Chapter 17 - Chelsea
“Should we sit here?” I ask Scott after we get our food.
“Probably in the shade. Less damage to the makeup.”
“It’s going good, right?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. I was really nervous. I know I kept screwing everything up. Since he won’t talk, I feel like I have to.
“You know that thing you said? About the puppies?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Well, I saw a story. There’s a farm, in Vermont, I think. They have golden retrievers. They say you know how you call a group of whales a pod or a group of crows a murder?”
“Huh?”
It’s obvious he has no idea what I’m talking about so of course I try to explain it.
“They say a group of golden retrievers should be called a happy. Isn’t that cute? That’s what I was thinking about when we were shooting.”
“So.” He turns his sandwich around, apparently trying to find the best angle for it. “You weren’t thinking about how noble I am.”
“I…”
He smiles and I realize he was just teasing. Also, that I am really lucky to have him here helping me out. Which is kind of silly, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. And he wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me.
“Scott, be honest. Am I doing okay? I mean she.” I lower my voice. I do not want Vivien to hear me talking about her. She’s rather terrifying. “Made me do it again and again.’
“Oh, that’s nothing.” Scott waves his hand like he’s swatting a bug away. “On a movie we’d have done it about a thousand more times. There’s actually a saying about it.”
“Which is?”
“Good enough for TV. And I imagine ‘Good enough for reality TV’ is probably another saying. Or maybe it should be.”
He looks over his shoulder.
“Are you looking for Vivien?”
“No. Maybe. Yes.”
I hide the laugh that threatens to escape me by stuffing my sandwich in my mouth. Scott shakes his head.
“What?” I ask him when I’m done chewing.
“Nothing.”
I poke him in the upper arm.
“Something, obviously.”
He shrugs.
“Demo is usually the quickest part. We walk in, look around and get started. The guys are going to be here late tonight.”
“Well, I didn’t really help. I could barely make a dent in the wall.”
I take another big bite of my sandwich. I hate scarfing down my food as fast as possible. But when Vivien said we’d get a half hour, I’m sure she meant exactly thirty minutes and not a second more.
Scott squeezes my shoulder.
“You did great.”
I’m not sure but the warmth in his voice tells me he wants me to feel okay with it and that helps. I’m so glad I wound up doing this with him. I can’t imagine filming—and pretending to be engaged—to someone else.
I have to swallow before I can answer him.
“Thanks.”
After lunch we have more walls to knock down. Scott picks up the sledgehammer and holds it out to me.
“Or I could show you again.”
“No, I got it.”
I grab the hammer and get into position. But something is off with the camera angle, so we have to wait. A lot of this is waiting, like Scott said. And you can’t do anything else while you are waiting. You just have to stand there. Nothing to do but think. I meet Scott’s eyes and he smiles.
I could ask him to show me how to do it again. I could say I need to refresh my memory. But what I really want is to experience again is the way it felt when he wrapped his arms around me. His whole body was pressed up against mine.
It was thrilling. The smell of him, his warm breath on my neck and cheek. The feel of—
“Chels.”
“Huh?”
I look around. Everyone is staring at me. Well, everyone except Vivien. She’s glaring.
“They said action,” Scott whispers.
“Oh, okay. Are you ready?”
Vivien rolls her eyes.
“Let’s try this again, shall we, okay? Three, two, one, action.”
I whack the wall. This time I punch through on the first try. I’m not going to convince Scott I need his help that way, but I am a little proud of myself.
“Cut.”
We do some, admittedly silly, shots of us holding hands and kicking more of the wall down. Then we are directed to step through the hole we made and high five.
By the end of the day, we have made a lot of progress. I can tell Scott is relieved his crew was finally able to get in and start working. In the time it takes us to film in what will be the upper apartment they get the lower one almost completely demoed.
We end up filming past dinner time. Scott gets us an Uber. On the way home the soft humming the car makes is soothing, almost hypnotic. The next thing I know Scott is shaking me gently. I realize I’ve fallen asleep leaning on his shoulder. I quickly swipe my hand across my mouth, praying I wasn’t drooling.
“Do you want to come up to my place?”
He is smiling again, that look that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. A thrill runs through me.
“I could throw a shrimp primavera together,” he says. “I mean, we didn’t get dinner.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t have to. I just figured we didn’t eat. No sense in both of us cooking.”
Wow, that sounds brotherly. Maybe fatherly? I don’t know. But anyway, familial. Yuck. But I am starving.
In the kitchen he opens a bottle of Pinot Grigio. I offer to help, but he insists it’s easy enough. He piles the ingredients on the counter and agrees to let me peel the garlic.
“Maybe we should put pot fillers in the apartments,” I say as he carries a pot of water from the sink to the cooktop.
“Huh?”
“You don’t know…hold on.”
I grab my phone and show him a picture.
“Looks like just some extra pipe. Shouldn’t be a big deal. But we have to get it on the plans. It has to go in with the rest of the plumbing. Before the walls go in, otherwise…
“What?”
He throws a frozen bag of veggies into the microwave and starts it.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t tell anyone.”
“Okay.”
“You promise?”
I hold out my pinky. He links his with mine.
“I swear. But I think you should trust me. I mean, I am your fiancée.”
“Fake fiancée.”
“That’s the point. You trusted me with that.”
This request feels different though. He wanted me to be his fake fiancée because he was trying to get something. Whatever it is he’s going to tell me now, it’s because he wants to confide in me. It feels more intimate.
Not intimate, I think, cringing internally. And I think I may be blushing. He doesn’t seem to notice, thank gawd.
“It’s day one and I’m worried about costs. I don’t know that that’s ever happened before.”
“You’ve never gone over budget?”
He shakes his head.
“Of course I have. But watching the guys sit around all day. The first day. I’ve never gone over because they weren’t allowed to work.”
“You still paid them?”
“Of course.” He glances up from the skillet where he’s carefully warming the garlic I pressed. “I can’t ask them to sit around all day and not work and not get paid.”
Oh look,I think miserably. I said the wrong thing. Again.
“You never got hung up, uh…waiting for a permit or something?”
He stirs in the veggies, frowning slightly. I can tell he’s thinking hard.
“You’re right. That has happened. Just never for demo. Once we have the dumpster, we go. Thanks.”
The happiness that floods through me is way out of proportion to the situation. I should shut up now. But I don’t, of course.
“Tomorrow we are going over the design, right?” He nods. “And everything else from here on out is staged, right?”
Another nod.
It’s highly staged. Even though the tile is already on order, we have to pretend to pick it out. And in a later episode we have to pretend it is delayed so we have to pick something else.
The script said something like, ‘Chelsea gets upset and Scott consoles her.’ I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, so I allowed my imagination to get the better of me the night I read that. In my dream Scott was very good at consoling. Or at least distracting me. And by distracting I mean sex. Oh, look, there I go again.
Focus,I tell myself sternly. The show. The tile. The whole thing is ridiculous. Fortunately, I had plenty of options picked out for all the finishes. I just have to remember for that one tile to pretend to pick the one I didn’t really pick.
“I guess today was a little overwhelming for me too.”
Scott doesn’t look at me while he’s talking. He’s looking at the shrimp he’s peeling. I guess I should have offered to help with that too, but it’s kind of gross. He’s almost done anyway. His hands are large, but his fingers move delicately.
“You were overwhelmed?”
I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice. I was sure he couldn’t wait to be back on set.
“It’s different. I didn’t have any other responsibilities last time.”
“I know.”
I try to convey with my tone that I understand. I can’t tell if he gets it, he’s looking at the pan, not me. I focus on my wine.
Dinner is delicious.
“You’re a really good cook. Did your mom teach you?”
“No. I had a roommate who was in culinary school. He taught me.”
Over dinner he tells me more about his post college roommate. Apparently, the guy wasn’t great about paying the rent, but he always had something amazing cooking. After we eat, I think about going back downstairs to my apartment, but Scott empties the wine bottle into our glasses.
“No sense wasting it, right?”
I agree and insist on helping clean up, then follow him to the couch.
“You want to watch something?” He picks up the remote. “Must be some baseball on.”
“Sure.”
Back home my dad is probably sitting in front of the TV, watching the Brewers. The vegetable seedlings are out of the living room, my mom sent me a picture when she planted them. The front door is open and occasionally a cool and very welcome breeze will sweep through the house. Sometimes when it washed over me, I’d shiver. That usually meant a storm was on the way.
Not here though. Not that it hasn’t stormed. But inside Scott’s apartment—and mine—it’s always the perfect temperature and humidity. Nothing ever changes.
It’s very unnatural,I realize.
“You know what?” I say suddenly. Scott looks at me. “What a great day. Our first day of filming. Cheers to that.”
I hold up my glass and he clinks his against it.
“And dinner was great too. Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
I hold out my glass to toast him, but he doesn’t notice. Something very interesting is happening on the TV. My mom always gets annoyed at my dad when she’s talking to him and he’s distracted. I never got it. I mean, she knows he’s watching the game. What does she think is going to happen? I kind of get it now.
“You know what I want?”
Scott turns his head and looks at me. His eyes—no I have to stay focused.
“Herbs,” I say firmly.
“Huh?”
“I’d like to plant a little herb garden. Maybe on your deck. Herbs do great in containers. And you don’t have to worry about them spreading. What do you think?”
“Um…”
“Please. I love growing things. And you are a great cook, amazing, really. Fresh herbs would up your game even more.” An idea comes to me, a great idea, I can practically see the light bulb over my head. “I could double up on all the plants, then we could use them for staging on the show.”
“Sure,” he says. “Herbs, great. Next time we get a day off we can go. I’m not sure where—”
“I can handle it. You don’t have to do anything.”
“Right.”
He sets his glass down and rubs his face with both hands.
“I’m sorry.” I quickly drink the last few sips of my wine. “I should go. We had a long day.”
“Okay,” he says, standing up.
“Don’t get up.”
But he walks me outside anyway. To avoid looking at him I study the deck on the way, trying to visualize what kind of planters would work, for here and for the show. Terracotta is classic—
“Chelsea.”
I turn back.
“Yes?”
“Uh, good night.”
“You too.”