CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 2
Does Being #1 on the Call Sheet Mean You’re Famous?
They do seven more takes of the scene I interrupted before Simone’s satisfied, and I keep my mouth shut through each of them except for when I’m required to deliver my line.
I can’t help it if my thoughts are visible on my face .
I’m not an actress, just a writer.
Besides, I’m fixating on the note Emma slipped me, a sick feeling in my stomach. Is it serious or just a joke? People in the public domain get crazy messages all the time, even writers. Emma’s had plenty of stalkers over the years, and I have one, too. Crazy Cathy is more silly than scary, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take her threats seriously.
But this note is from someone who knows there’s about to be a wedding.
And that’s been a closely kept secret.
I try to find a way to speak to Emma about it, but every time I get close to her between takes, Shawna beetles me away with an apology. Harper tells me to behave, so I tuck the note into my pocket and resolve to talk to Emma when we wrap for the day.
But that’s not how it works out.
Instead, when the scene is done, they shoot another scene Harper and I aren’t in, and then the crew breaks the set down while everyone’s taken to their trailers to get changed for the wrap party.
Since we don’t rate trailers, I resign myself to catching up with Emma later, and Harper and I walk down the boardwalk to our house in Venice Beach. Then I go for a quick swim in the brisk, choppy ocean.
I spend a minute treading water, looking into the horizon. The sky is that perfect, clear blue washed in sunlight I associate with coastal California. It always calms me, making my brain more logical and less prone to overreacting.
The note is probably nothing. Despite what I do for a living, danger doesn’t lurk around every corner. And the threat wasn’t specific to Emma—it said someone was going to die at the wedding. If she was a target, they’d name her .
I release a long, slow breath and tell myself to relax. The film is done, and all there’s left to do is celebrate.
I think the official term for this moment is “the calm before the storm.”
I swim back to shore, dry off, and change into a sage-green silk dress with Harper hurrying me along like she always does, though no one will notice if we’re late or even if we don’t make it to the party.
But Harper hurrying me is kind of our thing, even though I’ve been her surrogate parent since our parents died when I was eighteen. I had to grow up overnight and become in loco parentis , but you can’t stand in for your parents.
I’m not sure exactly when we switched roles. It was probably not long after I crushed her dreams by publishing a novel she didn’t know I was writing, making it patently obvious I was no longer putting her first.
Harper was supposed to be the writer in the family. And while me publishing a book didn’t make it impossible for her to do so, it didn’t not make it impossible either. Then she took a job as my assistant, which I offered her because I thought it would give her enough time to write and make money, but it didn’t work out that way. Instead, she took five years to write a book no one wanted to buy and she’s given up writing. She says she’s over it, and I hope, rather than believe, that’s true.
All this to say, she finally gets me out the door, and when we’re halfway there, we run into Oliver Forrest, my on-again boyfriend. We had four good years until I fucked it up, but we reconciled this summer in Italy. Which I’ve just realized probably wouldn’t have happened but for the fact that someone organized an entire book tour to kill me.
I should thank them, I guess?
Oliver is standing under a tall palm tree that’s perfectly framed by the setting sun with the Santa Monica pier behind him, the Ferris wheel’s blinking colored lights visible against the fading sky. He’s wearing a light beige suit and a white shirt with the collar open, and with his curly brown hair and tanned face, he looks like Jonathan Bailey with a literary bent.
“Why does Oliver always look like the hero in a romance novel?” I say to Harper.
She shrugs but smiles. She likes Oliver almost as much as I do.
“I heard that,” Oliver says, taking my hand in his. I’m still at the stage when I feel giddy around him, and his touch feels like an invitation to do something we can’t in front of Harper.
“You were meant to,” I say, and give him a wink.
He winks back. “Ladies, you both look lovely.”
“This old thing?” I say, nodding to my very new dress. It has a high neck and a low back. Harper’s wearing something similar in ballet pink, and we’ve both got our hair in a high ponytail.
We look like, well, sisters .
“Thanks, Oliver,” Harper says. “You look nice, too.”
Oliver’s phone beeps in his pocket.
“Do you need to check that?” I ask. “It might be a publishing emergency.”
Oliver smiles. He’s an author, too, and it’s a joke between us that there are no emergencies in publishing, only predictable disappointments.
“It’s just a weather alert.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I set a special chime for those.”
I start to laugh. “That’s...adorable. And a bit odd.”
“Why odd?”
“Because the weather’s always the same. Warm and sunny. It’s why people live here.”
“Tell that to the hurricane.”
“Hurricane?”
Oliver gives me a rueful smile. “Hurricane Isabella. Scheduled to make landfall in Southern California in the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”
“Hurricane Isabella ?”
Isabella is one of the people who tried to kill me. She’s in jail pending her trial, but you don’t just stop being afraid of someone because of a little thing like prison bars.
“It’ll probably be a tropical storm by the time it makes landfall,” Harper says. “It’s been all over the news.”
“You know I don’t read or watch the news when I’m writing.”
“ Have you been writing?”
I look away. There’s a surfer in a black wetsuit trying to mount a wave. He almost makes it up, then tumbles off his board.
I wrote Book Ten of the Vacation Mysteries series 15 in a fever dream after we got back from Italy. But I’ve got another book to write, and so far, I haven’t been able to produce anything. My agent, Stephanie, checks in weekly, and I’m hoping that I’ll be able to focus now that filming is over.
“I will be next week. But in the meantime, is there really a hurricane named after my attempted murderer heading toward us?”
“It’s not named after her,” Harper says. “It was just the next name in line from a preassigned list.”
“Uh-huh.”
“First sign of a narcissist...thinking everything’s about you...”
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Oliver says.
“Wait until you hear what she did on set today.”
“What? Again?”
“Hush, you two, we’re going to be late.”
I link arms with both of them, and we walk to Shutters. It’s a white-and-gray shingled building with shutter-clad windows located next to the boardwalk. There are restaurants on the first two floors and a five-star hotel above. A clutch of palm trees with white lights strung around their trunks light the path to the main entrance. There’s a red carpet, and a small line of people dressed in finery waiting to get in.
We give our names to the large man in a tight black T-shirt who’s manning the list. 16 We’re on it, though I have a moment of panic that we won’t be because imposter syndrome, and then we’re whisked into the party.
It’s on the second floor in the formal dining room. Two sets of French doors give out onto a balcony, which is a great place for a cocktail and a view of the sunset. Easy jazz is playing—why is it always Kenny G at events like these?—and there are soft pink tablecloths with gorgeous flower arrangements made up of slightly darker peonies. There’s a copy of When in Rome on every table and strings of fairy lights hanging from the ceiling.
The air smells great, too, pungent with the hors d’oeuvres being passed around by young, hot waiters in blue aprons—things wrapped in phyllo, glistening olives, avocado, and salmon roe. The drink of the evening is an Aperol spritz. 17
It looks like the whole cast and crew are here—over two hundred people—and there’s a hierarchy to the party just like there is on set.
#1 and #2 on the call sheet 18 —Fred and Emma—are at the apex on the balcony. A group of people is swirling around them, coming in for air-kisses and declarations of fabulousness. Emma’s wearing a white off-the-shoulder number that shows her fantastic collarbones—you’d, well, die for them—and Fred’s in a blue chambray linen shirt with black slacks. He’s got just enough buttons open to show off his toned chest and...no. I’m not going there.
Anyway, they’re at the center of it all, and they deserve to be because they’re the stars of the show, but also, it’s their engagement party.
You got that from the Prologue, right? That the wedding where someone is going to die is Emma and Fred’s?
Yep, that’s right. Soon after their relationship went public, Fred popped the question.
I thought it was fast.
Emma said it was romantic.
I pointed out that he had a reputation as a player.
She told me he’d sown his wild oats and was ready to settle down.
I showed her a calendar and said that getting engaged that fast was how half of Hollywood ended up with second and third marriages.
Then she said I couldn’t take credit for their relationship if I didn’t want them to get married, and also, did I want to be her maid of honor or what?
I shut my mouth after that because she was right. I mean, I was right, it was too fast, but I’ve noticed that people don’t listen to that kind of advice. And, okay, I did want the credit. And to be her maid of honor. We’d planned that out since we were little girls. There was no way I was letting that job go to whoever her second choice was.
So, I arranged a quick bachelorette for her in Napa and even invited Simone—though she barely talked to me all weekend—and thanked my lucky stars that my maid of honor dress was from Vera Wang rather than the hideous monstrosity she threatened me with as punishment for not being 100 percent pro her getting engaged in less time than it takes to make a movie.
“Earth to Eleanor,” Oliver says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You in there?”
“Present.”
“You going to tell me who everyone is?”
I lean on him gently. “Who don’t you know? Emma you’ve met. And Fred.”
“I have,” he says.
He likes Emma, and we all spent time together when he and I dated the first time.
He was a little starstruck when he met Fred. Or maybe his reaction was because Fred looks an awful lot like Connor Smith. More than once on set I’d gotten the two of them confused, especially from behind. They have the same broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a smirk that’s made scores of women tumble into bed even though they knew it was a bad idea.
“Who else do you want to know?”
“Who’s that?” Oliver points to Simone. She’s wearing something other than her coveralls, for once, though it is in the jumpsuit family. The burnt orange color was made for her, and her dark brown hair is down and curled. She’s wearing a delicate gold necklace that pops against her clavicles, and her skin is a couple of shades darker than when we started filming from being out in the sun all day. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s stunning.
“That’s the director.”
“Does she have a name?”
“She can’t seem to remember mine.”
“So, that’s Simone. Hmmm. You probably intimidate her.”
I touch his arm, pushing him away playfully. “Please.”
“You can be very intimidating.”
“She’s hated me since high school.”
“Did you steal her boyfriend or something?”
I look down at my shoes. Was that it? Was all this animosity because of some dude whose name I don’t even remember?
Okay, okay, I do remember who he was.
Whatever. Bygones.
“I haven’t done anything to her this year. Or even this decade.”
“Why don’t you try to talk to her about it?”
“Honestly? She scares me.”
He tips his head back and laughs, catching Simone’s attention. She turns toward us and scowls.
An actual scowl! Like a cartoon villain.
“Did you see that?”
“Maybe that’s just her face.”
“Uh-uh.”
Oliver taps my arm. “Bygones, remember.”
“How did you know I’d said that in my head?”
His eyes dance. “I almost always know what you’re thinking.”
“That’s scary.”
“Or kismet. Who’s Harper talking to?”
My eyes swivel through the crowd. Harper’s standing next to a man about her height who’s wearing a seersucker suit and a woman in a variation of Simone’s pantsuit.
“The woman is Shawna, Simone’s assistant. And he’s David Liu.”
“Ah! The Writer.”
“The Screenwriter .”
Oliver taps me gently on the nose. “We hate him, too?”
“He massacred my book.”
“Massacred?”
“He changed all of the dialogue,” I say. “And the ending is stupid.”
“It’s a screenplay, not a book. There were bound to be differences.”
“He could’ve left some of it. You know dialogue is my thing.”
Oliver smiles down at me. “Is there anything he could’ve done that would’ve pleased you other than transcribe your book word for word into Final Draft?” 19
“I’m being a brat.”
“Little bit.”
“Fine. But we’ll see who’s right when the reviews come out.”
He shakes his head, then nods into the crowd. “Here’s someone you do like.”
Allison Smith is walking toward us, Connor’s ex-wife. 20 She’s wearing a yoke-collared red dress that accentuates her slim frame. Her natural hair borders her face, and her brown eyes are surrounded by the perfect smoky eye.
She’s gorgeous, and everyone in the room watches her as she walks to David and plants a kiss on his lips.
“Whoa,” Oliver says. “I did not see that coming.”
“Don’t you remember that he was at the funeral?” 21
“That was him?”
“I thought you were good at details?”
“I had my mind on other things.”
“Such as?”
“The dead.” He raises an eyebrow at me.
“Oh, right. I was thinking about him, too, of course.”
And I was. I just wasn’t so distracted that I didn’t notice Allison had brought a date to a funeral.
I didn’t know who he was then, or how Allison met him. It wasn’t the time to ask. But then, at the table read, 22 there he was. There they both were. Because Allison had been hired to play the character based on her in the movie. He’d even suggested her, she’d told me at the craft services table one day with a giggle.
“Well, they’re dating.”
Oliver cocks his head to the side. “We want Allison to be happy.”
“Of course we do.”
“And she seems it. She looks marvelous.”
“She does.”
“What, then?” Oliver asks.
“Don’t you think it’s suspicious that he suggested they cast her and now they’re dating?”
“You think he’s taking advantage?”
“I think he has an agenda.”
“What?”
I watch as David wraps his arms around Allison to the jealous eyes of half the men in the room. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”
“Let me know when you do.”
“Fine. Let’s go say hi to the happy couple.”
We push our way through the crowd until we get to Emma and Fred. Emma’s face lights up when she sees me.
“Finally!”
“I wasn’t late.”
We give each other a hard hug, even though we just saw each other this afternoon.
“Are you okay?” I whisper into her ear.
“That stupid note ,” she says, her voice trembling slightly.
I pull back and Fred must catch something in my expression. “What’s going on?”
Emma shakes her head. “I was just saying I can’t believe there’s a storm coming to ruin our day!”
“Perhaps you should consider moving the wedding to the mainland?” I suggest.
“Absolutely not,” Fred says. “As I told Shawna and the wedding planner, the location is nonnegotiable.”
Oliver’s mouth twists like it does when he’s suppressing a laugh. “We make plans, and God laughs.”
“What’s that? Oh, yes. It will all work out, though. It always does,” Fred says with the certainty of someone who hasn’t had anyone say no to him in twenty years.
“Fred used to go to Catalina as a kid,” Emma says, smiling at him indulgently. “He’s always wanted to get married there.”
Fred’s cheeks tinge pink. Oh my God. Fred Winter is blushing .
“It’s only that the wedding is all planned,” Fred says. “And it’s too late to change it.”
Emma smiles at him again because he’s fucking adorable, but then her eyes cloud with impending trouble.
Before I can ask her what’s wrong, Tyler Houston, the film’s producer, joins us on the balcony. He looks like his job—sandy hair in an expensive haircut, a well-cut dark blue suit with a chambray shirt and a conservative tie, broad shoulders, an air of authority. Straight out of central casting.
He’s been a shadowy presence on set, more felt than seen. But I picked up enough scuttlebutt to know something’s brewing between him and Fred. And by the look on his face, it appears that it’s about to boil over.
How fortunate for us.
Not that I’m looking for drama. Only that’s what you’ve come here for, right? I mean, a body is going to drop in forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner. And you know me well enough by now—even if you’re just getting to know me—to know I’m bringing you to this party for a reason.
Something important is about to happen.
“You must be joking!” Tyler says to Fred in a voice that carries over the din of the party and stops it in its tracks like a record scratch.
“What is it, Tyler?”
“I’ve just discovered this little trip to Catalina this weekend isn’t in the script!”
Fred shrugs. “And?”
“I am not paying for your wedding. Bad enough that...I’ve already paid for enough .”
“I don’t know what you’re implying. But I agreed to do this film as a personal favor and—”
“A favor to me? Ha! That’s a joke.”
“What did I ever do to you?”
“Please. You want me to tell everyone here, plus People magazine?”
“I’m sure everyone would be very interested to know whatever it is you think I’ve done. Do tell us. In fact, David, come here. Maybe you could whip up a suitable scene for us on the spot?”
David walks toward the group slowly. He glances at Emma, who looks like she wants to sink through the floor and disappear, then shakes his head. “I’m mixing out.”
“That figures.” Fred looks around and catches Emma’s eye. She’s on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“Let’s just go.”
“Yes, Fred,” Tyler says, disdain dripping from his tongue, “ run along. ”
Fred mouths a second apology to Emma, then does a roundhouse maneuver that ends with his fist square in Tyler’s face.
He falls to the ground without a sound.
15 In case you’re interested, the title is Amalfi Made Me Do It .
16 Not to be confused with the New York Times bestseller list, which is probably even harder to get onto.
17 It’s the signature drink of the book.
18 The daily shooting schedule. First position on the call sheet goes to the most important actor on set.
19 Final Draft is a screenwriting software.
20 I found out he was still married to her after we’d been together for a year. It was awesome .
21 The funeral was for one of the people who was murdered in Italy.
22 Where all of the actors sit around a long table and read the script together.