Not to Scale, page 3
Bobby pulls next to a metallic pre-fab house the size of a three-car garage. A motion sensor light blasts across the gravel drive. The place is no frills except for the wooden flower boxes bursting with pansies and daisies on the ground along the front of the compact house. It’s a nice touch. I wonder if Bobby does the gardening or a greensman from the crew does it for him. He jumps out the driver’s side and as I suspected, scampers around to open my door.
“Elodie Pettipas, you are very welcome to my humble Hobbit hole of a house.”
Taking care not to shed any more mud than I already have in his car, I swivel and stand. He hands me the trash bag of my muddy duds. “I’m honored to heave my happy heft henceforth.”
“Hereafter a heartfelt happenstance to…” He waves me off. “I’m H’d out.”
“A head writer with no words? Did I break you?”
“Just my H’s.”
I can think of a few more when it comes to him: handsome, heavenly, hot… I sneak a peek to the front of his slacks, but it’s too dark to satisfy my wonderings of if hung, horny, and hard will ever be on the table.
Thirsty much, Elodie? Slow down. No matter how many lingering convos you’ve clocked together, don’t consider jumping him two seconds after you’ve met. Bobby is not someone you swiped right on a dating app. You have to work together.
My stomach rumbles, and my H theme shifts to hungry, hamburger, hash browns. This afternoon’s takeaway pizza buzz has long since worn off.
Bobby folds the blanket into a plaid envelope and slides it out of the car. Stepping over to the fringe of what appears to be wild grasses, he shakes the mud clots free and calls over his shoulder. “Door’s open.”
Wow. There is still a place in the world where you can leave your door unlocked. Twenty Pettipas points for The Clan land.
I smile at the memory of the silly point system between my dad and me. He used to award me points for just about anything: cleaning my room, finishing my homework without being nagged, making him smile. Being a tragic pleaser, I stored up a dragon’s hoard of virtual Pettipas points. Rarely, I’d squander a couple for a trip to the ice cream place on the corner for a chocolate dip cone or a ride on the carousel at the mall. If I’d only known dad wouldn’t be in my life long enough to cash them in.
I stop on the collection of pavers at the front door fitted together to create a small entry area and stare down at my still muddy overalls. “I think I should add a few things to the dirt bag.”
He scans me in a decidedly non-sexy way. “I’ll turn around.”
Ouch. Loss of Pettipas points for that disappointing vibe. I am a head case. Visions of dancing naked in the Irish moonlight with Bobby is so un-PC as to be ridiculous. While he gazes into the Irish night, I strip off my overalls and socks, leaving me in t-shirt, bra, and underwear, the only survivors of muddagedon. Damn it’s cold.
I reach for a nonexistent knob. Instead, there’s a latch higher on the door. I step inside and use the door as a shield. “You can turn around.”
“Leave the dirt bag on the stoop. I’ll have wardrobe perform their magic on it tomorrow. Bathroom is the door to the right. Use whatever you need. I’ll dig up some clothes for you.”
Blindly patting the wall inside the door, I locate a switch and turn on the lights. He’s right, the place is Hobbit scale without the charm. No architectural detail. Furniture that would take first prize in a contest for bland. I stand in a main living space, hugging my shivers to take in a small functional kitchen to my right and an electric fireplace to my left. It may be a vanilla space, but since I’m basically the size of a Hobbit, Bobby’s house feels perfectly to scale for me. He gets points for a handful of pictures on the wall I plan to inspect later, and a collegial theater/film department pennant push-pinned between the two side-by-side doors on the back wall. We touched on the subject of college. Knowing we share an alma mater makes my heart glow with a little slice of home.
Through the open door on the left, I spy a bedroom. The queen bed covered in a generic beige comforter claims most of the space. The sight of it triggers exhaustion from both travel and my travail up the hill. I ache to get clean and collapse in this potentially cozy with some added personal touches, house. Maybe Bobby will let me take a run at decorating for him.
Sweet warmth restores my core temp when I step under a balmy spray compliments of a tankless water heater. I wash airplane miasma and Irish earth off my weary body. There’s one towel hanging from a hook and a second on a rack on the back of the door, which I claim guest rights to. From my trusty be prepared backpack I grab toothbrush, clean undies, and a sports bra. I’m dealing with my hair when a knock at the door makes me jump. As if I don’t know who it is.
“Shorts or sweatpants?”
Shorts? Is he kidding? Yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee are stashed in the bottom of my backpack, but borrowing Bobby’s clothes has a sensual appeal I’m not going to pass up. Is it the fresh Irish air that sends me straight to the naughty place?
“Which has a drawstring?”
“Sweats.”
“Ding, ding. We have a winner.” With the towel wrapped around me, I crack the door and look up at Bobby. He looks taller in the light. I reach for the clothes and get a little thrill as his gaze sweeps down the towel with more heat than his previously non-sexy assessment. Maybe I’m not the only one harboring a little bit of naughty.
Or maybe he’s in shock his new production designer is basically naked, wrapped in his one guest towel. I pull the door shut.
After taming my hair and my libido, which I decide to categorize as going too far in appreciating a friendly face in new surroundings, I step out of the bathroom. Bobby’s Chieftain’s Son sweatshirt is so long, it hits my knees. With cinching and rolling, the sweatpants are baggy but workable.
Bobby hunches at the small table for two in his kitchen with his nose buried in a laptop. I sidle up beside him, probably closer than I need to be. “You’re working.”
He turns his head to smile at me. “You know me. I’m always working.”
I do know several outer layers of this man, but does that mean I really know him?
Bobby side-eyes his screen as a message beeps in. “Ready to go?”
“Kicking me out already?”
Bobby snaps the laptop shut, refocusing on me, flustered. “I thought you’d be anxious to get to your flat and get settled after—”
“My mudtastic debut?” I stroll over to the college pennant and run my finger over the felt. “Remind me… Class of?”
“2008.”
I lay a hand over my heart. “2013.”
He leans back in his chair. “We just missed crossing paths.”
I raise a fist and sing the opening lines of our alma mater.
Bobby jumps to his feet, joining in.
Together we bust out the rest of the song in the middle of his living room. Laughing after our mutual final flourish, Bobby hugs me.
Oh, damn. This is nice. He’s a squeezer. The initial contact stretches a few counts past the standard grab and go. I’m first to retreat, despite how yummy it feels. Perspective and pace, I tell myself.
Bobby practically jumps away, increasing the distance even more. “Elodie, I’m sorry. Meg is always at me to dial down the physical.” His nervous laugh makes another appearance. “She’s worried I’ll be too touchy with the wrong person and well, misinterpretation could lead to unpleasant legal consequences.”
Again, the urge rises to rest my hand against that handsome cheek, sprouting the beginning of brownish-black stubble. Maybe smooth a stray cowlick of his mostly straight-with-a-few-sneaky-waves hair back into place. I twist my ring to fight temptation. “We’ve been chatting for weeks. I just used your shower and am wearing your clothes. A simple hug between theater alums is not an issue for me.” My words sound casual enough, but a burn in my belly drifts to the possibility of a less simple hug in the future.
“Thanks for letting me off the hook, Elodie.”
A yawn escapes before I can quench it. “It’s probably a good idea for me to get settled. I have studying to do before I meet my peeps tomorrow.”
He raises eyebrows. It makes his gray-green eyes the color of my jade earrings look rounder and puppy cute. “Studying?”
“You’ll see tomorrow.”
“Will I?” He grabs his keys. “Might this have something to do with all the personnel pictures and bios you had me send?”
“Hey Bobby,” I say, not taking the bait.
“Yes?”
“Do you know a good place to get decent takeaway fish and chips in these parts?”
“I might,” he says, throwing the door open wide. “I could insist you answer my question before I feed you.” He laughs. “But I’m not the dealing kind of guy.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Yes, you are, Mr. Showrunner.”
“Okay, yes, I am, but you get a first-night pass. Good for one time only.”
As I step through, my shoulder brushes his side. The heat rising off his body is as warm as his personality.
Ms. PR Meg may soon bust me for being too touchy. Ah, but what delightful consequences too touchy might offer.
Chapter 4
Hammers vs. Lattes
Hello crispy Irish morning and renewed perspective. What the hell was I thinking bringing on the flirt so strong with Bobby the first time we met in person yesterday? That’s a sure-fire way to send him running for cover. Except I didn’t see any signs he was lacing up his track shoes. I’d like to blame jet lag, but Elodie the Needy is the prime suspect. I crave a friend, a comrade, and most of all approval in this new lifescape of mine. Bobby Provost is the candidate I’d like to throw my vote behind, given he’s been my most steady contact thus far with The Chieftain’s Son’s production team. I’ve had minimal contact with my new team since my predecessor, Jeff Palmer, has still been handling loose ends, leading up to the big hand off to me. I’m glad I can finally stop going through him and dial direct with my people.
Ugh, approval. The word sticks in my brain. Craving Bobby’s approval could be a slippery slope for me. Given my penchant for crushing on authority figures to validate me, common sense says he’d best be a romantic red light. The problem is, I want to blow through that red light. Bobby’s contrast of sweetness and sharp wit are powerful lures.
Reality check. The Chieftain’s Son is my shot to accomplish a challenge and elevate my status in the film, TV design world. I’ve got decent professional momentum going for my age, and I intend for that train to stay on the track. Examining the tiny upsweep of Bobby’s smiling lips and jewelry-worthy eyes at close range will have to get in line behind that.
My Irish language practice app prompts me to type in the phrase for the seal wears orange pajamas. I’m swiftly losing faith my oddball knowledge of Irish phrases is going to impress Doolin, the strict Irish tutor Bobby’s warned me of. Part of the requirements for this job is to take Irish lessons. It’s one of the factors of the full-immersion deal with The Chieftain’s Son. I’m already anxious to meet the language task master who likely will never ask me if seals wear orange pajamas.
The one humanizing factor Bobby shared about Doolin is they golf together. Golf is a big subject with Bobby. Maybe I should consider taking it up to spend more time with him.
Whoops. So much for newfound perspective on easing back on my tendency to crush hard and fast on authority figures. Maybe I just need to meet a hot, single Irish dude in a pub for a rousing one-night stand to take my focus off Bobby in that way.
Even across thousands of miles, I hear the faint echo of my therapist grinding his teeth. When my bipolar disorder takes an upward swing toward manic, I tend to oversexualize. Thanks to kickass meds and having the best therapist on the planet, my manic is usually controlled. I’m more prone to the anxiety that flips the switch in the direction of depressive downswings of crippling self-doubt. Thank goodness for the past ten years since I was diagnosed, except for a few bad episodes, I’ve become very adept at using my mental and emotional tools to avoid that pit of hell. I am not my disorder. I think of it as a needy passenger in my brain who misbehaves if I don’t offer it snacks and beverage service.
I hook the straps of my olive-green painter’s overalls. Hopefully the layers of thermal shirt and flannel button-down will be enough. My MO is to dress like I’m ready to grab a hammer and work side-by-side with my crew. I refuse to show up for a first meet in business casual and lord my authority over anyone. I’m one of the guys who can cuss and wield power tools with the best of them. I discovered early cultivating a potty mouth gave crews permission not to hold back around good ole Elodie. Given my lack of height and being a woman, I’ve had to grab at any inroad to get art departments to accept me as a lead.
I cringe at memories of the handful of sexist, misogynistic assholes I’ve endured along the way, but for the most part, I’ve always been able to earn respect with my work ethic of never ask someone to do something I wasn’t willing to do myself. Thus, years of paint in the hair and hopeless fingernails. Truth is, a tool or paintbrush in my hand will always give me a rush of confidence. Honoring union rules, I’m not always able to be as hands on as I’d like, but my willingness alone to get down and dirty with enthusiasm has always served me well even if it means just being on site to cheer my people on.
Bottom line, despite my ungrizzled age and barely past newbie status in the industry, my reputation as a damn good designer is my cornerstone. Twisting my ring, I dig deep for confidence that shouldn’t be so damn hard to summon as I head downstairs to meet Pat in front of Water Villa.
On the drive, he schools me with the rules of football so I’ll know when to be righteously angry if a referee makes a shit call. Pat promises to take me to a match of his favorite club, Cork City over in Turner’s Cross, and wants me to be prepared. I try to pay attention, but my mind sticks on meeting my own team.
“You’re quiet over there, Ms. Elodie,” says Pat. “Do you harbor a secret dislike of football or are you not yet on Kerry time?”
“I happen to like football, and time is of no concern when one is scared shitless, Pat. You may quote me.”
He laughs. “I promise no one on The Chieftain’s Son bites. You’ll do fine.”
“From your lips to the Good Peoples’ ears.”
“I’m a Catholic. I’ll loan you God’s ear on my behalf.”
I relax into the seat. “I’ll take every ear I can get.” Nerves make the ride from Waterville to The Clan facility feel infinitely shorter than going from Bobby’s place to my new borrowed flat. I furiously swipe through the files on my phone as if cramming for an exam. Pat’s piña colada air freshener starts me craving something sweet. Smuggling extra donuts from craft service ought to calm my nerves and give me enough of a sugar high to survive the first meeting with my team. As if I could eat anything this morning.
The crunch of tires over gravel shakes the car and my phone plops into my lap.
Pat pulls up to the front entrance. “Chin up, Ms. Elodie. You charmed me, you’ll charm them.”
I gather my backpack and a wool cardigan from the back seat. “You’re not coming in?”
“I’m due in a spell to drive Miss Tellefson.”
“Shoot. I’m sorry. We could have carpooled to save you the trip.” I feel bad making Pat do a double loop into town, even though by Los Angeles standards the trip is the snap of a finger.
He waves me off. “You’re fine. I’m off for breakfast with the wife first.”
“Hot date, huh?”
“Scorching. Luck to you.”
I shut the passenger door, and Pat is off. Digging into the bib pocket of my overalls, I free the lanyard with my ID and key fob. There’s a high front counter in the lobby of The Clan backed with a museum quality painting of the two stars as their counterparts, Donal Cam and Nieve, The Chieftain’s Son’s lovers. I’d be hard pressed to find prettier people. Intimidating.
“Are you, Elodie Pettipas then?” asks a college-age looking guy in a button-down shirt with The Chieftain’s Son logo on the breast pocket.
“Yeah, hi,” I say, raising my ID for him to see. Can you aim me toward the scene shop?”
He smiles. “I’ll do you one better.” Something beeps behind the desk. “She’s here.” He refocuses his attention on me. “I’m Michael by the way.”
I raise my hand to reach his. “Elodie. Nice to meet you.”
Double doors to the left of the desk crash open and a woman I recognize as Gillian Bettencourt O’Leary from the phone pics her parents shared with me jets over. “Elodie.” She grabs me in a hug. “You’re very welcome to The Clan.” Releasing me quickly, she blushes. “Hey, I’m Gilly. Sorry if I came on strong. I’ve heard so much about you from my parents. It’s as if I know you.”
“Same, and I’d expect no less given the attack style hugs of your mom and dad.” We share a laugh, and I appreciate this tiny bud of familiarity with her.
“You’ve got us pegged. Bettencourts are huggers. I’m pretty sure they want to adopt you.” Gilly reaches for the door. “Come on in. I’ll take you back.” Before swinging it open, she turns to the desk. “Thanks, Michael. Oh, and Jack wants me to ask if your dad has an ETA on his new golf clubs.”
“He’s finishing the grips today, so you should have them by late afternoon.”
“Awesome,” says Gilly and nods at Michael. “If you want custom golf clubs, Michael’s dad is your man.”
“I don’t golf.”
“Yet,” says Michael with a laugh.
Gilly nudges me as Michael buzzes us in. “We’ll fix that.”
A huge red light on the wall would be bright and spinning if a shoot was in progress. The soundstage is on the other side of the door. Adrenaline shoots through me as I take my first step into my new kingdom—chiefdom. It’s massive. There must be at least five finished sets up and camera ready. A medieval banquet hall off to my right is cordoned off with Hot Set signs. Bobby mentioned shooting pickups, those extra shots needed to add texture to a scene and allow for multiple POVs.
