Production Meeting
George
It was once again…Friday, and how the week had flown by was terrifying.
If I had been tired last week? This week I was barely managing to keep the adrenaline constantly flowing through my body at bay.
My heart was making double beats on the steady, and all I’d eaten today had been a bite out of a sandwich that I’d then promptly lost somewhere.
I needed a break. I needed to stop, just for a minute or two. Let my forehead fall against a cool mirror in a bathroom stall so I could just catch my breath.
I hadn’t drunk enough water to warrant a bathroom break, but I made a beeline for the outside, hoping to grab a coffee and…some air.
Sometimes the air on the inside went so tense that I felt I might pass out. The pressure?
We’d talked about pressure at college. Stupid capacity bucket exercises, “how to manage stress in the workplace” leaflets handed out like confetti.
Nobody told you what it was really like. Nobody.
“You okay?” Storm asked, then downed an entire water bottle, right in front of me, not even waiting for my reply. “I haven’t drunk anything since yesterday. I’ll see you later.”
Then she was gone, as the catering guy handed me my coffee.
Too hot against my lips. I still drank it, letting the burning sensation down my throat wake me up. I needed to be sharp. On the ball.
“George!”
Crap.
“Someone by the gate for you?”
What gate? Where? The security guy was waving his arm in some unspecified direction, and how he knew my name? Well. It was scribbled in marker pen on my headphones and printed on the back of my clipboard but other than that?
My feet walked me towards the entrance area, where…he was standing. Cap over his head. His hair…
“You need a haircut,” I spluttered out as he just smiled.
“Always. Grows too fast.” He grinned. Then he…
Crap.
“For you.”
“What am I supposed… I’m at work?”
“Yeah.” He smiled again. Still standing there holding a ginormous bouquet of flowers in his arms. Too many.
Like an insane amount too many. “Saw them as I passed the florist shop and thought of you. I bet nobody has drowned you in roses before. Thought it might be a first. Definitely a first for me.”
“Dude,” I huffed out. Such a stupid word.
“Baby,” he answered back. “You’re my baby. Deal with it.”
“You’re…so stupid.”
“Yeah. But you’re even more stupid because you never believe me when I tell you things. I thought I would show you instead. Here. Take.”
And just like that, my clipboard was on the ground, papers everywhere, the tablet landing on top of it with a heavy clunk.
Yet my arms were full of flowers, their fragrance overwhelming me, like I’d fallen into a cesspool of perfume.
Not good. Yet…
The smile on my face was ridiculous. Just as ridiculous as watching him pick up my dropped stuff, then stand there holding all my things, yet staring at me like I was…
“You’re so beautiful.”
What a weird thing to say.
“You.”
I had no words.
He shrugged. “Just wanted to do something mega romantic. A bit over the top. Like showing up at your work and like…”
“Definitely over the top.”
“You like it.”
Okay. Admission of truth. I did.
“Georgie, you’re like…everything to me.”
“And you?” I took a step closer, the roses clouding every brain cell in my head. How weird. How droll. How utterly ridiculous was this?
“I’m the guy who loves you,” he said softly. “And the guy who is going to spend the rest of this goddamn summer with you. No more uni for a couple of weeks. Gotta go back and sort a few things, and do that summer camp. The rest of the time? Fuck the rest of the world. I’m going to look after you.”
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to run away. I wanted him to just grab his twatty flowers and then take my hand and remove me from this place. Let me be with him and go back to that place he took me, where I didn’t care so much.
“You’re like…a Lana del Rey song,” came out of my mouth.
“I know.” He smiled. We talked about this. Shared our playlists. He made them for me. Full of…
“You make me all stupid with thoughts, just like Lana. I just need to hear the opening chords and I go all funny.”
“ ‘Blue Jeans’. Followed by ‘White Mustang’,” he said quietly. “I feel like there’s just peace on the inside when I hear those.”
“ ‘West coast’,” I filled in, without thinking. “Love the last playlist you made. You had that track twice.”
“ ‘Peace’.” He never wavered. His eyes on mine. “ I have that on repeat, because it’s the only thing that fixes me when you’re not there.”
Then silence. We didn’t need more words, because he’d just fixed me right back, just quoting me song titles.
“I’ll pick you up tonight, when you’re done here.”
I nodded. “And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do with these?” I tried to shove the flowers back in his arms, when they were already full. He plonked my bits on top of the flowers, making me steady the tablet with my chin, then he stepped backwards with a cheeky smile on his face.
“Careful with your hands, those thorns prick the hell out of you.” He grinned, walking backwards away from me. Giving me a little wave.
I just grinned. I couldn’t explain anything. Nothing.
Instead I walked back inside, carrying far too many things in my arms.
“Flowers,” someone said, smiling at me.
I didn’t care…about flowers. Flowers were stupid. Yet I was bringing these back home. I was going to fill my bathtub with them and let them prick my body. Bleed into them until I was one with him.
I laughed. The stupidity of my stupid head.
Meeting. Now. Be professional. Stop smiling. Stop thinking about his lips on your skin. Or the fact that your best friend was the sloppiest kisser on the planet. How he made me feel should be illegal. I shouldn’t be allowed to even think about it.
“It feels like it’s a bit of a…disaster?
” Storm’s voice was strained, her face seemingly twisted in embarrassment, snapping me out of my haze as I took my seat in the room.
Flowers dumped in the corner. I raised the pad of my hand to my mouth.
Sucked gently at the many pricks covering my skin.
He’d done that on purpose. Trying to bleed me dry when there wasn’t anything left of me.
Nothing at all. Just him. He filled me up.
I wanted so badly for him to fill me up.
“What disaster? That word should not be part of your vocabulary. This is a meticulously planned, scripted show, and in my book? We have exceeded expectations with the footage we got today at the luncheon, and are still well under budget.” Kirsten’s voice snapped me back into gear.
“We’ve just had to escort two more contestants off the premises!” I half shouted. Because? Yes. I was with Storm here. And I was back in the room.
“Some minor misdemeanours that will play right into our hands. Chloe-Catherine has been a good investment. We will have a few stern words and bring her back in a week or two. Build on that, Storm. We can absolutely play our cards right here and craft a situation that demands her instant return. Ben was becoming a liability, but he brought exactly what we needed to put both Oliver and Caspar where we needed them story-wise. Ben’s replacement is already downstairs, and this evening’s filming will be explosive.
The visuals we need will be child’s play to obtain.
First, the bottom eight contestants will be removed, and then we bring in the twins.
“The twins.” I sighed. “Didn’t we agree not to?”
“Rupert and Robert – brothers or lovers? It’s too good not to. The viewers will be right on top of that. Scandalously delicious!” Kirsten was licking her lips and laughing. It wasn’t a kind laugh.
“Their lives could be… I mean.” I should have known better than to speak up.
“You know where the door is, George. We all do. Now does anyone else want to spread any negativity around the room?”
The silence was telling. And Kirsten smiled knowingly.
“What happened last night was…” She lifted her arms, doing little quotation marks in the air with what I could only describe as a triumphant look on her face.
“A minor software glitch. The first episode went live on the website, and with some simple social media seeding? The views are through the roof. We are dealing with the network to contain the fallout, but the viewer reactions are gold. There has been traffic all night, as well as commenting on the big five accounts we needed. We have the right people on board who will post content today and…” She looked very pleased with herself as the hairs at the back of my neck stood right up.
I was cold. Stone cold. This was…not part of the plan, and we were not ready.
Nothing was ready. The first episode? Was that even back from the cutting room?
What on earth was Kirsten playing at here?
I looked over at Alastair, who was simply staring at his hands. This was bad. Really bad.
“Are we ready for the bottom eight? We scraped the website half an hour ago, collating comments and votes. Forty per cent of the decision will be down to the website poll, 40 per cent will be comment scraping and the last 20 is down to me. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I responded through gritted teeth.
“So. We will be removing Anne, Xanthe, Elia, Caspar, Minty…”
“You can’t remove Xanthe. Representation is important,” someone spoke up, and then instantly got silenced by Kirsten’s glare.
“We will have representation. The resources need to deliver, and Xanthe…”
“Alastair!” Kirsten boomed. “Now, as I was saying.”
I almost opened my mouth. Then I stayed silent.
“The top-voted couple is, not surprisingly, Peter and Oliver. They have been a firm fan favourite since we launched their social media, and after this first soft launch? I expect the cutting room to work with their eyes open. Give the viewers what they want. Make us look good.”
“So we are not introducing Ruth?” I flicked my papers trying to find the right page. FUCK. Fuck.
“Of course we are! George, we are not changing anything. We move Oliver out tonight during the group discussion, and move Ruth in. Then film re-entry with Peter at five thirty, per the schedule. Oliver will be taken to room ten, and we have already filmed opening sequences with Pawel, so he is ready to go.”
“Pawel,” I said blankly.
“Pawel. Polish. Bodybuilder. Strong accent, placed top on the website contestant wish list; that poll was insane. Pawel has a strong following on social media already. Our test audiences have been very useful in guiding our choices, and anyway, Oliver is exactly his type. There will be enormous benefits to the ratings once this goes live, and Storm, we need Peter and Ruth to work, to ensure Diane gets the push she needs to perform. We need raging jealousy, and we need it fast. I expect the script to follow that narrative. Are we clear?”
“I haven’t…” Storm nervously flicked through the papers in front of her. “I haven’t…”
Kirsten just laughed and tapped her nose.
“This will be our biggest launch yet. Our ratings are already rising, Divorce Me has climbed back into the top ten in the streaming polls again, the ads are working and the seeding we are putting down is yielding the desired effect. I am telling you now. I’m not expecting you just to do the work.
This is not just my vision. This needs to be your vision now.
I will need twenty-four-seven commitment from every department.
I expect nothing but solid perfection here. ”
Kirsten was terrifying. And I was feeling it. Every muscle in my body tightening with unease.
“Kirsten!” The door flung open with a bang.
“This is a sealed meeting!” Kirsten shouted.
“But…”
The poor runner looked as terrified as I felt.
“But what,” Kirsten snarled, her arm pointing at the door. Waving abruptly, trying to dismiss the poor runner.
“Peter Felton just walked out.”
Fuck. Oh fuck.
Oh fucking shit on a dipstick.