8. Grey
Chapter 8
Grey
T he last thing I want to do on my first day off from filming is go to a meeting at the studio’s headquarters. But here I am at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, taking the lift to the sixth floor. When I asked my manager what the meeting was about yesterday afternoon, she just said, “marketing stuff.” So, it should be absolutely riveting.
“Where’s the coffee?” I ask the first employee I lay eyes on when the lift doors open.
“Down that hall to the left,” he answers.
Apparently, it would be wrong to assume that the headquarters of one of the largest film studios in the world would at least have a Keurig, because all I find is an ancient metal contraption holding an empty glass carafe. I sigh and begin opening cabinets, trying to find the filters and grounds. The machine is so old that the labeling on a few of the buttons has worn off from years of use. I just push the most worn ones and hope for the best. Luckily, this seems to have worked, as fresh coffee begins steadily dripping into the carafe.
“So they called us both in,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn and see Aspen, standing in a blue athletic dress.
“It seems so,” I answer. “You want coffee too, I assume?”
“No, I just wanted to see you.”
“Ha-ha,” I say dryly.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Grey. I’m sure plenty of girls would be stuffing themselves into this break room if they knew you were here.”
“But not you.”
“Not me,” she agrees. The machine beeps and I turn back to it, filling a mug.
“Do they have tea here?”
I chuckle. “The American wants tea, and the Brit wants coffee.”
“Look at us, breaking stereotypes,” she answers. She walks further into the room and begins looking for tea in the cabinets. I help, searching the drawers.
“Here,” I say triumphantly.
She comes up next to me and examines the drawer, rifling through the tea packets. “Hmm.” She frowns. “All they have is chamomile or Earl Grey.”
I nod, distracted by how good she smells. I think it’s some kind of orange scent? Then she turns her attention on me, her sea-glass eyes boring into mine. “Earth to Grey. Where’d you get that?” she asks, pointing to the mug on the counter.
“Oh,” I say, shaking off whatever the hell that was. Even though I apologized to Aspen, I still don’t like her. Based on the way she acts and what I’ve heard about her, I can tell she’s a spoiled, stuck-up rule-follower. And, besides, I know not to get close to costars. “Here,” I reply, opening the cabinet in front of me. “Cats or hearts?”
“Cats.”
“Solid choice.” I pass her the mug and the electric kettle.
“I’m just going to use the microwave,” she responds, filling her mug with tap water. “It’s quicker.”
“You can’t be serious.”
She shrugs. “Tastes the same.”
“That’s like a hate crime toward Brits everywhere,” I balk. “You can’t make tea in the microwave.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Watch me.”
I turn back to the coffee machine and fill my cup. Black is fine for today—I need it as strong as I can get it.
“I can’t watch that,” I say, walking past her toward the room’s exit. “See you in there.”
“Can’t wait,” she calls back sarcastically.
I make my way to a small meeting room where a film executive, my manager, my PR manager, and two women I don’t know are already assembled.
Aspen walks in just as we finish exchanging greetings.
The film executive clears his throat before speaking. “All right, I know none of us want to be here on a Saturday, so let’s cut to the chase. I don’t know if you two are aware of this or not,” he says, nodding to Aspen and me, “but there’s some video footage of you two arguing on set circling the internet.”
“No, I don’t know about that,” Aspen says in a small voice. She turns to look at me for a response and I shrug.
“I haven’t heard of that either.”
“Look,” he says and shows us two videos. Admittedly, it doesn’t look great.
“I’m guessing there’s no way to spin that into something else? Like we were just ranting to each other about something?” Aspen asks.
“The interaction is, unfortunately, pretty clear-cut,” one of the women I don’t know says. She must be on Aspen’s team. “It would be a bit of a stretch to say it’s anything other than an argument. And the public has already branded it as an argument, so it would be twice as difficult to backtrack and override that.”
“Can’t we just ride it out and wait for the press to get a better story?” I ask. “It doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. I’m sure news of some divorce or pregnancy or affair or whatever will come out soon enough and nobody will care about these videos anymore.”
My manager responds. “The problem is people don’t want to go see a romance movie where the two leads clearly dislike each other in real life. And even if they move on quickly now , this will resurface when the movie premieres and it will be at the top of everyone’s mind again.”
“Projected sales have dropped by twenty percent in the past few days—translating to a loss of about fifty million dollars.”
Aspen’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god.”
“Yeah, not great,” one of her women answers.
“So what do we do?” she asks. “Is there any way to recover that money?”
Again, the executive clears his throat before speaking. “We’ve been discussing options for the past couple of days, but only one seems viable to erase the damage. In fact, it would not only cancel out the damage, but it would actually improve base sales by thirty-five percent.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“We know it’s not ideal for the two of you,” my manager placates.
Aspen’s leg is bouncing so hard next to mine that with another pinch of force, she’ll accidentally kick me.
“What is it?” she chokes out.
“You two need to date.”
Yep, there’s the kick. Aspen jumps as much as I do from the impact.
“Sorry,” she whispers as I groan and rub my shin.
“Not actually date,” my PR manager adds. “Just pretend to. You know, a few loved-up public outings here and there for the paparazzi to catch.”
A beat of silence breaks across the table, only punctuated by the slight swoosh of Aspen’s leg as it bounces anxiously. After a few tense seconds, even that stops.
“We’d have to keep this up until the movie releases?” I ask.
“Yes. But the bulk of the ruse would occur during the filming and during the press tour right before the film’s release. In the interim year, you won’t really have to do anything,” one of Aspen’s women says.
“But we can’t date anyone else?” Aspen asks, more like a statement than a question.
“Not publicly, no. Privately, you can do whatever you want as long as you don’t get caught.”
“So we can’t be caught with anyone else for a year and a half,” I deadpan.
“It’s the difference of over a hundred million dollars,” the film executive answers. “And,” he adds when he sees the indifference on my face, “we’re prepared to offer you each five percent in royalties of the box office profits above our original benchmark.”
“Ten,” I negotiate.
Aspen looks at me with an unreadable expression.
“Eight,” the executive answers.
“Ten,” Aspen speaks up.
“Fine. Ten. But you two better make this relationship damn well believable. If either of you are caught even looking at someone else too friendly, the deal is off. And don’t tell anyone about this, or word might get out. Not friends, family, or Jack Mack.” He pulls out two documents. “I’ll have these redrafted immediately and faxed to your teams for you to sign.”
“Aspen, you’re good with that?” one of her women asks.
“Yes,” she answers.
“Grey?” my manager asks.
“Yes.”
“Your first date will be arranged for as soon as possible,” the executive announces before leaving the room.