Unscripted

by Davis Bunn

  Danny said, “Back to story. I’ll send you their last three scripts so you can see for yourself—”

  “No need. Jennie’s watched all the films they’ve done together.”

  “I . . . What?”

  “You can have her for nineteen days, starting Saturday. Not one second more.”

  “Understood.”

  “Who’s handling your legal?”

  “Megan Pierce.”

  “I know that name.”

  “She just left K&K.”

  “That’s where I heard about her. Formerly a senior associate, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Marked for partner, just walked out the door. First in history. Good for her.”

  “Lane, I have to ask.”

  “Haven’t you heard? It’s dangerous to inspect a gift horse too closely.”

  “Just the same, I need to know. I really do. Why is Jennie French even talking to us?”

  “Because she’s impressed. And Jennie doesn’t impress easily. One day you’re the talk of LA for having been dumped in the deep by Johnny Rocket.”

  “Jennie knows JR?”

  “People like your erstwhile friend are a dime a dozen in this town. They show up at the hyped events like slime mold. Jennie has met him often enough to dislike him. Do I need to say anything more?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “So of course she hears about how you were left hanging and how you’ve somehow managed to spring back to life. Two rules she and I have both learned about this town: Hollywood prefers to bury their corpses while they’re still breathing. And they expect their victims to stay dead.”

  Danny had no idea how to respond. He just sat there, staring at the gravel by his feet, while the electric tremors continued to race through him.

  “Jennie has survived some burials of her own,” Lane went on. “She likes survivor tales. She had me check around. Despite the fact that you were arrested for fraud, everyone I spoke with declared you were both honest and good at your job.”

  “Thank you, Lane. A lot.”

  “You’re welcome, Danny Byrd. A lot. Now go get to work. Jennie will expect to hit the ground running.”

  An idea struck. “Lane, it’s completely within your rights to say no. But we could use your help right now.”

  24

  MEGAN’S PHONE CHIMED just as she was directed into Lawrence Abbott’s office. She read Danny’s instructions and had to stop in the doorway and text back.

  I want to jump for joy, but I can’t. Larry is watching.

  Lawrence Abbott had a triathlete’s build, lean and big-boned and tough. He halted her from reading Danny’s response by demanding, “Is that text more important than this meeting?”

  “Absolutely not.” Megan stowed the phone away, but not her smile. As a result, she met the smirk of her former associate with a warmth that was alien to them both. “Hello, Brandon. I wish I could say it was a pleasure.”

  “I’d ask how you were doing out in the boonies, Megan, but I really don’t care.” Brandon turned to Lawrence and explained, “Ms. Pierce recently—”

  “Your petty feuds have no place in my office. I get enough of that from my own staff. Can we proceed?”

  Megan took the chair directly opposite Lawrence. “Most certainly.”

  “Mr. Lee represents a production group that seeks to take over the Valentine’s Day project. I am inclined to accept their offer. Explain to me why I shouldn’t. If you can.”

  Megan drew her phone back out and touched the number Danny had sent in his text. She hit the speaker button and said, “I’d like my associate to join this discussion.”

  “It won’t help you, Pierce,” Brandon said. “Nothing will.”

  He was seated to her left, not quite behind Lawrence’s desk. But his position suggested he was already on the buyer’s side. Megan met his gaze as a young man’s voice said, “Boutique.”

  “Megan Pierce calling for Lane Pritchard.”

  Brandon took the words like a body blow.

  Lawrence sat up straighter. “Lane Pritchard is involved in this?”

  The agent responded herself. “Why else would I be taking this call? Hello, Larry.”

  “Ms. Pritchard.”

  “Is anybody else present?”

  “Brandon Lee,” Megan replied. “Senior associate at Kleber and Klaufstein. Mr. Abbott has just announced that Brandon represents a different production group that wants the project.”

  “Who’s the competition?”

  Lawrence turned to Brandon. The attorney swallowed hard and replied, “Legend Partners, Ms. Pritchard.”

  The agent barked a laugh. “Let’s get real here.”

  Lawrence’s gaze resembled an iron griddle, dark and burning hot. “Mr. Lee assures me—”

  “Come on, Larry. You know that group couldn’t hit your target date if it were Valentine’s next year, much less in eight and a half weeks. They don’t wipe their noses without board approval.”

  “They are offering to bring in a major talent.”

  “Let’s set that aside for a moment, shall we? Legend is strictly feature. Why are they even talking to you?”

  Under the strength of Lawrence’s glare, Brandon had no choice but to reply, “I was sent over to deliver the offer, Ms. Pritchard. The details are being handled by my boss.”

  “Which means the real power is hiding behind this guy. And they’ve got some secret they can’t let out until you’ve signed. What could that possibly be, I wonder?”

  The two men remained silent.

  “And another thing, Larry. You’re in this current mess because of some headline group that couldn’t deliver. So why don’t you send Junior back to his overpriced office and let’s get down to salvaging your project.”

  Lawrence protested, “I have no assurance this other group can do any better.”

  “Oh, please. Now get rid of the hired gun.”

  But Lawrence refused to let Lane Pritchard take charge. He insisted on Brandon staying. Which was both good and bad as far as Megan was concerned. Brandon was rendered toothless and silent, which was good. But she had to make the deal on her first-ever project while enduring Brandon’s constant glower.

  Then again, that also held a certain secret pleasure.

  Lane said, “What’s the budget?”

  “One eight was the original offer,” Megan said. “But we’ve requested more.”

  “Not happening,” Lawrence said. “In fact, I ordered this meeting to announce a significant reduction.”

  “Don’t even start,” Lane snapped. “What did Legend want from you, Larry? Five?”

  Lawrence glared at the phone, hot enough to melt the device. “A no-name production group run by a Lifetime director and a convict doesn’t deserve a dime, much less a budget increase.”

  Lane asked, “Megan, do you want to respond?”

  “It’s probably best if I don’t.” But she now matched Lawrence glare for glare.

  He went on, “Not to mention how I’ve not seen any hint of a script.”

  “And you won’t,” Megan snapped. “Script approval disappeared when you tried to stiff my team on the budget.”

  He looked ready to crawl across the desk. “You’ve got some nerve.”

  “Allow me to respond,” Lane said. “Larry, either you behave or I’m taking this straight to Harvey Chambers. And you know I’ll do it.”

  Lawrence squinted. Megan leaned forward, ready to meet him midway across the desk. Almost wishing he’d try.

  “Megan?”

  “My team receives five million. Four for the production, one for your insults.”

  “The door’s right there behind you,” Lawrence snarled.

  “I’m sure Megan would settle for three five and an apology. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Only because you’re the one asking,” Megan replied.

  “My dear, I do like your style. Well, Larry?”

  “This is ridiculous.”
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br />   “I take that as a yes. Megan, perhaps you should share with Larry who is going to star.”

  Megan turned so as to offer Brandon a hint of her rage. “Jennie French.”

  The name jammed Lawrence back in his seat. Brandon’s complexion shifted another degree toward chalk.

  “Now here’s what is going to happen,” Lane said. “You will agree in writing to our budget.”

  “The three five buys you airtime for this one season only. Full share of residuals on all future airings,” Megan said. “And no interference from headquarters during production or postproduction. Rand Bethany remains our sole contact from now until airdate. All CBC authority rests with her.”

  “Either you agree now,” Lane said, “or I am calling Harvey and telling him you’ve just lost the chance to have Jennie French, one of Hollywood’s hottest stars, feature in her only television special this season. Leaving you with a title and no project, and probably resulting in your being shown the door. Is that what you want, Larry?”

  “I’ll wait outside while you put all that in writing.” Megan would have handled it more smoothly had it not been for the slur on Danny’s reputation. That and her smoldering heat, hot enough to match Lawrence’s gaze. As it was, she rose, picked up her phone, and said, “You have an hour.”

  25

  GREG AND ANNIE each took a second-floor room overlooking the lake and the western ridge. Robin arranged for a cook and three cleaners. The cook brought in two helpers. Gradually the little hotel was coming back to life. Danny didn’t know what he thought about it. He still did not feel as though the place was even partly his. But all such issues had to wait.

  After a preliminary discussion with Greg and Annie about story, Danny drove to San Luis Obispo and spent the afternoon working through the first pile of contracts. He and Megan labored side by side in the smaller of two conference rooms. She was in full legal mode now—pushy, intelligent, taking no prisoners. She interrupted her line-by-line assessment of the contracts with numerous phone calls to correct issues on the fly. Her conversations came out in tight bursts, demanding movement in no time flat. She even handled Lane that way. And apparently Lane approved.

  Repeatedly that afternoon Danny felt at war with himself. Wanting to retreat from Megan, wanting to grow more intimate still. Not knowing what to do with either urge. Twice Megan asked if something was wrong. Danny held to a silence because he could think of nothing to say.

  That evening Danny returned for another dinner at Megan’s parents’ house. Sarah and Richard greeted him as they would an old friend.

  Danny helped Megan set the porch table. Then he asked if she would join him in the back garden. She must have assumed something bad was coming, because by the time they reached the bench under the Lebanese cedar, she had shrunk inside herself like a child seeking to hide by making herself smaller.

  When they were seated, Megan asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

  Danny could only manage, “No.”

  “Will you tell me what’s the matter?”

  He wanted to. So much. Starting with how he had not been in a relationship for almost three years. Before, they had all followed the same pattern. Temporary, flaming passion had swiftly reduced to bitter cinders. Always Danny had found himself unable to take the next step. Unable to commit. Unable to . . .

  And now he feared the pattern was laid out before him all over again. Helpless and angry and scared and . . .

  The words remained trapped inside him, until finally Megan’s mother called them in to dinner.

  But as Danny followed her up the stairs and through the rear porch, Megan’s father waved him over. Richard waited until Megan entered the kitchen, then said simply, “I saw how you were sitting. Trouble?”

  There was something about this man and his wife, their calm and gentle ways, that managed to pry open the doors Danny had assumed were welded permanently shut. He sighed. “So many.”

  He saw how Richard glanced at the Bible open on the side table, the heavy notations on the pages. But all Richard said was, “You’ve made it on your own for so long.”

  “I had JR.”

  “Alone,” Richard repeated. “Relying on your own strength. Danny, I am impressed. I don’t impress easy.”

  Danny stood there, uncertain how to respond.

  Richard seemed pleased with the silence. He reached up, inviting Danny to help him stand. As they walked toward the dining table, he said, “You’re a better man than you know, son.”

  The next day Megan returned to San Luis Obispo while Danny and Greg and Annie made sorties through Solvang and the surrounding areas. There was little need for conversation. They knew the rhythm of each other’s creative process. Greg frowned at everything. Annie hummed and bounced to a tune in her head. Every now and then she pointed out something and spoke a few words. Like a kiss scene or a breakup. Greg usually responded with a grunt. He was not thinking just story. His primary purpose that day was to structure the concepts into a form that engaged the audience on the screen. Which meant worrying about everything.

  Danny remained locked in silence. Neither Greg nor Annie seemed to feel any need to draw him out, which was both good and bad. Good because it gave him time to reflect on the previous evening, and bad for the exact same reason.

  Thinking about Megan was like watching a storm rise over the Pacific, brooding and mysterious and frightening in its power. Time and again Danny recalled what Richard had said. Wishing he was indeed a good man. Someone who knew what to do. Someone who might truly be ready for Megan.

  That afternoon they drove to the Refugio Beach Park. Danny stayed in the car while the other two walked the shoreline path. Annie chased a pair of gulls like she was six again and the most important part of her afternoon was reveling in the sea and the sunlight. Greg watched her with a bemused expression.

  As Danny observed them, he remembered something from his early days. A director reaching the end of an illustrious career had repeated one expression almost daily: “Background makes foreground.” It was an adage that dated from the silent-film days, when the early greats transported audiences without the crutches of either color or sound. The motto had mostly been forgotten, especially among the film-school crowd, who liked to think they could make a name for themselves by reinventing the wheel. But Danny thought it still carried a lot of weight. Background makes foreground. Paying attention to the details no audience ever noticed was what set the film’s emotional cadence. Get the details right and the story fit into place. It breathed. Became real. Supplanted the outside world for tens of millions of people around the world.

  Danny watched Annie dance and Greg fret and knew this was why the three of them made such a great team. They were all after the same thing. They wanted to create the feel of a feature film, regardless of how tight the budget and how many ridiculous barriers stood between them and success.

  He watched the pair start back to the car and rolled down his window. He took a long breath of the sea and the afternoon, wishing he could say the right things, do the right things, and build a successful relationship with Megan. The kind she deserved.

  Wednesday arrived with rain and wind and a torrent of fresh work. The best thing Danny could say about the day was that every specialist he contacted leapt at the chance to work with him again. Even the ones JR had stiffed. They did not ask for back payments. They did not express rage over what Danny’s best friend had done to them all. This was LA. They knew where the risks lurked. Welcome to the world of film and broken promises.

  When the film crew started arriving that afternoon, most offered him a weary smile and a word about paying dues. Treating him as one of them. Still a man they could trust.

  Robin went full-time for them, handling all payments and accounts. As far as she was concerned, numbers were numbers. She let her friends in Solvang know what they were doing and how she and Emma were involved. As a result, when Danny drove into town for lunch and a visit to the supermarket, several people offered h
im a California welcome. Easy, familiar, casual. It wasn’t just because he was making a film in their hometown. These were native Californians, fairly immune to film crews. They were being nice because Danny was becoming friends with some of their own.

  And in two days, their first major actor was arriving.

  Danny spent the afternoon coaching Emma through the initial scenes Annie had completed. It was the first time Emma had even seen pages of fresh script. She did not do well at all. Danny was mildly disappointed by the level of her performance, but not overly so. She listened, she tried, she stayed determined to improve. For today, it was enough. Almost.

  Everything was overlaid by the electric tension everyone felt but did not address directly. To speak the words would only have made it worse.

  Alex Cross, their male lead, was arriving on Friday. Jennie French on Saturday. It was showtime. And the story was nowhere near ready.

  While Danny coached Emma, Greg walked through the hotel and grounds with Rick Stanton, the cinematographer. Trailing behind them were the assistant cameraman, two lighting techs, and the soundman. Now and then Annie danced along the fringes, her fingers trailing handwritten pages like they were paper wings. Rick was an integral part of the group, offering suggestions as they talked story, framing shots even before the decisions were made. This was how Greg worked, and one of the things Danny most liked about the man. Greg took counsel from everyone on his team, treating even the interns as having valid opinions. But once he made his decision, he expected everyone to fall in line.

  Thursday morning they gathered in the kitchen at five. No one complained, not even the cook, who shuffled sleepily about, making breakfast burritos and strong pre-dawn coffee. Anyone who had ever worked behind the camera knew the hours were long and would soon grow longer still.

  They drove through empty roads and halted in the middle of Solvang’s main street. Rick and the soundman spoke in awestruck whispers, discussing camera angles and directional mikes. Mist caught the first tendrils of daylight, a golden veil that seemed to breathe in time to the rise of birdsong. The sight was so incredible, Rick brought out his shoulder cam and started shooting.