‘You lucky thing!’
‘Ah – yeah. So Pen, just calling quickly since you didn’t answer my texts or emails …’
‘You know I’m more of a phone person,’ she cries. There are two types in this world. Phone people and email people. I will never understand why anyone would choose to chat rather than type. It blows my tiny mind but, hey ho, here we are.
‘Right. Did anyone reach out to you regarding my references?’
She yells to someone in the background. ‘Sorry, it’s chaos here. Hank has hired a slew of new staff and let’s just say, they all need babysitting.’
‘Hehiredpeople? Wasn’t he cutting costs? Focusing only on superhero movies?’ The betrayal hits my solar plexus like a punch.
With a lowered voice she says, ‘Yeah he did that too. And then replaced them with these bigwigs that he stole from rival studios. I can’t see it lasting. The testosterone in here is so thick you could cut it with a knife. There’s already been one disagreement over parking spaces that ended in a punch-up! I can’t wait to leave, to be honest.’
‘Where will you go?’ Penelope has been with Hollywood Films for decades. If she goes, they’d be losing part of the glue that holds the place together.
‘Anywhere. I’ll put feelers out soon. And as for your references, Lighthouse Studios called and I gave you a glowing review. They said they’d get in touch with you soon.’
‘Really? Thanks, Pen.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Phoebe!’ A voice thunders in the background.
‘The moronstilldoesn’t know my name or he mispronounces it on purpose. I better go, Evie. But keep in touch.’
‘Will do and good luck, Pen. I hope it all works out.’
I fire up my laptop and check my application for Lighthouse Studios only to find the position has been filled. So close. I don’t take it personally but resolve to widen my search parameters. For a moment I ponder who in my small network I can reach out to that won’t make me break out in nervous hives. Phil, the executive producer working on the two romcoms I signed might know of a position. As far as EPs go he seemed amiable enough. An attention-to-details man, which I admire, rather than a blustery bellower like Hank. While Phil doesn’t own a studio, he’s been in the industry for ages and might be able to point me in the right direction.
I draft an email and hit send, hoping he’s not a phone person too. In the meantime, I hit the job websites again, searching for that unicorn I know is out there if I look hard enough.
Chapter 8
What Gran didn’t mention was that a trip to the beach is only possible by use of transport, as the swimming beaches are on the other side of the island. There’s no way I’m driving on these Santorini roads, so she suggested I try her bicycle.
A few days later, after many beach visits, Ifinallyspot Georgios suntanning on the shore. I’m not big on fitness and these daily rides to ‘bump’ into him have been a little onerous when he’s been missing in action. This morning, his eyes are closed as he lies on his back, a book open in his hand as if he fell asleep reading.
He’s wearing itty-bitty bather briefs that leave nothing to the imagination. I take a moment to catch my breath – whoa. His every muscle catches the sunlight. Such precise definition suggests the man spends a lot of time working out. Is he one of those guys who ogles himself in the mirror at the gym as he pumps weights? I could never love a man like that, and then I brighten as I remember I don’t have to. I’m simply buying time for Gran and this is a ruse of the highest order. Still, it’s nerve-racking.
What if the muscle mountain rejects me on sight? The only muscle definition I have is from lifting hardbacks. What is he preparing for, the apocalypse? And I don’t exactly worship the sun as much as try and hide from it. After all, it’s not cool to cook for looks no matter how attractive a tan is, but I guess Georgios didn’t get the memo. As I survey the other beachgoers, I see that most of the women wear barely-there bikinis and have sculptured bodies. A few lusty wenches frolic close to Georgios to try and catch his eye. How blatant!
Anxiety gnaws at me as I take a few more tentative steps towards him. The thought of Gran being tossed in jail for failing to pay her bills is the only thing that stops me spinning on my heel, sprinting away screaming. That, and the fact my quads are still smarting from the ride here and sprinting seems like far too much effort.
I pause again, comparing myself to the bronzed beauties around me. They don’t seem to have bottoms on their bikinis, as in their actual bottoms are on display. Is this a new thing? Personally, I feel like I have far too few clothes on for my taste. I’m wearing boy-leg bathers, a long-sleeved swimming costume and a voluminous sarong over the top. My legs haven’t seen the sunshine in years and are so white they’re almost translucent. What can I say? I didn’t exactly delve into the LA beach scene as much as actively avoid it, and I was kind of hoping to replicate that here too.
Sartorial choices aside, more pressing is just how to facilitate this faux romance so he says yes and it helps Gran get out of a spot of bother …
In fiction there are always archetypes. The huntress, the siren, the maiden, the coquette, and so on. Which would work best? More importantly: which could I pull off?
The siren, a Marilyn-esque persona will definitely get his attention. I cast my mind to all the Marilyn films I’ve seen. She’s always slightly breathy, peers through her lashes, coy smile. How hard can it be?
Red lipstick would have been ideal but I’m too far in the process to turn back now.
As I step closer my shadow falls across his face, stealing the sunshine from his tough, toned bod. He opens his eyes and frowns.
‘Oh, hell-oo, you,’ I say, breathlessly. ‘Do you come here o-often?’ I flutter my lashes, wishing I’d at least swiped some mascara on them.
He bolts upright. ‘Do you need help? Is it asthma?’
