Billie got her camera gear together. This was the perfect place to build up a collection of photos to submit to a stock photography service for extra money. She took pictures of carved totem poles decorating the lobby and a carved wooden statue of a sasquatch.
Her concentration was broken by Claudia’s voice. “You! Billie, is it? Richard’s wondering why you aren’t on set taking photos.”
Billie froze. “Oh. He didn’t say anything when I talked to him earlier. But I’m all ready.” She bit her tongue. She had her backup camera, the kit lens and no sound blimp. She wasn’t prepared and that was embarrassing.
“You need to be more proactive. You have to anticipate what Richard wants.”
“You’ve worked with him before?”
Claudia nodded. “All the time. He’s a great director, just don’t get in the way of his process.”
Billie wasn’t sure what his process was—so far it was yelling at vendors and trying not to smoke. She followed Claudia outside. This place would be nice if she wasn’t terrified about this job.
“Are they near the tents?”
Claudia looked at her like she grew an extra head. “No, that’s where the craft services snacks are, things like that. The circus. The set is at the side of the creek where the first scenes are taking place when we start shooting in a couple of days. Haven’t you looked at the schedule? Where’s your schedule?” She shoved a paper toward Billie. “Here. Shooting starts in four days. I know, it’s insane. Richard is running full rehearsals. Best time for you to get some shots because the camera isn’t running. Just stay on his left side if you know what’s good for you.”
Claudia marched toward the tents. Billie hesitated, not sure if she should follow, then hurried to catch up. Claudia’s cigarette was lit, and Billie followed the smoke past the tents and through the woods once she lost sight of the line producer. She caught up near a swift-flowing creek.
Richard was there, along with half a dozen others. Billie stood near a metal cart, headsets hanging off the side. A dark-haired man, wearing a t-shirt that clung in all the right places, sorted through cables.
“Hi. I’m Billie Jessop, still photographer.”
“Judd. Sound.” He went back to sorting like she wasn’t there. Okay, then.
This must be the other man Diana met. She said he had great blue eyes, but left out the surliness.
“You! Camera girl!”
Billie tried not to cringe as Richard barreled toward her.
“See that over there?” He pointed to a guy picking his nails with a knife.
“Yeah?”
“He’s our killer. No pictures of him. Not just because he’s not as attractive as he should be for a role like this, but I don’t want to give it away. So no pictures of him. And me, what about me?”
“Left side in natural light.” She smiled.
“Look, they sent one with brains,” he said to no one in particular. “Thank God for small favors. Fay! Where are you going? We need to go over these new pages!”
Billie craned her neck, but only got a glimpse of long blonde hair as the woman disappeared down a path. Richard chased after her and everyone could hear their raised voices a moment later.
Elyse stood near a giant light. “They do this all the time,” Elyse explained. “Richard never likes her script changes.”
“Or the original script,” someone said as they walked by with some cable.
“Or the rewrites,” Tiny said.
“He says he isn’t the writer, but he wants to rewrite everything, she balks, they fight, she rewrites, he hates it, she gets fed up, they fight, she pretends to rewrite, he loves it, they decide to shoot it.” Elyse shrugged.
A few minutes later Richard came back. “Okay, let’s do this, we’re on the . . . what pages are we on here? The goldenrod pages. Goldenrod. Fuck! How did we go through so many script changes?” He took a puff from his vape. “Okay, places.”
Billie wasn’t sure where to go. She spotted Miles near the camera operator, but they weren’t pointing the camera anywhere in particular.
“They aren’t shooting it. Just getting an idea of where to block everything for the camera,” a buxom blonde said. “We’re safe over here. I’m Lark, I’m a production assistant.”
Lark wore a tight t-shirt emblazoned with The Reaper. She shot little smiles over at Richard, and Billie raised an eyebrow when Richard winked back. That was interesting.
Billie moved near the camera. “It’s okay if I snap as they do this?”
Miles nodded. “As long as the camera’s not running or sound is up.”
There was no one holding the boom microphone, so Billie assumed she was okay.
Richard’s voice boomed through the woods, yelling action. She snapped pictures, getting into a rhythm until Richard decided to rehearse a scene near the creek.
As everyone moved the equipment, Richard moved towards the periphery of the action, his hand on Lark’s lower back. He leaned in and said something, and she giggled.
“He hits on all the girls on set,” Miles said. “And sometimes the guys when he’s drunk and forgets his glasses.”
He hadn’t hit on her, and that was fine. It was normal for her, at any rate. They set up closer to the creek.
“You, camera girl,” Richard said through a megaphone, even though she was only ten feet away. “Back it up.”
She backed up.
“Still in the shot.”
She glanced at the camera. Nowhere to be found. She backed up again.
“Good.”
She snapped a few pictures of Richard’s right side, then turned so it appeared she was capturing something else.
The scene progressed, and Billie stepped back to get a wider view. The soggy ground moved beneath her and her feet tangled in something. She grabbed the nearest thing—the edge of the sound cart. It came crashing down onto the forest floor along with her.
“Shit!” Judd snatched equipment off the ground.
Billie was relieved none of her things fell in the creek—or Judd’s for that matter. He was already walking around with a permanent scowl.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Richard said. “Cut!”
“We weren’t rolling. We don’t even have power right now,” Tiny said.
“Camera girl, are you going to be a catastrophe when we’re shooting? Because if we were rolling, that would’ve ruined the entire take. Judd, what’s the equipment looking like?”
So Richard knew his name. Typical. She needed a penis or breast implants to get his attention.
The sound cables were tangled around her feet, and she unwrapped them before she stood up. Bracing herself on a rock, she struggled to stand, but the log she stepped on was slippery. She gasped as she flailed backwards and went ass over tea kettle into the creek.
Her first thought was her camera. She lifted her arms up, but the camera took a good dunk anyway. It was an almost brand-new Canon T5i.
She stood up slowly, ignoring the laughter, concerned only about her camera and lens. That was a sixteen hundred dollar investment down the toilet. Her parents would never let her live this down.
“That’s not waterproof, is it, camera girl?” Richard gestured toward her camera.
Her teeth chattered as the cold water registered. “No.” She struggled toward the shore.
Claudia stood near the creek, but made no move to help her.
Richard held out a hand and she slapped the camera in it. He passed it behind him to someone else, then turned and left.
Miles came over, glancing at Claudia. “A little help would’ve been nice.”
“I can’t swim,” she countered.
“It’s two feet deep, max, Claude.” Miles held out his hand. Billie took it and he hauled her onto shore.
“Go get dry in the tents, there’s a heater there,” Claudia said.
Billie picked up her bag, her clothes dripping and heavy with cold water. Someone handed her the SDHC card from her camera and she slipped it in her bag, which thankfully still was on shore. She walked to the tents, miserable.
One tent held a few folding chairs, a table and a heater. A blonde woman with long straight hair and blunt cut bangs was jotting down something in a notebook.
“Oh my gosh, you look like you’re freezing!” she exclaimed.
The woman flicked on the heater and Billie edged closer until she could feel the warmth. “This sucks.”
“What happened?”
“I fell in the creek,” she said, her teeth chattering. “Richard was really mad.”
“On my first day, Richard threw my script in the creek,” the woman said. “I had a good cry in the laundry room about it. I’m Fay Prentice, the screenwriter. When Richard isn’t changing everything I wrote, that is.”
She held out a hand and Billie shook it. Fay didn’t even bother to wipe the water off.
“I’m Billie Jessop. The photographer. Or maybe I was the photographer.”
“He won’t fire you. Despite all the yelling and threats, he doesn’t like to fire people for real. He might fire you seven times in front of everyone, but if you don’t show up later to work, he’ll be confused about why.”
Billie laughed. “He’s a character.”
“He’s got a lot going on. A lot’s riding on this thing for him.”
“You wrote it?”
She nodded. “I’m not sure I wrote what’s going to be filmed, but yes, I wrote the film.”
Billie was warming up, even if her clothes weren’t drying. She had questions for Fay—how she met Richard, what the film was about—and she felt Fay wouldn’t laugh at her for not knowing. She would’ve asked, but she couldn’t get her camera out of her mind. It was so damned expensive, and she went and tripped and fell in a creek.
Diana wouldn’t fall in a creek. She’d skip across from rock to rock in four-inch heels like a freaking gazelle. The only chance she would fall is if Sidney Crosby was on the other side, naked. That might distract Diana enough to fall in a creek.
“I ruined one of my cameras.”
“I’m sorry. You might be able to claim it on insurance.”
“I hope so. I have my good one, but this backup was pretty good, too. Do you really think I could claim it?”
Fay was about to reply when there was a loud whoosh and a sense of heat behind her. Fay grabbed her hand and yanked her forward. Heat singed Billie’s side, and she glanced over her shoulder. A column of flame erupted from the heater and the tent caught.
“Fire!” Fay yelled.
The flames roared up the material to the roof, but Tiny and Jerry came running with extinguishers and knocked it down quickly. The heater took a few minutes to put out, and someone cut the generator that powered it.
Billie shivered, completely shocked.
“Thank you,” she said shakily to Fay, who was pale herself, her blue eyes alarmed. They were on the ground; Billie was too shaken to move.
Richard arrived a few minutes later. “What’s this about a fire? What happened? Fay, you okay?” Richard helped Fay up, then looked at Billie. “Camera Girl. Should’ve figured. From drowning to fire. What’s next? Floods? Pestilence? Locusts?”
“Leave her alone, Richard,” Fay said. “She could’ve been really hurt.”
He glanced at the ragged corner of the tent.
“Just think of what it would’ve done to your insurance premiums to have a still photographer burned to a crisp on set,” Fay said dryly.
“What happened exactly?”
Billie and Fay took turns explaining.
“Ah, well look at that, you’re a regular hero, Fay. Speaking of, I have a great idea for the third act. Fay! Where are you going?”
Before Billie could thank her, Fay grabbed a notebook and headed for the lodge, Richard on her heels.
Billie made her way back into the room shortly before dinner, according to her damp schedule. Diana sat on the bed, mooning over Closet Sidney and murmuring under her breath; probably her name and Sidney’s together.
“Hey.” Billie shut the door.
“Jesus H. Christ on a hopped-up, chariot-driven crutch, what happened to you?”
“Well, I was shooting some ‘behind-the-scenes’ shots—”
“That’s excellent!” Diana clapped her hands. “Can you make me prints?”
“Prints?” Billie was shell-shocked. “Well, yeah, I guess, but you know, I was shooting, and Richard—”
“Dick!”
“Richard kept yelling at me to back it up, and I fell, then when I was trying to get up, I toppled right into a creek.”
“Oh, Bils!” Diana threw her arms around her. “Do you want me to kill him?”
“No, that wasn’t the worst of it. Although I might want to keep that in reserve. Anyway, after I made it out of the creek, I went to warm up in the tent by a space heater. I guess they’ll have it on during the night shoots, although maybe not now.”
“Oh, God, night shoots. Just what we need, bats and snakes and owls!”
“Diana, are you listening to me? Owls?”
“Have you ever seen one of those creepy bastards turn their heads all the way around?”
“No, have you?”
“No, but I heard they could. It makes me shiver just thinking about it.”
“Anyway, all owls aside, the space heater caught on fire.”
“Oh, no, Billie!” Diana squeezed her. “Oh, that’s horrible. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so, but while we were trying to put it out—”
“What? You were doing what? Billie, you’re stills. You can’t expect people to treat you with the respect you deserve if you do stuff the grips ought to be doing! Fighting fires!” Diana shook her head.
“I didn’t fight the fire, Tiny and Jerry did. The screenwriter, Fay, she got me out of the way. That’s not the worst though. I had my camera in my hands when I fell in the creek. It’s gone—the camera and probably all the photos I took today.” Billie clapped her hands over her eyes to block out the mental image. “It was my back-up, but still, it was expensive . . . .”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry!” Diana led Billie to the bed and pressed her to sit, but Billie didn’t want to get the bed wet.
“I got a bowl of rice from Joe and I’ve got the SDHC card sitting in it drying out, so maybe I can salvage some of it.”
Diana looked at her pityingly. “I’ll go bring you up some dinner. You jump in the shower. I know just what you need.”
“What?” Billie asked dully.
“A night out!”
Diana pasted a smile on her face and moved through the crowd, introducing herself. You never knew when you might meet someone who could connect you with the next job. It was important to make a good impression—or so her youngest brother, Rocco, always said.
Most of the cast and crew had been on set for days and formed cliques—the camera crew and tech guys sat together and hair, wardrobe and makeup shoved two tables together to make one long table, while the PAs and grips sat together.
Jordyn Brooks sat with a middle-aged man so buffed and polished, he could only be her agent, the infamous Grady. She complained loudly and at length about her allergies and how limited she found the dinner menu. Every once in a while, she speared a piece of lettuce with her fork, inspected it, then took a tiny nibble.
A petite woman, dark hair pulled up in a bun and wearing a chef’s smock with “Pam” embroidered over her left breast pocket, stood behind a row of metal serving pans, ladling food on styrofoam plates. Dick interrogated her about the fat content and number of calories in each dish.
Diana grabbed a tray and sidled up next to him. “Hiya, Dick.” He was lucky there wasn’t a convenient creek nearby, or she’d give him a big push.
Ignoring her, Dick pointed at a serving pan. “Is that free-range chicken?”
The woman cringed. “I’m not sure.”
Diana hated being ignored. It was on her top-five list of things she loathed. She jabbed Dick in the ribs. “Hey, why don’t you just get some duct tape and strap that fried chicken to your ass, because that’s where it’s gonna end up, anyway. It’s breaded and deep-fried, who gives a shit if it’s free-range?” After he flung Billie into the creek, she didn’t feel a twinge of guilt.
Dick gave her a horrified look, then turned back to Pam. “Where’s my hummus? What the hell do I have to do around here to get something decent to eat, cook it myself?”
“Pretty sure you don’t cook hummus,” Diana said. “Although I’d like to see you try.”
“Didn’t I fire you earlier?”
Pam shook so hard only half the hummus ended up on Dick’s plate.
“Who haven’t you fired?” Half a dozen people had clued her into Dick’s proclivity for firing and reinstating people. “If everyone you fired left, you wouldn’t have anyone left to shoot this movie.”
“Are you always this mouthy?”
“No, you just bring the best out in me.”
“Is that an insult?”
“What do you think, Dick?”
He narrowed his eyes, turned on his heel and walked off.
Diana smiled at the terrified craft services woman. Her philosophy was not to fuck with people who made or handled her food. “Can I have some of that chicken?”
“Y-yes.” Pam’s hands shook.
“Don’t worry about Dick.” Diana leaned in confidentially. “He’s all bark and no bite. Pay him no mind. I don’t.”
The poor woman hadn’t taken her eyes off Dick, although he was halfway across the room. If he kept yelling at craft services, the coffee would be awful. Bad coffee also was on her hate list.
“Do you mind boxing something up for my roommate? She had a rough day.” She leaned in to whisper, “I’m not saying it was Dick, but . . . it was Dick.”
“I could do that,” Pam whispered.
“He’s lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Yup. If I were you, I’d put so many laxatives in his food, he’d be shitting his pants for a week.”
The girl offered her an uncertain smile—and an extra piece of chicken.
Diana had swung past the bar, snagged a wine bottle and reached the dining room door when Miles caught up.
“Hey, is your friend okay?”
“She’s in our room, resting. I hear you were quite the hero, rescuing her from the creek.”
He blushed and made it look good. “It wasn’t all that. I just helped her up is all.”
“She’s very grateful,” Diana cooed. It never hurt to plant seeds. “I’m sure she’ll want to thank you herself later.”
He reddened even more. “It’s okay, really. But, if you’re interested, Judd and I will be having drinks later. We could talk.”
Elyse came down the stairs. She had changed into a sundress, done her hair and wore a touch of makeup. When she saw Miles, she beamed. “Miles, I didn’t expect to see you here. Are you going to dinner?”
Diana would just bet she didn’t expect him at dinner; a pang of jealousy—possessiveness on Billie’s behalf?—surprised her.
“I’ve already grabbed a plate, but you’re welcome to join us. I wanted to check on how Diana’s friend is doing.”
“Billie,” Elyse said flatly. “Her name is Billie.”
“She’s great. Thanks to Miles.”
“So glad to hear it.” Elyse skirted around her and took Miles’ arm. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.”
Miles looked from one to the other, a frown creasing his brow.
“Don’t worry about Billie,” Diana said sweetly, mounting the stairs. “Miles is doing a great job of looking after her.”