A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (21 page)

“So right now,” he asks, “are you happy?”

“Sure.”

He isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t make an issue out of it. He gives my shoulder a squeeze and then walks out the door. My world reverts to a shade darker and drearier than when he’s around.

A
T THE GYM
the next morning, Devon greets me with a smile and a nod towards the warm-up area. He doesn’t joke around and we don’t talk, except it’s not awkward today. Today, it shows me how we’ve gotten used to each other, how I trust him to pick the right exercises to balance out my week.

From start to finish, we do the workout without a single word. At the end, he squeezes my shoulder and says, “Have a good day, all right?”

On the ride over to work, my publicist calls.

“Just got word on that
Cosmo
interview,” she says.

“Did I screw it up?” I bite my lip.

“They’re not going to run it.”

“Oh…okay.”

“I’m sorry. I tried. I guess your show isn’t the phenomenon they hoped it’d be.”

It’s a whole other kind of phenomenon,
I think. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“We’ll get you some coverage. Just give it a little time.”

“Sure.”

“You have a good day now.”

I have the premonition that those words are going to backfire. It’s the second time I’ve heard them in an hour.

When I arrive at work, the first thing I hear is Kevin shouting. “I’m not a miracle worker! You see the material I have. The
costar
I have. Might as well be acting opposite a wooden doll!”

This seems like a good time to make my entrance, so I do. At the sight of me, he glares, not the least bit embarrassed. Next to him stands my least favorite executive producer.

“Let’s keep our cool,” the producer says.

“I refuse to do this script.”

Someone taps me on the elbow and hands me the rewritten script, which is in keeping with the whole chaotic production process, having the actors see the script for the first time on the day of shooting. I page through it and notice that it will require flashing a lot of skin. For one scene, we’ll be in bed together. Devon will
hate
this episode, and I wish I could tell him not to watch it. If I tried, he’d probably go out of his way to watch it, because he’s like that.

I glance up and realize that everyone is staring at me. All the crew, writers, and that producer. “I don’t think this is good television,” I say.

Kevin holds his arms up as if to declare victory.

“But,” I say, “if this is the job, this is the job. I wish I had more input. I wish you wouldn’t take it in this direction. I wish you’d have a little more faith in Kevin’s acting ability and didn’t put me in skimpy outfits to detract from his performance, and I really wish you weren’t so scared of
Blood Ritual
. If we’d stayed the course, we might not have as many viewers as they do, but we’d probably have more than we do now because
that’s
what people want to watch.”

People start to exchange glances.

“At the end of the day, though, I’m under contract. If I don’t work, you guys don’t work, so I’ll work, even if this is all I have to work with.” I hold up the script. “It’s bad though. Really, really bad.”

“Well, if she doesn’t have principles, that is not my problem,” says Kevin. “See you later, guys.”

“Wait.” I hold up both hands. “You walk off and this show probably will go under. We don’t have enough lead time to do another revamp and keep our broadcast schedule. Bad work is no fun, but it does beat no work. And if you leave, you forfeit your right to have a say.” I’m guessing on that last one. I suppose the network bosses could go to his house and beg forgiveness. They could like him a lot more than I think they should.

He just sneers at me and shoulders me aside roughly as he heads for the exit.

I shake my head. “Well, I’m around. Anything you can and want to shoot with me here, just let me know.”

The crew looks haggard, though, as well as fed up, sleep deprived, and frustrated beyond belief. I look around until I find our runner, a young guy who just runs errands and does odd jobs. He comes when I crook my finger at him. I pull two hundred dollars from my wallet and hand it over.

“Pie Pops,” I say. “Enough for everyone. You can get them from Bristol Farms or Gelson’s. Consider this an emergency.”

His worried face breaks into a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s Lizzie.” I turn, face the crew, and note that this is a moment when it’d be easy for me to just announce, “I’ll be in my trailer,” and leave, but I don’t. “So,” I say. “What’s the plan? Or do we need to come up with one?”

“Right,” says the director. “Well…”

“Table?” I say. “And chairs? People really need chairs.”

Half an hour later, everyone’s seated with a Pie Pop in hand, and the director, DP, and set dresser are deep in conversation, making plans, working out the way forward. The producer’s gone on a Kevin Recovery Mission, and I sit and lick a chocolate silk Pie Pop while I field mock-angry looks from the crew who point to their treats and shake their fists at me. I just smile, bat my eyelashes, and keep on eating. It’s going to be a looong day.

At noon, I’m on set doing a scene with a cast member who wasn’t scheduled to be in today.

At three, I’m doing some takes of just me in scenes written for me and Kevin. Anything to cut down on the time it’ll take to shoot these scenes if we should get Kevin back.

At five, word spreads through the set that Kevin stopped to complain to some paparazzi about how much he hated working with me on the show. I resolve not to react to that, which is good, because at six we get word that he’ll be back on the job tomorrow.

The following morning, I arrive at work and find Kevin there, sitting in his makeup chair, scowling. I take a seat in mine next to him and flash my makeup artist a smile as she gets to work on me.

“So,” I say to Kevin. “How are you?”

He looks sidelong at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

I roll my eyes and get out my phone to check my email. Fine if he feels like he doesn’t need friends.

On a whim, I send Devon a friend request on Facebook. I’ve got a fake profile there under the name Elizabeth Breckerton—which is a last name I totally made up—and my profile picture is of a rose. Along with the request, I send the message, “It’s Lizzie.”

In the early afternoon, Devon accepts my friend request and I immediately go to his profile to see what else I now have access to. He has several photo albums of himself hanging around with friends I don’t know, though there are a few I do recognize from the gym. They seem to spend a lot of time on the beach.

I dig down farther in his posting history and find an album of him as a kid with blond hair and a snub nose and very worn, ratty clothing. Not a surprise to me that he was poor. Mackenzie’s in several of these pictures, and I just stare and stare, drinking in her image. She was a baby when he was a preteen, and she was chubby and smiley, and she had the most beautiful blue eyes and wispy brown hair. Several pictures are of Devon hefting her and carrying her around over his shoulder, gripping one chubby leg in his hand. The backgrounds of the photos don’t reveal much except a very blue sky on the outdoor pictures and a very plain home for the indoor ones. Someone loved these two enough to record all this though, and I wonder who. No parents appear in any of these images.