Page 20 of The Spirit of Love
Chapter Twelve
“Knock knock.” I start my recon at the trailer of Miguel Bernadeau, one of Zombie Hospital ’s original cast members.
Miguel has well-meaning but slightly smarmy uncle vibes and has been known to blow a gasket when asked to pivot his plans for a scene.
Today I find him dressed in his surgical scrubs, getting his makeup retouched.
I already grabbed my copy of today’s sides—the ten-page printout containing the script pages and all the logistical details needed for the scenes being shot.
I studied it meticulously for any surprises I could use to my advantage.
I noted a number of small rewrites that Jude must have authorized to today’s pages.
When I spied the new line added to Miguel’s scene for today, an idea took root.
“Fenny,” Miguel says warmly, meeting my gaze in his vanity mirror. “I’m so glad you’re here. I heard something about last-minute changes to the script? After I’ve memorized the old lines? Between friends, I’m too old and too rich for that mierda .”
I close the trailer door behind me. “I completely agree, Miguel. The shooting script was circulated Friday. The window for script changes has closed.” I pause, like the idea is just now forming in my mind.
“I wonder…if you and Aurora and I all came together—we know she hates last-minute revisions, too—maybe we could put a stop to this?”
“Amazing,” Miguel says in his signature husky voice. “I really only care about my scenes, you know? But you’ll relay this all to JDS? Take care of it?”
“I was thinking that it could be more of a group effort. Strength in numbers—”
“Oh. No. I can’t.” Miguel shakes his head. “I don’t want to kick off my relationship with JDS by presenting as a diva. It’s been a personal dream of mine to work with a director of his caliber. The man’s a genius.”
“So I heard.” I force a smile. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him.”
Miguel makes prayer hands at me and mouths Thank you . “Just don’t make me sound like a dick. I know you won’t! You and your way with words.”
I stand outside Miguel’s trailer and resist the urge to scream.
I should have known that conversation would go exactly as it did.
Miguel and I are friends and colleagues, but only in the shallowest, most Hollywood of ways—i.e.
, he’s using me just as much as I was trying to use him.
I’d planned to go to Aurora next, but who am I kidding?
Yesterday, I spotted her asking Jude his preference of three different scales of scrubs cleavage.
She isn’t going to help me take down JDS any more than Miguel.
Who else on this show has any sway and any spine? I shake my head and come up short.
I take refuge in my trailer, lock the door, and pull down the blinds. I brew some Earl Gray tea. I have enough rewriting to keep me locked in here all season, to hole up, to hide out, to never have to see Jude de Silva’s directorial genius at work.
It hurts to picture him out there now, behind the camera.
The kind of hurt that isn’t angry, that isn’t on a warpath, that’s simply wounded.
I covered up that wound with indignation last night when I’d confided in my friends, and this morning at Edie’s house, but it didn’t lessen the pain.
I wish I were brave enough to let someone know that I feel sad and broken.
That I hurt. I don’t know why that feels so hard.
I flop down on my couch and wish its cushions were Sam’s arms. I close my eyes and remember how directly he had spoken about his feelings.
How inviting it had felt for once to do the same.
I remember the warmth of his skin; the low, sexy rasp of his voice; and what it felt like between my thighs when his eyes were on me.
I wish I could pick up the phone and call him.
Real question: Can it still be classified as a fling if you find yourself wanting to spill your deepest, secret truth to the guy?
Doesn’t matter. I don’t have the luxury of finding out what it would feel like to truly open up to Sam. To anyone. I’m on my own. And on a deadline. What else is new?
There’s always a writers’ room on Wednesday mornings, so I know that by tomorrow, I’ll have to have done something to show the other writers on staff, but I’d rather hug a cactus naked than open the email Jude sent at 11:48 last night, subject line Comprehensive Script Notes .
Pray tell, what wisdom did the genius impart via Outlook Express?
I think back to his condescending suggestion yesterday that I “experiment,” loosen up, think of the rewrites as a fling —and I get offended all over again.
On top of everything, Jude doesn’t even think I’m a fucking pro.
Sure, he liked my writing in the season finale last year, but he also thinks my resentment at being asked to do these rewrites is a liability. That it will show in the final script.
What’s he doing right now, anyway? There’s an app on my phone that would let me pull up the monitors from here, to see what the cameras are filming. But the thing I want to see, against all reason, won’t be on those monitors. It’s behind the camera, in the seat that was supposed to be mine.
When I step onto the soundstage, they are filming the scene where a zombie chews on her brother’s brains.
Three cameras are positioned around an actor named Heather as she grabs fistfuls of what I know is actually sausage mixed with unflavored gelatin and raises them to the special dentures the zombies use for feast scenes on the show.
There are three men I’ve never seen before—one of them ponytailed, one with a shaved head, and one wearing a beanie.
Who are they? Jude is in a suit again, this time a gray and white houndstooth, a white oxford shirt, and a green corduroy tie.
He’s on his knees beside Heather, elbow-deep in the sausage-gelatin combo.
Okay, so he’s hands-on. I would have been doing the same.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it makes Heather laugh.
People think Jude’s so impressive, so exotic, but he’s really just a dude talking to an actor. What does he have that I don’t?
The whole scene makes me jealous to the point of nausea, and right as I’m about to turn away, to go right back to my trailer, Jude looks up and sees me.
He waves. It’s a big and friendly wave, the kind you give a beloved pal you haven’t seen in months.
And because his hands are still covered in sausage and gelatin, it goes everywhere, including my Gustav Klimt exhibit T-shirt.
It’s a good thing I got demoted so at least I’m not wearing my director power outfit today. Zombie brains stain.
“Shit, sorry everyone,” Jude apologizes as the camera grips race to clean off the equipment. Ivy hands Jude a towel. But before he cleans his own hands, he jogs it over to me, so I can wipe the brains off my shirt.
“Fenny, hey.” Jude’s tone sounds more intimate than it had yesterday.
Does he think we bonded at the cactus garden because he flattered me?
I was flattered, but somehow that made things worse between us instead of better.
“Nice shirt. Sorry about the brains.” He points at my shirt, his eyes running over the graphic of six bare-breasted beauties on my chest. “You caught the Klimt show at the Getty?”
I nod, but before I can offer any of the interesting details about how I’d gone to the elegant opening reception Masha hosted at the Getty’s outdoor restaurant, Jude adds:
“It was sloppily curated, but the art still holds up.”
Strangely, Masha had said as much, using more generous phrasing, about her stressful experience hosting the exhibition. But I’m not giving Jude the satisfaction of validating his opinion, which no one asked for.
“I see your genius extends to the Vienna Secession movement. Why wouldn’t it?” I point at the three men I don’t know. “Who are those guys?”
“That’s my team. They work with me on everything. Matt, my DP; Mark, my sound engineer; and Kevin, my editor.”
“What about Jonah, the show’s DP? Dave, the show’s sound engineer? And Alyssa, the show’s editor?” I ask, concerned about the people I’ve been working with for years. How deep is this JDS takeover going to go?
“They’re still involved,” Jude says. “We’re just supplementing. I’m used to working with them.” He’s staring at my neck. “Why are you wearing an adder stone around your neck?”
The question derails me, makes me forget what we were talking about. It makes me feel protective of Sam and our time together. Of the moment he slipped this chain over my head and dreamed up another world.
Jude reaches forward, like he’s going to touch it. I quickly tuck the stone inside my shirt. It’s not for him.
Jude adjusts his glasses and clears his throat.
“So what do you think?” he finally says.
“Of what?”
“Of the first take? Were you watching it on the monitor?”
“Um, yeah. Everything looks…fine.”
Jude tilts his head. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know you,” I correct.
“Yeah, but you don’t think I can do this.” He nods. “Interesting.”
“ Anyone can do this. It’s not exactly brain surgery.
” I’m in no rush to massage Jude’s giant ego, but I don’t know why these words came out.
A) The show literally features brain surgery in almost every episode.
B) Look how pathetic I am. Selling out the show I love, just to take a dig at Jude?
C) It’s not even true that anyone can do this.
The powers that be have determined that I, specifically, cannot.
A flood of emotion fills the back of my throat. I cannot cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Sorry,” he says, holding my gaze.
“For what?” My eyes are stinging. If there’s a way to get out of this conversation with my dignity intact, I need to find it, stat.
“I just…” Jude says, studying my eyes, “get a sense that maybe you’re going through something? Not about work. Something personal. And I’m not helping.”
“That last part is true.”
“Noted. But I’m here, if you want to talk.” His eyes dart to the floor and he tugs on his beard. “That sounded weird. Why would you talk to me, of all people? Like you said, you don’t know me—”
“No, it’s a nice offer. I probably won’t. But. Thanks anyway.”
“Jude, we need your thoughts,” Ivy’s voice interrupts our conversation, feeling like an intruder. I realize that I didn’t want to be interrupted just yet, not until I understand why Jude would make that kind of offer, like we’re friends or something.
But Ivy’s here. They need him, and nobody needs me.
Jude looks at me. “I should probably…” He points toward the action, toward the show he’s making today.
I just nod at Jude.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” I say.
He turns toward the set, toward the action. Then he turns back to me. “Hey.” He leans in so his shoulder brushes mine, which makes my body go very still. We’re touching, but I don’t move to pull away. “Going to the cactus garden today?” His voice is lower, almost a whisper.
I meet his eyes. They hold a hesitant smile. I can’t tell what’s happening in this moment, but it’s not what I was expecting. “No…”
“Then, you’re free?” His smile broadens. To the point where, once again, he reminds me of Sam.
I look away. It’s too much. “I didn’t say that.”
“I need a favor. Can you meet me at the Universal Costume Department at eight o’clock tonight?”