Page 24 of The Dirty Version

Tash had already agreed to meet Caleb at his hotel’s conference room the next morning.

They’d moved their Episode Five work there before the Vaudeville Striptease event, for a change of scenery, and because they could put lunch on the Braverman tab.

And because the hotel advertised a poolside happy hour they could reward themselves with each time they met a scene milestone.

The idea of which soured in Tash’s stomach as she dragged herself out to her balcony, thoughts of Caleb in that linen closet still muddling her head.

She’d slept poorly and woken humiliated, Astrid’s this seems super professional haunting her dream.

Just one day ago, Tash had boasted to her brother that she wasn’t dumb enough to put herself at risk.

She’d flippantly told Rohan she was too smart to get involved with Caleb—but if Astrid had walked in on them ten seconds later, involved is exactly what she would have found.

Tash muffled the mental replay by opening her laptop.

She and Caleb still had scenes to complete.

He’d forwarded the “blue” version of Episode Five’s script and explained the way the paper color changed with each revision—they’d begun with white and were on blue now; pink came next, then yellow, and then green.

The color differentiation kept Braverman’s production departments literally all on the same page.

Tash’s screen filled. Light blue, as promised, with highlighted comments in the margins, official communique between Caleb and the writers’ room. Tash paused at the very first notation, a general greeting from @BrianDoolittle:

Good work on Episode One @CalebRafferty! Nice job getting the author to loosen up.

“The author” read this and immediately stiffened.

And then the author’s hostility toward @BrianDoolittle came rushing back. Tash fantasized about setting fire to the pile of phrases he would have used for a male writer who’d put up her same resistance: Brave , he would have proclaimed loudly. Principled . Daring. Tour de force.

She stewed about this the entire drive to La Playa, Caleb’s very fashionable boutique hotel.

She stalked through its turquoise, pop-art-infested lobby, around an ironic large-scale installation of sculpted flamingos, beneath a massive ceiling mobile meant to mimic the sunset.

She found the conference room he’d reserved, appreciating its white-on-white-on-white domed space, soft with slices of skylight, textured by florets of ivory stucco, a contrast to the rest of the hotel.

Tash’s head filled with thunder in the room styled like a cloud.

Her anger bloomed, unchecked and easy. It scalded away subtleties, concentrating her emotion, chasing off the sheepish traces of last night’s near miss—with the man seated at the whitewashed-wood conference table, wearing a T-shirt and board shorts, as if he actually intended to follow through with their post-work plans and invite her for a two-for-one drink by the pool.

Tash marched past him, dumping her bag on an ivory chenille ergonomic chair.

“In the interest of today’s tasks, I should tell you I was upset by the comments in the blue version of the script I read this morning.

” She announced it evenly, proud of the personal growth she’d demonstrated by keeping her voice to less than a yell.

She stood beside the seat farthest away from Caleb. At the other end of the table, he’d startled and looked up from his screen. He closed his laptop, dropping his espresso to its tiny saucer.

“‘Nice job getting the author to loosen up’?” Tash continued, her gall hoisting offended air quotes. “I don’t know what’s worse, Caleb—the insinuation that I’m a frigid shrew or the way you get full credit for our work.”

Long, frowning moments passed, his face never shaking its confusion. “Shit. You don’t have the software, do you?” Caleb reopened his laptop. “You only have the email attachment, which is a static copy of the script.”

He busied as Tash stood in fuming silence.

“Your docs aren’t dynamic because you don’t have the screenwriting software.

If you look at the script on my computer, all the comments click through.

They drill down. That’s how Story and I resolve changes, and how production keeps track.

” He spoke very deliberately, as if negotiating a hostage scene.

He rose, bringing Tash his laptop. “Before you look, though—please remember that I know you don’t need me to fight your battles. ”

Tash’s outrage wavered. Somehow his kid-glove handling hinted that he’d addressed this days ago.

She could tell from just the angle of his shoulders, which made her even madder—mostly because fury would be better than relenting.

Fury would be simpler and safer than setting the controversy aside and having to acknowledge how they’d left off last night.

Grudgingly, Tash looked to where the blue pages were open in a program she didn’t recognize. She clicked on Doolittle’s first comment, spawning a waterfall of margin dialogue boxes. From @CalebRafferty:

Thank you @BrianDoolittle. I’m enjoying this collaboration. Natasha Grover is a pleasure to work with, and her source material is already very rich. Btw, thanks for your notes on the python. I’m sure you’ll love our future pages.

Tash kept her head down, rereading Caleb’s response. She tapped her lips, taking time to weigh his words. Just a handful, but in a tone she’d come to recognize—direct and dauntless and on her side.

“I give it a B-plus.” Tash forced her expression stoic, even if her outrage had begun to fall away. “You would have gotten an A if you’d asked how often he implies that male authors are uptight, rigid hags.” This seemed a compromise—a few spikes on the drawbridge as she lowered the gate.

Caleb met her mixed frequency. “I agree with you. But I also know it’s not productive for me to correct him.

Doolittle is touchy. He’s resentful because the polishes have to go through you.

” Before Tash could argue: “Which doesn’t mean I’m defending him—I’m not.

I’m just explaining where he’s coming from. ”

“Doolittle is a jackass.” Her temperature cooled as she said it. “And that’s me being nice.”

“Doolittle is a jackass. But he’s also the head writer on your show.

Part of my job is to humor him—just like part of your job is to ignore him.

” Now Caleb wore the beginnings of a grin.

“Remember when I told you each department has its own language? Scroll down and click on Doolittle’s comment about the python. He thinks it symbolizes the penis.”

The idea of following that thread was exhausting. Tash shook her head and closed Caleb’s laptop. She made a show of pushing the computer toward him with a single finger, as if she wouldn’t touch it again without a hazmat suit.

She flew her white flag: “From now on, all script comments are yours. I don’t want to see them. I’ll work from your notes.”

Caleb’s grin grew. “You sure? Because Reggie thinks Doolittle’s wrong, and the python isn’t phallic, but it does have biblical overtones—something about Moses and parting the Red Sea.

Executive Production likes to connect content to viewer data mining.

They like to make sure their projects are ‘on trend.’”

She sighed. “The python is nothing.” A tea service had been set up on the conference room’s credenza.

Tash saw Caleb had requested fresh mint leaves for her, because the hotel’s kitchen didn’t carry chai.

“I promise, it’s just a snake. I couldn’t think of anything scarier when I was writing.

I’d already used up prehistoric-shark-slash-crocodile on the Mother Beast.”

“Well, keep that secret to yourself. It’s more useful to me and you if we let them duke it out.

” Caleb’s reflection fixed Tash in the sideboard’s hanging mirror, swinging back to serious.

“But don’t let it get inside your head, Tash.

Concentrate on what we put on the page. You know that’s what Janelle would say. ”

Tash loaded a fancy mesh infuser with dark-green mint chiffonade. “Oh, now you think you can just name-check Janelle?” She poured steaming water, marveling at how reflexively she’d bounced back into their banter.

“She said I could. She told me to refer to her as often and as flatteringly as I like.” Caleb met Tash’s smile in the mirror before he withdrew it again.

“For real, though—ignore them. I’m careful with my bullets because if I give Braverman’s team a hard time, all I do is make things difficult for us. And for Astrid.”

Whose mention immediately killed Tash’s enjoyment of the repartee.

“And on that note, in the interest of today’s tasks”—Caleb appropriated Tash’s opening words—“I want to apologize for last night. For Astrid, if she was rude to you, but also, mainly... for me.”

Caleb paused uncomfortably. “My behavior was profoundly unprofessional, and I shouldn’t have needed Astrid to point that out. She and I had a long talk, and we cleared up a bunch of things—but none of them excuse my extreme lapse in judgment. I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

Only Caleb Rafferty could make rejection look that good.

His penitence nailed Tash to the credenza, while blistering mint water burned her tongue.

She didn’t dare lower her teacup, or he’d see her hopeless disappointment—she didn’t even know what she had expected from the conversation, but it was not this.

“I thought the burlesque would be useful, and I knew you and Ilsa would hit it off. But Stacy would have killed me if she’d been there.” Caleb radiated self-disgust. “I’m supposed to be an experienced professional. I have a responsibility to you, and to this project. It won’t happen again.”

Tash swallowed her boiling water dumbly, rooted there until her cup was drained.