Chapter Fifteen
“This is never going to work unless you stop squirming,” I told Elliot.
“Do you believe everything you read on the internet?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “There’s this prince in Nigeria who is going to make me rich one day.
” Turned out, Elliot really hadn’t had any idea about the circumstances of how my report had landed in RJ’s inbox, and he certainly hadn’t known my job was in jeopardy as a result of his resistance.
The exertion of yelling and running into the street after me had caused the cut on Elliot’s lip to begin bleeding again.
And although I sensed he still wasn’t going to discuss the origins of the cut or the book I’d seen in his bag, I’d felt compelled to help fix his lip, so we’d agreed to a truce and headed back to RJF to raid the tea caddy, much to Elliot’s confusion.
“Was this prince the same guy who said this was a good fix for split lips?” His last few words became a mumble as I pushed the damp teabag harder against his mouth, causing him to hiss.
“No, my Nan taught me this,” I said. “Teabags can reduce swelling. But it won’t work unless you keep still.” He sat on the table in our writers’ room, and I stood before him, dabbing the cut while he tried not to whimper too heavily.
“Do you think I’ll need stitches?” he said mournfully.
I lifted the teabag and inspected his lip. He smelled like a lazy Sunday morning, warm and clean. “You’ll live.”
Elliot watched me as I dabbed his lip some more. “You should have told me,” he said softly.
“About my Nigerian prince?” I was intensely aware of his gaze upon my face.
“About your job being at risk,” he said with an eye-roll.
“You didn’t exactly make it easy for me,” I reminded him.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Elliot said. “Like I told you in the Village, there’s a lot riding on this script for me and … I took my frustrations out on you.”
“Believe it or not, I have a history of frustrating people,” I said, thinking of Bex.
“Oh, I believe it,” he said.
I stepped back, moving the teabag away.
“Sorry, sorry. Start over?”
“I’d like that,” I replied. Elliot’s thankful smile was sweet and slow, creasing dimples that I had an irrational urge to stroke. But then he hissed in pain and the smile vanished instantly. “Oops,” I said, replacing the teabag. “Less smiling, more teabag!”
“Tell me, what is it with British people and tea?” he asked.
“Big question,” I said. “It’s … it’s a ritual. It’s identity and it’s comfort.” I waggled the teabag in the air. “Don’t underestimate such a symbol.”
Elliot’s fingers brushed against mine as he took back the teabag poultice. “Huh.”
“What?”
“The power of a symbol. We can use that.” He eased off the table and pulled his laptop from his bag. “Shall we?”
Several hours later, I emerged from the writers’ room, dazed and thirsty, heading to the kitchen.
Elliot and I had spent the last thirty minutes arguing whether Marla would use a word like obsequious.
I had thought not, Elliot had accused me of reverse snobbery, and I’d felt like throwing my laptop at him as a result.
But we’d managed to make some changes and now the scene where audiences first met Marla was so much better, with Elliot working in subtle symbolism to satisfy his vision for the character, but more efficient dialogue to keep audiences hooked.
As I helped myself to juice from the fridge, Ralf entered the kitchen on his phone.
“It’s not bullshit,” he was saying. “You want more bang for the buck, I get it.” He caught my gaze and winked.
I drank more juice, pretending I wasn’t intrigued by what he was talking about.
“But I’m telling you I can squeeze another mil.
” He laughed loudly – it sounded a little fake – but whatever the person on the other end said was clearly what he wanted to hear, and he hung up after a cheerful goodbye.
“That sounded like a good call,” I said casually, as if I wasn’t dying to know the details.
“Oh, it was absolutely not.” He chuckled, pulling an espresso cup from the cupboard. “Finance stuff, you’d be bored.”
“Guarantee I wouldn’t,” I assured him. “I think I could learn a lot from simply listening to you and Sadie talk shop.”
His eyebrows twitched with interest. “You swear you’re just a PA?”
I frowned. Kind of an odious assumption that a PA couldn’t express interest in the financial structuring of movie deals. “Well, I’m not a plant from Rian Johnson’s office, if that’s what you’re asking,” I said.
“Right, you picked up on RJ’s obsession with the other RJ of Hollywood?” Ralf said, filling his espresso cup.
“Honestly, I didn’t know what to say,” I admitted. “But it’s weird, right?”
“That’s directors for you,” he said. “But speaking of the race to the Oscars, let me reiterate just how revolutionary this software I mentioned is.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said hesitantly. Like Elliot, I was wary of AI.
“You know the stakes,” Ralf said. “Oscars, box office … ? Maybe we should bring in the big guns, you know what I mean?”
“Is he trying to peddle his AI nonsense again?” Vivian’s voice cut through our discussion like a blade.
Ralf and I turned to see her at the watercooler, filling up a rather ostentatious Stanley cup that appeared to have been custom-upholstered in a leather-like material.
Was there anything about this woman that didn’t scream money?
I’d have put good money on her elegant suit costing more than my entire wardrobe.
“Vivian,” Ralf greeted her with a lazy grin. “Nice of you to take a break between manicures to fraternize with the peasants.”
Vivian took a long sip from her drink, gazing at Ralf with hooded eyes before releasing the straw from her perfectly painted lips.
“Peasants,” she murmured. “Yes.” She flicked an assessing glance up and down my outfit before pivoting on her heel – Louboutins, naturally – and strolling out of the kitchen.
“Why is she like that?” I asked. “She doesn’t even know me.”
“No offense,” Ralf said with a grimace that told me I was definitely going to take some offense, “but she doesn’t need to know you.
She has everything. Her father is loaded, as is her fiancé, she lives in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park and has a social calendar that’s nothing short of fabulous. ”
“Maybe she should just quit now and start her company then,” I said. “Give us all a break.”
Elliot trudged into the kitchen, cricking his neck. “God, I need coffee.”
“After the sugar-infused pint you had earlier today?” I said.
“Well, I’ve had my fill of tea,” he murmured with a secret smile. “Besides, I need the energy if I’m to spend another second arguing vocabulary with you.”
“That’s not very obsequious of you.”
“You’re not even—” Elliot rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”
“Well, on that note, I’d best get back to it.” Ralf held up his phone as if it were a weapon. Then his eyes dropped to my mouth, and he grabbed a napkin, touched it to my face. “You got some juice there.” He was standing so close I could smell his aftershave, woody and overpoweringly luxurious.
“Thanks.” I took the napkin from him and dabbed at the spot of orange pulp, conscious that Elliot was watching from just feet away.
“All gone,” Ralf said. “Have a great day, Lucie.”
“Did he take you out yet?” Elliot growled as soon as Ralf left.
“Why are you so against me hanging out with him?” I asked.
“Ralf Fisher is an ambitious hack,” Elliot said. “He uses people.”
“Well, if he is then I don’t know what he’d be doing hanging out with me,” I said with a laugh. “I’m a nobody in this town. Using me won’t get him anywhere.”
“Maybe you’re a nobody, but you were flown over here at the request of RJ,” said Elliot. “And that means something to Ralf.”
“Can’t one person be nice to another person because it’s the right thing to do?” I asked, trying not to react to Elliot agreeing with my ‘nobody’ status.
Elliot looked at me blankly. “Yes, a person can. But Ralf can’t access genuine human emotion like a regular person.”
I shook my head. “Are you always this cynical or is this a special performance just for me?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you think Ralf has a crush on you?” Elliot shot back.
“No, I—” I blushed. I really didn’t know what to make of Ralf’s behavior towards me. I hoped his intentions were in the spirit of professional friendship, but there were moments it was hard to tell, like just now with the orange juice.
“Because I guarantee he doesn’t,” Elliot went on. “Ralf Fisher is incapable of feeling anything that isn’t transactional.” He sighed, relented. “I’m just saying, I’d hate for you to get caught in one of his schemes.”
“I’m not going to because it won’t be a date!” I insisted. “Just two people hanging out. I’m not looking for romance or anything like that anyway. Too much going on.”
Elliot paused in the process of loading his mug with obscene amounts of sweetener and cream. “That’s kind of depressing, but I get it.”
“I’m told cat lady is a viable option nowadays, so I have that to look forward to,” I added. “Now we’ve established what miserable, loveless bastards we are, shall we go and write a romance?”