacket from her shoulders. She couldn’t imagine how he did it, wear a suit every day. She’d done it for a few hours and the confinement almost killed her. She kicked off her black patent leather pumps and padded to the bedroom in sheer stocking feet. She carefully placed her suit on its special hanger and pushed it back into the far recesses of her closet, hoping she wouldn’t have any occasion to wear it in the near or far future. Wearing only her pearls, her lacy white camisole, and tap pants, she walked, bare feet hitting the wood planks until she was back in the dining room. Ryan was still there, his arms dangling at his sides uselessly.
“I’m not going to argue with you anymore, Ryan. I’m tired as all hell and the dog and I are going to bed. I suggest you do the same—at your house.” She stalked back to the bedroom.
“You can let yourself out,” she threw over her shoulder before slamming her bedroom door to emphasize the point.
Chapter Fourteen
Her bedroom was another disaster in the making. Why was making clothing decisions so difficult these days? Sophie knew her life was at a crossroads. She looked at her choices for her father’s party and cursed Selie for talking her into the co-hosting role. The appropriate dress hung under sheer plastic in the middle of the closet. She’d stopped at Nordstrom in the mall on the way home and picked it up. If this was growing up, she wanted none of it. The store’s muted earth tones didn’t match her multicolor personality. The dress was purely a Jackie O, Princess Grace number. The black gabardine sheath dress had a scoop neck with contrasting white piping. It hung with a matching car length coat with the same white edging. It was timeless, classy, and befitted the woman her parents raised her to be.
The dress she was itching to wear would set the country club set’s tongues wagging. It was black and sheer, with a deeply scooped bodice, and a cut out that would showcase the full length of her spine. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination. With textured stockings, high, high heels, and jet black hair, she’d be the talk of party. She was the “rebellious one,” after all. She had a part to play and she didn’t want to let her family down.
She looked back and forth, back and forth, then at the clock. She needed to make a decision. A knock on the door startled her. She hoped it wasn’t Selena here to check up on her. She would be as good as her word and show up—no matter how much the idea repelled her
.
The dog squirmed with excitement, her nose pressed to the doorjamb. She looked through the peephole and her terrycloth shoulders dropped, resigned to the overwhelming emotion that always engulfed her when she saw him. Both excitement and dread warred within her. She pulled open the door. Ryan stepped in, his broad shouldered, narrow hipped body encased in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit and blue silk tie that mirrored his eyes.
He leaned down to kiss her hello and she turned her head, his lips brushing against her cheek instead.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, knowing she sounded unforgivably rude.
Ryan shut the door behind him, ignoring the dog jumping on his calves. “I’m here to take you to the party.”
“I don’t recall you being on the guest list.”
“Your sister thought you may forget to invite me, so she called to make sure I’d be there.”
Sophie cursed under her breath. Selena didn’t trust her, so she’d done the next best thing—sent Ryan to make sure she toed the line. Sophie gestured to the couch, inviting him to sit. Looking down at her old terry robe, she said, “I’m not exactly ready. It’s going to be a while. Maybe you should go home and come back when it’s time to go.”
Ryan didn’t sit in the living room like a guest. Instead, he followed her to the bedroom. “I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes were unreadable. A secondhand chair, its holes and tears obscured by large Indian cloths, enveloped Ryan’s bulk.
“Ryan, how can you just waltz in here as if yesterday didn’t happen?”
“What’s done is done.”
“And that’s it. You question my motives, you question my judgment, and I’m supposed to be okay with that?”
“Maybe I was wrong,” he said his voice practically a whisper.
“Excuse me, I don’t think I heard you.”
“I had a long and lonely night to think about this…us. I was wrong, and you were right, okay? You had as much right to be there as anyone else.”