Souvenirs
Page 18
She shook her head. “We’re fine, but I’d be happy with a few more investors, and Paul wants me to give him a number to hit. It’s making my head hurt.”
“Can I help? You can print me a copy and I’ll look it over.” He smiled at her dubious expression, glad he could surprise her. “I went to business school as a fall back. After a certain age the tips fall off for struggling actors who wait tables.”
The light caught the curve of her pink lips. As the printer hummed in the background, he inhaled. Instead of vanilla, she smelled like jasmine and violets. The clean, feminine scent brought to mind sheets, lingerie, having a lie-in on a spring morning with the windows open. His skin tightened. “You’ve changed your perfume.”
Nodding, she reached for the printed pages. She and Paul had met with studio execs today, so she’d traded her normal t-shirts and jeans for silk paired with dress slacks. He’d watched her bum in those slacks all day. Now, as she moved, her white blouse glowed in the lamplight and he caught a glimpse of the lace edging her camisole.
When she turned back, the blouse stilled as her breath stopped. His mouth watered. He took the paperwork from her.
“I’ll walk you out,” he offered.
“I’ll be right behind you,” she assured him. “I have to pack up.”
He didn’t move.
“I don’t want to keep you,” she whispered.
Doll, keep me.
She shoved everything into random bags, and he reached for the handles. His fingers bumped hers, and the cool brush of her blouse sleeve tickled his arm. It was the first time he’d touched her in almost a year. He turned his head and their breaths mingled in a tormenting promise of a kiss, the first tentative step out of their past.
His body responded in its predictable, Pavlovian fashion at the memory of her. Of them. The handles of her bags bit into his palms and the financial report crumpled in his fist.
C’mon, Idgie. Ignore the T-Rex. Keep your eye on the bunny.
She leaned backward. Away from him.
Welcome to the friend zone.
Standing, he slung her bags over his shoulder and left her with her purse. “Let’s go.”
They followed the makeshift maze of hallways past mats, mannequins, and boxes the size of his car. The security lights showed them the safest way, but it made the shadows loom above them. The echoes of their steps bounced from every wall.
“This is kind of creepy,” she whispered. “It makes me think of all those horror movies we watched in high school.”
“The ones where the killer lurked behind every tree, and you watched through his eyes as he targeted his victims?” Ben played along.
“And heard him wheezing like he smoked three packs a day.” She imitated the noise. “It’s a wonder he could catch anyone.”
Ben laughed as he pushed the door open. He had one foot out the door before he saw the flash and heard the telltale whirr. He shoved Grace back into the building as the doorknob pounded into his spine.
“Paps,” he spat.
“Photographers?” She frowned. “But the set is closed.”
“They found a way in.” He dropped her bags and stood on a bench to peer out the window. “There’s only one, but he’s near the cars. Even if we left through another door, we wouldn’t get far.”
“We were having a business meeting,” she offered. “About script changes.”
“Me and E.G. Donnelley? A woman. Who looks a lot like the bird splashed across the front page of The Sun.”
“But he doesn’t know I’m E.G. Donnelley.”
“Someone let him in,” he reasoned, “and everyone on the lot has the contact sheet. The bastard will piece it together,” he sighed. “They always do.”
She sagged against the wall. “Our whole trip would have been like this.”
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s as much me as you. If he did get the contact sheet, he knows E.G.’s on set.”
“Yeah, but you were able to avoid it until now.” He stared across the room. “How were you able to do that?”
“Writers are used to pseudonyms. Fantasy authors love to pretend. Spy novelists enjoy a scheme.” She shrugged. “Most of them shun publicity.”
“And actors are magnets for it,” he grumbled.
Her smile almost made Ben forget their predicament. For a moment, he hoped they’d be trapped all night.
“Magnets,” she whispered as she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed.
“Debbie? It’s Grace. Bennett and I are being held prisoner by a paparazzo at the studio. No, don’t come down. Do you still have that bartender friend? Twitter?”
With the last question, she looked at him for confirmation. Ben nodded.
“I’m either hitting someone or hitting on someone,” he advised. “They never ignore those.”
She moved her phone and put it on speaker.
“What’s your handle?” Debbie’s question crackled into the open air.
“B Oliver. Fe runs it. Use the hashtag NNM. It’s code. Without it, she’ll start a cyber-war to prove I’m not misbehaving.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks, Deb,” he and Grace spoken in unison.
She hung up and they moved closer to the window to watch their captor.
Grace explained the plot for their rescue. “Deb has this friend who’s friends with a bartender in the hottest club in town, and his sister is the assistant to some pop diva whose name I can’t remember. And she has a friend who looks like you—at least the back of his head. And he’s about the right height.”
“The back of his head?”
Grace’s Twitter notifications began, and she held up the picture. “Yep. If he turns around, the nose gives him away.”
Ben watched the tweets rack up. His phone rang.
“Yeah, Fe. It’s me. Grace and I are baiting the paps so we can leave the studio. Gotta run, muppet.”
Outside, the photographer stared at his phone, his face ghostly in the blue light from the screen.
Grace recited updates. “Apparently you’re trying to pick up the diva. So, what’s NNM?”
The trespasser ran, and Ben held his breath until headlights arced across the asphalt and gravel scattered in the car’s wake. He scooped up Grace’s bags as she trotted toward the door.
“Nobby No Mates. Fe’s called me that for years.”
They sprinted for their cars, and Ben flung everything into her passenger seat.
“What’s it mean?” she asked as he slammed the door.
He loped to his car and grinned at her across the roof. “A dick with no friends. See you tomorrow, Idgie. Hire a new car before you come in.”
She winked and nodded. “G’night, Nobby.”
Ben sped home, his brain still whizzing while he tried to watch the road and the rear view mirror at the same time. He parked behind a nearby outbuilding Max had pointed out as a perfect hiding spot and leapt the fence. Sand muffled his footfalls, and he removed his shoes and socks to walk home through the cold sand.
Once inside, he stayed in the dark and pulled the drapes. The condo now resembled a cavern instead of a home.
“Fuck it,” he snarled and yanked open the curtains. He might wander around naked just for the hell of it. Let them get a picture of that. Maybe it would remind Grace of what she was missing.
The distance between them ached. His lungs hurt from holding his breath to avoid her scent, his hands hurt from restraint, and his heart was tired of pounding whenever she was close. His brain sheared in two every time he remembered them together.
Ben stopped pacing and stared at his reflection in the glass. That’s what she’d said about biscuits. They hurt.
He closed his eyes and let the memo
ry play. They’d been in Paris, eating pastries. “These are scrummy,” she’d said, laughing while trying to juggle her food, her coffee, and her bags. “I don’t think I’ll ever eat anything sweet again without thinking of that word.”
“Oh God, Idgie.”
His gut twisted, but he couldn’t stop his smile. She wouldn’t hurt if she didn’t feel something, would she?
The whitecaps glowed in the moonlight, chasing each other to shore only to lose the battle and begin again. He was tired of waiting and hoping, of holding his breath. He knew what he wanted. Who he wanted.
He was getting himself out of the friend zone.
By the time he climbed from the shower, he had the kernel of an idea. He draped a towel around his hips and padded into the kitchen for a beer and then to his phone.
“Mum. How are you?” He tried to relax into the conversation, but his thoughts were now spinning in earnest.
“I can hear your fingers drumming, Bennett. What do you need?” Her humor diluted any hurt he might have suspected.
“It’s noth—”
“What time is it there?”
He blinked at the clock. He’d woken his mother at three in the morning. “Bloody hell. I’m sorry.”
Her laugh pealed across the line. “It’s a hazard of the job, son. But don’t tell me it’s nothing. What do you need?”
“There’s a box in my bedroom closet with Grace’s name on it. Can you post it? Express, please.”
“Of course. I’ll do it this morning, after I have a bit of a lie-in.”
After a longer visit, he rang off, changed into his jim-jams, and sat outside with another beer and a notepad. He finished late in the night and slept better than he had in months.
The next morning, he slipped into the studio and stopped at Debbie’s desk to deliver a bouquet from the market.
“Thanks for your help last night,” he whispered.
Her eyes twinkled as her mouth dropped open. Sensing an impending squeal, he put his fingers to his lips and held up the envelope as he snuck into Grace’s office. Then he sprinted for the morning read-through.
Taking his seat, he looked across the table. For the first time in months, Grace wasn’t focused on her notes. She was looking at him and smiling like they shared a secret. He waggled his eyebrows as he lifted his pages and went to work.
Across the table, Grace forgot about staying up too late and reliving every moment from the night before. The events of the evening and the hassle of exchanging rental cars faded as her characters came to life before her eyes and ears.
As he’d done in the park, Bennett now channeled Ian in every read-through. His freedom had encouraged Susan to fully inhabit Zadie. Better, the tension Grace had sensed in Susan had evaporated. She and Bennett had undeniable chemistry, and they were developing the banter necessary to bring the characters to the screen.
She gauged the success by the growing audience of crewmembers during read-throughs and rehearsals. Technicians had begun stopping by her office to ask where the story went from here. They were handing the second book around.
The thrill was only partly creative. Bennett was the same guy she’d been attracted to in Vienna; intelligent and confident, shy with a goofy sense of humor. He was kind to everyone, although he kept his distance with the girls in wardrobe. But now she saw his work ethic and his talent. He’d become the center of the movie’s makeshift family. She loved it, even though it cut her heart to ribbons.
However, the two of them were working things out. Sure there were bumps in the road, but they were talking. They were building a pretty good partnership, a friendship, on the ashes of their lies and disappointments.
Friendship was better than nothing.
“Was that okay?” Susan asked from her seat next to Bennett. The question saved Grace from her descent into self-pity.
“Great,” she said as she closed her notebook. “Let’s stop here. They need everyone in Special Effects for green screen work. I’ll work up these notes and we can review them tomorrow morning.”
The group left in unison. Laughter rang from the rafters and bounced back into the room.
Heaving a sigh, Grace gathered her things and returned to her office. Thumping her notebook and script onto the desk, she dropped into her chair and spun, only to stutter to a stop in front of the envelope perched between her computer keys. Anxiety warred with curiosity as she inched the paper free.
If I could go back, Grace, if I could do it again—us and not make a hash of it this time, I would. I’d do it all again. The same, but different.
She stared at the strong, clean handwriting until a tear dripped onto the ink. Shit. Scrambling for a tissue, she blotted the water, fearful of smearing the precious letters underneath. Then she put the note away and went to work.
Later in the evening, she sat next to Paul and Meg’s pool, her substitute lake, thinking of nothing but Ben’s words. Was it an overture or simply an apology? What was she supposed to do? Responding to an overture when one wasn’t intended risked embarrassment. Not responding to an apology was rude, especially when she owed him one as well. Whatever the required response, she was terrified but she wanted to talk with him. She missed talking with him.
Gathering her nerve, she reached for her phone and the contact list she’d brought out with her. A few quick keystrokes tilted her universe.
As the phone rang, she vacillated between hope and panic. The call connected, and she held her breath.
“Hullo?”
“I would too, Bennett.”
He didn’t speak, and panic danced through her toes and fingers. What had she done? This didn’t feel friendly, not in the least.
“Goodnight,” she whispered.
He still wasn’t talking. Maybe she had the wrong number. She hovered her thumb over the disconnect button.
“Goodnight, Grace.” His deep voice, his audible smile, banished her anxiety. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
She overslept again, and by the time she walked into the studio, everyone was already on set. She tiptoed to avoid calling attention to her tardiness. No matter how many titles she had after her name, she’d never feel like a studio executive.
Debbie peeked around her massive bouquet, waving hello as Grace rounded the corner into her office. A bakery sack and cup of coffee were waiting in front of her chair.
Drink me was scrawled on the coffee cup. On the bag, Eat me (get your mind from the gutter, Idgie).
She dropped her bags into a forgotten pile. A note lay next to the treats and on top of a bright green file folder. Grace opened the folder first. Business before pleasure. Inside was her crumpled report and a spreadsheet of numbers in three columns and his explanations on the side. Every calculation and projection was easy to understand and thorough.
The bag became impossible to resist. She opened it and inhaled. Sugar, shortening, cinnamon. Removing the pastry from the bag, she sank her teeth into the cream cheese pastry in an unladylike bite. Icing and crumbs stuck to her cheeks and scattered across her desk, her lap, and the floor. She ignored them in favor of the coffee, moaning in delight at the combination of the rich brew and sweet cream cheese.
Satisfied she could keep her new treasure clean, she slid the card free of its paper prison.
Grace, I’ve never written a note to a woman. To a girl, yes. I was 10, and Lucy Sutton was in my primary class. We met in town on a Saturday morning and walked through the shops holding hands. I’d given up on such a simple gesture, resigning it to my childhood, until that day with you in Vienna. Lucy was the first girl whose hand I held, and you are the only woman who has taken my hand.
Thank you for calling me tonight. I’ve waited to hear those words for months. I know I was the one to silence them, and to have you offer them again gives me hope.
“All right?” she whispered.
“‘Morning, boss,” Gino stage whispered.
Ben didn’t look at her, but he grinned into his coffee mug and nodded. “All right?”
Grace nodded and forced her attention to Paul’s announcements. When Bennett dropped his pages to the table, she scrawled a note across the top one without looking.
His quiet laughter scratched against her skin.
“Is your handwriting always this bad?” His voice was hushed, but the amusement was contagious. Gino caught it.
“Shh,” she scolded, turning to see the amusement on his face. The circuits in her brain shorted out. “It says ‘thank you for my breakfast.’“
“I knew you’d like it.” His eyes darkened as his gaze lowered to her mouth and his tongue darted along his lower lip. Her fingers twitched.
Gino elbowed her in warning, and Grace faced forward as Paul finished.
“Grace? What about you?”
“Umm.” She scanned through her notes, stalling for time as her brain restarted. Gino was shaking, covering his laughter with a cough. She kicked his chair, which made it worse.
“I’ve got soundtrack reviews for Fred. New pages are in front of everyone—hopefully these are the last ones. Debbie and I are coordinating the last of the travel. Mark, I think we can meet this afternoon about backgrounds.” Her synapses reconnected. “Props and models are fine. Costumes are good for me, but I’m not wearing them. What does everyone think?”