LATER THAT AFTERNOON, what had been one of the worst shoots Bill had ever been on, became the worst.
“Have you lost your effing mind?” He paced a few feet, eyeing the video monitor. It was stifling hot, the stench of exhaust from Pacific Coast Highway overpowered the sea air, some know-nothing had just sabotaged a perfect take, and to make the day as perfect as it could possibly be, he’d lost his watch somewhere in miles of sand.
It was as though the universe was saying, “Have a crappy day.”
He stopped, pointed at the monitor again. “The lighting sucked! Our star was in shadow, but the lifeguard station was lit up like Disneyland!”
The chief gaffer, a glop of sunscreen on his nose, nodded. “Yes, Bill. Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
Bill rubbed a spot on his chin. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I’m being a dick. It’s just that it’s—” He looked over at one of the production assistants. “What time is it?”
The girl, her pile of red hair pinned to the top of her head with a clip, glanced nervously at her watch. “It’s 2:30 p.m.”
“Nearly three,” he sputtered under his breath. He looked back at the gaffer. “You hear that? It’s nearly 3:00 p.m.! We’ve been shooting since 5:00 a.m., and we’re still screwing up the first frickin’ scene.”
He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to dislodge the kink that had homesteaded between his blades, as he walked out onto the set where everyone could see him. He stopped, looked over the assembly of crew and actors.
“People,” he called out, “can we pull together and finally, finally, get it right this next time? Otherwise, we’ll have wasted an entire day with nothing to show for it.”
“Yes.”
“Sure thing, Bill.”
“Will do.”
His gaze caught Jimmie’s, who stood with several of his reports. Even under a glaring sun, Bill could tell that look on his pal’s face. They all needed a time-out before Bill went postal.
He signaled to the second assistant director, a quiet kid everyone called Bunker for some reason, and flashed five splayed fingers.
Bunker nodded, raised the megaphone to his lips.
“Everybody, take five. Be back in your places at exactly two-thirty-five. No excuses.”
Bill grabbed his bottle of iced tea and took a long swig as he watched Jimmie trudge through the sand toward him.
“I don’t get it,” Bill said when his friend arrived, glancing down at Jimmie’s expensive leather huaraches. “Why do you get involved with this bullshit? Why don’t you stay at home and write full-time, skip this insanity. You have the means.”
“Cheap shot, Bill.”
“Sorry. Maybe I should change my name to Dick so people can call me that to my face.” He looked around at people adjusting lights, dragging equipment across the sand, fixing the stars’ melting makeup. Typically, people would be chatting, yelling, cracking jokes.
Except for the occasional murmur of conversation, everyone was stone-cold silent.
“I’m making everybody tense.”
“Yeah, you are, but it’s also a tough shoot.”
“Starting with Sullivan this morning.” Bill was still angry at the producer’s bullheadedness. “He insisted the location shot be moved, so it was moved. That cost time, money and one pissed-off star’s goodwill because no one told her the site of the new location.”
“Shoots happen.”
“Very funny.”
“C’mon, Bill, you and I both know it’s a crazy business.”
“But not on the first day of the most important shoot of my career.”
“This is one step above a sitcom, Bill. Lots of bodies and fluff, barely enough plot to string along a story line—”
“Getting ready to hawk the indie film company again?”
“BillJim Productions? Whose first film has an award-winning script featuring a compelling and complex protagonist based on your life?” He paused. “No. That’s a lost cause.”
“The money would suck.”
“Not if you’d stop thinking making it big equates to making big bucks. But I don’t want to discuss it further.”
Bill grunted. “Me, neither. Except to say, you’d be smart to contract with that financial guy who used to work for Coppola—Gary something—because he knows the business end inside and out.”
“Gary Minger. Had lunch with him last week.”
Bill paused. “Did you pitch him the indie film company idea?”
“Thought we weren’t discussing this further.”
“We’re not.”
“Great, let’s change the subject. How’s our Queen of Evil?”
A smile broke through Bill’s black mood. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Okay, extra fine. She’s…good, you know?”
He thought about how his heart pounded every time she smiled. And how he’d told her about Reggie. It hadn’t been easy, but he was glad now he’d done it. She was more than a lover. She’d become his friend.
Bill dragged a hand through his tangle of hair. “Have you ever listened to Marilyn Manson?”
Jimmie did a double take. “That strange guy? Never. Plan to keep it that way.”
“He’s okay.”
“Uh, why are we talking about Marilyn Manson?”
“Oh, Ellie likes him.”
“Seeing her again?”
“Tonight.”
Jimmie nodded. “Give it a chance before you pull the plug. A relationship—that’s dating someone for more than three months, by the way—with the right person might do you good. Help you get outside of yourself, give your life some perspective. Can’t be number one all the time, Bill. Unless you like living in that small, lonely place.”
“Giving me some tough love, James?”
“If I don’t, who will?” He made a power sign, bumped it against Bill’s fist. “Gotta check on the grips. I know how you love the details, but try not to sweat the small stuff, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
BUT A HALF HOUR LATER, Bill wasn’t just sweating the small stuff, he was sweating the minutiae, too.
He stood, his arms crossed, staring down a group of extras. Dressed in Speedos and bikinis, their tanned bodies glistening with lotion, they stared back with wide, frightened eyes as though he was going to yell “boo!” any moment.
Except for the old guy in surfer trunks, who was taking advantage of the break to make eyes at one of the female props personnel.
“Who didn’t turn off their cell phone?” Bill demanded, his voice rolling over the quiet set.
Overhead, a plane buzzed slowly through the blue, trailing an advertising sign that read Rocko’s Burgers Best in Malibu 1-800-555-6609.
Peter, the assistant casting director, sat stiffly on the edge of the set, lighting another cigarette. “People,” he said, half puffing the words as they escaped in a plume of smoke, “the director just asked you a question.”
Not the director, yet. After this last screwup, maybe never.
An hour ago, Sullivan, who’d spent most of the day watching the taping from his producer’s trailer, had taken Bill aside. In a buddy-buddy tone, he’d calmly reviewed the day. Costly. Mistakes happen. Did Bill want Gordon to take over the directing? No? Then, could Bill please get back control of the set and stop the bleeding?
That last shot hadn’t just bled, it’d gushed.
In the group of extras, a woman stepped forward, her head bent. “It was me,” she said meekly, lifting her gaze.
Ellie.
She nervously clasped and unclasped her hands, the look on her face so damn remorseful, he almost felt bad. Almost. The next chat with Sullivan wasn’t going to be so buddy-buddy.
Peter, taking another puff, strode up to her.
“You were explicitly told to leave your cell back at the extras’ table.” Although he stood right directly in front of her, he spoke loud enough so everyone could hear. “You’re fired. Pick up your things and—”
“Hold it!” Bill pulled off his headset and rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. After a moment, he lowered his hand, took a breath. “There’s enough drama in front of the cameras, do we have to have it behind the cameras, too?”
Somebody snickered.
He looked at Ellie, still standing in the spot where she’d confessed, looking frightened and vulnerable.
Despite his pissed-off state, he felt for her.
“Let’s not go to extremes, Peter.” Bill motioned to the production assistant to hand him his tea. “She’s not a professional. She’s just somebody who won this job at the festival audition. Let her stay. Minus her cell, of course.”
While Peter divested Ellie of her phone, Bill returned to his station, sipping lukewarm tea while waiting for the camera operators to give him their thumbs-up. Patience had never been one of his better traits. He liked things done fast, well and on time, but he could dream on wanting that on this set. He ticked off the seconds in his head, nudged his toe into the warm sand and waited.
Seconds became minutes.
A pair of pink polished toes entered his line of vision. He looked up.
Ellie stood there, guilt so clearly etched on her sun-pink face, she might as well carry a sign.
“I’m really, really sorry,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
He watched her through slitted eyes. Over the years, he’d dealt with all kinds, from hard-assed gangbangers to scheming studio heads. He’d been hassled and manipulated and tested by the best, but he’d usually been able to keep his attitude on cruise control.
But he was having a hell of a time doing that today. As wonderful as she was, as much as she meant to him, she’d just pricked his balloon of dreams with a very sharp needle.
He shifted in his chair, his face hot, his heart hammering, every single nerve ending raw, edgy, inflamed as years of scrambling for jobs, living on little sleep and food, fighting to prove himself rose to the surface.
He kept his eyes fixed on her face, all too aware of her plump breasts, smooth thighs and the sweet triangle nestled in between.
Part of him wanted to curse her, make her the scapegoat for this rotten day, for his rapidly downhill-sliding career, for every single piece of malfunctioning equipment, misspoken dialogue, hell, even for the script assistant’s summer cold.
The other part wanted to crush her into his arms and ride her right into the ground.
“You’re making me crazy, Ellie,” he muttered.
Over her shoulder he saw Ricardo, one of the continuity crew, heading his way. Ricardo was a can-do kinda guy who resolved problems before anyone else even knew they existed.
Which meant one big, hairy, unmanageable problem was heading Bill’s way.
Turning to pick up his drink, he realized Ellie was still standing there, an expectant look on her face.
“What?” he barked.
She gave a little jump. “I, uh, was wondering…”
He took a sip, waited for the rest. “C’mon, I don’t have time to play guess what’s on my mind.”
Now she looked hurt.
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to be an asshole. Just spit it out. Company’s on its way.”
“I was wondering if I could leave—”
“Bil-ly…” Phoebe strolled in, wearing a skimpy summer dress that was more skimp than dress. She deigned a glance at Ellie, then handed him a paper. “Curtiss asked if you’d read this memo. He needs an answer ASAP.”
He took it, started reading.
Phoebe sidled closer. “Going to the festival tonight?”
“Huh? I don’t know.”
Ricardo stepped into the shade from the tent, wiping the sweat off his chin. “Hey, Bill, sorry to be the messenger, but props brought the wrong motorcycle….”
Bill’s cell rang. He made a time-out gesture to Ricardo as he answered, listened to someone start explaining why one of the special effects had prematurely blown up.
“Hold on,” he said into the phone. He handed back the memo to Phoebe, “Tell Curtiss the budget’s too tight. And about that motorcycle…” He looked over at Ricardo but his gaze froze on Ellie.
“Thought you wanted to leave.”
She flitted a glance at the others, looked back. “I, uh…”
“Look,” he said, working to keep his voice even, “if you’re worried about Peter, I’ll talk to him.”
“No, it’s…”
He didn’t have the time for this. “Ellie, I can’t waste my time on an extra. Go, leave! The rest of us have real work to do here.”
The aquamarine eyes turned glacial, giving him a look that made him wish he’d never been born.
“You said you don’t mean to be,” she said quietly, “but you are.”
He frowned. “Don’t mean to be what?”
“An asshole.”
As she walked away, he felt the world pull back, the sounds of machinery and people on the set reduced to a low buzz, like a fly in another room. Even the crashing surf seemed remote, as though it’d chosen another shore.
It wasn’t her words. He’d been called worse. Crazy enough, it wasn’t even the job. There’d be problems, he’d be on the line, things would be fixed. Or not.
It was realizing he’d finally committed himself to something more than just him. Something better, bigger. Yet within minutes, he’d managed to slam the door and isolate himself again.
Jimmie was right. He’d made himself number one for so long, he hadn’t realized what a small, lonely place it really was.