A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (23 page)

At work, I wear a sheet for the first scene we are to shoot today. This is one of the tricks of the trade—dress the actor in a sheet the same color as the sheets of the bed they’re supposed to roll around in. That way they can do said rolling around without flashing the cameras.

So I’m already feeling thoroughly undignified when I waddle up to the set in my bedsheet. Once there, I find Kevin still fully clothed, arguing with the director.

“It’s not an effective scene. We need to switch it out with something that makes sense. Jess and Garrett were becoming stronger in their friendship. They’re not going to just ditch that and start screwing each other’s brains out.”

He’s right, but he’s lost his influence. When he stormed off, he made a lot of enemies, and I almost feel sorry for him.

“We’ve gotta get this episode done,” is the director’s reply. “Edits at this point are a luxury we can’t afford.”

This is also correct, and there’s not really anything I can add to the discussion, so I just sit there, in a bedsheet, while they argue.

The argument lasts an hour and a half until two producers and a network exec show up to start cracking the virtual whip and explain that this is television, not film. The writers rule the roost. They chase Kevin off to change into his bedsheet, and he stays away for another half hour.

By the time they herd him back, wearing his bedsheet around his waist (because men can, and by entertainment rules
should
, show their chests) I’ve been sitting in my bedsheet for two and a half hours and really have to go to the bathroom, but the director demands that we crawl into bed together
immediately
.

So for the first scene of the day, I’m trying to make out with Kevin while my eyes are practically swimming. Such is my glamorous job, and there is no force field of safety. The crew may be too professional to laugh, but I’m positive they want to and there’s nothing I can do to make them see this as a serious scene.

It’s four in the afternoon when I get a call from Cleo.

“Lizzie?” Her voice is a little strained.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got someone calling me from Australia. The Northern Territory Police?”

“Huh?”

“It’s your mother. I guess she went into the outback to scout some locations and do some documentary filming or…whatever. Um…listen. The thing is, no one’s heard from her for days. Her production partners have been calling her satellite phone and there’s no answer. Have you spoken to her?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t even have the number of her satellite phone.”

“Oh.”

“But,” I say, “this isn’t out of character. She’s not real big on reporting in.”

“Not even to her investors?”

“Yeah, my mom doesn’t answer to anyone if she doesn’t feel like it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I mean, not that the police aren’t doing their job. I’m glad they’re paying attention, but knowing my mom, she could have left the outback a week ago and be at her house in Brisbane or the one in Canberra or wherever.”

“So can I get addresses so that the police can send people to search those places?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll email them over to you.”

We sign off and I shake my head. Not what I need right now on top of everything else.

Four hours later, while still at work trying to get all our scenes shot without going into overtime, I get a call on my cell from an Australian phone number.

“Hi, Mom,” I answer. “People are freaking out about you.”

“Is this Miss Warner?” says a male voice with an Australian accent.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Officer Burke with the Northern Territory Police.”

“Oh, hi. You need more addresses and stuff for my mom?”

“We’ve found her camp and her phone. Doesn’t look like she’s been here for at least a day, but all her supplies are here. Or were here. Wildlife got into the food.”

I blink and let that sink in. “So…you don’t know where she is?”

“Presumably still in the area. We hope. No signs of struggle or anything.”

“Okay.”

“Does your mother do this a lot? Just go off on her own?”

“Yeah but…not like this that I know of. Not that I would know. She and I don’t talk very much.”

“Oh, are you estranged?” he asks.

“Not really. It’s always been like this.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re Lizzie Warner, the actress and singer, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“My daughter’s a big fan. We’re just getting the last season of your show over here.” By that he means
All About Veronica
.

“I hope she likes it.”

“I’m sure she will.”

Please
, I think,
stop talking about a show where I wear pink and prance around in pigtails right in the middle of a conversation about how you can’t find my mother.

“Lizzie?” the director calls out.

“She’s on the phone,” someone else says.

I blink and look around. I’m standing right by makeup, and everyone’s stopped to watch me. “Um, right,” I say into the phone. “I have to go, but can you keep me updated? You can call collect if you need. That’s no problem.”

“That’s quite all right, Miss Warner. We’ll keep you updated.”

We sign off and I lower my phone slowly.

“What’s wrong?” one of the PAs asks.

“My mother’s missing in the Australian outback. She’s got no phone and no food.” Now that I say it, I realize how bad this really is.
But
, I remind myself,
my mother’s an experienced naturalist.
If anyone could survive in the outback, she could
.

“Right,” says the director. “Why don’t we just call it—”

“No,” I say. “I’ll work. Let’s go.”

“Lizzie—”

“We don’t have time to spare. Let’s go.”

For a moment, no one says anything. Then my makeup artist stands up from her chair and says, “Okay, let’s touch you up.”

I go to her and everyone around me gets back to work.

I
N THE END
, I stumble home at ten, crash, and get woken up by my phone at two.

“Miss Warner?” says another Australian accent. “Just to update you. We’ve found your mother’s jacket and wallet.”

“But not her?” I rasp.

“No. Sorry. I must have woken you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Where did you find them?”

“At the bottom of a ravine, a pretty steep one. There are broken branches and disturbed earth that show she probably fell down into it, but we can’t tell which way she walked once she reached the bottom.”

“Okay.” I sit up.

“I’m sorry to have to give you such a bleak message. The next one, we hope, will be better.”

“I’m going to put up a reward.”

“All right, well—”

“And be honest with me. Is there any other equipment you could use?”

“No, we—”

“You’re searching with infrared at night? Visual by day? How?”

“Visual.”

“I’m gonna hire you a helicopter with infrared.”

“We have one. It’s just tied up in another search.”

“Then I’m hiring you a second one.”

“With all due respect, ours will be available before someone could fly another one out.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Just wait. We’re doing all we can.”

I bite my lip. “Well…okay, I really appreciate you calling.”

“Of course. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Though of course I can’t sleep after that. I lie awake, stare up at my ceiling, and wonder how I should feel about all of this. On the one hand, this is my
mother
. On the other, this is
my
mother. The dutiful child would be weeping. The sometimes business associate I’ve been throughout my life is just trying to make sense of it all.

Finally, I get up and go out to the kitchen, where I warm up some milk to drink. When I take it out of the microwave and turn around, I see Kyra across the living room, her hair disheveled, her eyes squinting.

“Hey,” she says. “Everything all right?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened?”

“My mom’s missing.”

“Oh.” That wakes her up. “Whoa, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

She pads across the room to the kitchen counter and takes a seat. “You want to talk about it?”

“I’m not really sure what to say. I mean, we aren’t close.”

“I gathered, yeah.”

“Are you close to your mother?”

She chews the inside of her cheek and thinks for a moment. “Not my biological mother, no. Not at all.”

“Do you ever speak?”

“No. She, when I was, like, six? I think? Married another guy and never spoke to me again. But my stepmom and I are close. She’s my mom, really, even if that doesn’t work… I mean…she’s only twelve years older than I am.”

“And she’s Jason Vanderholt’s sister?”

“His twin, yeah. The one who keeps him down to Earth. Any hint of an ego and she’s on him.” She laughs.

“How old were you when your dad married her?”

“Fourteen.”

“So that must’ve been totally weird.”

“To end up related to a movie star? It was. I guess. I mean, it feels so normal now, but yeah… I had a rough time with it. I was already having a rough time, but I think it made me worse for a while. Or I
chose
to act worse. No one made me. Jen just loved me and supported me and was there for me.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah. You don’t have a stepmom?”

“No idea. Don’t know who my dad is.”

“Really?”

“My mom and I don’t ever talk about trivial details like that. There’s no father on my birth certificate.”

“See, my dad’s the one who’s always had my back. But I’m lucky.”

I lean against the counter and set down my mug. “Yeah, you are. I don’t even know what to do. I mean, it feels wrong to just keep on going to work, but that’s what she’d want me to do, and my show’s struggling and my costar’s already messed up our shooting schedule. I’m gonna put up a reward and I’m going to look into hiring another helicopter or search plane or something, not that I can really afford this. It just doesn’t feel like enough.”

“I get that your show’s a big deal and kind of falling apart, but deep down, you know family comes first,” says Kyra.

“Not in my family. It just never has.”

My roommate frowns and rests her chin on the counter. “That sounds really awful.”