Chapter One #2
Despite a decent roster of advertising clients and the writing credits I’ve managed to accumulate, no one in film wants me.
I couldn’t even get a callback for assistant or mentorship opportunities—not since the first one ended thanks to budget cuts, a tale as old as time in the arts.
My professors’ recommendations helped initially, but they only got me so far.
Years of rejection have jaded me. I’ve since stopped reaching out.
But I owe Rebecca honesty. That’s what bound us together as friends in undergrad; during Ear Training I, our friendship went to the next level when I whispered that she was flat rather than humiliate her in front of the class. Ever since, we’ve had each other’s backs.
“Yes and no,” I finally reply, not even bothering to hide the resignation in my tone. “I compose for ads, but that’s about it.”
Her well-manicured brows furrow as she takes a sip of her drink. “But I heard Lady Osborn’s last album. You did drums for that, didn’t you?”
Right, the jazz artist I’d collaborated with last year. I’d written the percussion book and performed it for Lady Osborn’s latest release. “Yeah, I do some of that here and there. It’s corporate America that pays the bills, though.”
Rebecca eyes me shrewdly again, her gaze raking over me in that almost judgmental way.
It’s almost as if she can hear what I didn’t say—that the advertising clients are no longer enough to pay said bills, at least the ones that aren’t dropping me for their stupid computer music.
My skin prickles with awareness while my stomach does a funny little swoop; it’s nerve-racking enough, outwardly admitting my professional standstill while my classmate soars through her chosen field (thanks, in part, to the connections of her entertainment-lawyer dad).
If she’d wanted to, Rebecca would have made a fine composer, but that’s not what called to her.
With her eye for detail and her combined passion for both music and images, she’d always known she wanted to be a supervisor and editor.
And here she is, kicking ass at it.
“Well, I have to say, this is good news for me,” she says after a long beat. “As nice as it is to see you, I came here with an agenda.”
There it is, hovering just out of reach—the reason my friend from all those years ago texted me out of the blue.
“Oh?” I ask as I try (and fail) to contain my obvious interest.
But our conversation stalls as the first round of food arrives: a dish of oysters, accompanied by plates and wedges of lemons in ceramic ramekins. Both of us grab a shell, Rebecca reaching forward to clink them together, before she says, “Bottoms up!”
When we’re both done with our first, she leans forward to place her hands on the table.
This simple change of her body language heightens the tension that’s got my heartstrings pulled tight.
“So anyway,” she starts, “this is both a personal and professional dinner. I’m working on a big project now—something really cool—and our composer just dropped out. ”
My eyebrows raise in response. “I’m listening.”
“It’s Chris Ross’s first foray into TV. I worked with him last year on that space movie.
He’s doing a series for Limelight’s streaming studio called Lineage.
It’s this intense drama about a rich family and the spouses that married into it.
” She pauses to finish her drink. “Everything was good to go until Gustav Schneider had to drop out due to health issues. We’re already shooting, so we’re kind of fucked. ”
My pulse ratchets up at these names. Ross is among the top directors in Hollywood; his movies are produced by the biggest studios, his career littered with awards and accolades.
As for Schneider, there is no bigger name in film scoring.
Well, perhaps one—but I prefer not to think about him much after dealing with his son at Juilliard.
I can barely find my voice when I ask, “Is Schneider okay? What are you trying to say, Rebecca?”
“Yes, yes, Schneider will be fine. He just needs to take some time off. What I’m saying is that I talked Ross into taking a chance on a more junior composer.
We kind of don’t have a choice, considering how tight our timeline is.
He agreed, but on one condition—he needs two composers, if he’s going to take someone green. ”
“Oh.”
It’s all I can manage. Suddenly my denim-colored chambray shirt feels too heavy, the material too hot for this cramped restaurant.
I’m aware of every single part of my body—from the ends of my curly hair to my toes pressing against the tips of my Nikes.
This is the closest I’ve ever gotten to my dream.
My real dream, of telling a story with music that doesn’t exist to sell something to someone.
It could be the start of the career I’d always envisioned for myself—and possibly the solution to my recent financial woes.
After years of rejection, I’m scared to believe it’s real.
“Why me?” I find myself asking.
“Why not you?” Rebecca scoffs. “You were the best composer in our class—no, don’t even argue with me on that. You approached it with this, like, almost psychotic gleam in your eyes. You are good, Celia. Plus, you’ll get me in the editing process. I’m pretty damn good at my job.”
It’s funny, the feeling that comes over you when you realize: This is it.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
All the rejections, all the unanswered calls and emails, all the shitty jobs I’ve had to take just to keep going—this is where they led me.
Right here, to a small table for two in Hell’s Kitchen, sitting across from a woman I’ve known since we were little more than girls.
It’s a warmth that spreads over me, settling somewhere low in my stomach.
“Yeah. Okay.” As reality starts to sink in, I nod.
“You said Ross needs two. Who’s the other composer?
” In an uncharacteristic move, Rebecca bites her bottom lip.
The red lipstick she’s wearing doesn’t smear when she licks her lips, clearly uncertain.
This is enough to bring my nerves back. “Spit it out, Rebecca.”
“It’s Oliver Barlowe.”
And just like that, my mood plummets.
Rebecca notices. She leans farther forward, her entire chest pressed into the table.
“Listen, Celia. I know you two were weird in undergrad, but he’s not as insufferable as he used to be.
I’ve run into him a few times over the years.
We’ve kept in touch. He’s still the same guy, but he’s different now. He’s less…”
“Horrible?” I offer. “Pretentious?”
“I was going to say ‘stuffy,’ but that works, too.”
“Why would he even do this? Can’t he use Daddy’s name to propel his career forward?”
That I even have to ask this question grates on my nerves.
As the son of Robert Barlowe—the living legend who has been scoring films for decades—Oliver no doubt has his pick of jobs.
His dad has been collecting awards like they were trinkets while maintaining a hold on Hollywood’s most prominent film directors since we were toddlers.
Of course, Oliver’s nepo-baby status wasn’t enough to make me hate him when we first met as teenagers all those years ago.
He did that on his own, with his personality.
My blood boils at the thought of working with him.
“Believe it or not, he doesn’t,” Rebecca says.
The earnest look in her eyes irritates me.
“Oliver ran away to London about the same time I went to LA. He’s mostly been writing commissioned pieces—things for the ballet, modern dance, shit like that.
He did a couple of indie films in the last few years, but that’s not enough.
Ross needs to know he’s got a safety net with a duo, even if one of them comes from a legacy.
He hates when there’s behind-the-scenes drama, which is ironic considering the types of stories he tells, but it’s true.
He doesn’t have time to hand hold or coddle anyone.
If anything jeopardizes his production, he puts an end to that shit right away. ”
Taking a second oyster from the dish, I buy myself some time as I knock it back without any lemon.
This is quite the predicament; to be offered the chance to work with someone like Chris Ross, who has the experience to guide a massive project like this, is remarkable.
Without a doubt, this is a career-making opportunity.
One that could change the course of my life forever.
Rebecca is handing me the chance to make my lifelong dreams come true, but Oliver Barlowe is attached. Does that make it a nightmare, then?
I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “When do you need a decision by?” I ask.
Taking on a project like this would require a complete immersion; there would be no time for anything else.
A full season of music can be anywhere from four to eight hours of completed composition; the amount of time it would take to craft, score, and polish that much music is nearly unfathomable.
I would have to eat, sleep, and breathe this score for the next few months.
Which means that I would have to eat, sleep, and breathe alongside Oliver, too.
Rebecca lets loose a breath. “Tomorrow. I looked at your portfolio on your website. It’s good.
Good enough that it will convince the decision-makers that you can handle the workload.
Chris will want to meet with you to make sure you’re not, like, a weirdo or a liability, but the job is as good as yours, Celia. ”
The look in her eyes—pleading, prodding, hopeful—says what we both don’t bother to speak aloud: that she needs me to do this.
That she’s putting her own reputation on the line to recruit Oliver and me.
That this is the opportunity of a lifetime.
It’s the big break that everyone dreams about and so few get.
“I’ll let you know by tomorrow afternoon.”
Even when the words leave my lips, I already know what my answer will be.
Because even though Oliver Barlowe and I have a complicated history at best, there is no man in this world that will keep me from my dreams. I’ve worked too hard for too long.
I can’t walk away simply because I don’t like someone.
I’ve done my time in the trenches, writing catchy tunes to accompany such riveting products as the latest cat food.
Not only that, but I literally can’t afford to say no—not with a rent increase hanging over my head and no new ad job lined up.
Film scoring—really, any production work in movies and TV—used to be a certified boys’ club. But now Rebecca has a key, and she’s invited me in.
FROM: Celia García
TO: Ann Martin
DATE: Thursday, August 13 at 11:14 PM
SUBJECT: Job opportunity?
Hola Ann,
It’s been a while! How’s the family? Are you summering in Rhode Island again this year?
I might have a gig coming up in film. An old friend of mine from Juilliard tapped me for it. I still have to decide if I want to do it, meet with the producers, etc. Before I commit, I wanted to see if you had any interest for my composition work lately? Don’t want to cross any wires or anything!
Cheers,
Celia
FROM: Ann Martin
TO: Celia García
DATE: Thursday, August 13 at 11:39 PM
SUBJECT: RE: Job opportunity?
Hello Celia!
So nice to hear from you. Everyone is good here, we’re spending our days in the sun here in Newport. How is life in the city?
In terms of interest in your work, things are quiet.
We’re seeing an overall decrease in composition/score work across the board here at the agency (with the obvious caveats).
I still believe in your talent and skill just as much as I did when I signed you seven years ago!
This career is all about persistence and tenacity.
If you have anything new to add to your portfolio, please send it my way.
I’d love to send it around and put some feelers out there on your behalf.
All this to say, if you have interest from your college connections—GO FOR IT!
Best,
Ann