Scared Scriptless (4 page)

“I noticed you and Billy seem to get along really well.” That’s Craig’s hello as he sits down opposite me during our catered meal break.

“What do you mean?” I hesitate before biting into my ravioli.

“Nothing.” He takes a bite of the seafood gumbo I passed up (some things you just don’t eat from the catering truck if you have any common sense). “I’ve never seen you play favorites with directors before.” He swallows. “But I suppose not all of them are
People
’s Sexiest Man Alive. Are you a closet Foxaholic?” He snickers. Thank God he’s kidding. Or is this a hint that Craig is a little jealous of Billy’s celebrity status? Craig may not be leading-man good-looking—he’s not as tall as Billy, or even Adam, and he’s lean, not muscular—but with his adorable floppy hair and his bright blue eyes, he can certainly hold his own. I decide to act as if this is all in good fun, which I hope it is.

“Yes, you’ve got me. I have to sleep with my ‘Foxaholic for Life’ T-shirt under my pillow since I can’t wear it to work.” Billy gets a ton of grief from the crew because his fans call themselves Foxaholics. It brings us such joy to torture him about it.

“So, Friday was fun…,” he says, and although I welcome the subject change, my eyes reflexively dart around the room to see who’s in earshot.

“Maddy, it’s okay. We’re adults; we’re allowed to date,” he says as if reading my mind. “But I understand that you don’t
want to call attention to ‘us’ on set, so we’ll keep a low profile.” He smiles understandingly at me and takes another bite of gumbo. Here I am, having lunch with a guy I’m dating, and any chance of impressing him disappeared about nine hours ago. I tug at my dark red oversized CAL sweatshirt, but nothing will make it actually formfitting. Knowing it doesn’t make a difference, I find I’m vain enough to force myself to sit up a little straighter.

It’s going to be important to stay practical about this whole thing. I don’t want it to get awkward at work if something goes wrong. But the thing I appreciate about Craig is that he seems very practical too. And to be sure, nothing is going to get in the way of his career. So as far as office romances go, this one is relatively low-risk. I hope.

“I had a great time,” I say, taking in his disarming smile. We spend the next few minutes catching up on our weekends, and somehow I’ve already polished off my ravioli. One of the weird side effects of working in TV is that you eat very quickly. My plate is clean ten minutes after I’ve sat down, and I have a ton of work to get to before the crew’s union-mandated hour-long meal break is up. Craig is only halfway through his lunch, and I can’t help but conclude that it’s a telltale sign he’s never actually worked in the trenches.

“Will you be done by eight tonight?” he asks. I know Craig always has his eye on the budget; so do I. That’s why they love me in the offices, but I’m surprised he’s this nervous about Billy.

“We’ll be done in twelve,” I assure him. A twelve-hour day means no overtime. It’s what you always aim for, and based on what I’ve seen so far, I think Billy’s going to bring us in on time.

“Oh, that’s great. But I wasn’t asking for work. Tonight is HBO’s Upfront Party at Barker Hangar. I heard Spago’s is catering. Join me?”

I don’t know if I ate the ravioli too fast or if it’s the thought
of walking a red carpet with Craig, but suddenly my chest feels very tight.

“Maddy, it’ll be fine. No one else from the crew will be at this party, and it’s not like they’re going to post our picture together on WireImage, right?”

It would be just my luck to get caught in the background of a celeb’s picture on the popular industry website. It makes me cringe just imagining myself caught in some awkward pose, but my parents would still tape it up on the fridge for everyone back home to fawn over. My few run-ins with the famous red carpet did not go over well. So I avoid them whenever possible. It fits in nicely with my No Actors policy, and it helps me avoid any and all media, particularly the paparazzi, with no trouble. Not that they’re coming after me—they most decidedly are not. But even if you have self-esteem the size of Texas, it’s hard not to take a hit as the photographers practically mow you down to get to some passing celebrity behind you. But this relationship is so new, I just don’t want to get into why I have reservations about going to an event that every wannabe is frothing at the mouth to get in to. So with an inward girding of the loins, and with his promise to be discreet, I accept his offer.

“Great, pick you up at eight, Ms. Carson.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. The clock says 7:48, and I am crawling around under my bed in my underwear looking for the matching shoe to the one pair of black heels I own. Ugh. Why did I even agree to go to this thing? All of the producers and network executives schmoozing and “being seen”? Just thinking about how out of place I’ll feel makes me want to crawl into bed. I’m sure there are thousands of women who would love to be in my shoes tonight, but I can imagine a hundred other things I’d be more comfortable doing, like cleaning out my Tupperware drawer, which I am embarrassed to admit was actually my plan for the night.

I am not normally one who revels in self-doubt and insecurity. I have a degree and a respected career. I am, as my father says, “a smart cookie.” But if I have to try and “glam it up,” stealing Stella our makeup artists’ description, I completely fall apart. And now I have three minutes for glamming. I grab a pencil skirt from J.Crew.

I try to picture the outfits I see Molly from wardrobe style the female cast members in. I can recall every item of clothing our cast has worn in all fifteen episodes we’ve shot so far—a completely useless skill unless you are a script supervisor, in which case it’s perfect. I decide that the gray cashmere T-shirt sweater my mom gave me for Christmas will go acceptably. I throw on the clothes and then smother myself in one last cloud of hairspray
to keep my newly flat-ironed hair in place. One of the upsides to being tall is that I don’t have to balance on high heels all night. I slip on ballet flats and do a final check in the mirror. I am dabbing on lip gloss when the doorbell rings. My pulse picks up a bit and I convince myself it’s from seeing Craig, not nerves over the party.

“You look spectacular.” Craig smiles as I open the door.

“Thanks. You look great too.” And he does. Tonight he is wearing a very trendy Paul Smith suit. This suit seems more his personality than the conservative ones he wears at HCP. The cut emphasizes his lean torso, and the brightly colored shirt brings out the darker blue flecks in his eyes.

“Ready to go?” Craig checks his watch as I lock the front door.

“Are we late?” I ask. I’m already self-conscious enough; I have a split-second vision of all conversation between Angelina Jolie and Steven Spielberg screeching to a halt as I step over the threshold.

“There’s no such thing as being late in Hollywood.” Craig laughs as we get into his car. “I just want to be sure we’re there before Billy leaves.”

“Why? Is Billy leaving early?” I had hoped there would be another friendly face around tonight.

“Yeah, Billy’s publicist let me know he has another event. What’s her name? Sophie Atwater? Tough bi—”—he coughs—“chick. She doesn’t give an inch, that one. Anyway, she said he has to leave by nine o’clock, and I want to introduce him to a few people before that.”

I go to check my watch and am staring at the freckles on my skin for at least a second before remembering that in an effort to be feminine I’d taken off my trusty, never-leave-home-without-it black divers watch. It has two timers on it and is waterproof up to 100 meters. I love that watch. My dad gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday, and I’ve rarely been without it since.

“You okay?” Craig asks.

“Oh yeah, sorry. I just realized I forgot my watch. Well, not really forgot because it wouldn’t have gone with this outfit.” Did he really need to know that? I’m such a dork. “I’m just not used to being without it. My dad gave it to me.”

“Aha. A daddy’s girl. I should’ve known,” he teases.

I’m hit with a pang of homesickness for my dad and add to my mental to-do list to call him tonight. He always gets a kick out of hearing about my “glamorous” life. Since I am actually wearing a skirt tonight, this will impress him for sure.

“Yeah, we’re very close. Everyone in Wolf County knows him. He’s like the honorary mayor. In fact, at one point he thought he might run for actual mayor, then remembered he hates meetings, which is why he never worked in corporate America. ‘You only go around this merry-go-round once, Maddy-girl. I’m not going to waste it counting paper clips.’ ”

“He sounds like quite a character. Working on the ski slopes seems like a nice life. My fingers always freeze when I try to type e-mails on the lifts in Aspen.”

“Please! To my dad, a ‘blackberry’ will always be a piece of fruit. To text he has to scroll through a-b-c. The reception up there is so lousy, they’re just happy to get a call through.”

“Well, then we have that in common, don’t we?” Craig laughs.

It’s nice that even though there are a million differences between his hometown and mine, he’s made an effort to find some common ground.

Talking with Craig as we drive through the pretty downtown streets is unexpectedly comfortable. It helps that I am melting into the buttery seats of his obviously very expensive car and my favorite Adele song is playing softly through the speakers. Maybe we can just drive around all night instead of actually arriving at the party.

“So, are you headed up to Wolf for the holiday weekend?”

“Yep,” I say, feeling a flutter of excitement. “My brothers and I are throwing a surprise party for my mom’s sixtieth birthday.”

“Sounds like fun. Who all is coming?”

“Oh, everyone in town. If you think my dad’s a character, the rest of the town is loaded with them, believe me.”

I start in on a story about my parents’ closest friends who are totally into taxidermy. By the time I get to the part where I get back at my younger brother for stealing my ski poles by scaring him with the bear skin rug, complete with head, while he’s making out with his girlfriend, Craig is holding his side, he is laughing so hard.

“I swear, he still flinches when he sees bears in movies.” I snicker at the memory.

“I love that story. And I love hearing about you as a little troublemaker.” He winks at me, and I smile back at him. “Too bad we’re here. I want to hear more.”

I look up and sure enough, we’re pulling in to the valet.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” I say as we get out of the car. “You should hear the stories my parents tell me these days. If anything, it’s gotten more eccentric since I left.”

“Really?” Craig seems to hesitate for a second. “Well, I’m looking forward to having one of those Waxy Whiskey things with your dad, for sure.”

For once the pinball machine feeling of pushy photographers jostling me on either side to get a clear shot of a passing celeb doesn’t faze me at all. Instead, all I can think as I smile and try not to blink too much at the flashes is,
He wants to meet my parents?

Once we’re inside the ballroom, Craig heads for the bar as I sit with that thought for a minute and take in my surroundings. The room is an airplane hanger. Big. The main dining room of the
restaurant has been cleared of tables and filled with gorgeous hanging white curtains that billow everywhere. Elegant crystal chandeliers hang low, creating an intimate setting, even though the ceilings have to be a hundred feet up. Potted ficus trees twinkle lights, and there’s a huge turnout. Celebrities I recognize casually sit in an arrangement of sofas and divans (that’s what they call the sofas without a back, which I only know from listing set pieces for the art department). Network executives gather around an approaching waiter holding a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Of course, every woman in the group shuns the offering. You don’t get bodies like theirs by eating Kobe beef sliders with blue cheese. Having just told so many Wolf County stories, my dad’s voice is in my head as I look around.
“This is slicker than a whistle covered in spit.”
Sometimes he sounds just like Dr. Phil.

The young starlet, Lola Stone, suddenly stumbles by in snakeskin stiletto platform heels twice as high as seems safe, laughing loudly. I worked with her on a show a few years ago. Even after endless efforts from the executive producer all the way down to me drilling her lines with her over and over in the makeup trailer, nothing seemed to help her remember them. It was hardly a surprise to read the tabloid headlines about her alleged coke addiction. I wonder if she would remember me. She does look quite glamorous, as does everyone. I fiddle with my iPhone, trying to make myself look important and busy while I wait for Craig to return. Thankfully, he’s back in a minute or two with a drink that is so bright pink, it looks like it could glow in the dark.

“They have a signature cocktail tonight,” he says, handing me the frosty martini glass with an expectant look on his face. Normally, I don’t really drink anything but wine or beer, but Craig seems anxious to make this night fun, and I’m feeling jittery, so maybe a fruity cocktail is perfect. It’s just so… bright.

“Thanks, I—” But before I can even finish my sentence, Craig is looking over my shoulder.

“Sorry, Maddy. There’s Hogan. I should go say hello. You’ll be fine, right?”

“Sure,” I say, much more confidently than I feel. I can always hide in the bathroom if I feel awkward.

I watch for a minute as Craig chats with Hogan. It’s a weird feeling, wondering if they are talking about me. Also, it’s hard not to think about the fact that Craig clearly did not want me joining him as he spoke to Hogan. But given that I’ve kept our family’s long relationship with him under wraps, I guess it’s understandable that Craig doesn’t automatically include me. It looks serious, and Craig is my boss, after all. Whatever they are talking about, Hogan seems deeply concerned about something, and that’s probably not good.

“Hey, Maddy. You look beautiful.” Billy’s familiar face appears in front of me, and he leans in for a Hollywood cheek-to-cheek air-kiss. He has a gorgeous blond bombshell at his side. “Maddy, this is my date, Felicity. Maddy is the script supervisor on the show.” The light in her eyes evaporates the second she realizes I’m not some big-shot producer who can get her discovered.

“Hi. Nice to meet you,” she says automatically, blatantly looking over my shoulder. “I didn’t know they invited the whole crew to events like this.” Ah, so she’s not as dumb as she looks. Her zinger cuts me deeper than I’d care to admit.

“Whoa, whoa…,” Billy says, putting his arm around her, an arm that seems like a tree trunk in comparison to this girl’s slight shoulders. “Sharpen your claws somewhere else, Felicity. Maddy is one of the good ones.” She smiles dismissively at me and her eyes return to darting around the room, looking for someone better she should be talking to. He smiles at me and rolls his eyes apologetically.

“No damage done. This isn’t really my scene. Um… so… Craig actually asked me to come with him tonight.”

A surprised look crosses Billy’s face. “Oh, he did, did he? We have a lot to talk about, missy.” But before he can interrogate me any further, I hear a strong voice coming from behind me. “Billy! What’s up, man?”

Saved by the… Adam? I don’t have to turn around to recognize the deep, scruffy voice of our new star. Adam Devin has squeezed in and now I feel that he is just behind me. When I turn to face him, we are way too close for comfort.

“Hey, guys, fun party.” He gives Felicity the type of quick once-over that girls totally notice but pretend not to.

“Good evening, Adam. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” Why am I being so weirdly formal? Billy shoots me a funny look.

“Yeah, it’s a good time,” Billy says. “But I have to leave soon, so I’d better go kiss the ring now.” Before I know it, Billy and Felicity are off to find Hogan, leaving me alone with Adam. At a loss for conversation, I decide to at least be productive.

“How are the training sessions going for the stunts next week? The script breakdown looks intense.”

“Good. But, please, no work talk tonight. How about we enjoy the party? You look like you could use another drink. What is that anyway?” he asks, taking in my nearly empty glass.

“I have no idea. A pinktini or something.”

“You girls and your fruity drinks. I’m a whiskey guy myself.” Before I can protest that I am, in fact, not a fruity-drink girl by any means, Adam curses.

“Sorry, I just didn’t know Lola was going to be here.” We both look over at the bar where Lola somehow seems even taller, and even drunker, than when I saw her last. I’m not surprised these two have crossed paths.

“I can’t go over there yet.” He looks genuinely uncomfortable.

I can’t help it; I bite. “What’s the deal?”

“Well, let’s just say Lola and I aren’t on the best terms, and I don’t want a something-tini thrown in my face tonight.”

Typical,
I think. I don’t even like Lola, but it seems obvious that she’s the victim in this story.

“I don’t want to even ask what you did.”

“You just assume it’s my fault?” Adam says with a smirk.

This conversation has taken a weirdly personal turn. I don’t need to know about Adam’s love life. Before I can even open my mouth to acknowledge that I may have jumped to a conclusion about him, never mind bring myself to apologize for it, Adam saves me the trouble by launching into their backstory.

“As it turns out, she had a very specific agenda when she dated me. Lola Stone is only interested in one thing: the guy who can get her to the next level. When I realized our relationship was mostly about our next press appearance together, I decided it was time to move on.”

We both turn back to look at her at the bar. In her fire-engine-red dress, she looks like Jessica Rabbit.

“See Jordan over there?” I stand next to Adam as I scan the room. “He’s at the other end of the bar.” He nods his head, as if I could miss the four-time Oscar-winning director.

“She’s going to scope him out for her next mark.” We both watch Lola sipping her drink as her eyes slowly troll the room. “She’s like the Terminator, sizing everyone up and cross-referencing their image with their IMDb résumé and then weighing the cost/benefit ratio.” I can’t help but snicker at his analogy. “See? Target in sight.” Adam quietly makes an alarm sound effect to complete the visual. I swallow a giggle. (I am so
not
the giggling type.) We both witness Lola’s eyes settle on the handsome African American man, who looks thirty-five instead of his actual age of fifty-five. “She’s going to make her way over to
him, find a way to touch his arm, and then brush her hair behind her ears. It’s her classic opening move.”