Not to Scale, page 9
Chapter 9
Pushback
So much for enthusiasm being contagious. I unpacked an entire bookshelf’s worth of my research books on Irish and Celtic fairy tales and myths, histories of Irish kings, and even trees and flowers of Ireland. With what I considered a generous offer, I send an email, opening my library to the art department. Egg dripped down my face at the first reply from one of my model makers.
“There are your books and then there’s this thing with all the knowledge in the universe. I hear they call it the internet.”
Then Rory, one of my most talented CG wizards, perused the spines during a meeting. He shot me the smirkiest of smirks after he pulled out Wars of the Irish Kings, a Thousand Years of Struggle and held it up for everyone to see. “And that’s Tuesday to us.” I laughed with the group, acting like the dig wasn’t targeted at the only outsider in the room—me.
His comment is in line with not just my apparently unnecessary resource library, but also the flavor of reactions I got after gushing over my epiphany with connecting to the energy of Ireland and allowing that to be the prime motivator for our visual design. I scored a few polite head nods, but the pervasive reaction was a pastiche of smug looks I interpreted as the new girl finally caught up. Great. A second loud thunk in my attempt to be an inspirational leader. My brilliant notion of departmental team building activities devolved into pyrotechnics harping over spark vs. flame guns for our upcoming battle scene at the Waterville shoreline, as if I wasn’t even there. What the hell must I do to win these people over?
I wish I’d never removed my office door. Settling for showing my back to the room to hide my stupid tears of frustration will have to do for now. Curse Jeff Palmer for allowing his art department to settle into factions. Double curse him for letting them run over him. Or is it only me they’re running over?
I’d Facetime Kevin right now if it wasn’t the middle of his California night. The familiar chest clench of anxiety tightens until it’s hard to breathe. I absolutely refuse to let these people see I’m losing my shit.
What delusional episode led me to believe I could take on this mega show? I’ve got an entire personal toolbox of design skills, but managing a resistant horde isn’t in there.
I do box breathing. In two three…hold two three…out two three…hold two three.
“Miss Boss?” My lead scenic artist, Tim Martin, who could swagger with the best of the cowboys on the movie ranch back home, fills my doorway, blocking light from the main room. I rub my eyes making them even redder and fake a sneeze. I hate the nickname they’ve saddled me with. It feels both demeaning and insulting. Have I tried correcting anyone? Nope. In my constant please like me mindset, sucking it up is de rigueur.
“Hey Tim. What’s up?”
He leans against the empty frame, the picture of nonchalance. “Paint shipment isn’t coming in until five. Where do you stand on overtime?”
I grab a tissue and mop some of my facial damage.
“You alright there?”
I wave him off. “Allergies.” Shit, overtime. My budget is close to busting its seams, especially with all the special effects we need for the Waterville battle. The money mess I’ve inherited proves Jeff Palmer was no whiz with numbers. The anxiety shackle that’s become a permanent fixture around my ribs pinches tighter. “What’s left to touch up and get the castle exterior camera ready?”
Tim scratches him arm as his gaze lifts somewhere above my head. “Not much. We’re shooting against a section we haven’t used before, so matching isn’t an issue. The drips you asked for and a bit of spatter are the full menu. The greensman is nipping at my heels to finish so his folks can swoop in with their vines and moss.”
“I find it hard to believe you don’t have enough paint for drips and spatter.”
He grimaces. “Not the right colors. I’ll own that one. What with the switch from Ole Jeff to you, I got lax on tracking inventory and might have cleaned house a bit too early before the new stuff came in.” He scuffs his shoe.
I bite back my retort of can’t you read a fucking schedule. I pop a root beer barrel candy in my mouth as I think. “I’ll give the greensmen the go ahead to do their thing so they’re not busting your chops. Paint will work around them.”
He gives me a look of such condescension—I want to fire him on the spot. “I suppose you know what you’re about.”
A fireball rolls from my gut to my feet. I crunch the rest of my candy and stand. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He flinches a little. I’ve been full of folksy sweetness, acting like their resistance bounces off me without leaving a mark. My own self-doubt and sense the art department is a runaway train hits critical mass inside me. If they don’t want to respect me and play nice, I can match them pissy for pissy.
“And that’s a no to the overtime. Light a fire under the supplier and get the paint here before quitting time, even if you have to drive out and pick it up yourself.” I target him with a glare. “Since the notion of maintaining a base stock may not have been policy before, apparently, we need to meet and review your material orders for next season. My production assistant will set it up.”
I turn to grab my laptop and push past him as if I’m late to a meeting, which I’m not. “And by the way, Tim, my name is Elodie, not Miss Boss.” A few heads turn as I stride past the row of cubbies that would be long gone if I’d had my way.
If the art department is not going to let me kill them with kindness and innovation, I’ll go another way. Am I a class A idiot for trying to create a team spirit when everyone here seems happy to be a lone wolf, or at least content in their own small specialty packs? Therein lies the fundamental difference I’ve experienced between theater and film. Theater is a team sport and TV skews more toward clumps and clusters. Not on every show, but The Chieftain’s Son feels especially factionalized. Hard to believe this dynamic exists anywhere on a show under a main man as generous and enthusiastic as Bobby Provost.
Or am I the problem? Jeff Palmer probably stood the entire art department for ten rounds of drinks at the Waterville pub every night. It’s also possible he was so hands off with the day-to-day, the art department never had a shot at the cohesion I’m striving for. Whatever shape my department is in, instead of improving it, I’m fucking it up.
I crash into the corridor and head for the shadowy end away from my colleagues. Have I become the imposter I fear? Was Rich and Amethyst Bettencourt’s faith in me misplaced? I rest my head against the cool metal of the double doors leading to other arteries of The Clan. My next burst of self-doubt sets my hands shaking. Did Bobby make the wrong choice trusting me with his epic baby?
The urge to walk out the front doors of The Clan and go back to Wyoming and a much smaller life nearly chokes me. Why did I ever buy into anyone who claimed I should pursue my talent? They not only praised, they pushed me, and I let myself be pushed. Words like gifted and wunderkind went to my approval-starved head and set me on a path I clearly don’t deserve. I should have stayed on the movie ranch and married a freaking stunt cowboy. Then I wouldn’t be drowning in this pressure.
I need sugar.
The best place for that is the writer’s room before all the daily yummies from Maureen’s fiancé, Grady, have disappeared. I’ll be happy to snag the last half of a donut or pastry someone cut in two attempting to save calories.
My charge to Mount Sugar stalls when I think of who might be in the writer’s room. Bobby and I haven’t spoken for days after Carrick-a-Rede Island. The man is insanely busy, being pulled in a dozen directions with his show responsibilities, but he did almost kiss me. Doesn’t that deserve a text at least? Is he planning on following through with our castle tour, or did he only offer it to deflect the awkwardness of Jack catching us in the ramp-up to a kiss?
The meal and long drive to Waterville didn’t feel awkward, but I was so lit up by my revelation of Elodie Gets Ireland I chattered most of the way about my plans and visions. It’s not as if Bobby didn’t contribute, but he also didn’t try and kiss me again. I wish I knew if he was Team Regret or Team Lost his Nerve.
I use the sleeve of my plaid flannel to pat my face dry. If my eyeballs are still a furious red, I’ll stick to the allergy story. Best case scenario is an empty writer’s room and at least a quarter-full donut box. A gal needs sugar choices.
Worst case scenario rides again. The writer’s room is teeming with humanity. At the center of the melee Beth, one of the production assistants, is handing out white boxes.
“We’re goin’ green,” she announces as the writers step up one by one to get their new tablets. “Bobby says our old-school holdouts will still get a paper script if they want one.”
Cam Stephens, Jack and Gilly’s shared PA, grabs two boxes and raises them. “Anyone who needs tips for using these new beauties can hail me.”
I skirt the crowd for the snack table. No donuts. All that’s left is a plastic bag with bagels. Crushing disappointment. I scan the room for Bobby. Nothing but a big Bobby void. Crushing disappointment number two.
Wrangling a bagel out of the bag, I stick it in the microwave for ten seconds.
“There’s a perfectly good toaster just there,” says Collin, one of the senior writers. He trains a thick strand of black hair off his face. “Don’t let Maureen catch you microwaving a bagel. She’ll school you on proper snack etiquette.”
I’m even incapable of prepping my own damn snack the right way. If I didn’t feel like an utter failure before, I do now. When the microwave beeps, I turn tail and escape the scene of my bagel crime. Fleeing down the hall I pass a room with a huge electronic white board at one end, filled with Jack and a handful of other burly men. I catch a fleeting glimpse at a tall, thin, gray-headed man who must be Doolin, the Irish language teacher, poking at a phrase written on the board. I’ll be at his mercy soon enough. Cast learns first, then novice me.
To my left is a businessy-looking office behind a glass wall where a brown-haired woman with a tight bun in a burgundy suit paces behind a power desk with a phone glued to her ear. I recognize Meg McGrath, head of publicity, from her NDA-waving cyber attack on my person. My heart skitters when I see who’s sitting in her leather guest chair, Bobby.
The moment his attention flashes to me, I race along the carpet. I’m too unglued to talk to him. I need alone time. I need escape.
Navigating The Clan complex has become easier since I poured over the hand-drawn map of the place Bobby made for me. I cling to the edges of the sound stage to avoid any of my crew and head toward wardrobe. Their workroom is buzzing.
I greet the costume designer, who is one colleague who doesn’t think I’m a loser. “Hey Marie.”
“Ah, Elodie. You’re very welcome to my shop. What can I do for you?”
Help me hide. “Can you direct me to the drapery room?”
“Go through that door, pass the last row of wardrobe racks, and you’ll find the accordion door to the drape cupboard.” She cocks her head. “Do you want help?”
“I’m fine, but thanks.”
“Go on then.” She returns to her table of pins and rich, wine-colored brocade.
Thankfully costume storage is empty and blissfully dim from a single fluorescent ceiling light over the exit sign that bathes the room in a blue-tinged glow. Appetite gone, I toss my incorrectly heated bagel into a trash can and walk slowly down the center row of racks, letting my fingers trail over silks, furs, and leather. The contact slows my hammering heart, and I breathe in the scent of fresh laundered clothing with a tiny hint of dust. At the far end of the room, in an open space, I find a trio of velvet covered benches in front of two tri-fold, full-length mirrors. A cart with pins, chalk, and cloth measuring tapes sits next to an empty rack. I’ve found Marie’s fitting room.
Dropping onto one of the cushy benches, I rest my head on my hands and let the world spin around me. I expected this job to be monstrous, but I didn’t expect it to be a monster. How would Kevin, therapist extraordinaire, address my mini breakdown?
“Trust yourself, Elodie. Stop trying to please everyone, Elodie. Take it one step at a time, Elodie. Do your fucking job, Elodie.”
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t say the last one, that’s all me. I signed on for this. I must see it through. If I bail or fail, it’s career suicide. I check my watch. At least six hours until I can take the pill to master my faulty serotonin and allow me to enter the void of sleep. I won’t let anxiety overtake me and tick into depression. I haven’t had a depressive episode in years now. There’s a sign in the scene shop with the numbers of days it’s been since an injury. I should wear one celebrating the days I’ve managed to stay out of depression dungeon.
Then again, I’ve never been under this level of pressure. What made me think I could handle it? Oh, yeah, the temptation of a supportive art department, a team.
“Dammit!” I launch off the bench. I’m not a damsel in distress who needs a therapist on a white horse to save me. The work I’ve done on myself these past few years has to count for something.
My gaze lands on a gorgeous yellow damask dress. Even in the low light, it glows like a neon buttercup. I’m not a fan of dressing nicely and uncomfortably. If I can’t get paint on it, the piece doesn’t fit into my wardrobe. This yellow dress calls to me. I run a finger over the smooth fabric. What would it be like to wear such a fancy gown, to twirl in it, to playact medieval royalty? To feel beautiful?
I’m alone in here. No one is going to know if I dally with the costumes. I pull the dress off the rack and hold it against me. Probably a bit too long, which is my constant refrain when trying on clothing. What the hell, I’m going to play dress up. It’s not as if I plan to parade around the halls in the costume. I just want to be someone else for a red-hot minute before I walk back into my world and do my job.
Shucking off my overalls and flannel isn’t enough. My modern bra doesn’t play nice with the built-in corset and the plunging neckline of buttercup. Once I’m bare save for my panties, I manage to slip the dress over my curves. Thanks to the magic of magnets and Velcro, it’s not hard to secure it in place. I giggle as I realize if there be magnets, this costume is destined to be ripped off quickly on camera. I carefully pick my way to the mirrors and snap on the pole light next to them. Mama pajama, my cleavage is transformed into something spectacular. My entire silhouette achieves a rating of fine. I twirl. It’s as distracting and satisfying as I hoped.
“Chieftess Elodie demands your presence. Bring me a slice of boar.” I point at an imaginary suitor. “You will bathe before you touch the royal personage.”
“Elodie?”
Shit. I snap off the pole lamp. Caught yellow-dress handed by the last person I want to witness my attempt to pull myself together.
Bobby.
“Everything okay?”
“Peachy. Give me a minute, I’ll meet you, uh…outside.”
His voice is closer. “Why do we have to meet outside? Can’t we talk in here?”
I slip a few racks over. “Sure, go ahead.”
He’s close to the fitting area. “Is there a reason you’re hiding from me?”
My heart can’t decide whether to clang like a church bell or fall into tachycardia. “Why would I hide from you?” I scootch between two fur and leather tunics to put another aisle between us.
The light in the fitting area snaps on. Bobby’s low chuckle floats to me over gowns and breeches. “This might explain it.”
I peer around the end of the rack to see Bobby holding my bra aloft.
“Elodie, is running naked through wardrobe more of you getting in touch with the pulse of the show?”
“I’m not naked nor running, and I’ll thank you to unhand my delicates.”
The rumble of his laugh starts a rumble between my thighs. “If you’re decent, come out, come out wherever you are.”
His playful tone adds heat to the rumble. Lifting the too long skirt of my borrowed gown, I round the end of the rack and as gracefully as possible princess-step toward the light.
As soon as Bobby sees me, his laughter dies. No scampering now. He’s full-on gawking. My bra falls from his hand.
I decide to go all in with my dress up fantasy and curtsy. “Lord Provost.” Yep, his gaze rockets to my near-to-busting from the neckline boobs.
“Why are you…what…you’re…” he stammers.
I’m a little put out he’s so shocked. Either I look ridiculous, or Bobby’s uptight about messing with the costumes.
My face heats as my girlie parts cool. “Like I said, give me a minute, and we’ll meet outside.”
He continues to stare.
I release my hold on the skirt, and it pools around me. “Hello?”
“I…you’re…I’ve never seen you in a dress before.” I don’t know who wins for most saturated blush.
“Don’t get used to it.” I decide what the hell and go for a full twirl. “I’ve never seen me in a dress like this before.”
As soon as I finish my revolution, Bobby is right in front of me. His hands grab my hips. “You’re stunning.” The heat between us swirls, and I ache to sink into it, into him.
I rest my hands on his shoulders. I will not miss my chance to take advantage of the lust haze in his eyes. “How stunning?”
“Shit, Elodie.”
When he starts to slide his hands away, I snatch them, replacing his grip on me. I’m so damn thirsty for him, I refuse to let him slip away. “Shit what, Bobby?” This time I reach up until my hands rest of either side of his face.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Oh, you should.” I pull him toward me. That’s all the encouragement he needs before his needy mouth crashes into mine. There’s not much preamble before I open my lips and grant his eager tongue an all-access pass. Bobby’s hands slip around to my ass, and he lifts me flush against him as our mouths compete for most energetic taster. Even through the layers of buttercup’s fabric, I’m aware of Bobby Provost’s admiration.
He carries me over to one of the velvet stools and sets me on top so I’m looking down at him. “Is this okay? Are you okay?”
