by Sara Forbes
“Sure, I got a great sushi recipe I want to nail. Let me see, I’ve got to be in Oklahoma next weekend, but after that my calendar’s open.”
“What’s in Oklahoma?”
“A game.”
“In Oklahoma?”
“It’s kind of underground.”
“Illegal, you mean?”
“Hmm, would I call it illegal?” he muses, tapping a finger against his chin.
“Felix, just…be careful.”
“But aren’t I always?” he says with that trademark smile. “Sounds like you’re the one who needs to be careful.”
7
MIA
HOW TO COPE WITH A BOSS’S unwelcome boner? Pretend it didn’t happen—for now. I don’t need yet another reason to turn around and tell Aunt Rita that I can’t do it. So, I deliberately blanked yesterday’s episode out and didn’t even tell Annie last night as I rush-packed my suitcase. But I haven’t forgotten. The memory will be fully intact if a day of reckoning ever comes. And I will have no qualms in exposing Jack Palmer’s designer-suited ass if it comes down to it.
The Pacific, 10,000 feet below me, is a pretty patchwork of turquoise and deep azure waters. I’ve never seen the earth from this height. The only reason I own a passport is because I was meant to take a trip to Mexico last year that didn’t pan out. Truth is, I’ve never flown or stepped foot outside the United States.
Of course, I’m not admitting this to anyone. I watched like a hawk as my fellow passengers stored their luggage and put on their seat belts with seasoned ease and then I mimicked their actions.
Annie was delighted when I told her about my stroke of luck in replacing Janet, though we both know it means Annie working on her own in Al’s for four consecutive shifts. She says she’ll be fine because she can deal with anything once she knows it has a definite ending point. I have no choice but to believe in the flawed logic of that.
Cara’s beside me, in the aisle seat. We’re surrounded by Aliens in Distress crew members snagging free booze from the attendants, making party hats out of the puke bags, and telling their best airline disaster stories. Rita, Jack, and Scarlett are all up in first class, missing out on the fun. I was surprised that Cara wasn’t in first class with them, but she said it doesn’t work like that. Whatever. I never aspired to be an agent anyway. Seems like a hard job with not much reward or recognition.
I like Cara though. She’s tough, smart, elegant, and is always kind to me. I’d like to pick her brain on the goings-on in the industry. I bet she’s seen everything. At the same time, I don’t want to come across as nosy.
“I’m glad you made it.” She lowers her voice. “Between you and me, I think you were better than Janet.”
“I appreciate that, Cara.” I sink back in my seat. This bodes extremely well for my part in this movie. It’s one thing for Annie or Aunt Rita or my mom to tell me I have what it takes, but when an unbiased Hollywood agent of the big star says it? Wow. Metaphorically and physically, I’m floating way above the clouds.
“How did you become an agent?” I ask her, eyeing her attractive side profile.
She lets out a tight little laugh. “That’s one for another day, I think.” She holds up two mini-bottles of wine she’s snagged off a passing steward. “Now, let’s drink to your career!”
***
ABOUT SIX HOURS into our seven-and-a-half-hour flight, my bladder tells me that I need the bathroom. I squeeze over Cara’s sleeping form, managing not to wake her, and edge my way up the aisle.
The red light is on outside both of them.
“Been in there freaking ages,” grumbles a guy who goes back to playing on his phone.
Well, I need to go. Like, now. What the hell, I’ll check out the first-class amenities. It’s dark. Who’s gonna know?
I wander farther past row upon row of slumbering passengers, past the point of no return where the aisle widens and the space between seats seems preposterous. And, of course, a flight attendant appears out of freaking nowhere. She’s about my mom’s age but, unlike my mom, she’s got a hard, leathery face.
I clutch dramatically at my abdomen. “Emergency,” I say in a croaky voice. “Back backroom’s been blocked for too long.” I adopt my puppy-dog pleading look.
The bunched-up muscles at her mouth slacken a fraction. My gaze rests longingly on the green light over the first-class bathroom. Hopefully, my act of desperation has garnered enough sympathy from the passengers around us to put additional pressure on her.
“Go on, but make it quick, ma’am,” she says.
Inside the lavatory, it’s a blessed relief to get all that wine out my system, but I’m in no rush to leave the gleaming white private space. I survey the freebie toiletries laid out for the first-class passengers and nab a tiny bar of soap and two tampons. I follow up with a squirt of perfume. Hmm, not bad. At least now I can claim I’ve been in first class on a flight. Maybe one day I’ll even get a legitimate seat.
But, yah, a toilet is just a toilet after all, no matter how steep the paywall. I push out the door and step into the dark aisle.
There’s a man waiting outside. A tall, suited man with expensive-looking shoes that seem weirdly familiar. My gaze travels up the iron line on his pants, over his shiny belt buckle, up the taut chest and up to his face. It’s Jack Palmer, all sleepy-headed with stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. There’s a crease mark dissecting his cheek. His hair is sticking up at the front on one side. His air of ruffled unpreparedness makes him more human, less machine.
In a flash of heat, I remember his visceral reaction yesterday, the one I’ve been suppressing for dear life ever since. That same confusion is written over his face again. And I’m breathless as his intense blue eyes bear into me and his whole body seems to engulf me even though we’re not touching.
“Mia,” he says in a gruff voice that gets all of my attention. He veers to one side so I can pass.
I almost flatten myself against the stainless steel kitchen unit to avoid touching him. “Hello.”
Oh God, my voice. I sound like a meek child instead of the badass professional I want to be. My feet seem stuck in place. My whole body’s on high alert, zinging. He’s mirroring my stance, one hand on one hip, so I readjust my posture, clasping my hands behind my back.
“Look.” He runs his long fingers through his thick, brown wavy hair, “I just want to say… I… Yesterday, I—”
“It’s OK,” I croak. “Nothing happened.”
He nods. “Nothing happened,” he echoes as if I’ve hypnotized him. And, how nice it would be to have control over this man’s actions. The things I could make him do to me.
Wait. No.
As I glance away, I spot the flight attendant, charging down the aisle toward me as fast as she can without making it seem too obvious that she’s gearing up for a full attack.
“Ma’am, could you please take your seat?” she says, cool as hell frozen over.
I flash Jack a contrite look, but his face has hardened. He appears to grow two inches as he brings his glare to bear down on the attendant. “Excuse me, ma’am, but we are having a conversation here.”
Conversation. I stifle the urge to snigger.
There’s utter silence. He hasn’t so much spoken as growled. And there’s a conviction to his growl that you only ever hear in the über privileged. It’s not an easy tone for an actor to emulate. And Jack’s definitely not acting. His lips are compressed into a thin, determined line, and the single flick of his head conveys all the contempt he has for this airline employee as he towers over her. I almost feel sorry for her.
“I beg your pardon.” She swings one contemptuous look over me before turning and going about her business, receding into the darkness like a bad nightmare.
And I no longer feel sorry for her.
“I like your style,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
“It was nothing.”
“Not to me it wasn’t.”
His face breaks into a smile. G
od help me, I’m not prepared for its effect. Kindness transforms every taut contour. His frown lines clear. His cheeks become youthful, buoyant. His teeth are amazing. He looks, unbelievably, like he could be...fun. It’s only an instant, but basking in its glow, I feel like a first-class passenger…in life. Like I’m really something. That’s some serious freaking ballistic weapon he’s got right there. Strange that he never uses it.
“I should go,” I breathe.
“Wait,” he says.
I freeze in the doorway. I don’t know where to look. Not at his face. Not at his hands. And for the love of God, not down there though I can’t seem to help taking a peek.
“I’m sorry. Um, about yesterday. We got off to a bad start. Can we start again?”
I lift my head. This is so not what I expected to come out of his mouth. And yet he sounds so pained, I actually believe him. He’s running his fingers over his jaw as if trying to decide what to do with me. His smile has disappeared.
I shrug. “OK. Sure.”
Words have clearly failed me, standing here with my boss in this dim airplane kitchen area with slumbering passengers all around. Spying a bottle of mineral water, I pour one into two plastic cups and hand him one.
He blinks in surprise, and there’s a zing for a split second when our fingertips meet. Static electricity from the carpet, no doubt.
“Thanks.”
The awkwardness continues, like watching a movie with no music score in a silent room. I truly don’t know what to say to my employer, and now I’m more or less forced to stay here for the time it takes me to drink this water. I lean back against the kitchen unit and examine the tips of my shoes.
“Can’t sleep on planes either?” he asks eventually.
“Never been able to.”
And as it’s my first plane ride, it’s the truth.
He nods. “Yeah, whatever about first class, it must be impossible in coach class.”
I smile tersely. “Well, everyone else is sleeping, so clearly not impossible.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Look. I didn’t say this before, but I do appreciate you stepping in for Janet and being so flexible about travel.”
“No problem. Glad to have the opportunity, though I do feel bad for her.”
“I’ll deal with her, not your concern.”
“Is she pissed?” I ask baldly. I might as well find out now rather than later.
“Her agent more so than she is. He called me ten times yesterday.” Jack shakes his head and downs the water in a gulp.
“Right. Guess that was a lot of fun.”
His frown returns. “Mia, you can’t let yourself be affected by something like this. Every minute you waste thinking about Janet is a minute you could use to dig deeper into the script, to plan and hone your delivery. If you want to get to the top, you need to be tough.”
“So I’ve heard.” I straighten and drain the water from my cup. Much as I’m happy that he thinks I should aim for the top, I don’t need a lecture.
Although he’s still frowning, there’s a glint in his eyes. “I’d imagine a former child actor has a few stories to tell. They usually do.”
I inhale sharply.
“Thought so.” His gaze pierces my face in several places. “Another time then.” He nods at something behind me. I swing around and let a dumpy female passenger past who’s looking for water. It’s an intrusion of our cozy space.
When I turn to Jack, he’s no longer there. I press a hand to my forehead. Am I delirious? I was all geared up to tell him about my past. No, it’s that infamous airplane effect whereby people turn into blabbermouths and reveal their deepest secrets to fellow passengers when they think they’re going to die.
I smile at the woman guzzling water beside me. She saved me from my own stupidity. The only version of my life story that I want Jack Palmer to know is the one on my résumé—strictly professional and impersonal with a few holes that I’ll fill in with lies if I have to. It’s clear he thinks I’m a useless dropout who’s going to mess up his precious production. I need to prove to him I’m more than that. Way more than that. And when I’m rich and famous, I’ll have a fling with him and laugh about the good old days.
But not before.
8
JACK
IT’S HOT. IT’S SANDY. It feels like an alien planet. The sun burns down white and harsh. The blue of the sky is relentless. Rita insisted on filming in the midday sun in order to give the chrome suits and weaponry a “gleaming, cyberpunk” look. Who am I to argue?
Except everyone’s thirsty and tired and miserable. We’ve been filming since we landed early this morning on the exposed south beach of Islas Las Aves, and the crew’s flagging energy makes me second-guess my decision to come here. I mean, I’m glad we made it hitch-free with the flight transfer, and the quick overnight stay in the hotel in Aruba gave us some respite, but the actual filming has been brutal.
The actors are complaining, mainly about the alien costumes, in particular the red ones. We’ve pierced extra holes in them for breathability, but still we have to abandon scenes after just a few minutes because of the sweat levels. Makeup is running down the actors’ faces faster than melting ice cream. I should have seen this coming, but I’ve never made a movie in tropical temperatures before.
And something about this current scene where the red aliens meet the Arlington-VI crew who have crash-landed on their planet is bothering me.
Then it hits me.
“Is that David in the background? I ask Rita who’s sitting under a tree, fanning her face with pages from the script. “Doesn’t he die in the previous scene?”
She stops fanning. “Wait. What?” She flicks back a few pages of the script and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Fuck! David,” she hollers, “get your ass out of the background—you’re supposed to be dead!”
David waves, looking cheerful about his demise, and collapses in the shade of a palm tree. His co-actors follow his progress off-scene enviously, and Rita yells at them to take it from the top.
We’re not filming the story chronologically, so it’s easy for this kind of mistake to happen, but it’s about the fifth such error we’ve made today. And if we let one of these mistakes through to the final product, we’ll be a laughingstock forever. They have entire websites dedicated to movie gaffs—for those scum-of-the-earth nerds who get their kicks pointing out errors in other people’s creative endeavors. OK, I’m getting overheated now. I need to cool down and think positive.
I retreat to my tent. Our “base” consists of five gray four-person tents that surround the caretaker’s house, a glorified shack. I don’t know how the wizened old man sticks being here for weeks on end during the “season.” It’s just another mystery on top of the other mysteries surrounding this island. I’ve tried to converse with him, but he speaks a strange variety of Spanish I have difficultly following.
The tent is high enough for a man to stand in at the center. Four people can sleep OK. I share with the two cameramen and Chase, the lead actor. I sit on my sleeping bag and readjust my provisions in my little corner, as it allows me to entertain the brief delusion of having my own space.
Luckily, Scarlett has been a good sport about sharing her tent with other mere mortals—Cara, Rita, and Rita’s assistant. No prima donna meltdown there. “It’s just for two nights,” she reasoned. “It’ll be like boarding school.”
No, it’s more like hell. But we have no choice on this deserted speck of land. The island’s only saving grace is that it has a 4G signal.
I get busy calculating the progress on the scenes and doing an inventory. Battery levels are good—we have solar power, after all. Food is good, too, but we’re running through water supplies faster than we should, so I’ll need to warn the staff about that. I shoot off some emails keeping the investors informed on how extremely well everything is going. They don’t need to know the truth. After that, I stretch out on my sleeping bag
just for a minute.
I wake with a start, blink sweat from my eyes, and look at my watch. I’ve slept for an hour. Whoa, it could easily have been two, or six. Mercifully, there’s a tree shading the fore of the tent so it’s not a furnace. I scramble up and zip open the tent.
Rita and the actors have moved to a copse of large cacti. It’s a scene where Sola is talking to Seela about the earthmen’s arrival on their planet. I draw closer, careful not to walk in the actors’ line of sight.
Mia is glorious in her alien costume, strutting around Scarlett with insolent pride, rocking that ridiculous costume with the tail dragging behind her, making a groove in the sand. She exudes a youthful curiosity—and a sexuality that makes me wonder how she’d come across in a normal flick. Maybe a sweet romance.
I glance at the other bystanders—actors, wardrobe, technicians. They all seem interested, some men too interested. And it’s not Scarlett they’re looking at.
Mia’s saying, “Seela, where does John Carter come from?”
“Earth.”
“Is that in a local system?”
“No, it’s sixty-nine light years away. In the Nebulas system, in the outer rim.”
“Why choose our system? Our planet? Is he with the Federation?”
And so on. High art this is not. And their wooden delivery isn’t helping. Mia, I can understand. But million-dollar-a-month Scarlett? What’s up with that?
Rita calls out, “And that’s a wrap, folks. Well done.”
The actors sag with relief and disperse as if repelled. I get that. I remember the feeling of having repeated a scene twenty times in grueling conditions and never wishing to see my fellow actors again.
“Is the light still cyberpunk enough for you?” I ask Rita.
She shades her eyes, looking skyward. “Ah, we’re past it now. I’m just gonna do one small sunny scene and then take it in the shade.”
“They’ll be relieved to hear that.”
She sighs. “I know it’s been hard. But when I look at those colors I know it’s all been worth it.”