Page 24 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Two Years and Two Months Before the Wedding

Verbally eviscerating gaslighters is the best part of my job. Today, I’m planning to do just that, so I’m practically skipping toward this on-location shoot in New York’s Central Park.

Chanelle Heyward is both a client and a friend. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and she isn’t easily distressed. Chanelle is at her breaking point, however, which is why I’m taking this midday detour to settle her nerves and knock a few heads.

A Black security guard stops me at the traffic barricade. “May I help you?”

“Hi, my name’s Mari Campos. I’m here to see Chanelle Heyward, one of the stars of the film. I’m her lawyer.”

“You have any ID on you?” he asks, eyeing me curiously.

“Sure.” I fish out my wallet from my purse and hand him my driver’s license. “I have membership cards for the New York and California bars if you need to see those too.”

He inspects the license, then hands it back to me. “No need. Ms. Chanelle told me to expect you. She’s in trailer B. Just follow the bike path and it’ll be on your right.”

“Thanks,” I say, giving him the universal head nod.

It takes me only a couple of minutes to find Chanelle’s trailer, a double-wide she shares with two of her co-stars.

The set is twenty yards away. I quickly locate the source of Chanelle’s issues: a collapsible water tank off to the side and numerous sprinklers spaced three feet apart in the shape of a circle.

As expected, dozens of people are milling about.

A makeup artist drifts from actor to actor, checking out each face and occasionally pulling out a tool from his apron to tweak a look.

Meanwhile, a middle-aged white woman (probably the set director) flaps her hands as she barks orders to her listless staff.

Before I even knock, Chanelle’s trailer door swings open.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” she says in a rush.

I hustle inside and shrug off my coat and gloves. The spacious trailer is bright and warm, and I’m pleased to see that it’s also clean and nicely appointed. Anything less would make me even more annoyed than I already am.

As usual, Chanelle looks great. Natural makeup highlights her flawless brown skin, and the swooping front layers of her chin-length bob frame her face perfectly. It boggles my mind that anyone would want to ruin her appearance.

“Tell me the latest,” I say, finding a spot on the love seat against the far wall.

“I did exactly as you suggested,” she says, pacing in front of me.

“Told them I wouldn’t do the scene unless they assured me a stylist would be on set to fix the havoc the rain would wreak on my hair.

Declan huffed. Said he didn’t have time for this shit.

Said time is money. Said I’m wasting his time.

Then he stormed off. Time, time, time, that’s all he cares about.

” She wrings her hands. “It was so awkward. I didn’t want to make a fuss.

Didn’t want to be that girl. But this is my career, my brand.

Why should I look like a Chia Pet simply because they can’t hire people who are well-versed in doing textured hair? ”

I stifle a chuckle. “First, under no circumstances would you ever look like a Chia Pet. Pennywise from that It movie, maybe.”

“Bitch,” Chanelle says, throwing a napkin at me. She’s smiling, though, which is precisely what I was aiming for.

“Second, there is no such thing as being ‘that girl’ when it comes to equity. They need to create an inclusive environment, and if that requires them to hire beyond their typical pool of hairstylists, then so be it.”

“You’ll talk to Declan, then?” Chanelle asks.

“Of course. Is he on set?”

“Yeah, they’re doing some background shots. Holding off on everything else until I’m, as he put it, ‘no longer hysterical.’?”

“Oh no he didn’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

“Oh yes he did.”

“Wait here. I’ll walk over now.”

Chanelle bites her lip as she watches me slip on my coat and gloves. “Good luck.”

“Won’t need it,” I say, brushing off my shoulders.

Outside, I scan the set and immediately spot Declan speaking to someone on the production team.

Although his reputation in the business isn’t great, he’s an accomplished director with a golden touch.

Difficult yet talented men like him thrive in Hollywood; it’s everyone else’s job to steer clear of the shrapnel when they inevitably go ballistic.

Declan continues to speak to the person as he watches me approach. His eyes flicker with annoyance, but he masks his irritation quickly. He knows it wouldn’t be wise to have a highly regarded entertainment lawyer at a well-respected firm on his ass. I’m here to underscore that fact.

When his staffer departs, I offer my hand. “Declan, it’s good to see you again.”

He wiggles his fingers. “They’re dirty. Wouldn’t want to muss up that fancy outfit.”

I suspect Declan’s hands are clean and declining to shake my hand is a power play in his unimaginative brain. I’m not even a tiny bit bothered.

“Yes, well, thanks for the courtesy. Listen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I understand from Chanelle that you’re planning to shoot in the rain and then immediately follow it with a restaurant scene. As you know, she’s understandably concerned about getting her hair wet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ms. Campos, Chanelle can do whatever the hell she wants to fix it. I’m not a stylist.”

“No one’s asking you to be a stylist, Declan. We are asking you to abide by the equity and inclusion provisions of the SAG-AFTRA agreement.”

He straightens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You should. But I’ll send over a copy anyway.

It’s in Chanelle’s contract too, which incorporates the SAG-AFTRA agreement as an addendum.

In short, if you’re unable to provide someone to do her hair, she can find someone herself and get reimbursed.

People in the industry are wondering how the provision is going to play out in the real world.

Might be a news item that could gain traction. How would you like to proceed?”

He stares at me for a long moment, then blows out a frustrated breath. “I’ll take a look at the agreement tonight and get back to you,” he says through gritted teeth.

“And you’ll skip the restaurant scene for now?”

“Fine,” he says, flaring his nostrils. “We’ll do it after we sort the hair thing out. But it’s going to fuck up the schedule. And now I’ll have a bunch of extras with nothing to do.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I commend you for wanting to do what’s required by the agreement.”

“Is there anything else?” he asks sharply, his arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s it from me.”

“Thank goodness,” he says, not even trying to say the words under his breath.

I type a quick text to Chanelle letting her know the restaurant shoot will be delayed until further notice, then deeply inhale the frigid air, the scent of my freshly eviscerated nemesis invigorating me.

I slowly scan the area, and before long my gaze is drawn to the actors standing around waiting for their cues.

One of them immediately snags my attention. Because I know the guy.

A tsunami of moments floods my brain: challenging him in class, sitting with him on Belmont Green, helping him the night before graduation, kissing him on a pool table. God, that was so long ago, yet the memories feel close enough to touch.

In a stupor, I walk in his direction, my heart barreling through my chest, and when I reach him, I eke out the only word my brain can manage.

“Javi?”