When I steponto the soundstage, they are filming the scene where a zombie chews on her brother’s brains. Three cameras are positioned around an actor named Heather as she grabs fistfuls of what I know is actually sausage mixed with unflavored gelatin and raises them to the special dentures the zombies use for feast scenes on the show. There are three men I’ve never seen before—one of them ponytailed, one with a shaved head, and one wearing a beanie. Who are they? Jude is in a suit again, this time a gray and white houndstooth, a white oxford shirt, and a green corduroy tie. He’s on his knees beside Heather, elbow-deep in the sausage-gelatin combo. Okay, so he’s hands-on. I would have been doing the same. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it makes Heather laugh. People think Jude’s so impressive, so exotic, but he’s really just a dude talking to an actor. What does he have that I don’t?
The whole scene makes me jealous to the point of nausea, and right as I’m about to turn away, to go right back to mytrailer, Jude looks up and sees me. He waves. It’s a big and friendly wave, the kind you give a beloved pal you haven’t seen in months. And because his hands are still covered in sausage and gelatin, it goes everywhere, including my Gustav Klimt exhibit T-shirt. It’s a good thing I got demoted so at least I’m not wearing my director power outfit today. Zombie brains stain.
“Shit, sorry everyone,” Jude apologizes as the camera grips race to clean off the equipment. Ivy hands Jude a towel. But before he cleans his own hands, he jogs it over to me, so I can wipe the brains off my shirt.
“Fenny, hey.” Jude’s tone sounds more intimate than it had yesterday. Does he think we bonded at the cactus garden because he flattered me? Iwasflattered, but somehow that made things worse between us instead of better. “Nice shirt. Sorry about the brains.” He points at my shirt, his eyes running over the graphic of six bare-breasted beauties on my chest. “You caught the Klimt show at the Getty?”
I nod, but before I can offer any of the interesting details about how I’d gone to the elegant opening reception Masha hosted at the Getty’s outdoor restaurant, Jude adds:
“It was sloppily curated, but the art still holds up.”
Strangely, Masha had said as much, using more generous phrasing, about her stressful experience hosting the exhibition. But I’m not giving Jude the satisfaction of validating his opinion, which no one asked for.
“I see your genius extends to the Vienna Secession movement. Why wouldn’t it?” I point at the three men I don’t know. “Who are those guys?”
“That’s my team. They work with me on everything. Matt, my DP; Mark, my sound engineer; and Kevin, my editor.”
“What about Jonah, theshow’sDP? Dave, theshow’ssound engineer? And Alyssa, theshow’seditor?” I ask, concerned about the people I’ve been working with for years. How deep is this JDS takeover going to go?
“They’re still involved,” Jude says. “We’re just supplementing. I’m used to working with them.” He’s staring at my neck. “Why are you wearing an adder stone around your neck?”
The question derails me, makes me forget what we were talking about. It makes me feel protective of Sam and our time together. Of the moment he slipped this chain over my head and dreamed up another world.
Jude reaches forward, like he’s going to touch it. I quickly tuck the stone inside my shirt. It’s not for him.
Jude adjusts his glasses and clears his throat.
“So what do you think?” he finally says.
“Of what?”
“Of the first take? Were you watching it on the monitor?”
“Um, yeah. Everything looks…fine.”
Jude tilts his head. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you,” I correct.
“Yeah, but you don’t think I can do this.” He nods. “Interesting.”
“Anyonecan do this. It’s not exactly brain surgery.” I’m in no rush to massage Jude’s giant ego, but I don’t know whythesewords came out. A) The show literally features brain surgery in almost every episode. B) Look how pathetic I am. Selling outthe show I love, just to take a dig at Jude? C) It’s not even true that anyone can do this. The powers that be have determined that I, specifically, cannot.
A flood of emotion fills the back of my throat. I cannot cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Sorry,” he says, holding my gaze.
“For what?” My eyes are stinging. If there’s a way to get out of this conversation with my dignity intact, I need to find it, stat.
“I just…” Jude says, studying my eyes, “get a sense that maybe you’re going through something? Not about work. Something personal. And I’m not helping.”
“That last part is true.”
“Noted. But I’m here, if you want to talk.” His eyes dart to the floor and he tugs on his beard. “That sounded weird. Why would you talk to me, of all people? Like you said, you don’t know me—”
“No, it’s a nice offer. I probably won’t. But. Thanks anyway.”
“Jude, we need your thoughts,” Ivy’s voice interrupts our conversation, feeling like an intruder. I realize that I didn’t want to be interrupted just yet, not until I understand why Jude would make that kind of offer, like we’re friends or something.
