Hollywood Scream Play (12 page)

“What’s it like to watch someone die?” Sebastian Gillingham, the latest and, so far, greatest screenwriter for 
Lethal
, has waited to ask me this all day.

His timing is perfect. Just a moment ago I read the final page of his screenplay, and rewarded him two thumbs up—

Which is possibly why I’m spilling my drink all over the carpet.

Well, that and the fact I’m on my third tumbler of Bowmore. Whiskey isn’t my usual cuppa, but this is a very expensive twenty-five year-old bottle of the stuff, so bottoms up, right?

We have a right to celebrate early. The screenplay is finally completed, and besides, happy hour started eons ago—

In Paris, if not Los Angeles.

Addison was lucky to get Sebastian on this project. In only four days, this award-winning screenwriter has done a wonderful job massaging 
Lethal
 into a thriller that is also a love story. The characters are no longer cardboard cutouts, but a man and a woman who must make life-or-death decisions and live with the consequences. The plot revolves around stolen intelligence. Its loss is the fault of the hero. The heroine holds the key, but she doesn’t know it—yet. She once had a relationship with the villain—a terrorist who is both heartless and cunning. In reliving her feelings for him, will she fail in stopping him?

Sebastian has made Jack and my job easy. He graciously listened to our suggestions of how to make the scenarios of derring-do ring true, both in regard to the technical details and the emotions that drive them. Then, he just made a few simple changes—reworded a few lines of dialogue, or altered the action within the scene.

He has an Oscar on his mantle, but his cache of BAFTAs and Emmys comes from a BBC drawing room drama that’s a hit on both sides of the pond.
Bloomsbury
, which dramatizes the life of Virginia Woolf, her sister Vanessa Bell, and other influential early twentieth-century writers, philosophers, and artists in her London social set, is being applauded for its attention to detail, nuanced performances and spot-on period dialogue.

No wonder word has it that Sebastian is a shoo-in for a knighthood, and not just because he’s tall, elegant, and looks great in a tux.

His question not only catches me off-guard, it brings a blush to my cheeks, too. “I don’t usually have the opportunity to hang around after a hit.”

“Ah…yes, I imagine that would be the case.” He laughs at his own naïveté. His bashfulness is part of his charm. In fact, he’s so shy that he has never looked me in the eye—yet another of his many endearing traits. “But the way you’ve described your hits to me—how you research your targets, how you get close to them without their even noticing you’re there, that you even know them intimately—I would think that you’d feel some sort of…I don’t know. Perhaps the word I’m looking for is—”

“The word I think you mean is remorse. By the time their name is on my to-do list, they’ve already been very bad boys—or, for that matter, girls.”

“But they have lives. Maybe even spouses and children.” He tosses back his head, so that his bangs stay out of his eyes. It’s a nervous habit. Despite being in his forties, he still wears his hair as if he’s in his third year at Oxford.

Or perhaps he thinks women find it adorable.

I’m a woman, and yes, it has its allure.

Jack, on the other hand, finds it annoying. But what he finds even more irritating is Sebastian’s subtle attempts to veer us away from the technical aspects of our job by tossing in a question or two about our personal lives.

I’m sure it’s why Jack passed on this little celebration, claiming he had “another appointment.” In truth, he’s out walking the dogs, but I don’t dare tell Sebastian that Jack prefers their company to his.

Right now, I can’t say I blame Jack. This question certainly gives me reason to pause. “In most cases, yes. They have lives beyond their day jobs as terrorists. But it hasn’t stopped them from ruining the lives of others.”

“But isn’t terrorism in the eyes of the beholder?” Sebastian pours yet another two fingers of Bowmore into his glass. Ever the thoughtful guest, he splashes my tumbler, too. Okay, more than a splash. Enough so that even Jack’s rudeness no longer bothers me.

I don’t want to lose the giddiness of our success, so I tap the rim of my glass to his. “What do you mean by that?”

“One man’s terror attack is another’s fight for freedom.”

I shake my head adamantly. “Terrorism is not a political statement. It’s a bullying tactic used against the defenseless. It ruins the lives of families who just want to get on with their daily, ordinary lives. They kill families in local shopping malls, and children on soccer fields. The average John and Jane Doe having lunch in a coffee shop may have the bad fortune of standing next to a suicide bomber when he blows sky high. I can tell you unequivocally that terrorism is not how you win friends and influence voters. If you want to make your case, you do it at the ballot box. Trust me, the terrorists know this.”

Sebastian’s frown is evidence of his disbelief. “In your country, big business lobbies for what it needs. It also buys public opinion. What about John and Jane Doe then? Who looks after them?”

“Sometimes, the task falls to me.” I tap the screenplay with my index finger. “You’ve got some of what we do right here. If only I were as gorgeous as Jennifer Garner.”

Sebastian winces. “Or whomever.”

I choke on my whiskey. “What do you mean by that?”

“She dropped out, right after her husband pulled out of directing it.”

“Let me guess—Cooper is out, too.”

“Seems like it, unless Addison can coerce Jennifer Lawrence to take the role. When it comes to leads, those two are practically joined at the hip.” He taps the script, too. “After reading this, she’d be a fool to pass, if I do say so myself.”

“I agree.” I try to stand up, but I’ll admit it—I’m a bit tipsy.

Ever the gentleman, Sebastian puts his arm out to steady me.

Instead, I end up in his lap.

“Sorry! I guess I’ve had too much to drink.”

“Not to worry,” he smiles, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that I’d end up there.

As quickly as I can, I leap—okay, make that fall—out of his lap. He stands up in order to reach down to help me up—

Instead he ends up on the floor beside me.

We both laugh at this. At first, we exchange embarrassed chuckles, but soon we’re into full-blown snorting, to the point that we’re both rolling on the carpet.

Face down, I gasp, “My God, I don’t remember the last time I just let loose like this!”

I turn my head toward Sebastian to find him staring at my backside. When our eyes meet, he smiles. Picking up the whiskey bottle, he murmurs, “Bottoms up.”

“Um…I don’t think I should drink anymore.”

I rise to my knees, but slowly, because I’m woozy. I don’t want to throw up on the carpet. The dogs would think I’d left them a treat, and the next thing I know, I’d be cleaning up after them instead.

Ugh. Can’t stand up. I settle back down onto my knees again. Sort of. More like yoga. Downward dog. Good, the blood is rushing to my head. Much better. Yes, exercise will do me good.

No, vomit rushing there, too. I collapse into the cobra position: on my stomach, head and shoulders lifted.

Sebastian is sitting on the bed, albeit he’s not half as looped. What’s he reading? Is that the Gideon’s Bible from the night table? “You like to journal, do you?”

I’d try nodding, but in this position, I’d only be asking for trouble. I don’t want to pull a Linda Blair. “Yes. Old habit. It’s for my children…when they’re old enough to understand why I do…you know, my job.”

“Totally understandable.” He flips the pages. “I’m old enough, though. You don’t mind, do you? It may help me find the key as to why I find you so beguiling.”

He finds me beguiling?

Hmmmm
.

But no. “No…” Sorry, I can’t let you read it, Sebastian. What I write is personal, and for my eyes only. My God, even Jack has never seen my journals.

Not yet.

Ouch! My head hurts…

Closing my eyes makes it better.

So. Does. Sleep.

He’s kissing me.

“Sebastian—no!” I smack him away.

He nips my hand and growls. Talk about crossing the line—

Only it’s not Sebastian. It’s Rin Tin Tin.

I roll over to find Jack, staring down at me.

I stumble to my feet. “Where’s…”

“Sebastian? I have no idea. I’ve just returned with the dogs.” He picks up the empty whiskey bottle on the floor beside me. “It must have been quite a party.”

“You could have stayed, you know. In fact, we were just waiting for you to come back. He offered to take us all to dinner.” Damn it, I wish Jack would quit moving. I didn’t know he had a twin…

He steadies me with both hands on my arms. “I would have passed. You know what they say, ‘three’s a crowd.’”

“Don’t be jealous!”

“I’m not. Frankly, I think it’s hilarious that you’re star struck.”

“I am not! Besides, he’s a writer, not an actor.”

“He’s got an Oscar, and he speaks the King’s English as if he were the King. Admit it, Donna: if he was from Oxford, Mississippi, as opposed to Oxford, England, would you be batting your lashes at him?”

“If I bat my lashes—and I’m not admitting to it—perhaps it’s because he finds me ‘beguiling,’” I counter. “They don’t use words like that in Mississippi.”

“You’re right. He would have called them ‘tah-tah’s.’ Doesn’t have the same ring to it at all.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’m not. I’m stating a fact. Have you noticed that he never looks you in the eye? He can’t tear himself away from staring at your breasts.”

“Oh! …Well, that’s beside the point.”

“No, it’s exactly”—he looks at my breasts, and smiles—“the points.”

I slam the bedroom door and lock it behind me.

He can sleep on one of the hotel’s doggy beds with Rin Tin Tin and Lassie, as opposed to in here, with “the points”—Pixie and Dixie—and me.

Lovely, lovely, everything is 
so
 lovely at the Ivy on North Robertson!

Our thank-you-and-farewell lunch (wild lobster salad for me, a Kobe-style New York Steak for Jack—on Addison’s dime of course) is being served on the terrace, under a sun-kissed baby blue sky. Vines of yellow roses coil around the white picket fence in the front. The brick walls on either side are adorned with green boxes of hot pink geraniums.

Addison and Sebastian sit on green wrought-iron chairs, leaving the white wicker settee lined with colorful floral, paisley, and gingham pillows for Jack and me. This suits me fine because it allows me to take quick glances at all the actors, directors and various Hollywood movers and shakers sitting at the tables around us. Yes, that is Cate Blanchett in the corner, and I’ve just knocked elbows with Robert Downey, Jr. (or RDJ as his friends call him) apologizes to me. (To me! 
Me!
 Squeeee! Oh my goodness, he’s got the bluest eyes…)

Between chitchat about the projects of the various players around us, Addison and Sebastian have been singing our praises. (Can RDJ hear them? Is that why he turns to smile at me? 
Me!
 
Squeeee!
)

Damn, I wish Jack would at least pretend to listen to our hosts! Instead, his eyes are constantly on the move. Why is he so distracted by all the cars that pass the restaurant? Robertson is a four-lane road, for goodness sake! If he’s not noting every drop-off at the valet stand, he scans the faces around us—not because he’s star struck, but out of boredom, I presume.

He’s ignoring me, too. Noticing Bryan Cranston 
not three feet away from us
, I squeeze Jack’s hand to get his attention. Finally he tears himself away from his pouting to see what I want. I nod in the direction of this ultimate celebrity sighting. All I get for my troubles is a squeeze back—

One that hurts.

To retaliate, I pinch him—hard.

He curses loud enough that Sebastian stops what he’s saying—some little anecdote about him and Benedict Cumberbatch at the soiree for Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts at Buckingham Palace.