by Sara Forbes
The lucky actress who got the Sola part sidles up to me. “I’m Janet,” she says.
“Hey, I’m Mia,” I say breezily to diminish any fears she might have that I’m sore about not getting Sola.
We do that quick sizing up of each other’s assets that actors do. She’s physically a lot like me. Better dressed, maybe, but not as toned. And my boobs are real. Just sayin’.
“You were good,” I offer as graciously as I can.
“Thanks.” She smiles, somewhat guiltily if it’s not my imagination. “Yeah, I shit a brick just trying to learn the lines last night. Couldn’t do it. Amazed I got through it at all.”
Despite myself, I laugh. The ice is broken.
“Where’d you get that coffee?” Janet asks, looking longingly between my cup of beautiful foamy latte and her cup of piss.
“Place across the road.”
I don’t mention how to get it for free. I don’t like her that much.
We then revert our gazes to Scarlett and her sleek, raven-haired agent who is almost as beautiful as the lead actress but in an opposite way—dark, svelte, and quiet where Scarlett is blonde, curvy, and bubbly. They truly are like royalty the way the crowds part to let them through. Men look on greedily and women simper. If there were any small animals in the studio—which there aren’t—they would frolic at their heels yapping in ecstasy. Oh, to have such adoration.
“Look at her,” Janet says, awestruck. “It’s another world to me. “I’m never going to be like that.”
“Nah.” I twist my cup. “You just need a lucky break.”
“They say she’s slept with half of Hollywood,” Janet says, voicing the thoughts I didn’t want to spell out loud.
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s just an incredible actress.”
“Apparently Jack Palmer’s next.” She rubs her hands in glee. “I can’t wait to see the photos of that scandal. He’s gorgeous.”
Instead of answering, I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes sourer now.
4
JACK
“READY TO TAKE ON THE GALAXY?” I ask Scarlett when her regal procession through my studio reaches me.
“You know it, Jack darling.” This is delivered with a sultry wink. Is she casting her line into the water to see if my alleged playboy side will bite? All I can think of is the thousands of dollars she’s biting off my budget with every breath she takes. I’ve watched as she commanded the room with her airs and graces, her Chanel skirt suit embracing her surgically enhanced curves. Scarlett’s a walking man trap. Maybe, at thirty-five, I’m just getting too old for this.
“Jack,” she says. “This is my new agent, Cara.”
I shake Cara’s cool hand. The agent looks severe in a navy silk pant suit, and she’s got that Megan Markle look that’s popular right now, but apart from that I don’t know what she’s got going for her, because she came out of nowhere. A star like Scarlett should only employ a well-connected agent.
“Do we have an island established?” Cara asks, her voice as sharp as the angles of her nose. The subtext says she’s pissed that it took until now to get the location finalized. But who the fuck is this newcomer to tell me how to do my job?
“We go way back,” Scarlett says, apparently reading my mind. “Cara had a vacancy, and I said ‘what better agent for me than an old, trusted friend?’”
“I see.” I turn to the agent. “Turns out it’s difficult to find a tropical island on our little blue planet that isn’t infected by tourists all year ‘round. But a location agent in Caracas worked for me twenty-four-seven in negotiations, concluding only yesterday. So yes, we have an island.”
“Owned by Venezuela,” she says.
“It is what it is.”
What it is, is a tiny island called Islas las Aves, a dot in the Caribbean, sixty miles off the Venezuelan coast. Totally deserted, as it’s owned by corrupt politicians who value that sort of thing, and hence perfect for recreating the red alien planet of Lisk. I defy Cara or anyone to come up with a better or cheaper suggestion.
“You came just in time for the travel briefing,” I add, guiding the two women toward the conference room off the main studio area. “Your seats are reserved for you at the front.”
My core production team, cameramen, technicians, and the lucky few actors who are coming on this trip are entering the room, vying for favorite positions at the back of the room.
Jim, lead cameraman, stops to talk, his face screwed up. “I don’t want to bring my Alexa near a sandy beach.”
“It’s OK,” I tell him. “Alexa stays here in the studio. You’ll be taking the DLSR camera instead.”
“OK, boss.” He gives me a crooked smile of relief.
“Bring up any other concerns in the meeting, Jim.” I nod pointedly at the door, and he ambles off to find a seat.
I enter last and sit at the head of the table, facing my staff. The glass conference room is just large enough to hold us all. I scan their faces, trying to gauge the mood. Excitement, definitely. A certain triumph at being picked, too. Nervousness. All to be expected.
Rita takes her seat beside me. “Did you talk to her?”
“Yes.”
“And you explained why?”
“She gets it all right.”
Her eyes narrow. “You didn’t, did you?”
I release my breath in a hiss. “What would be the point? Decision’s made.”
She snorts. “Can’t believe you let a twenty-one-year-old intimidate you.”
My collar feels too tight so I loosen my tie. I was supposed to explain to Mia why she didn’t get the place despite her doing the best audition today—by far—but when it came to it, I couldn’t say it to her face.
I vetoed Caan and Rita’s decision. Thing is, I’m not convinced that it’s a good idea to propel someone like Mia straight from obscurity into a big role like this. Apart from that stint when she was thirteen, there’s nothing in her résumé worth talking about. I doubt she’s worked a day in her life since then. She hasn’t even finished school. She probably figured that with her aunt gaining traction in the industry, she wouldn’t have to do the legwork. Well, she’s got a lot to learn, and I don’t want Islas Las Aves to be her school of hard knocks.
I strongly encouraged Caan to go with the safe option for Sola—that is, Janet, who, at twenty-four, has nearly finished drama school and has solid experience on four productions. Because when it comes to staff and foreign travel, I don’t like surprises.
***
THE PLANNING MEETING’S a success even by my standards. The team of twenty is excited and fully on board. Nobody has a passport problem, or kids-minding problem, or four weddings and a fucking funeral to attend. It’s a miracle.
As there are limited travel options in and out of Islas Las Aves, we need to cut back on the equipment and make the most of the natural light and scenery. I won’t say I’m not nervous about the whole scenario, but it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than trying to re-create a planet in one of our studios. We already have to do that for the blue alien planet. Another would kill the profit stone dead. That’s why I’m convinced the moon landing in 1969 was real—it was cheaper to shoot Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins up there in a tin can than create a goddamn fake moon in a studio.
If I could trust everyone to get the scenes done without overspending, I’d save the ticket price and stay at home. But I’ve worked long enough with Rita to know she’s not interested in saving money. Quite the opposite. I need to be there to keep the pressure on in terms of schedule too. The bottom line on the profit sheet is on me. I’ll be on the lookout for any holes where the money threatens to drain. There are no shops, luckily, and the inventory of supplies is exactly what we need, nothing more. Call me Mr. Killjoy; I’ll take it as a compliment.
We should be in and out of there in forty-eight hours. And then the riskiest part of the movie will be done. Finito. Thank the gods of movie production.
“What are you doing later?” a husky voice interrupts
my thoughts.
I glance up from my phone. “Scarlett.”
“We’re going to The Ivy for dinner.”
“I’d love to, but…”
“Working late?” Cara butts in.
“You could say that. But let me invite you tomorrow.”
“Sure,” Cara answers for her client. “We’ll have a girls’ night out. So, Scarlett, let’s round up the alien girls.”
I’m impressed they want to do this. “You’re taking the extras along with you?”
Scarlett chuckles. “The more the merrier.”
For a split second I’m tempted to say I’ll join after all. “Well, behave yourselves.”
“You know we won’t!”
They saunter off, arm in arm, laughing. It’s nice to see an actress get along so well with an agent. They’re right—they won’t behave tonight, and that’s fine with me. The more publicity I don’t have to pay for, the better.
Scarlett is a whirlwind force, recruiting all the ladies who are still in the studio. I watch as Cara goes out of her way to convince Mia, sitting in the corner, to join their group. Should I warn Rita that her niece is going out with the wild crowd tonight?
Wait. What am I saying? Why should I care?
I head up to my office, pour a Macallan, add a drop of water, and sink back in my office chair, rubbing the tension in the back of my neck. I flip open up the website where they’re showing the game live. The lurid green of the poker table casts a glow over my hands.
“Felix Palmer… up $60 thousand,” the commentator half whispers into his mic as if we’re complicit in his conspiracy. It’s all part of the show. “If you’re just joining us now, it’s Johnny G. Masters reporting live from the World Class Poker tournament in Vegas.”
Serenity is imprinted in my twin’s golden face as he scans his five cards. I swear, if Felix were to tell me he got Botox in every facial muscle, I’d believe him. Apart from the light reflecting off his irises, over which he has no control, nothing moves. It’s uncanny.
With his blond waves and wide-spaced blue eyes, he’s got the kind of face that could cheat grandmothers out of their life savings with just one smile. He happens, fortunately, to have a great deal of respect for the older generation. No, his vice is poker. Like father, like son. Luckily, I take after my sensible mother, or else we’d be a complete disaster.
I scan the other contestants: a motley crew of guys in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties, two with sunglasses, one with a baseball cap. None look capable of getting a girl even if they are millionaires, except for Felix, who’s the picture of good livin’ and has had his share of girls, more than I want to keep track of. More than he deserves anyway. He naturally says the same about me.
Dating has always been straightforward in my life. Pick someone in your league—similar lifestyle, similar expectations, similar score in the looks department. And then adopt a policy of give and take. One side screws up somehow. And bye. Transaction closed. Next. So, I get a reputation of playboy for it? So be it. Nobody gets hurt, and besides, I know at thirty-five, I won’t have to endure the publicity of failed relationships for much longer.
Anyway, there’s no way I’m staying up until three to see the conclusion of this tournament. I can only hope these goons really are as dumb as they look and that Felix doesn’t get wrecked. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow to the phone call telling me he’s lost some massive amount. I can’t wait until this movie is done and I get to shake some sense into him.
5
MIA
I’M HITCHING MY PURSE ONTO MY SHOULDER, ready to leave the studio when Cara, Scarlett’s sleek agent, addresses me.
“We’re going to The Ivy. Coming?”
Does Cara know who I am, or rather, who I’m not?
“I think you’ve mistaken me for—” Fuck that. This is an opportunity to mix with the rich and famous, to let them know my name. “I mean,” I say, clearing my throat, “sure.”
Boy, now I really wish I’d dressed better.
Cara notices my rueful glance at my jeans with the organic holes in the knees, not a designer feature. There may even be a grease smear or two around the thighs where my restaurant apron ends. The communal washing machine in the basement gave up the ghost last night of all nights. You’d think the universe was against me working on this movie.
“You’re fine. Dress code is casual. We’re gathering at the south entrance at eight.”
I watch her elegant figure as she addresses Janet and a pair of other actresses with minor roles as Carter’s lieutenants. Most of the alien extras have already gone home for their beauty sleep, so they’ll miss on this opportunity to dine with the famous Scarlett Keane. Cara seems to be gathering up women only, which is encouraging as it guarantees a hassle-free evening.
There’s only one problem. Annie.
I almost hang up when she doesn’t answer by the second ring. “I have to stay late,” I explain after all the stuff about getting a minor part. “There’s this dinner thing with Scarlett.”
I feel like the worst friend ever. We have this unwritten agreement that we do not leave the other in the lurch, i.e. working alone with Al on the late shift. I’d promised to come by for the last two critical hours when Al’s bullying tends to intensify.
“No, it’s fine,” she says, in a timidly brave voice. “You do what you gotta do, Mia. You can’t miss such a dinner. It’s your ticket out of here.”
She sounds so miserable, I’m tempted to cancel but at that moment Janet walks by and offers me a smug smile. No doubt she’s congratulating herself on the fact that I haven’t been invited. I want to show her I’m not as invisible as she seems to think. And Annie’s dead right. This kind of networking is exactly the sort of thing I need to be doing if I ever want out of my rut.
“OK. I’ll head out with them, but promise you’ll call if you feel uneasy about anything, got that? Or don’t even talk, just smash the speed dial. Your phone’s all charged?”
“Oh my God. Stop worrying, Mia.”
“All right. Later.”
***
WE’RE TWELVE WOMEN sitting at a long table in The Ivy. Of course, I’m about as far as I can physically get from Scarlett and still be at the same table, but such is the pecking order, and I am by no means complaining. I’m just grateful to be here in this swanky restaurant, dining on someone else’s bill.
Glossy walnut furniture and jade-green silk drapery surrounds our happy group; the bistro has a sumptuous wine-bar ambience with soft jazz playing in the background. The lack of men in present company helps me to relax and accept the red wine being poured into our huge glasses by elegant waitstaff.
I’m making a concerted effort to be nice to Janet sitting to my left and another minor-role actress, Hannah, to my right, but already Janet has made some digs about me not being a core member of staff, and, of course, she’s chattering on about Islas Las Aves.
“Do you think factor 50 will be enough for my skin?” she asks as the starters are served. “I have Celtic skin. My mother’s Scottish.”
I swallow a mouthful of wine. Across from me, Scarlett’s agent, Cara, has stopped talking to the woman beside her and is looking straight at me with her shrewd, dark eyes. I do a very tiny eye roll, and she offers a minuscule smile in response before reverting her attention back to her conversation partner. It’s a small gesture, but I feel vindicated.
“I’ve heard sunscreen doesn’t actually protect you from skin cancer,” I say to Janet. “It’s all a hoax.” I don’t mention that I wear it every day religiously because I, like any rational person, like to protect my skin from premature aging.
“Really?” she says in a half moan.
“But maybe the red paint will protect you, if it’s not actually carcinogenic itself. All those oxides.”
Janet stops talking to me then and I can concentrate on my starter—some kind of pink pâté with a French name I don’t understand and don’t want to ask for a translation. We are definitely not in
Al’s Diner anymore.
Dinner proceeds with me trying to block out Janet’s inane conversation as I focus on what Scarlett is saying four chairs up the table. She’s a riot, flirting madly with the waiters who are all over her, of course. Everyone around her is laughing at every second thing she says. Our table is cleverly tucked away in a discreet corner where other patrons can’t see us, or perhaps they’re too upwardly mobile to care about some Hollywood actress. This is a different world, one I would very much like to belong to.
More velvety wine is poured, and I feel a buzz coming on. With a guilty start, I rise and head to the bathroom so I can call Annie. Al should be on his last thirty minutes now and he often gets ratty at this point because he hates to leave his restaurant and go home to deal with his wife, who by all accounts is an even bigger bully than he. If things are bad, I’ll leave right away.
Rounding the corner, I bump into Cara.
“Oops, sorry,” I gasp.
“No harm done.” She smiles serenely. “Having fun?”
“This place is...amazing. I’ve never eaten such good food.” This is actually true. My family’s idea of dining well was Mr. Wong’s takeaway from South Baker street. Annie and I can never afford to eat out, and neither of us are great cooks.
She nods.
“I’m Mia,” I add. “I’m an extra.” Maybe it’s the piercing look of intelligence in her dark eyes, or maybe it’s the wine speaking, but I don’t want to pretend to be who I’m not with this lady.
“I know who you are. You auditioned for Sola.”
While I gape, she continues, “I saw the audition recordings. Scarlett likes to review the auditions of her co-stars. You were good.” She casts a sideways glance at our table. “Very good.”
“Well…thank you.”
“You’re also Rita’s niece.”
I nod. I mean, what is there to say?
“Jack Palmer told me.”