Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  @stevienicks4eva: @CastlesofRandB How does it feel to be back? #AskRobertoRicci

  @CastlesofRandB : Roberto Ricci: Splendid! Truly splendid. I feel like every audition I’ve been on over the past five years has led me back to this.

  @CoRaBCoBrA: @CastlesofRandB Is there anything you can tell us about what happened in the intervening five years between season five and the upcoming one? #AskRobertoRicci

  @CastlesofRandB : RR: Hmmmm . . . there will be . . . armor, corsets, and chainmail.

  @ejs5785: @CastlesofRandB How do you feel about some of the discrepancies between the books and the show? #AskRobertoRicci

  @CastlesofRandB : RR: I respect both author J. J. Westingland and showrunner Lou Trewoski so much. One of the most interesting things about the craft of writing is how the same base material can inspire so many different paths.

  @sebworthington: @CastlesofRandB Can you give us any beardscaping tips? #AskRobertoRicci

  @CastlesofRandB : RR: An infusion of lemon verbena, coconut oil, lavender, and witch hazel. One drop in the morning, one drop at night. A close shave with a safety razor at a trusted barber every 10 days. Most important rule: Never, ever trim a wet beard.

  @thefandomlife32: @CastlesofRandB Are you Team Duncinda or Team Lucivor? #AskRobertoRicci

  @CastlesofRandB : RR: Team Jeffcan.

  I decide not to use the gossip he gave me about Lou and Francis Jean since a) I have no idea if it’s true and b) even if it were, I’m pretty positive the execs at WatchGoNowPlus would not want me sharing that.

  But the Team Jeffcan answer I feel good about. Let’s set the Rustiers’ tongues wagging by getting the warlock and the Silver Prince together. After all, that’s really my job here, right? Drum up some hype?

  And besides, the Duncan/Jeff fanfic was some of my best work.

  CHAPTER 5

  SEBASTIAN

  I wish I could inhale this moment, save it inside me, and exhale it later to examine from every conceivable angle. I’m here at Vasquez Studios, and so is Nina. Nina! It took everything I had not to celebrate via dance moves in the parking lot. I’m not even mad about the cake anymore. I’ll have plenty of chances to try again. And plenty of chances to run into Nina. I hope I didn’t make her late for her Q&A with Roberto.

  The light above the soundstage doors is on. It’s green, meaning. . . what? That I’m allowed to enter and find the person with the briefcase? Or does green mean they’re filming and I shouldn’t, under any circumstances, enter? It would make more sense for red to indicate that, but maybe not.

  I have no idea how much time I waste staring at the pulsing round light above the doors, willing someone to exit or enter so I’ll know what to do.

  No harm in looking for the bathroom first, after that long drive from Park La Brea. Maybe by the time I get back the soundstage light will be off.

  A posh female voice interrupts my thoughts. “You seem lost, love. Are you looking for wardrobe?”

  “No, I’m—” Holy crud.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but Francis Jean (aka Queen Lucinda, Our Lady of the Cardboard Cutout) is even more stunning in person. Her dark skin glows and her pulled-back hair isn’t gray but actual, real-life silver, which I didn’t think existed outside of fantasy novels or wigs from the prop department.

  The molecules in the air seem to pulse with her presence. She’s shorter than me by a lot. She’s tiny, in fact, but emits a larger-than-life energy, a radiance that renders me speechless. She hasn’t been to hair and makeup yet, she wears a plain cotton T-shirt, wide-legged, black-and-blue-striped trousers, and worn-in ballet flats, but it takes everything in me not to bend the knee and whisper, “Your Grace.”

  “You’re . . . ?” she prompts.

  I take a deep, anchoring breath, and look her in the eyes. “I’m supposed to pick up something to take back to production, but I’m not sure where to go.”

  “Probably Dani and Dom’s office. I’m headed in the same direction. Follow me.” She glides down the hall toward an elevator, waits for me to join her inside, and presses the button for floor two.

  I nod at the script she’s holding, which reads Lucy’s Donuts on the front cover. “It’s a cute code name, huh?”

  Lucy’s Donuts is the secret title for the CoRaB reboot (Lucinda and Duncan being the stars of the show; Dunkin’ Donuts, get it?). Production uses it whenever they need to hide something in plain sight, like a casting notice or the CAST AND CREW signs at location shoots.

  “I lobbied hard for Lucy’s Donut Shop,” Francis says. “Make her a proprietor, give her some agency, you know?”

  I laugh and mentally add donuts to my show-themed recipe book. “I’m a Krispy Kreme lad myself, but . . .” I smile like a dope and trail off. “Do you have a favorite donut flavor?”

  Do you have a favorite donut flavor? I scream inside my head. What kind of question is that?

  “Cream-filled. Scratch that: jam-filled.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Are you English as well, or one of those people who pick up contact-accents?” she says, not unkindly.

  “Um, both. My family are from Sherborne, but I’ve lived in the States most of my life.” (Wait, my family are or my family is? Which is American and which is British, and do I sound like a poser either way?)

  The elevator doors open, and we walk into the hallway. “Down the hall to the left.” She points. “You’re good? Are we good?”

  “Yes, thanks very much.”

  She swans off in the opposite direction. A cartoon heart might as well appear above my head.

  Daniela and Dominic are siblings in their thirties who inherited the studio from their grandfather and run the day-today aspects of it from their command center in a corner office. They’re both on calls via AirPods when I knock on their open door.

  Daniela waves me in. Every square inch of the walls is decorated with framed posters of the film and TV shows that have called the studio home over the years, from Westerns to sci-fi. I perch on the edge of a chair facing her desk until she double taps her earpiece to end her call.

  I stand, eager to prove myself. “I’m here for the briefcase, if it’s ready.”

  That’s when I notice Dominic has already retrieved it and is moving toward me at a rapid clip. “Yeah, I know,” he says to whoever’s on the other end of his call. “We’re sending it now.”

  I’m dying to know what’s inside the briefcase but I’ve been warned lawsuits await anyone foolish enough to attempt to open it. The NDA I signed already threatened my firstborn child.

  I reach out to accept the briefcase from Dom’s hand, but he ignores me, shifting the handle to his other hand instead and reaching into his pocket, from which he pulls a pair of handcuffs.

  Click!

  He’s attached one cuff to the handle.

  Click!

  He’s attached the other cuff to my right wrist. He lets go of the briefcase and it slams into my thigh. I gasp. The pain is blinding.

  “What—why—?” I croak out.

  “At Vasquez Studios we take security very seriously,” Daniela says. “Sign here, I’ll be the witness, and Dom will stamp the notary mark.”

  She holds out a sheet on a clipboard. I automatically raise my hand to sign the outtake form and feel another white-hot smear of pain because of course the briefcase is attached, and once again it has swung into my thigh. I’ll be black-and-blue before long. A souvenir! I think stupidly.

  Dom nudges me out of the way and stamps the sheet twice.

  I clutch the briefcase to my chest, where hopefully it will do less damage to my joints.

  The siblings seem annoyed at my continued presence in their lives.

  “Anything else?” Daniela taps her earpiece, getting ready to make a new call.

  “Just go straight to production,” Dominic adds by way of instruction. “Janine has the key.”

  Daniela shoots him an irritated look, no doubt perfected during their childhood. “No, do not go ‘straight
’ there. Our security consultant recommends you drive in a zigzag fashion, double back a few times, exit the freeway and get back on at random, to throw off anyone who might be following you.”

  Who would be following me?

  “What I meant was, don’t make any stops on the way,” Dominic clarifies with a roll of his eyes.

  “Do you have Waze?” Daniela asks me. “Use that.”

  “It’s—heavy,” I gruff out, rattling the cuff. “Going to be difficult to drive with this. . . .”

  “Others have managed. See you next week.”

  Am I in a Tarantino movie? What is inside this briefcase? Gold bars? Body parts? It can’t be scripts; it weighs like twenty pounds.

  More to the point: Is my life in danger? Why do I need to be handcuffed to the briefcase? What do they think is going to happen to me on the 405?

  I peer out the window, looking for snipers on the roof, before warily taking my leave.

  It’s unsanitary to bring the briefcase inside the men’s room with me, but what choice do I have? I definitely need to use the head before getting back in my car.

  When I emerge from my stall, the briefcase thumping rhythmically against my legs, I notice a familiar dark head of hair hunched over the sink. Roberto Ricci! He’s putting in a contact lens. Or, actually, doing a line of coke.

  I mean, I have no proof it’s coke. It could be Ritalin he’s snorting, or some new-age vitamin, but—nah. It’s coke.

  Surely the Twitter Q&A isn’t already over? It only started twenty minutes ago. It must be on pause to accommodate his “re-up.” I send good vibes to Nina that it’s going smoothly.

  “I guess that means Duncan survives, huh? Congratulations,” I say after washing my hands.

  Roberto sniffs and stands up. Even at full height, he’s shorter than me. Apparently, I’m a giant among actors.

  “I’m not playing Duncan anymore. Nope. He’s deader-than-dead. This is a new character, Duncan’t, Duncan’s identical cousin. Like The Patty Duke Show. It’s a whole thing. Don’t tell anyone. . . .” His inflated pupils focus on my ID lanyard. “Sebastian. Or I’ll know it was you.”

  A beat. Then, “Ha ha, look at your face,” he crows. “That was sarcasm. Idiot.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He looks me up and down. “Did you jizz yourself?”

  If I could spontaneously combust, now would be the perfect time. “It’s. Icing,” I grit out. I brush at the white streaks on my shirt.

  He peers at himself in the mirror; futzes with his million-dollar hair, sniffs. “What are you, a gofer?”

  “I work for Janine, in production.”

  “Stay here a sec. I have a job for you.”

  “I’ve actually got to go.” I hoist the briefcase up to my chest and the movement sends a tight circle of pain to my wrist as the handcuff digs in.

  He points at me, pinning me in place. “I said stay here.”

  I’m torn. My direct supervisor is Janine, but she’d want me to accommodate requests from others, right? Especially the star of the show.

  The Silver Prince heads into a stall, locks it behind him, and proceeds to make noises that belong in a gross-out comedy. Noises I’ll never unhear, no matter how long I live.

  I’m paralyzed, and I can’t help thinking, I’ve seen his butt on TV. Or at least his butt-double’s butt. And now I’ve heard what it can do.

  Then I picture him as Duncan, in a slow-mo hero shot, astride a horse and swinging a mace, bravely defending a group of helpless villagers. The juxtaposition splits my brain in half.

  Roberto emerges, and I can’t help but notice that he didn’t flush.

  He turns on the faucet and washes his hands. “What are you waiting for?” He jerks his chin toward his vacated stall.

  I laugh. It’s got to be a hazing ritual. He’s not really asking me to . . . “Good one, you had me going there.”

  His face is blank, his eyes like a coked-up shark’s. “Do your job, Sebastian. Unless you think you’re above it?”

  “Oh. Um.” Isn’t everyone?

  “You might want to wrap a paper towel around your hand. Awful germs on the handle. From other people, all day long. That’s why I never touch it.” He flicks his wet hands impatiently. “I come from a long line of germaphobes.”

  “Don’t you—have your own bathroom in your dressing room?” I blurt out, after completing the task God has seen fit to test me with. (I used the toe of my sneaker.)

  “Are you crazy?” Roberto says. “I never take a dump in there. With that ventilation?”

  * * *

  Ninety minutes later, after a harrowing commute that found me searching my rearview mirror for assassins every twenty seconds, I knock on Janine’s door at Alex & Co. in West Hollywood, at the corner of Sunset and Doheny. We’re across from Soho House, a fact my little sister discovered when she Google Mapped my location.

  The important meeting has already started. Janine quickly emerges from her office, her curly hair bouncing, and closes the door behind her so I can’t even see who’s in there with her.

  “Here you go—”

  Janine yanks on the briefcase, realizes I’m still attached, and yelps as we collide.

  “I’m so sorry!” I cry out.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she says. “I should’ve remembered. Let me get the key. Stay here.”

  Stay here. A shiver rolls through me. I can never use the men’s room at Vasquez again, lest Roberto be lying in wait like a spider.

  Janine locates the key in an empty tin of mints and unlocks the cuffs. I rub at the tender spot on my wrist.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. “You look like you’ve seen Duncan’s Ghost. Did he say something obnoxious?”

  “Sarcastic. And then categorized it as such, to make sure I was clear. Unless that part was sarcasm too. Maybe it’s like the turtles holding up the world, sarcasm all the way down.”

  “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. I should’ve warned you. I hope the others were more professional?”

  “Francis Jean was lovely.”

  “Unless she’s had dairy, yes,” Janine murmurs cryptically. “Anyway, you’ve earned a reprieve. Take the rest of the day off. Maybe ice that wrist.”

  * * *

  Since I’m home so early, and it’s only seven p.m. in England, I FaceTime my sister Millie. She’s nineteen and sounds like an air raid siren when she’s excited (which would be now). Seeing a familiar, friendly face after the bizarre day I’ve had makes my heart lurch. We have similar coloring—sandy hair, hazel eyes—but she takes after Dad and I take after Mom in terms of looks.

  My parents moved from Upstate New York back to England right after I graduated high school, and obviously Millie, who was ten at the time, went with them. As a result, we had completely different childhoods, yet with the same parents.

  I squint behind her. “Where are you?”

  “Callo’s!”

  Callo is her best mate, though they muddled through an awkward phase for a while after Millie came out to her as bi last year. Not because of the information, but the fact that Millie hadn’t told Callo sooner (which Millie understandably took issue with). For their gap year, they’re working together as docents. I’m relieved their friendship remains strong, but disappointed Millie’s not at home; she probably can’t chat for long.

  “How’d it go, how’d it go? Tell me everything,” she demands.

  “It was amazing in some respects and a bit naff in others.”

  I get a flash memory of Nina teasing me about my wandering accent back in college. She once told me, “Whenever you’re on the phone with Millie, you go from All-American Joe to Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins in under five seconds.”

  Speaking of Nina . . . “You’ll never guess who was there.”

  “Way to bury the lede, Seb!” Millie groans once I’ve filled her in. She plans to study journalism at university next year.

  “The whole day was ledes,” I protest.

  When I said that Millie
ships me and Nina, I mean she actually ships us. She has a notebook filled with things I’ve told her over the years, a timeline of cute moments that have occurred. Stuff I never even told Matty about.

  “It’s fate!” Millie shouts. “It’s prophecy! Did you get her number?”

  “No, but—”

  “WHAT? Why not? Call WatchGoNowPlus and ask for some personnel numbers, say it’s for Janine.”

  “Being in contact isn’t the issue. The issue is, do I have a right to.”

  She taps her chin, deep in thought. “Okay, I see what you mean.”

  “Yeah. It’s not that simple, right?”

  “It’s so weird that you’ve been in the same city for who knows how long, and not run into each other before.”

  “It’s not like London, Mill. It’s a sprawl out here. But yeah, I know.”

  “I still think you should call her.”

  “She has a boyfriend.”

  “Really?” Millie’s face falls, and it’s nice to be validated. It’s as though she’s allowed to express everything I’m feeling but can’t show.

  “I think she lives with him too; he dropped her off today.”

  She bites her lip. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug it off. After all, Nina with a boyfriend is the Nina I know best. It was only when she didn’t have a boyfriend that things got strange between us.

  In other words, this is good. This I can do.

  Since Nina has a boyfriend, we can slip right back into our original roles.

  Call it a reboot. A chance to fix the past and move forward. And if we are getting a second chance at friendship, all the pain of missing her these last several years will have been worth it.

  An incoming call interrupts us, audio only.

  It’s an LA number I don’t recognize, but instinct tells me to pick up. (It wouldn’t be out of character for Janine to send me home early and then summon me back.)