Chapter Twelve
So when Juno stuck her head in and announced a pizza lunch, I practically sprinted out of the stuffy little writers’ room without looking back and followed her to the kitchen, where pizza boxes were stacked on the communal table with half of the office already helping themselves. When Ralf saw me, he waved me over.
“Step on up for the best pizza in Manhattan!” He immediately handed over a slice loaded with veg and pepperoni. “Joe’s on Fourteenth. Can’t beat it.”
“That’s a bold statement,” Juno said, swiping a margherita slice. “I think New Yorkers consider that fighting talk.” She took a big bite. “But I agree, Joe’s is the best.”
“No, Two Boots!” cried Noah, although I noted he had a plate loaded with three slices.
“No, no,” Riley said. “You are all sleeping on Cecconi’s, they bake the oregano into the dough.”
They bickered good-naturedly for a while, and I let their words wash over me as I inhaled my slice. I couldn’t say if it was the best in New York, but it was one of the best pizzas I’d ever had.
Elliot snaffled a slice, rucksack on shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the gym.”
“Well, obviously.” He was too ripped to not be a gym addict.
“Huh?” He looked at me askance as he made short work of his pizza in three quick bites.
Oh God. I’d said that out loud. “I mean, it’s a good thing. Because of the sugary coffees. Gym is healthy.”
“Right.” He didn’t even bother to disguise his eye-roll as he picked up a second slice. “I’ll be back soon. Try not to be responsible for the death of cinema in my absence.”
Oh, he really thought he was the absolute authority on the industry, didn’t he? “Yeah, well, you …” Ah fuck. No comeback. “You know, I hope you don’t … choke on that pizza.”
“What, like you and the croissant?”
Earth, swallow me now. “Okay, well, bye-bye, see you later.”
Slowly and deliberately, without breaking eye contact, Elliot pushed his entire slice in his mouth, then grinned wolfishly, pizza dough and tomato squishing in his teeth. Then he turned on his heel and strode off.
What was it about him that made me unable to formulate a decent comeback? What was worse, a room of my new colleagues had all heard mine and Elliot’s interaction. Cheeks burning, I turned back around and, sure enough, everyone’s eyes were full of confusion, pity and just the tiniest bit of glee.
“He rarely loses his cool like that,” a voice next to me murmured. I turned to see an immaculately dressed woman with a riot of curly hair and dark sparkling eyes. I recognized her as the person I’d clocked in the production hub when I first arrived here, looking stressed.
“That’s nothing,” I said with a sigh. “When I asked him to talk me through a scene, he said, ‘I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you.’”
She snorted, her stack of hooped earrings dangling. “That’s savage. Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. But damn.” My new friend stuck out her hand. “Where are my manners? Michelle Obasi, publicity manager.”
“I recognize your name,” I said. “I’m Lucie Clifton, from Temper. I helped set up the teleconference interview for RJ with the Sunday Times.”
“Oh yes!” Michelle nodded in delight. “You were such a darling over that whole microphone issue.”
“Please,” I demurred, although after a morning of hostility I was pathetically grateful for her compliments. “I’m a PA. That was a walk in the park.”
“Ah, tell me about it.” Michelle grimaced. “I was Tan’s PA for years before I got promoted. He’s the head of comms here, handles all publicity.”
I’d seen Tan striding around, barking into his mobile. “You must have stories,” I said.
“You know I do. If you need a dry cleaner who can get Tipp-Ex and red wine out of a bespoke Gucci suit, I’m your girl,” she said dryly.
“Impressive, but I can top that.” I smirked. “Try attending a child’s nativity play and explaining the plot to her absent father stuck on set so he could pretend he made it.”
Michelle arched an eyebrow. “I once had to fire a personal trainer the day after her mother died.”
“Oh yeah?” I giggled. “I once had to administer extremely powerful suppository tablets to a director’s kitten for a week so she could attend Coachella.”
“Eww.” Michelle wrinkled her nose.
“Not the worst part,” I said. “I accidentally made skin contact with the medication and hallucinated that I was a Smurf all night.”
“An actual Smurf?” Michelle said.
“I was in a fully animated world and scared as hell.”
“Man, it is still rough out there,” Michelle said. “Do you do much on the publicity side for your directors?”
“I help out,” I replied. “Like escorting them to interviews and stuff if they don’t have their own publicist. I’ve done tons of brief writing, press releases, social media posts. I kind of have to turn my hand to anything at Temper.”
“Including amateur veterinarianism,” she said with a laugh. “You’re scrappy.”
“Just trying to survive out here,” I said. I liked her a lot.
Michelle leaned in closer. “You know, if you’re interested or have any time to moonlight, I’d love to have someone like you on my team.
I have so much to do sometimes I can’t even breathe.
Like for All Kinds of Killing, the studio decided last minute to have a junket and a photocall within, like, a week of each other and I’m the lead on both. ”
“Wow, that’s a lot,” I said. “And thanks for the vote of confidence, but I think Elliot is going to keep me busy.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“But, seriously, thank you,” I said sincerely.
“No biggie,” she smiled. “So, tell me. What’s Elliot like in there?” Michelle indicated our poky writing room. “He’s so cerebral … and reserved, you know? I often wonder if he lets loose when he’s being creative.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” I said. “It’s like having dialogue with a really articulate brick wall.”
“That’s quite the metaphor,” she said. “Have you seen his Tribeca movie?”
“Oh, the one that won the festival?” I grimaced. “No, but its existence has quite literally been shoved down my throat.”
“Okay.” Michelle grinned wickedly. “Let me know when you do.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“It’s hot,” she replied.
“Hot? As in … ?” I felt oddly prudish.
“Not, like, porn or anything,” Michelle said quickly. “It’s so romantic is all, and the actors’ chemistry is like, off the charts. Sexy as fuck, and all from the mind of our own Elliot Fox.”
“Well.” My throat suddenly grew tight, strangling my words. I was somewhat familiar with associating the concept of sexy with Elliot, and I really had to stop doing that. “I had no idea.”
“More pizza?” Ralf materialized at my elbow with a box full of slices and I snaffled another piece, grateful to have something to distract me from the thought of Elliot and spicy movies.
“Do you plan to see much of New York while you’re here?” Michelle asked.
“I’d like to,” I said. “If I get some free time.”
“Holler if you need a guide,” Ralf said, raising his hand.
“And me!” Riley chirped from over his shoulder. “Do you play baseball? There’s an awesome batting cage experience at the Piers.”
Ralf screwed up his face. “Riley, Lucie is from London, not Nowhere, Ohio. There are far better places she could go.”
“I’m from Miami, Snobby McSnoberson,” Riley retorted.
“I’d love to see some of the places real New Yorkers go,” I admitted.
“Oh, that’s cute,” Michelle said. “You think we go places besides work.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you,” I said to them.
“For what?” Riley asked.
“For being so welcoming,” I said. “Yesterday felt like … well—”
“Yesterday was yesterday,” Ralf interrupted kindly. “Now, tell us more about yourself.”
I ate so much pizza while chatting to the team I felt like I could explode, and by the time Elliot returned from the gym I was far from ready to sit in that box room and try to convince him I wasn’t some tasteless saboteur determined to ruin all his efforts.
In the room, Elliot opened his laptop, the movement sending a wave of citrussy shower gel scent through the air. He frowned at the screen then looked at me. “RJ is already asking for an update on our progress tomorrow. Wants a meeting. He’s suggesting 10 a.m.”
“What’s he expecting to see?” I said, panicking. “We’ve not even made it off the first page!”
“And whose fault is that?” Elliot said with a snort.
“Um, yours,” I told him. “Can we at least try to cut some of that dialogue in the first scene? You know, economize.”
“Ah yes, economizing, the true companion of art,” Elliot growled.
“Brief can be beautiful.” God, it was hard to refrain from yelling at him.
“What, cutting something off before it’s really begun?” he countered. “What’s beautiful about that?”
“It’s efficient!” I said, ready to explode. “We’re getting audiences to the point quicker, holding their interest, what’s wrong with that?”
“I can tell you a myriad of reasons why,” he said. “It’s a reductive question.”
“See, you could have just replied with lots,” I said, “and I would have understood your meaning if you’d used that one word instead of five hundred.”
“I didn’t use five hundred words, I used, like, ten,” Elliot snapped. “And I know what you mean, but sometimes one word isn’t fitting for the occasion.”
“And sometimes it is.” I jabbed my screen. “Like in Act One, Scene One, it is very fitting.”
He shook his head ruefully. “I just don’t know how we’re going to get this done.”
“Well, we have to.” I was out of a job if he and I couldn’t find a way to work together. And if I was out of a job, I was going to be out of a home when Bex and Dan set up house together.
“We can’t even have a conversation about how we will do this, let alone actually do it,” he said despondently.
“And that’s the problem,” I said. “Like RJ said, if we can’t get along, we can’t write.”
Elliot smirked. “You want to become bosom buddies?”
“Please keep my bosom out of this,” I said.
He laughed then and, for a fleeting second, the tension around his eyes vanished. He looked carefree, different. “I’ll try my best.” Then his face dropped. “Sorry, that sounded a little creepy.”
An email pinged loudly into both our inboxes with the heading Update: Inter-PGA Baseball Final. Curious, I clicked on it. “What’s this?”
“Oh God.” Elliot tilted his head back, rubbing his face. “A nightmare is what it is.”
I scanned the email, which was advising everyone that the start time of the Brightstar/Perspective Pictures baseball game had to start at 4.30 this afternoon instead of 3 due to maintenance issues.
“Every year, all PGA-registered producers and their teams enter a baseball tournament for charity,” Elliot explained. “We crashed out in round two against T-Street.”
“T-Street?” I repeated, “as in, Rian Johnson’s company?”
Elliot grimaced. “You can imagine how that went down.”
“Why don’t we go and watch the final?” I suggested. “Like, a bonding trip.”
“You want to socialize with me?” Elliot said. “Of your own free will?”
“I think we need to try. You said it yourself; we can’t even have a conversation without scrapping.”
He tutted. “That’s a radical interpretation of the phrase I actually used.”
“See, right there!” I cried. “You could have just said I didn’t say that, and I’ve had known what you meant.”
His face hardened. “What time is the game?”