A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (19 page)

Our executive producer is there, talking to the DP and the director. At the sight of me, he holds up his hands.

“Ratings from last night,” he announces.

Last night? An episode of
Clues
aired last night. And Devon froze me out this morning.

The producer keeps talking, but I hear none of it. My mind is off, racing back to the day Devon quit his job a week ago. The day after the second episode of
Clues
aired.

“Earth to Lizzie,” says Kevin. “What do you think?”

“I think I wasn’t listening. Sorry.”

The whole set is silent, and everyone’s looking at me.

“Sorry, sorry-sorry,” I say. “I’m…trying to keep myself in the right headspace.”

People mutter, and I hear some chuckles.

“Less than a million viewers last night,” the producer repeats.

Ouch
. Not good. Not good at all.

“Blood Ritual
had eight million,” he goes on.

“And I was saying,” says Kevin, “that we can close that gap. Right, Lizzie?”

Perhaps he thinks a go-getter attitude is always a good thing, but in that comment, I only hear his inexperience in television. Netting seven
million
more viewers is no small task, and even if this show moves forward, firing on all cylinders, we may never get there.

“We can certainly try,” I say.

His eyes flash with indignation. “Yeah, you do that. You ‘try.’” He makes air quotes.

“We’re going to rework this episode,” says the producer. “And the schedule’s tight, so we don’t have much time to play with.”

We never, ever want to go into overtime if it’s at all avoidable. The guild fees stack up fast. It’s cheaper to do a whole extra day, sometimes, than to go into overtime. Only this show usually needs seven days of shooting per episode, so we don’t have an extra day.

“Do we still film this scene?” I say.

“Film what you’ve got scheduled, and we’ll try to get rewrites to you by the end of the day,” he says.

What a mess. Changing the tire on a moving vehicle is never a good practice.

This should totally stress me out, and I’m sure it does on some level. I’m distracted by the urgent need to talk to Devon though. First, I have to do this scene, and then I have an interview.
Just get through this
, I think.

The interview is with
Cosmopolitan
, so it’s not something I can blow off. The interviewer is in my trailer, waiting for me when I return. She’s a woman that I’d guess is about thirty-five, but her auburn hair is dyed, so she might be older. I can tell because it doesn’t have enough highlights and lowlights like natural hair color does. Her poise is impeccable.

When I walk in, she gets to her feet and says, “I’m so sorry to intrude. Your manager said I could come right in.”

“And he’s right,” I say. “I just need to change, and I’ll be right with you.”

I head into the room I use as my dressing room and put on my outfit for the next scene: form-fitting jeans and a tight shirt open to just below the breastbone. At least the costumes haven’t gotten any skimpier, and again, I notice that there is no bulge whatsoever above my form-fitting waistline. I have
never
seen my body like this.

When I emerge again, Julian’s there as well, tapping away on his laptop. He looks up, salutes me, and resumes whatever it is he’s working on.

I slide into a chair opposite the interviewer and say, “So I’m Lizzie.”

“Cara,” she replies. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“And you,” I say.

“All right if I begin recording?”

“Yep.”

“There’s not a whole lot of staff around here,” she remarks.

“For me? No, it’s usually just me here. Sometimes my manager.”

“Unusual for someone at your level of fame,” she says.

I shrug. “I’m a former child star at this point. I haven’t established myself in my career as an adult, so I wouldn’t say I have that high a level of fame.”

“Well, okay, while we’re on that topic…”

No
, I think.
Don’t. Come on. I’ve got enough fires to put out today.

“Your show hasn’t really found its audience yet, has it?”

“I think you’d know the details of that better than I would,” I lie. “It’s a great cast and crew and a real privilege to work here.”

“Rumor has it you’re the highest paid female lead on the network.”

Now this is
not
true. I make a lot, but there are people who make six figures an episode. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s false.”

“Rumor has it that the network is talking about pulling the plug.”

“I’m not big on rumors,” I say.

“Ah… I see.” She smiles.

Julian shakes his head behind her back, and gives her a look that I’m sure is like poison darts. Hard to tell with those shades he always wears, but that’s my guess. This day at work is going from bad to worse, and I can’t spare a moment to care because I
really
need to talk to Devon.

So I just do my best to act friendly and answer all of her questions, and I hope I don’t say anything too stupid or, if I do, that Julian overhears and keeps it out of the published version.

Once she’s done, I politely see her out, and Julian also leaves, likely to make some phone calls of his own, or maybe to chase her down and beg that she not print whatever I just said. I should care, but I’m too busy dialing Devon.

“Everything all right?” he answers.

“About that—”

“What?” he says. Definitely on the defensive.

“Soooo,” I say, “I channeled my character and did some deductions.”

“Do I want to hear this?”

“You’re watching my show,” I say.

“Of course I’m watching your show.”

“And you don’t like it.”

“Listen, Lizzie, let’s not talk about this over the phone.”

“Broom closet conference?” I joke.

“I dunno.”

“Please?”

“Not the broom closet.”

“Then when? Where? You want me to come by tonight or you want to come to my place?”

More silence.

“Or you want to come visit the set of my show? You got any free time today? You want to see a set?”

Silence again, but a different kind of silence. I sense that I’ve piqued his curiosity.

“I’ll text you directions and get you on the list of approved people.”

“Sounds official.”

“So that they let you in. Okay? Just come whenever. Today, tomorrow, whatever.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you then?”

“Yeah, all right.”

We sign off, and I realize that I just put myself at his mercy. He could show up any time, and I just have to wait.

I’m in luck though. He doesn’t play coy. While I’m in the middle of shooting my next scene, he shows up. Even though he doesn’t get brought to the set, I know he’s here because of a sea change among the crew, specifically the female crew. They all look sidelong at me and whisper to each other even more than usual between takes.

Once Kevin and I are done with the shots of us together, it’s Kevin’s turn to just do his lines, and this time, I abandon him. Let him see what it’s like to have to play off a random PA reading my lines in a monotone while eating a sandwich at the same time.

“Girl,” says the set dresser when I exit the set, “who is that demigod visitor of yours?”

“My personal trainer,” I say. “Where is he?”

“Over watching the dailies. Soooo, just your personal trainer?” She jogs to keep up with me as I cross the warehouse.

“And an old friend. Known each other since we were kids.”

“So you’re like brother and sister? He’s in the friend box?”

I turn to look at her. She’s at least forty years old.

“Just asking,” she says, all innocence.

“Listen, he’s a player. A bad one. If you just want to have some fun, go for it, but he’s good for a one-off and that is
it.”

“Oh.”

I shrug.

“Still…” she muses.

I step around a couple of guys talking and almost run right into Devon, who looks at me warily. He heard what I just said.

“Hey,” I greet him. “You want the tour?”

He glances at the set dresser, who giggles and makes her escape, then looks at me again. “Um…sure.”

“This is where you can see the show being shot.” I gesture to the alcove he’s just come from. “Next one over is makeup,” I say, moving him along. “This is where they try to make me pretty and fail.”

“It’s a rough job,” agrees my makeup artist, who is sitting in her chair, eating potato chips.

“Wardrobe.” I show him the next one. “Costumes and all that fun stuff. I need to go back to set to shoot some more takes of that scene we just did, so come with me.”

Devon’s expression is downright overwhelmed as I drag him back towards the set. I’ve shown non-film people around a set before, of course, but they’ve nearly all been children with severe diseases and injuries. This has a whole different dynamic to it.

“So be silent,” I say. “The mics are way sensitive.”

I take him by the arm, and together, we walk back to the set, slipping around the cloth partitions and standing while Kevin finishes his lines.

“And cut,” calls the director.

“Your boyfriend?” Kevin asks, giving me a derisive sneer.

Devon goes rigid next to me, and when I look up at him, I see that he is gritting his teeth.

“No,” I say. “My trainer. Devon, Kevin. Kevin, Devon.” Now is not a good moment to giggle at how they rhyme.

Kevin gives my friend a stony look before he marches off.

“So yeah,” I say, taking Devon over to my chair. “Sit.”

“They actually have these?” he says, looking over the canvas chair with my name printed on the back.

“Yes. They are a real thing. I know it’s pink, but I think you’re man enough to handle it. Sit and be absolutely silent.”

He sits, and the look he gives me is nervous.

I jog up onto the set again and wait as one of the makeup artists dusts my face with more powder and smooths my hair.

“All hair behind your shoulders,” says the DP.

I nod, remembering that this was how it was for the takes I did with Kevin. I pull it back with my hands, tug my shirt straight, and thank my lucky stars that this isn’t the lingerie scene we shot earlier.

The cameras set up, the marker clicks, and the director says, “Action.”

“Jess, they’re never going to listen to you,” says a female PA who sits on the floor.

“But I’m right about this.”
Force field up
, I think. This hasn’t worked once on this show yet, but this time, miraculously, it does. I’m safe here. This is my space. This is my scene.

“Doesn’t matter.” The PA twirls a strand of hair around her fingers.

“It
should
matter.” I take two steps, hit my next mark, and turn. “People’s lives are at stake, and they need all the help that they can get.” I channel righteous anger but keep it at a simmer. The challenge here is to make my timing and tone similar enough to the previous take that the editor can put the scene together seamlessly.

The PA clears her throat. “I wouldn’t try to convince the police by saying, ‘You need…’ Wait. Okay, sorry. Um…I wouldn’t try to convince the police by saying, ‘You need all the help you can…get.’” She sneezes forcefully.

I wait an extra beat and say, “Then you get them to listen to me.”

“No. That is not my job.”

“Well, I don’t need an editor, so make yourself useful.”

“Jess, your pages from last night had four exclamation marks in”—she turns the page—“ten pages.”

“Which is allowed.”

“It’s not allowed. You get one exclamation point per book.”

“That is not true.”

“You treat it like it’s in five-hundred-point font, bold.”

“I get more than one,” I argue.

“Okay, you can have three for this whole book.”

I fold my arms and pout. “If I agree to that, will you get the police to listen to me?”

“Um…wait, I lost my place.” The PA runs her finger down the page. “No.”

“Or else I put fifteen exclamation points in my pages tonight.”

“That isn’t funny, Jess.”

“Not to you, maybe.”

“Fine. How do I reach the detective on this case?”

I pivot and smile victoriously.

“And…cut,” says the director. “That’s good,” he says. “All done.”