A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (2 page)

“Nineteen. So…yeah, quite a stretch.”

As in an
extreme
stretch. A ‘what the hell was the series creator thinking???’ kind of stretch. Everyone in the industry is staring with morbid curiosity at my show, wondering how on Earth this will work, and I don’t blame them.
Saturday Night Live
has done not one, but a whole series of skits of me on the set of this show, wearing a power suit, holding a blankie and sucking my thumb. America thinks it’s hilarious.

“Bud Hoffman cast me,” I say as if this explains something.

“Oh, the action movie director?”

“Yeah, that guy.” The guy who’s made money with every movie he’s ever made, no matter how big the special effects budget or how B-list the cast. He has the golden touch.

“I didn’t know he had a television series,” says the driver.

“He doesn’t…anymore. He kind of got in a fight with the network and got fired.”

“I see.”

But not until
after
the network started their multimillion-dollar ad campaign to announce that I was the star of this show, so here I am, still in the role.

“Anyway,” I say. “It’s about a crime novelist who solves cases on the side while she’s researching her plots.”

“It’s called
Clues,
yes?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good premise. And you’re with Kevin Ross?”

“Mmm-hmm. I don’t really know him very well yet.”

“We saw him on Broadway. Excellent, excellent actor.”

So the whole world says. He’s a Julliard graduate, and he won a Tony Award just after being cast in
Clues
.

“He’s always impressed me,” I say.

“Sounds like it’ll be a very good show.”

“Wish me luck.” I sip my latte and notice that we’re almost there. Talking has done wonders for my nerves. Now I’m only half as panicked as I was before.

When I step through the door and onto the cool, concrete floor of the warehouse that houses our set, the first thing I notice is the yelling.

“We
cannot
compete with this. I refuse to shoot a single scene until we rethink the direction of this series,” says a male voice.

The members of the crew all hang back. A few move equipment and talk in low voices, but everyone’s focus is on a small knot of people standing near the makeup department, which is a little alcove across the warehouse from the actual set.

“We’re going to look derivative. We really are,” the male voice goes on.

I approach with caution, my boots clacking loud enough to make people turn.

“Oh, so you
finally
show up,” snaps a man who emerges from the group. Kevin Ross, my co-star. He has green eyes and dark hair that he wears slicked back. “I’d have thought
you
would forewarn us.”

I look around at the assembled group, who turn out to be the director, the director of photography (or “DP”), two of the producers, and a guy from the network. Nobody’s glaring at me like they agree with Kevin, but they aren’t glaring at him like he’s out of line either.

“I assume you watched
Blood Ritual
last night?” Kevin snaps.

I shake my head.
Blood Ritual
is a crime drama on a competing network. The main character is a Native American woman who mixes her tribal customs with modern crime solving. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing I needed to watch.

Kevin flings his hands in the air. “Don’t you live with Kyra Armijo?” he asks. “Jason Vanderholt’s niece?”

The guy from the network clears his throat. “Here’s the situation,” he says to me.
“Blood Ritual
just replaced their lead actress with Vicki Hanson.”

“And got Jason Vanderholt to guest star,” says Kevin. “They aired their first episode of the season early, and it’s paid off for them in a big way. Vicki killed it. She was spectacular.”

Now I see what the problem is. Vicki’s older than I am but still most well known for the work she did for Disney as a teenager. There are now two crime drama series with blond, former child stars at the helm.

“Listen,” says the producer. “Today, we shoot a few scenes and see how Lizzie does. If she can hold her own against Vicki, there is no problem.”

“And if she can’t,” says the guy from the network, “you need to rework the show.”

“Or we get dropped,” says Kevin.

Everyone looks at me.

I bite my lip.
Okay
, I think,
no pressure.

A
FTER WARDROBE AND
makeup are done with me, I report to the set with the usual queasiness as the butterflies in my stomach fly in loopty-loops. This is normal. Right now, I’m outside the safe space, and I’m not the kind of person who asks the crew to treat me as separate and apart from the world at all times. Some actors do, but I exchange smiles with them and we nod greetings. In my eyes, we’re equals, all doing our jobs to make this show happen. I can’t help but crack a smile when I see that they’ve delineated my marks on the floor of the set with pink duct tape.

“What?” I say. “No glitter?”

“We’ve got pink camo,” says the production assistant, who wears rolls of tape like bangle bracelets. “You want that?”

“But then I won’t be able to see it if it’s camo,” I joke.

I’m well aware that a lot of crew look down on actors as mindless airheads who have an easy job. The thing about screen acting is that everything is controlled. We actors walk along defined paths, stop on marks on a specific cue, turn on command, and have to stay within a confined space. I think this makes it harder. When you only have control over tiny details, like when and how much to smile, it’s a challenge to stand out in any way.

I imagine a shimmering force field around the set, which is of the living room of my character, Jess. As I step across the imaginary barrier, my survival habits kick in. I’m in my safe space now, where I am in control. As everyone else on set gets ready to film, I shut my eyes. The crew starts the process:

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Marker.”

“Clues,
scene fourteen, take one.”
Click
, goes the marker.

“Set.”

“And…action,” says the director.

I open my eyes. Kevin stands in the front doorway of the set, glaring at me. “It’s Garrett, isn’t it?” I say. I turn on my mark. “They think I need an editor?”

My delivery is shaky. I’m not all the way in the zone. It’s as if I can feel the gazes of all the producers and network execs even though they aren’t here on set. They’re watching this on the monitors.
Forget about them,
I tell myself.

“They won’t let you turn in your next book unless I sign off on it,” says Kevin.

He strides into the room and seats himself on the couch. His body language is all challenge and bravado. It’s like he’s staking out territory. This set may be my character’s home, but he’s the one truly comfortable here.

Which is the character interaction,
I remind myself.
Forget the set and studio politics.
My heart rate speeds up a notch though. These aren’t thoughts I should have while filming a scene.
Focus
, I order myself.

“I’ve written five bestsellers—”

“That’s the deal.” He puts his arms behind his head and smiles. “How much have you written on this next book?”

Confidence
, I think.
Speak the next lines with confidence
.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What do you mean, nothing?” He leans forward, and his gaze is pure murder.

It’s like he sees right through me. I’m not prepared. I’m just a little girl in way over her head. He’s going to have to work overtime to pick up the slack.

Which is in the story,
I remind myself. Still, that force field I imagine around the set is fading. I’m keenly aware that here in this little space, we’re making countless tiny decisions, from how we tilt our heads to when we utter our lines, that determine whether or not the millions invested in us will ever pay back. I know how to keep my face blank and hide my real emotions, but I need to do better than blank. Try as I might, though, the next line comes out defensive.

“I tend to do all my writing closer to the deadline.”

“We’re two weeks from your deadline.”

“This is how I work.”

Even I’m not convinced by my delivery there.
Lizzie
, I think,
get a grip. You are in your space. You own this space. No one else has the right to be here, making these decisions.

“And now I know why the publisher sent me here.”

Even though I know this line, I hear him say “producers” instead of “publisher.”

“And cut!” calls out the director.

Kevin gets up and turns his back to me, and I see him raise his shoulders in a wince.

Ignore that,
I think.
He’s being a jerk. You’re the veteran here. He’s brand new to television
. Still, when I head to my trailer, I can’t help but feel like I’m beating a hasty retreat from a battle I’ve lost.

We manage to shoot three scenes, and Kevin grimaces after my performance in each one.

Once we wrap for the day, I go to my trailer to wash off my makeup and gather my things. My trailer should be my home away from home, but the moment I step inside, I’m embarrassed. It’s got granite countertops, a plasma TV, dark leather furniture, and way more rooms than anyone could ever need. It’s the swankiest Star Waggon of any of the cast, and a harsh reminder of how much money is being tossed in my direction. It’s a relief to exit and shut its door behind me.

Before I go to my waiting car, I take a deep breath, brace myself, and circle back through the warehouse to find the director and producers watching the dailies on the monitors. I don’t need to ask what they think. It’s obvious from their expressions.

Rather than walk up to watch my performance with them, I hang back and hope they don’t see me.

“We can’t fire her,” says one of the producers. “We already made the publicity for the show about her.”

“Or can we?” says another. “We can go back to the network to discuss it, at least.”

“What’s the damage?” Kevin walks up to the group, and they all turn to welcome him into their ranks with smiles and claps on the back.

I slip away. It’s better if I don’t start crying right then and there. I reach the car that’s waiting for me and ask the driver to take me to the gym rather than home.