Page 52

I knew it was going to be an interesting day when I was pulled into a glass conference room for a meeting with my father.

I could hardly remember the last time I have spent time with my family without the polished glare of a conference table between us.

Even meetings with my sister happen across a table, albeit at a restaurant over a bottle of wine.

Swinging in my office chair to look out the tall glass window, I watch the workers outside with my chin in my hand.

The professionals heading out on their lunch breaks with their blue suits and lanyards swinging from their necks.

I’ve never had a lanyard and wonder idly if I could use one, even if just for my house keys.

The door opens and my father walks in. Charles Covington is an imposing man, his deep set frown lines marring the face so similar to mine. Charles raises his eyebrows and drops a script on the table with a thud, the paper sliding across the glossy surface.

I cough a laugh, my hand covering my burgeoning grin. I learned a long time ago to find humor in everything my father did. Not only does it infuriate Charles Covington but it makes the tension that fills my body fizzle away a little. I reach forward and grab the script.

Resting my ankle on my knee and flicking through the pages, I wait for my father to break the silence. I will read this script cover to cover just to avoid speaking to the man.

“You leave for Paris next week.” The deep American voice drawls from the other side of the table.

Charles has never lost his American twinge, even after all the years spent in London with my English-rose mother.

I tried hard to cling to the home counties accent I developed at school, refusing to be associated any more with the man who raised me than I have to.

“No audition?” I ask mildly.

“Don’t be smart, Daniel,” Charles clutches the chair in front of him. I haven’t auditioned since Better You Know. “It’s with Gwendoline Marcs and it’s a summer shoot. On location in Paris. You can’t fuck it up.”

I run my fingers through my hair, “Do I even get a say?”

Redness starts spreading up my father’s throat, his tell that he’s about to explode. “No, you don’t get a say. Do you know how many strings I pulled to get you this gig?”

I’m sure the strings he pulled were sending a single email. Pip has already told me that Charles was producing a new feature. Pip always gets the news before I do.

“What if I don’t want to do it?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you don’t want to do it, your contract is signed.”

“Hmm, I don’t remember signing anything.” It’s truly second nature to be as ornery as possible with my father.

“You will do this job, Daniel. You will behave perfectly, you will do a good job, you will promote the shit out of this film and you will be goddamn happy about it.”

“I’m not listening to this.” I stand up, throwing the script back on the table. I move to push past my father but he blocks my way.

“You will listen and you will do this,” my father’s beady eyes glare.

I clench my jaw and take a seat, my blood boiling.

“You’ll have top billing.”

As if that’s an enticement.

“What’s it about?” I ask, leafing through.

“Do I look like Wikipedia? Read it yourself for Christ’s sake. I’m sure you remember how to.”

I flick through the script. Conveniently, what are evidently my lines have already been highlighted, most likely thanks to my father’s PA Georgia. Of course, I won’t even be allowed the dignity of going through my own script.

I worked with an actor years ago who combed meticulously through every page, considering every word and inflection.

I watched her study her book like she was preparing for an exam, and I couldn’t help but credit it with her enviable performance.

I had wanted to learn from her, and really pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth, not just memorize like a robot.

The next time my father handed me a project, I had asked for a clean script. He didn’t even reply.

The script in my hands feels heavy, thick, long. Picking out lines at random, I have a small tickle in the back of my brain that this job might be different from the other superficial projects I’ve had before. Closing the book and placing it back on the table, I turn my attention back to my father.

Before I can open my mouth my father opens his. “We’re hiring you a personal for this one.”

“Eric?” I say, referring to the PA I have used before. I like Eric because he was more like a chill cousin than an employee, he never pressured me to do anything I didn’t want to do and mostly just left me alone.

Charles guffaws. “Not a chance, you’ll get a PA through production.”

I glare at my father.

“And before you complain, I don’t have anything to do with it,” he says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “That’s all. You’ll get the train on Sunday, Georgia will send you an email.”

“The train?” I ask.

“Production is focusing on its carbon footprint.” Charles stands, pushing his chair back under the desk. “I’ll fly out in the first few weeks to see how you’re getting on.” To make sure you stay out of trouble.

Charles turns and pulls the door open. “Don’t fuck this up and don’t embarrass me, Daniel.” He doesn’t even look at me as he strides from the room.

I lean back in my chair, content to wait for my father to be well out of the vicinity. Heaven forbid I get stuck in the elevator with the man.

Stuffing the script in my bag, I run my hands through my hair and take a breath. It’s one more job, I tell myself, one more .

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I stomp to the elevator. My hand itches in my pocket on the long descent to street level.

Stepping out into the fresh spring air, I pull my vape out of my pocket and take a drag of the cherry flavor.

I switched from cigarettes after some nagging from Pip.

I had rolled my eyes when I first started to find the little pink sticks in my empty cigarette cartons but I appreciated what my sister was trying to do.

It’s taken years to have anything resembling a close relationship with my sister, so now I’ll do anything to make her happy.

Even if it means using the poor substitute for the real thing.

Pulling my headphones in and blasting a rock song, I shoulder my way down the street.

I take a deep breath and watch my feet, glancing up under my lashes at everyone who passes me by.

The tension in my shoulders aches, and I know I will have to lock the door twice behind me when I get home just to feel secure.

Checking the time I decide it’s early enough to get the tube home without any issue. My father pays for a car service, but my reluctance to use his money sometimes overtakes my need for privacy — today being one of those days.

The tube carriage isn’t crowded but I stand near the door, facing away from the rest of the carriage. I learned a few years ago that this was the best way to remain inconspicuous.

I finally take my first easy breath when my front door slams behind me. I dump my bag on the floor and flop onto the couch. The ticking of my watch echoing through the empty room like a metronome. Opening my eyes I glance at my bag, the corner of the manuscript poking out.

I pull it out and settle into the couch.

One more job, I tell myself, one more .

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