Hot Set, page 17
Collin fans his arm across the huge white board covered in scene cards labeled Episode 113. “Tell me we’re not going to throw those up in the air again to see if they land any differently from the last ten dissections.”
Danna purses her lips.
Collin presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. “We’ve beat it to death. Literally.”
Bobby crashes into the writer’s room like the Atlantic at high tide. I know he’s been at the location for night shoots all week. Jack spilled details about the ongoing artistic skirmish between Bobby and Alan Rafier over crucial scenes.
Bobby slaps both hands on the table and drops his head. “I’m fried.” Judging from the bags and dark smudges under his eyes, fried is sugarcoating it. “My draft for the finale is flat. Pacing is sluggish, and I’m floundering to hit the perfect tone.” His face tenses with the battle still going on inside him. With an impressively loud exhale, he declares the victor. “I’ve decided to hand it off.”
Eye contact sizzles and sparks between the writers like a downed electrical wire. The season finale has just gone up for grabs. How does this work? Do they bid like an auction? Pitch insights? Duke it out? Does Bobby close his eyes and point? Is Deidre in the running? Every person on this writing staff is amazing. Anyone in this room will write a masterpiece.
Bobby runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t have to tell you that we’ve got to have the audience screaming ‘No. You can’t leave me hanging like this until season two!’”
I understand a finale needs to leave viewers ravenous for more, but it’s not like the books haven’t been around for a decade.
He raises both arms. “There must be emotional resonance that transcends what people know from the books.”
That’s the answer. It doesn’t matter that the ending is already out there. The people who love this series have yet to experience it as a multi-dimensional entity. In that one sentence, I understand why Bobby Provost is the right man to bring The Chieftain’s Son to life. The depth of his investment to the heart’s blood of the work is staggering. Legions of fans trust his creative mastery to elevate this saga that is so vital and precious to them into tangible reality.
I am no longer outside looking in.
“I’d like you all to take a shot at it. I’ll know what I’m looking for when I read it.” He turns to me. “All of you.”
I’m flabbergasted. “Me?”
My squeaking disbelief breaks the tension in the room, and there’s laughter all around.
Maureen throws an arm around me. “Hey, Traipse of Moonlight, there’s a reason he doesn’t let us ask you to get coffee.”
Bobby shakes his head. “It’s time you take your talent out for a spin, Gillian.” He raps a knuckle on the table. “Consider it your foray into joining the writing staff for the long run.”
There’s a general buzz as discussions erupt over the finale. Before Bobby gets subsumed by Danna, I lay a hand on his shoulder. “Can I talk to you?”
He scratches the stubble on his chin. “Sure.”
I nod toward my niche. “In private.”
Once inside, he perches on the edge of my desk. “What’s up?”
I wish I had a door. “I’m so grateful you’re giving me a chance to do this, but I don’t think I’m ready.”
Bobby ages a few decades as he takes a long, slow breath. “Okay, look. I’d like to be more encouraging and mentor-esque, but I’m too fucking exhausted. Sit down.”
Sweat breaks out under my bangs. Bobby’s never spoken to me in such a curt tone.
“Bottom line, you’re a damn good writer. It’s no secret we all hold Traipse of Moonlight up on a pedestal.” He barks out a laugh. “Your pieces in the Lawson Graham catalogues convinced me slacks and a chambray button down are portals to adventure.”
I’m sure my face is as red as my hair.
“You’ve been here a minute and a half and have already contributed nuances and story points that shake things up.” He pulls my rolling chair forward until we are practically nose to nose. “You’re equal parts intelligence and wit. In other words—you fit in.” He gestures to the throng of writers. “We like you. Deidre’s smitten with you. She wants to work with you to break down the other books so we can map out the seasons.” He shoves my chair with his foot so I roll backward and points a finger between my eyes. “Man up, Bettencourt, and write me a script.”
His avalanche of praise and expectation leaves me speechless. I manage a drunken nod, which earns me a grin and click of the tongue before he hails Danna. I’m left to process the pile of what just happened sitting in my lap.
Warring factions of thrill and panic buzz through my head. Bobby Provost, wunderkind showrunner, has just invited me to write my version of the season finale for The Chieftain’s Son as my first ever script. I squeeze my fists until my fingers are numb. This is my crossroads, my shot to prove myself and dig into the creative future I’ve hungered for. One so much more appealing than writing about waterproof hiking shoes.
A blur of color smears across the writer’s room. Meg. She grips Bobby’s arm.
“Raise a shield, my friend. A PR shitestorm is heading straight for us.”
Bobby looks a hundred years old. The rest of the writing staff tactfully fades into their offices.
Meg retrieves the remote off the table and turns on the flatscreen, clicking until she lands on a mob scene outside a Belfast studio. Jack and Niks, surrounded by security, thread their way through the crowd. The screen switches to a shot of the pair in headphones, sharing a mic in the radio studio. “This just went live,” she says. “Damn it, I never authorized cameras in the interview.”
The host reminds me of one of the smug, middle-management jerks at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. The type that are so spoiled and entitled their mommies probably wiped their asses until they graduated high school. He leans forward, targeting Jack. “So, are you ready to fill us in on the mystery girl you’re hiding in Sneem?”
Holy freaking hell.
“Look at Jack’s face,” snaps Meg. “He’s as red as a sunburned ass.”
Bobby squints at the screen. “Is it true?” He looks genuinely bewildered. “Jack hasn’t said anything to me about being involved with someone.”
“Have you ever seen a more blatant admission of guilt?” Meg flicks a hand at the screen. “True or not, all those women who want their hand under his tunic are going to take it as a betrayal. It might start folks sniffing around too close to his house as well.”
My phone buzzes.
Cheese and Onion Pie
I slink down the hall away from Meg and Bobby. The call goes to message before I’m far enough out of earshot to answer it safely. It’s probably for the best. I, unlike Jack, am not an actor, nor do I have any semblance of a poker face.
The mastodon sitting on my chest gains another ton while I wait for the voicemail to come in. The second the alert pings I hit the blue play arrow.
“Gilly, it’s me. Something’s happened. I just got off the phone with Imelda. She’s a mess, blaming herself. It seems her delivery guy saw us in Sneem and recognized me. He’s running off at the mouth about it. The fool on the radio brought it up as well. Listen to me, love, I don’t want you falling to pieces over this. There aren’t any pictures. It’s just the idiot’s word against mine. We are fine, and we’re going to be fine. Trust me, love. Talk later.”
My sweet, optimistic Jack. I want so badly to believe we can blink our eyes and make this go away. Every step back to the writer’s room feels like I’m lugging a fifty-pound weight strapped to my ankle. I play dumb and ignore Bobby and Meg. I pour a cup of coffee and vanish into my office.
Meg’s volume has doubled. “If this screws up any leverage at San Diego Cali Con one iota, True Time will have my head on a platter. They want women camping out for his panels and swooning once they’re inside.”
Bobby paces. “Just have him say it’s not true.”
She replays the clip and pauses on Jack’s flashing billboard of guilt face. “Deny that reaction? He’ll look like a liar.” She presses fingers into her temples. “Women hate liars.”
Bobby captures her hands in his. “We say his reaction isn’t about guilt. He’s flustered, still not used to probes into his personal life.” He nods furiously. “That’ll work. Jack does genuine better than anyone because he’s the real thing.”
Meg slaps her palms on the table. The smack ricochets around the room. “If it’s true, hiding it is the only way to keep to the network’s PR game plan. We need his single-guy romantic traction to keep building the buzz for season one.”
I pretend to be engrossed in work while taking in everything they say so I can tell Jack later.
She lays a fist against Bobby’s chest. “This is on me. I should have pressed harder for more specific public image clauses in his contract. Made sure he wasn’t seen out and about with any woman we didn’t set up.”
Bobby’s face reddens. “You can’t orchestrate the man’s whole life. This isn’t Hollywood in the 1940’s.”
I could kiss him dead on the lips for sticking up for Jack, and without knowing it, me.
The two of them face off for a tense moment, then Bobby drops into a chair. He taps his finger a hundred times on the tabletop, eyes wobbling. As quickly as his drum solo began, it ends. He grabs the edge of the table and leans back, triumph brightening the exhaustion in his eyes. “J’s got a sister. She’s a Kerry local. We’ll point that out and say that’s who he had dinner with. That keeps his Sneem address quiet.” Using the table to push up, he’s on his feet and heading toward the door.
A ball of disgust hardens in my stomach. I hate the way they talk about Jack like he’s a commodity. Now, they’re bringing his family into the charade. Neither one of them picks up a phone to ask Jack what his take on all this might be.
Meg pinches his sleeve and shakes. “I’m afraid that will sound like a cover-up.” She bites on her lip in a series of furious nips that by all rights should draw blood. “True Time will want us to get out in front of this. Spin the game plan of Jack and Niks together. We’ll move up the reveal timeline. There’s our fix.”
Bobby holds up his hands. “I don’t think—”
“Let me paint the scenario.” She wags a finger. “Fans have a hard-on for Donal Cam and Nieve to be together. They’ll accept that. Hell, they’ll swoon with gratification.” She flings her arms wide. “Jack O’Leary and Niks Tellefson are the real thing. True love mirrors the story of true love. We redirect fan disappointment from Jack being unavailable into every woman dreaming a love like the one we present to the world is possible. Bam! We’re back in the lust business.”
Bobby’s shoulders droop. “Schedule a meeting with Jack and Niks. It’s their lives we’re messing with. They have to be on board.”
I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.
Meg’s expression dares him to argue any further. “If True Time tells them to be on board, they will be on board.”
I have an unhealthy urge to push Meg off a cliff. Niks thrown together with Jack even more is my Lanie Blesch nightmare all over again.
I press my phone to my heart as if I’m clinging to the last remnants of Jack. His nightmare of being pulled underwater flashes through my mind. Is this how the damn faeries answer the wish he made at the hawthorn? Did they not understand it’s me he was talking about, not goddamned Niks? Or do they know, and they’re having a rip-roaring belly laugh at we mortals’ expense? The good people, my ass. If I ever catch a faerie near that tree, I’ll have Streaker stomp it into the ground.
A sinking feeling in my gut warns that maybe the faeries aren’t mistaken after all. This might be the fair folk’s way of saving me from a relationship that can only exist on the dark side of the moon.
Chapter
Eighteen
Saturday is gloomy. Gray clouds with full bellies hang low in the sky above the Irish Sea, waiting for just the right moment to drench the golf course in a sheet of rain. My mood isn’t any brighter. Jack and I are not in the same foursome. He’s in the group ahead of me with a pair of chat show hosts and the president of the charity.
His brutal schedule hasn’t given us a chance to do more than promise to talk about our situation. Which we are supposed to be doing right now.
Thanks to Meg’s campaign of hints about a possible Jack/Niks relationship splattered across every platform in the known universe, the press has closed in. Jack won’t be caught with any more mystery women on Meg’s watch.
The throng of reporters, photographers, and spectators crowding around him is so thick I haven’t had more than a glimpse of him for the last fifteen holes.
“You’re away, Gillian,” calls one of the three octogenarians in my foursome from across the green. They’re cheery enough to me but bicker among themselves at every opportunity, constantly complaining about their various parts replacements. I’m rapidly becoming an expert on the best minerals to take for joint pain.
“Represent the show,” I hiss at myself through clenched teeth.
I nearly miss my birdie putt on the sixteenth hole as the gag-inducing TV3 interview from last night takes over my conscious thought. Jack and Niks, sitting on a white furry couch, holding hands and gazing at one another. Every answer was coy but tantalizingly noncommittal. Niks with her overly precious Norwegian accent blathering about Jack being as sweet as a chokladbiskvier made me want to vomit.
Meg and the True Time Network are teasing the fans with a Jack and Niks coupling but haven’t come out with a blatant announcement yet. I imagine a fat playbook on her desk with every step of the romantic reveal.
I hold the flag at the edge of the green, pretending interest as my trio of great-grandpas finish out the hole. My eyes stray to the next tee box where I have my first clear view of Jack. He bends down to stab his tee into the sod, that magnificent ass pointed directly at me. His swing is the marriage of strong and smooth. I take credit for his glitch-free flow, especially at the top of his backswing, but the grace is all his.
My heart pounds with such powerful beats as I watch him, I expect to be shushed for being too noisy on the green. As if I’m speaking to him on some primal level, he snaps his head around to find me. It’s only a fleeting look. There are too many eyes on him. He’s got to be careful. But it’s enough to make tears sting my eyes because of the horrible situation I’ve landed in with him. Shadow Gilly rides again. I’m so goddamned sick of being a dirty little secret.
He strolls back to the cart path, and I watch him pull his phone from a pocket.
Panic grips my chest. No, don’t call me, Jack. Too many eyes. Someone is bound to catch him.
To my relief, he throws an arm around one of his teammates and takes a selfie. Crisis averted. The pic will be up on social media any second, immediately garnering thousands of likes.
“Nicely done,” I say to my teammates, complimenting their putts as we head back to our carts.
“Well, aren’t you just a darlin’ for sayin’ so,” says the wobbliest of my ancient crew.
Before I make it to the next tee box, I hear my phone buzz. I hang back to check it. My heart races when there’s a text from Jack less than five minutes old. The man is going to give me a coronary.
Give me an hour after tournament awards are handed out, then meet me in Howth at Lobster Lee’s. For the love of God, have a bowl of chowder and whiskey waiting for me.
Jack promised to take me to Howth, the kicky, little fishing village north of Dublin where lots of famous people live. Is that why he picked it? Does Howth protect VIPs from press invasion?
I text him back.
Kind of public, don’t you think?
His answer is quick.
Get a table in the side room. Not much traffic. It’ll be grand.
Before I have a chance for any more protest, another message follows.
I miss you to bursting.
The seagulls in Howth are the size of pterodactyls. A troupe of the screeching beasties perch atop multi-colored boxes as tall as my shoulder near the dock. With night falling, their white feathers reflect the streetlights in an eerily over-bright glow.
The smell of fish permeates every air molecule surrounding the piles of green netting and massive coils of rope lining the sidewalk. I make the mistake of peering through the slats on one of the boxes.
“Ugh.” I jump back after practically coming nose to nose with a pile of unidentifiable fish parts. The king of gulls lands right in front of me, flapping its wings to drive me away from his dragon’s hoard of nasty.
On one side of the street, rows of fishing boats rock on the evening tide. Across from the docks are a line of buildings made of stone, or whitewashed fronts with blue trim and awnings. The theme is definitely nautical. Like everywhere I’ve been in Ireland so far, Howth is postcard perfect.
Lobster Lee’s is hard to miss. A giant, red wooden lobster sits in the center of a big blue circle. A sign underneath the smug crustacean reads: If it swims, we’ll catch it.
I’ve got a good hour and a half to kill. I wish I’d snuck my clubs into Jack’s Renault since he’s driving me back to Waterville. Would sneaking have been necessary? Is there such a thing as too careful? We do both work on the show. Carpooling makes sense. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and stroll down the West Pier.
I’m alone when I reach the end. Mist swirls in a yellowish curtain around the lights. Across a small expanse of water, the Howth lighthouse’s beacon cuts through the thickening night. I whisper to the slender finger reaching to the sky. “Keep me from crashing onto the rocks.”
I raise my face to the wind. It’s crisp and clean, vanquishing the reek of fish from the dock. There’s texture to the air that slides across my skin with a refreshing caress. My heart, heavy with disappointment from being robbed of walking the golf course with Jack, lightens from this kiss of Irish breeze. A sense of renewal bubbles up inside, and with it, a flicker of hope.
“I want to find a way, Jack. I really do.”
