Page 8 of The Dirty Version

“I’m sorry to encroach on your time then.

You must be very busy.” Every so often, the reality of having sold her book rights felt to Tash like shouting underwater while being forced to watch a boyfriend tongue-kiss a frenemy; her gratitude for the film option and its financial proceeds rivaled her anguish at having to surrender her story to other hands.

To other writers, for example. To nubile it-girls “attached” to blue-eyed LA sex designers.

Tash stopped, glancing down at her shawl-covered cleavage. She scolded herself. Janelle would probably say passing judgment on another woman’s romantic choices was antithetical to the cause.

Caleb cocked his head, oblivious to Tash’s mental sidebar. “It’s not encroaching. I was hired to do a job. This series also happens to be Astrid’s debut in a marquee drama—so I’m on board, one hundred percent. I want to make sure it goes well.”

Tash dunked her tea bag coolly, imagining Astrid’s certain relief at possessing such a steadfast liege—or, depending on how one looked at it, Astrid’s disempowerment at Caleb’s seizure of her agency.

Tash affected ignorance: “Can you remind me exactly what you do?”

He didn’t need to know she and Janelle had already completed rather thorough research into his role and his company.

Caleb pushed his empty espresso aside.

And then, with deliberate, innocent deadpan, he said: “Lap dances. That is, when I’m not looking at boobs.” The unfettered joy in his false sincerity could not contain itself around his mouth. He opened his eyes widely, miming confusion at Tash’s glare. “What? Come on—don’t make me mansplain it!”

He delivered this as if he’d been practicing.

In return, Tash gave him a slow clap.

His straight white smile winked at her as he took a half bow.

“It’s called intimacy coordination.” When Caleb decided to answer her for real.

“I’m half of a team. I do the script translation, which means I liaise between talent and story and direction and production in the lead-up to a shoot.

My partner, Stacy Mancini, does all the front-of-camera, on-set physical coordination.

Her background is combat choreography. She’s awesome. ”

Talking about his work seemed to make Caleb relax.

He gestured to his annotated script stack for The Colony .

“We vet and plan critical scenes. We make sure there’s consensus around everybody’s physical and emotional boundaries.

If an actor is feeling vulnerable, we’re their advocate on-set.

I’d be more than happy to show you our credentials.

” He adjusted his glasses, appearing pleased with himself.

“The practice of intimacy coordination is very feminist, you know—our values are probably more aligned than you imagine.”

Indeed, the practice of intimacy coordination had apparently been adopted across the entire industry—Tash and Janelle had found scores of articles describing it as part of Hollywood’s post-#MeToo reckoning, a response to decades of on-set abuse.

Intimacy coordinators were to nudity and simulated sex what stunt coordinators had always been to action sequences.

Caleb’s partner, Stacy, popped up often in news coverage about it, her suitcase of modesty garments and private-part prosthetics in tow.

“A big part of the job is essentially to protect women.” Caleb wouldn’t realize Tash had already read about his status as the rare man in the field. “Which means I should be extremely offended by your slander the other night.”

Tash took a deep breath. He seemed to be kidding, but she felt compelled to explain herself.

“Look.” She went for straight talk. “ The Colony might be the only book I ever write.” She’d only gotten serious about it when Janelle went on bed rest during her first pregnancy—Janelle claimed critiquing Tash’s pages kept her sane, so Tash wrote until she finished the manuscript.

“It’s my sole publishing credit outside of an obscure academic essay on ‘The Use of Machine Language in the American Detective Novel During the Period of Industrialization that Followed World War Two.’”

Tash had been thrilled about that paper; while her father called the magazine it appeared in The Useless Academic Fringe .

“And I sold it to a female showrunner. Who promised to caretake its adaptation into a streaming series.” Tash cradled the bittersweet memory.

“Now, instead, I find myself stuck with Ram Braverman—who, no disrespect”—actually a lot of disrespect, but she was making nice —“could probably do a great job of caretaking a book about rocket ejaculation. But maybe not one about a warrior island Sisterhood and the generational implications of their isolation in a hostile world.” She offered Caleb what she hoped was a beseeching look. “I’m protective of my novel.”

Caleb nodded, seeming to mean it. “Okay. Fair enough.”

Tash savored the moment of breakthrough. “So, you understand my hesitancy.”

“Not really.” He didn’t swerve. He folded his hands calmly.

Tash peered at him, baffled and flustered. And embarrassed. She’d just shown him the inside of her vault.

“Look, Tash—I read the specs. For a ten-episode limited series, what Braverman is asking for isn’t unreasonable.

” Caleb referred to his stack of fucking papers.

“The story team primarily wants additions to three key episodes. They’re looking to add sensuality, which, in my experience, doesn’t have to mean raunchy, over-the-top sex. ”

He’d switched modes, his manner suddenly no-nonsense—to his credit, hard to pull off in a turtle-print, biceps-straining shirt.

“We could accomplish a lot by just emphasizing the warriors’ physicality—Noab’s musculature, her kinetic prowess.

There’s a fundamental rawness to her character that’s appealing as a starting point for choreography. ”

Tash reminded herself he was talking about Astrid. Tash resented being forced to play voyeur. She found herself both uncomfortable and torn, bizarrely put out by the light in his expression and incensed at the objectification on Astrid’s behalf.

“Seriously?” Tash leaned forward. “You just told me your job was feminist. Noab and her army aren’t eye candy.”

“Why not?” Caleb leaned in, too. “What does ‘eye candy’ even mean? Don’t tell me you’ve never watched a gladiator movie just for the bare chests and the cut abs.”

Tash resisted. “I didn’t write that army so it could be turned into porn.”

“It wouldn’t be porn!” Caleb insisted. In a very spooky echo of Janelle, he added: “Do you really think your female characters can’t be ruthless and honorable—and also sexual?”

Tash hadn’t been able to reconcile the argument with herself or with her best friend; she very definitely would not concede anything to this guy. “Dude. Don’t start. This is where you’re out of your depth.” The aloe-scented air around them prickled with her irritation.

“Dude—you have no idea how deep my depth is.” Caleb frowned and chucked it back. “I understand you think your femininity entitles you to a superior position on the topic—but it doesn’t.”

Tash fought not to yell. “And I understand you think that you’re woke—but the liability a woman’s sexuality represents is something you can never fathom.”

Caleb narrowed at her doubtfully. “I’m not sure that’s true.

Regardless, and no disrespect,” he echoed her own phrase, “even aside from which one of us is the authority here, you have to consider the medium. This adaptation will be visual. Your viewers shouldn’t have to rely on their imaginations like they do in a book. Film and television are different.”

He indicated his pile of scripts. “I’m going to level with you—and this is my purely professional opinion, uncolored by the way you clearly hate my guts—the additional scenes Ram is asking for are legitimate holes in the romantic trajectory of your characters.

Hewett and Noab consummate their relationship off-screen in Episode Five?

” He radiated cynicism. “Story-wise, for television, that’s absurd. ”

Tash’s hackles rose even further. “But off-screen is part of the message—it’s meta-commentary.

We’re choosing not to pander. That’s what The Colony is about.

It holds its audience in high esteem—it believes its viewers are smart enough to watch something that isn’t all about the boning.

” She maintained her objection. “The first showrunner who bought it agreed.”

“Right.” Caleb’s blue sparked with quip and pity. “And what happened to that studio?” He looked at her over the top rim of his glasses. “Oh, yeah. It went bankrupt.”

Before Tash could lunge at him, a small shared brunch spread arrived.

Servers set fruit and muffins in the middle of the table. More hot water for Tash’s teapot, Caleb’s second round of bitter espresso caffeine. He and Tash glowered at each other across a battlefield of scalding drinks and jam pots and powdered-sugar ramekins.

Caleb’s eyebrows continued their challenge. Tash did not back down. She watched him spear a slice of kiwi with a fork, their stares contentious as he chewed.

“Hey. Here’s an idea.” Once he’d swallowed. “We could spend the next two weeks like this, fighting. Or”—he threw the dare down casually—“you could let me do my job, and we could call a truce. Just for the first scene. Since you called me , right? For help with the notes?”

Tash took time with her own slice of kiwi. She spread butter on a warm round of brioche. Embarrassingly, she’d unconsciously slipped back into scuffling with him, when she’d resolved to do exactly the opposite.