Not to Scale, page 2
His upper body sags in relief. “Brilliant.”
“And I’m good at playing dumb, so this Meg will never know you busted out state secrets.”
Pat turns to look at me. “You’re a keeper, Ms. Elodie.”
I lean back in the seat, enjoying the lush country around us. “The only love I’m on the lookout for is with history and making Ireland’s visual past come alive.”
After one unfortunate liaison with a lighting director who was so persnickety, he ironed a crease into his jeans, I’ve avoided show relationships. There’s beauty and danger to attachments that form when people make stories together. Existing inside a creative cocoon fosters closeness replicating true love but inevitably falls apart after the show wraps and common purpose fizzles. The fact Gilly and Jack took the marriage step signals a level of commitment I hope for their sake will defy the odds and stick after the end of The Chieftain’s Son.
My self-preservation, avoidance policy certainly doesn’t support the hints of a mini-crush I have on Bobby Provost. I rub my hands over the thighs of my denim overalls, replaying some of our longer conversations. His friendliness was probably nothing more than making me feel at ease and welcome in my new position. I might as well be crushing on Jack O’Leary. An echo of Bobby’s laughter bops around in my head. What if my attraction is not one sided?
Pat slaps the steering wheel. “Oh, now you’ve gone and done it.”
I shoot a glance around me for additional pizza damage. “Done what?”
“Said you’re not looking for love.” There’s a twinkle in Pat’s eye and a grin that says trouble. “You’ve given the Good People permission to find it for you. Watch yourself. Next thing you know, a cat’ll give you the eye after it washes its face, a sure sign you’re in for a marriage.”
I pause for him to go on with his tease. Our talk of the Good People and respecting Irish superstition is one more appealing layer to help me truly understand this country from the inside out. “Do people here really believe in them, Pat, the fairies?”
“Some more than others.”
“And you?”
“Let’s leave it with I’d never mess with a fairy mound or a hawthorn tree.” We pull up to a guard station and Pat hails its occupant. “Yo, Dev.”
I’m introduced to Dev, the guard who could easily pass for a bouncer. He exchanges outrage with Pat over a football match. This Irishism I know. Football here is soccer to Americans.
While Dev and Pat harangue about Fucking useless strikers, I take an opportunity to soak in my surroundings. Sheep dot a palette of deep-green, sprawling fields like white paint spatter. The land is idyllic, timeless. My heart aches a bit for the generations of Irish who had to leave their verdant treasure because of famine or violence. Vistas from Shannon Airport to here in Kerry, the jovial company of Pat, and of course castles already have me falling a little in love with my temporary home.
We blow by a gravel parking lot, oops, car park, in front of the warehouse-looking headquarters of The Clan.
Pat drives a block down the road and stops the car. He points at a small rise in the near distance. “They’re shooting Jack and Gilly’s travel show on that bitty hill. I don’t want to get any closer and spoil the sound.” He opens the glove box and hands me a yellow wrist band. “This’ll tell the lot you’re one of us.” Looking off across the field, he sighs. “The show’s gotten so big, we’ve had to up our security. Lots of snoopers make their way onto the property.” Pat fans a hand over the hazy landscape. “This late in the year, it’s not so bad. In summer, poor Dev needs backup from the Gardái.”
“The Guards?” I picture American National Guards riding in on tanks with Jack O’Leary, hero of The Chieftain’s Son, Donal Cam, on his white horse, Streaker, in the lead.
“Gardaí—police.” Pat snorts. “You need to set yourself down in front of Irish TV for some education.”
“That’s probably the best advice for acclimating I’ve gotten yet.” I shrug into the flannel-lined, waterproof down jacket recommended to me for Irish weather and grab my backpack. Before I close the door, I lean in and give Pat a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for the lift and the unplanned castle stops.”
A slight blush makes his cheeks rosy. “Follow the curve in the road around to the far side of the hill, and you’ll see the main path to the top. Be seeing you, new girl.”
Being called a girl from Pat doesn’t feel demeaning at all. It’s sweet and brings the same flattering rush I get from being carded at bars. Barely being able to claim five feet and the youthful genetics gifted to me by my parents does allow me to still pass for girl. Being dismissed because of my youthful vibe or getting called kid pisses me off, but I’ll take a well-intended girl until the day under-eye wrinkles rob me of the title.
As soon as I shut the door Pat, or Paddy as Dev called him, rolls the car in reverse down the road a way before he starts the engine and disappears. Turning, I face the hill and my future. I giggle as my inner Bilbo Baggins plays in my head. I always recite a slight variation of his iconic “Stepping onto the road” quote every time I start a new gig. Now’s as good a time as any to bust it out.
I whisper Bilbo’s words, since I’m not sure how close I am to the shoot and mics.
My heart pounds as I come abreast of the hill and hear the faint murmur of voices from the top. The quiet of the surroundings allows sound to travel unimpeded. There are a handful of well-placed boulders on the slope, and the climb doesn’t look too steep. My stomach flipflops at the thought of trudging up the main path while everyone stares at me. If I approach from here, it will give me a chance to peek at my new work family before they see me. First impressions matter, and I want to make a good one. Once I get the lay of the land, I can step out from behind a boulder and enter the scene with a prepared witty comment or surprise them with my sense of fun.
My trek is successful until I hit the halfway point. The damn hill is much steeper than I figured, and the ground has turned into sticky muck. I pause, calculating the difference between the distance to bail and go back or to forge on. It’s not much further to follow through on my hill-climbing commitment. If only I had the waterproof hiking shoes tucked away in one of my suitcases instead of airplane-comfy slip-on sneakers.
I silently swear, sloshing and sliding another few feet toward the top. This is not exactly the entrance I envisioned to introduce myself to seasoned members of my new crew. Pat’s affectionate title of girl is about to take a derogatory turn once I slurp onto the scene. Shit, I need these people’s respect.
Get over yourself, Elodie.
I can spin my arrival on the scene as daring and adventurous, not the idiot who ignored the smart way up the hill. On my next step, my sneaker sinks into a mud patch. Before I have a shot at fighting the suction, Ireland attempts to swallow me whole. Calf, knee, and thigh follow my foot as I grab hold of the ropy root of a nearby tree. I list sideways as my right leg disappears into the soupy hole. Tragic imbalance pitches my body forward, the reward—a face full of Irish soil.
Every Irish folk tale I read in preparation for this job zips through my brain. Am I being pulled into the underworld to be mocked by the fae? Is the ancient spirit of an Irish king claiming me as his vassal?
From the hilltop, I hear a clapperboard and the announcement of a take. Instinct takes over. I don’t dare move and spoil the shot. As I lay shivering like a half-dipped chocolate-covered strawberry, I’m treated to a beautiful narrative of the marriage proposal Jack O’Leary gave Gillian Bettencourt on this very hill. Bobby told me they squeeze in shooting segments whenever they can for Jack’s companion show, My Two Loves, the two being Ireland and Gilly. The filler to air between The Chieftain’s Son seasons will arrive on the heels of the public announcement of Jack and Gilly’s marriage. They’re banking a true-life romance will temper the disappointment of Jack O’Leary fans who harbor dreams of snagging him as the star in their own love stories. Rich and Amethyst Bettencourt filled me in on the PR nightmare their son-in-law endures preserving the ruse of his single status. The insanity is a strain on the whole family.
I conquer nature’s forces with minimal maneuvering and free my leg from the hole with a muted suction pop. As silently as possible, I slink behind a boulder. I’m glad to be in Ireland, but I never intended to give it a literal hello kiss. Thankfully, my water bottle is easily accessible so I can rinse the grit from my teeth. Attempts to slough the mud off my jacket only smears it. This is a disaster.
Mud bath me will absolutely not be meeting anyone today. As soon as the company leaves the location, I’ll pick my way to the road and take Patrick up on his offer to call if I need toting about. He seems the generous sort to be all in for a rescue mission to sneak me into my apartment in Waterville for a thorough de-mudding. Poor man. His car will never be the same after meeting me.
A simultaneous drop in light and temperature cues the end of the afternoon. The cuff of my jacket protected my smartwatch, and I see it’s after four p.m. The hustle on the hilltop suggests they got their shot and are wrapping the day.
I wait out the familiar sounds of a crew packing up. As the October nightfall gets serious, the chatter from walkie-talkies dies. I hug the shadow of the boulder so cold it may as well be a block of ice until a van and equipment truck amble down the road toward The Clan’s facility.
Carefully regaining my feet, I decide continuing the short distance to the top of the hill is the safer risk than navigating merciless mudholes on the downslope. Pat told me to take the honest to goodness path to the hilltop. I should have listened instead of attempting this ill-advised jaunt to appear spontaneous. How big a bribe will it cost me for Pat to agree to a pinky-promise NDA to keep silent about my regrettable mud slog?
Time to climb. After gingerly testing the ground in front of me with the muddy toe of my sneaker, I slide around the boulder and get smacked in the face by a blinding beam of light.
Chapter 3
Impressions in Mud
The momentum of shielding my eyes works in tandem with the steep slope to send me face-planting for the second time onto the soggy ground.
The light drops as a man calls out, “Jeez, sorry. Stay there. Let me help you.”
Between the growing darkness and retina burn, I can’t see a damn thing. Fingers grip my upper arm to help me to stand.
“Elodie?”
In the glow of the flashlight, I see the outline of a familiar face in 3D for the first time.
Bobby Provost.
This is the mother of horrible first impressions. Nothing to do but make light of it. “No one here by that name.”
“It’s me, Bobby.” His grip becomes gentle as he helps me up the few feet to the flat top of the hill. “Patrick said he dropped you off. When you didn’t show, I semi-freaked out.”
I pretend to scan the area in alarm. “Why? Are there lurking alpha predators you’ve re-introduced here on studio land?”
“Not unless you count irritable sheep.” Bobby sweeps the flashlight over me, assessing the damage. “Patrick should have shown you the easy way up.” He bends to wipe the mud stuck to his hand from my jacket on a patch of grass.
“He might have mentioned it. Let’s leave it at I opted for the bigger challenge.” I take a step away and attempt to slough mud off my sleeves. Bobby will brand me the biggest idiot he’s ever met. What sane person ignores a nice well-trod path in favor of a steep sloppy slope?
I brace myself to endure the extreme awkwardness of the moment, mentally preparing a speech to defend my capabilities to be the new production designer of The Chieftain’s Son.
Hey Bobby. Don’t you prefer a bold and daring person to head your art department? Risk taking—the path less traveled and all that. You’re looking at her.
“Elodie, I can safely say you look…” Bobby attempts to swallow a chuckle and fails miserably. “Shorter in person.”
I stretch my arms wide, inviting a hug. “Great to meet you too, Bobby. Bring it in.”
He jumps backward so quickly, it’s my turn to giggle. In moments, we’re sharing a laugh at our ridiculous rendezvous, and my tension eases up.
“I’m more accustomed to being covered in paint,” I say, taking a breath and shaking out the bottom of my jacket. The snap of a frigid breeze throws me into a shiver.
“We need to get you dry. I’ll drive you to The Clan.” He gestures toward the official path down the hill. “My car’s at the bottom.” Eyeing my muddy coating, he adds, “I’ve got a blanket in the trunk you can sit on.”
As we make our way to the road, I stare down at the me-mess he sees. “It’s not far. I’d cause less damage walking behind your car.”
“Not going to happen. I won’t have you dying of exposure your first day on site.” Bobby opens his trunk and retrieves a plaid blanket followed by a large garbage bag. “Do you mind stowing your jacket and shoes in here?” He flashes a dubious eye at my overalls but doesn’t add them to the inventory.
“Bobby, I refuse to walk into The Clan like…” I fan a hand down my body. “I’ve already blown a year’s embarrassment quota with you. This melted fudgesicle look will not be the eyeful on which my team will form their initial impression.”
Bobby raises a fist to his lips to hide a laugh then drops it. “Fair point.”
“If you’d be so kind as to give me a lift to my flat in Waterville, I’ll transform and meet my people tomorrow as a competent and loveable boss.” A clipped “Oh” escapes my lips as another blast of frigid air lowers my core body temperature.
Bobby scampers around to the passenger door of his black Hyundai. I lower my head to hide a smile. His high energy bled through the internet, but I didn’t take him for a scamperer. It’s charming, an entertaining addition to my overall positive opinion of the showrunner. I decide to add Scamper-Bobby to the list of attributes I already find appealing about him.
“I’m not going to make you marinate in mud for half an hour.” He spreads the blanket over the seat. “My place is close. I’ll take you there for a preliminary rinse and dry before we hit town. I promise my shower is not single guy grungy.”
Single guy—so noted.
I scan my surroundings, which are devoid of any building apart from The Clan complex. “Do you live under a tree in a Peter Pan and Lost Boys situation?”
He laughs. “Actually, that was a childhood dream of mine.”
I cock my head to the side. “Only childhood?”
He holds up hands in surrender. “You got me. I’m still in search of a well-appointed underground hideout.”
“If your dream has a shot at coming true anywhere, it’s going to happen in Ireland,” I say, scooting, not scampering to the passenger side. Are scooters and scamperers compatible?
“Truth,” he says and shuts my door. He slips behind the wheel, starts the car, and without my even having to ask, cranks the heater. “I stay in a very small house that’s not much more than a glorified trailer we had put on the property down the road from The Clan. Jack and Gilly are my only neighbors in a matching mini domicile. Our low-key pair of addresses gives them privacy and me the convenience of short travel time to a bed given my ridiculous work hours.”
A vision of Bobby in bed wearing a come-hither look warms my insides. When he accelerates, I nearly bite my tongue the road is so bumpy.
Bobby whips his gaze to me. “I mean, if you’re okay with it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, taking you home the minute we meet in person.” He gives a nervous laugh.
I add Nervous-Bobby to my catalogue of moods he wears adorably. The urge to cup the side of his face and tell him it’s cool dies quickly. That brand of touching within moments of meeting is a recipe for awkward. As if my mud romp hasn’t achieved full awkward.
In the bluish light from the dashboard, I see his lip crinkle. “It’s just after all our late-night conversations, I feel comfortable with you, as if you’re already a friend.”
Friend zone warning lights flash in my psyche. Ugh, such a zone has killed many a possibility between two consenting hearts. Shoot, is that what I have, a consenting heart? Is my resistance to cross the crime scene tape into Friendlandia with Bobby cranking up my crush?
While my mind races, my mouth stays conversational. “Your late night, my early morning.”
“Right, right,” he says, nodding while he studies the road illuminated by headlights alone. It’s bizarre driving into pitch darkness. In a few moments we’re alongside The Clan buildings, which lend a little light to the situation. “I can take you into Waterville if you prefer.”
My preference is to spend more time with Bobby. The warmth I’ve felt through our chats carries over into real life. My curiosity about this fine fun fellow is something I may be interested in exploring. Besides, a chance to clean up ASAP and remove mud from places it has no right to linger is too good to pass up.
I twist in the seat to face him, careful to stay on the blanket. “Am I keeping you from work? If you want to drop me at your place, I can call Pat to haul me into Waterville once I’m presentable.”
The combination of blue dash light and Bobby’s blush turn his face a delicate lavender. “I actually granted myself a night off to welcome you.”
“And cleaned your shower for me. How thoughtful.” I’d bump his shoulder with mine if it wouldn’t unleash an avalanche of quickly drying mud flakes. I throw mud to the wind and crank up my flirting. “Do I want to know what else you’ve planned for our getting to know you night?”
“Hmm, if the shower went well. I considered a personal...” He winks at me.
I love he dishes the flirt right back.
“Tour of The Clan and a good ole Irish pub dinner.”
Is this legit flirting or is it friendly banter? What do I want it to be? Mini therapist sitting on my shoulder screams the warning please the authority figure in my ear. I’d better make the shower nice and cold.
