Page 47 of The Spirit of Love
“What, like, be his protégée? No way! What happened to the Edie who supportively fuels my rage-fire?”
“Does he even know he took this job from you?” Edie asks.
“What difference does that make?” I reply.
“A sizeable one.”
I don’t want to tell my sister that Jude seems to have no idea, or she’ll snuff out Project Sabotage JDS like a candle, and then what will I do with the excess energy Ishouldhave been putting into directing?
“Is Jude really the bad guy here?” she asks. “Or is it, more obviously, Rich?”
“They’rebothbad guys! Obviously.”
“Twobad guys?” Teddy calls from the living room, putting on his backpack. “Oh, no!”
“Kill all the bad guys!” Frank chants.
“That’s right, Frank!” I point at my nephew. “I love you. I love your brother. I love the third one who’s asleep. I’m late for war. I mean work. I mean war.”
“It’s WAR!” the twins shout.
“Beware advice from toddlers—” Edie calls, but I’m already out the door, tires screeching.
Chapter Twelve
“Knock knock.” I start myrecon at the trailer of Miguel Bernadeau, one ofZombie Hospital’s original cast members. Miguel has well-meaning but slightly smarmy uncle vibes and has been known to blow a gasket when asked to pivot his plans for a scene. Today I find him dressed in his surgical scrubs, getting his makeup retouched.
I already grabbed my copy of today’s sides—the ten-page printout containing the script pages and all the logistical details needed for the scenes being shot. I studied it meticulously for any surprises I could use to my advantage. I noted a number of small rewrites that Jude must have authorized to today’s pages. When I spied the new line added to Miguel’s scene for today, an idea took root.
“Fenny,” Miguel says warmly, meeting my gaze in his vanity mirror. “I’m so glad you’re here. I heard something about last-minute changes to the script? After I’ve memorized the old lines? Between friends, I’m too old and too rich for thatmierda.”
I close the trailer door behind me. “I completely agree, Miguel. The shooting script was circulated Friday. The window for script changes has closed.” I pause, like the idea is just nowforming in my mind. “I wonder…if you and Aurora and I all came together—we know she hates last-minute revisions, too—maybe we could put a stop to this?”
“Amazing,” Miguel says in his signature husky voice. “I really only care about my scenes, you know? But you’ll relay this all to JDS? Take care of it?”
“I was thinking that it could be more of a group effort. Strength in numbers—”
“Oh. No. I can’t.” Miguel shakes his head. “I don’t want to kick off my relationship with JDS by presenting as a diva. It’s been a personal dream of mine to work with a director of his caliber. The man’s a genius.”
“So I heard.” I force a smile. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”
Miguel makes prayer hands at me and mouthsThank you. “Just don’t make me sound like a dick. I know you won’t! You and your way with words.”
I stand outside Miguel’s trailer and resist the urge to scream. I should have known that conversation would go exactly as it did. Miguel and I are friends and colleagues, but only in the shallowest, most Hollywood of ways—i.e., he’s using me just as much as I was trying to use him. I’d planned to go to Aurora next, but who am I kidding? Yesterday, I spotted her asking Jude his preference of three different scales of scrubs cleavage. She isn’t going to help me take down JDS any more than Miguel.
Who else on this show has any sway and any spine? I shake my head and come up short.
I take refuge in my trailer, lock the door, and pull down the blinds. I brew some Earl Gray tea. I have enough rewriting tokeep me locked in here all season, to hole up, to hide out, to never have to see Jude de Silva’s directorial genius at work.
It hurts to picture him out there now, behind the camera. The kind of hurt that isn’t angry, that isn’t on a warpath, that’s simply wounded. I covered up that wound with indignation last night when I’d confided in my friends, and this morning at Edie’s house, but it didn’t lessen the pain. I wish I were brave enough to let someone know that I feel sad and broken. That I hurt. I don’t know why that feels so hard. I flop down on my couch and wish its cushions were Sam’s arms. I close my eyes and remember how directly he had spoken about his feelings. How inviting it had felt for once to do the same. I remember the warmth of his skin; the low, sexy rasp of his voice; and what it felt like between my thighs when his eyes were on me. I wish I could pick up the phone and call him.
Real question: Can it still be classified as a fling if you find yourself wanting to spill your deepest, secret truth to the guy?
Doesn’t matter. I don’t have the luxury of finding out what it would feel like to truly open up to Sam. To anyone. I’m on my own. And on a deadline. What else is new?
There’s always a writers’ room on Wednesday mornings, so I know that by tomorrow, I’ll have to have donesomethingto show the other writers on staff, but I’d rather hug a cactus naked than open the email Jude sent at 11:48 last night, subject lineComprehensive Script Notes. Pray tell, what wisdom did the genius impart via Outlook Express? I think back to his condescending suggestion yesterday that I “experiment,” loosen up, think of the rewrites as afling—and I get offended all over again. On topof everything, Jude doesn’t even think I’m a fucking pro. Sure, he liked my writing in the season finale last year, but he also thinks my resentment at being asked to do these rewrites is a liability. That it will show in the final script.
What’s he doing right now, anyway? There’s an app on my phone that would let me pull up the monitors from here, to see what the cameras are filming. But the thing I want to see, against all reason, won’t be on those monitors. It’s behind the camera, in the seat that was supposed to be mine.
