Page 7 of The Dirty Version
Janelle forced Tash to track down Caleb’s office number before they left the adjunct lounge.
Tash obtained the information easily, on a first try—Caleb Rafferty, co-founder of Scene Partners, a Hollywood consulting firm in Burbank, California.
She clicked around the website, accompanied by Janelle’s fascinated reading of the “About Us” highlights.
Tash jotted the digits on a scrap of paper.
She closed her laptop. “I’ll call him when I get home.”
Janelle smacked Tash with Episode One’s script. “Do it now!”
“No. I love you, but this will probably require ugly groveling, which I’d like to do in private.
” Tash recalled the scorched earth she’d left behind in that parking lot and the hostility that crackled between them when she slammed the taxi door in Caleb’s face.
“I’m probably going to have to beg him for a meeting. ”
Because she was out of other options.
* * *
She drew her knees up on the white shag carpet in her bedroom as she dialed.
A receptionist put her on hold before Tash could blurt that all she wanted was Caleb’s cell number—she didn’t actually want to speak with him, she’d rather just apologize over text.
Then they could begin the even worse task of tackling Braverman’s edits.
“This is Stacy.” Instead of the receptionist, a different woman’s voice came over the line.
“Hi.” Tash attempted to sound friendly and relaxed, rather than brimming with nausea. “I’m calling for Caleb Rafferty’s cell phone contact, please?”
The woman shut her down smoothly. “I’m sorry, we don’t give that out. But I’d be happy to pass on a message.”
“Are you sure I can’t just have his number? We met last night, but I forgot to take his card.” Not really what happened, but Tash didn’t need to get into the details.
The voice prickled with interest. “Last night?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me your name, again?”
“Tash Grover.”
It met with a distinct, stomach-sinking chuckle. “Ah. Well, I’d love to give you Caleb’s info, but I can’t. Why don’t you leave a message, and I’ll make sure he gets it.”
Defeatedly, forebodingly, Tash closed her eyes.
She searched for the right words. “Okay. Can you please tell him I’m following up on his offer to help me with some production notes?
” As if she had not ferociously spat that very offer back.
“And also”—Tash breathed into the make nice , remembering to play ball —“if he could return this call, I’d like to apologize. ”
The woman’s tone danced with amusement. “Sure thing.”
Tash enunciated her own cell number, two times, before she hung up.
An hour later, her phone chimed with an incoming call from Unknown .
Tash curled in the corner of her walk-in closet, guessing it was Caleb. “Hello?”
“Hi. This is Caleb Rafferty.” Indifferently, with none of the heated emotion of their last exchange. “I got a message that you rang my office.”
“I did.” Tash charged through her unease. She ripped off the bandage, launching rare rockets of concession. “I’d like to apologize for some of the things I said to you last night.”
“Oh.” A moment ticked by. “Just some of the things?”
Tash refused to take the bait. She focused on her desperate need to salvage her influence over the series adaptation. She inhaled through flared nostrils: “The important part is I’m sorry. If you have time to see me, I’d really like to talk through Braverman’s notes.”
* * *
She held on to this same, supplicating mindset the next day, on her drive to the Seashell Resort and Yachting Club.
Caleb’s choice of location struck her as an odd one—she’d describe the place as quintessential tourist, or exiled oligarch, or Ponzi scheme magnate cathedral-by-the-sea.
It was a soaring-ceilinged, canary-yellow concrete building styled as Italian villa, its balustrades guarding not the canals of Venice, but the Florida Intracoastal Waterway.
Tash ridiculed none of this—it might not have been her natural aesthetic, but she enjoyed frozen coconut rum served in a scooped-out pineapple with a gold umbrella sometimes, too.
She discovered Caleb in the glossy marble arcade that flanked the swimming pool, where a brunch crowd in pastel boat shoes and diaphanous cover-ups made his navy turtle-patterned button-down seem restrained.
He raised an expressionless hand to Tash in welcome, from a coffee nook slightly away from an extensive omelet station. His mouth remained in a straight line.
Steel drum covers of ’90s pop soundtracked Tash’s plank walk as she prepared to reexperience her swallowing of pride.
She arrived at the table at the same time as a waiter.
Tash sat down awkwardly, ignoring the menu and ordering mint tea.
The waiter barely glanced at her, seemingly unable to rip his gaze from Caleb.
Tash recalled last night’s bartender, who had similarly gawked, and wondered how far Caleb’s looks regularly got him, what with the general chisel and the Clark Kent–climbs-Colorado vibe.
She moved a chunk of hair over her shoulder, flaunting her own charms.
There’s nothing wrong with a female character being sexy —Janelle’s words—and as the protagonist in this drama, and for the purposes of this meeting, Tash had decided to subscribe to the belief.
Her reluctance to unclothe her characters did not mean she didn’t enjoy men, or sex, or that she overlooked the value of her assets.
It just meant she preferred to control the narrative in which they were seen.
The plummeting neckline of her fine white cotton sleeveless wrap dress, for example, was a strategic premeditation designed to highlight the luster of her skin.
Its nipped-in side tie underscored her dedication to her yoga practice, while hinting at the fickle nature of clothing, suggesting fleshly pleasures just a drawstring pull away.
The caress of its tulip hem against her mid-calf nodded to happenstance: One smooth thigh might flash unpredictably, depending on a leg-cross or a cross-breeze.
At least, Tash surmised her outfit meant all this. She had not wanted to bother Janelle, so she’d read up on third-wave feminism again, to reinforce her selection. Somewhat irritatingly, her ensemble appeared to not make Caleb even blink.
He seemed not to notice that Tash’s outfit was meant to hypnotize him. His steady gaze did not dip below her chin. Once the waiter left, Caleb just sat in silence.
“Thanks for seeing me.” Tash knit her fingers on the table. “As I mentioned on the phone, I don’t know how long you’re in town, but I’d really appreciate your help with Braverman’s notes if you have the time.”
She noticed a sheaf of episode scripts stacked demonstratively beside his bread plate. Tash discerned asterisks and circled passages in red and purple ink—he’d reviewed the work. She hoped this meant he was invested.
But his bedhead remained austere as Caleb sipped his espresso.
He set his tiny cup down, no doubt relishing this upper hand.
An ankle rested on a knee as he regarded Tash stoically, and she began to feel exposed and stupid.
She groped in her bag for an extra physical layer, swathing her mild humiliation in the thin gauze of a shawl.
Caleb finally responded. “I’m contracted for prep work, which we guessed would take about two weeks, unless things progress—and in that case, Braverman might want me here for five.”
Tash fingered the tent card set beside the table’s clutch of sugar packets advertising Sundown Specials, feeling another surge of hope. She waved the cardstock jauntily. “Wow. Even just two weeks is a lot of Rum Runners and stone crab.”
Caleb puzzled for a moment. “Oh. No.” He shook his head, glancing around at all the facelifted terry cloth. “No, I’m not staying here.” His mouth entertained a touch of humor. “There are only so many yachts a man can take. No, I’m staying closer to the festival.”
Tash struggled to not clatter her teacup.
Making her grovel was one thing, but the canal-road maze from her duplex to the Seashell had forced her to wait at raised drawbridges three separate times.
She possessed the unfortunate superpower of hitting each one just as it opened to an interminable boat crossing.
“If you’re not staying here, then you picked this place because...?” Out of loyalty to her fellow Floridians, Tash would not outright malign the salmon-colored marble or the towering gold leaf.
Caleb’s cheeks bloomed pink. “A personal commitment. Braverman’s timing for this project was a surprise.
” He inclined his head beyond the arcade to a spa pavilion billowing with sheer curtains and trails of bougainvillea.
“I’m with friends today. It’s a reunion, so I couldn’t bail.
Meeting here was the only way I could do this. ” He gestured to Tash’s script pile.
Curious, Tash leaned forward, letting her eyes rove. She reassessed him. “Hold on. A reunion? You went to school here?”
He seemed to find the idea funny. “Nope. LA born and bred.” Then he hesitated. “It’s not a school reunion. It’s family. And Astrid.”
Astrid Dalton—the actress playing Noab. To whom Tash now remembered Ram mentioned Caleb was “attached.” Tash had not considered in which sense. From their first interaction at the bar, Tash had assumed Caleb was single.
Although the details of his personal life could go into the trash can, along with the footnote he was probably many years Astrid Dalton’s senior, Tash guessed, based on the fact Astrid was best known for a laugh-tracked teenage sitcom Tash was too old to have seen.