Chapter Nine
It wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning, and Evelyn felt like she had already worked a full sixteen-hour day.
“Get that light off my Ghost of Christmas Future!” Evelyn shouted.
Evelyn rubbed her forehead. The problem with those extremely delicate, exquisitely designed, and expensive puppets was that Evelyn had made a mistake. As soon as the first puppet was attached to the wires, her stomach sank. She hadn’t accounted for the glare. Or the noise.
Those thirteen thousand Swarovski beads and crystals—the design she had signed off on several months prior—turned out to be far too shiny.
And when the puppet was dragged across the stage, it sent all of those beads shuddering violently, echoing across the set like a damn rain storm.
Of course, there were ways to mediate both visual and audio concerns when it came to filming.
Evelyn waved Johanne, her gaffer, over. “We need to make sure that when the third ghost is onstage, we remain in low-key light.”
It was a technical term. Low-key lighting relied on little to almost no fill light, allowing for a high-contrast and highly shadowed-looking production. She could get away with the sheen on the beads if her cast and crew could remember her instructions.
“What about the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present?” Johanne asked.
“I’ll take a look at them tonight.”
Despite all the money that went into a big-budget production like this one, it was often the simple fixes that saved a show last-minute.
Indeed, she kept a drawer stuffed full of art supplies just in case set design had already gone home for the evening and she needed a quick fix.
Many times, it was just easier to do it herself.
Yes, there were laws, and insurance issues, unions and overtime .
. . but when it came down to the nitty-gritty, nobody in television really cared what rules were quietly broken, providing the sausage got made.
The bigwigs on the top floors, who popped in and out and kept track of advertisers and money, only cared about seeing their investments pay off.
Everything else was an email nobody wanted to deal with.
A lot of people burned out in television.
Women especially. It was not easy to be female and a boss.
The things that men could get away with—such as walking into a room without smiling—she never could.
So she learned to be assertive without seeming aggressive.
Forceful without appearing to be a bitch.
She would look around the office, at her competition for those lucrative staff positions, and work harder than the person sitting next to her.
First one in, last one out.
Her success was as much social maneuvering as it was talent.
It was also why, after Marla died and Evelyn was promoted from supervising producer to executive producer, she launched Women in Film & Television.
She saw a real need for advocacy in her profession.
She wanted to usher in and protect other women who would come after her, and prove to the bigwigs on the twenty-seventh floor that anyone, including women, could make great television.
In addition to Demi, she had helped thirty-seven women find mentors at CBS7-T studios.
Demi appeared, like the godsend she was, with a tray of coffee.
“My dear,” Demi said, handing her one.
“You—” Evelyn said, taking a sip “—are a blessing.”
Demi smiled, acknowledging the compliment before putting her coffee down and picking up her tablet.
Quickly, she began filling Evelyn in on updates and statuses from the morning.
Caroler eighteen, thankfully, had been found and returned to work—his agent promising it would never happen again.
Costume fittings were done, save for Jared Sparks, who would have his final fittings when he arrived in person.
The puppets were safe, having arrived and been hung on invisible wires within the ceiling, then tested to make sure they were stable enough to begin working with. Evelyn was pleased.
“Thank you, Demi.”
“Of course,” Demi said. “You know I got your back.”
“Everyone is ready, then?” Evelyn leaned in. “For Barry Peters and special guests.”
“Ready.”
Evelyn nodded. Mentoring Demi was the best decision she had ever made.
The moment she had met her, seen that glint of ambition in her eye, saw the way she gave it her all when tasked .
. . Evelyn had known she wanted to work with Demi.
She had never regretted that decision. Of course, Demi had a slightly better work-life balance than Evelyn.
She was happily married with three kids.
But running a nonprofit while also working full-time as an executive producer was not a simple matter.
It required all of Evelyn’s energy. Standing in the chaos of a second day of rehearsal, watching her team race around the set, she knew why she did it.
She loved making television. She loved being an executive producer.
She saw value in creating art. And she was good at it, too.
When everyone else was losing their cool, she calmed down.
When a problem arose on set, she found herself able to step back, take a measured approach, find the quickest, cheapest and easiest solution to rectify a problem.
She loved putting out fires, confronting a problem that she could actually fix.
Evelyn readjusted the lavalier microphone she was wearing.
“Good morning, everybody,” she said. “If you could all take your places, we’re going to start our second day of rehearsal.”
The cast and crew gathered on the main stage. Evelyn took a few minutes to go through some notes, some rules for safety regarding first day of rehearsal with the puppets, before getting to the most important part.
“If you have not yet heard the news,” she said, pushing all the air out of her chest, “Barry Peters, Head of Content for CBS7-T studios, the man in charge of advertising, monetization and engagement, will be stopping by today to visit, and bringing with him some very important guests.”
A nervous whisper rose up from the crowd.
Evelyn continued. “I know that we still have some kinks to work out in terms of rehearsing, but let’s all try to put our best foot forward today.
Please take note of where the wires are and remember your footing.
Like all great television events in history, we will not be stopping production if you get decapitated! ”
A few people laughed, even though Evelyn wasn’t completely joking. “Otherwise—” Evelyn nodded in the direction of Stella, the choreographer “—we’re beginning today at the top of act three.”
An hour later, Evelyn was in the best damn mood of her life.
The cast had been able to pull off a full run-through of the third act, all the way until the last scene—when Jared’s stand-in, now shouting from a platformed second-story window, called for Tiny Tim. She sat on the edge of her seat, bouncing nervously, as the music began for the grand finale.
It was beautiful. Magical. It felt like Christmas. The singing built into a frenetic crescendo, the puppets reappeared, creating an ethereal and dreamlike new reality . . . and she touched her heart, moved and overwhelmed that her show was not a total and epic disaster.
Sure, one of their child actors waiting on the sidelines had almost got run over by a cameraman, and the shine on the Ghost of Christmas Future puppet was periodically blinding the at-home viewer .
. . but she was going to look at, and hopefully fix, the puppet that evening.
And the kid had learned a valuable lesson about creeping up on camerapeople while filming.
Otherwise, things were going great. Even her headache was feeling weirdly better.
The chorus was still belting out the grand finale, a song about love and second chances, when Demi approached with a wry smile. “Well?” Demi whispered under her breath. “Do you think it’s actually possible that we’re going—”
Evelyn cut her off. “Don’t say it.”
“But it’s only the second day and we just got through—”
Evelyn shushed her. Everyone knew better than to talk about things going well before a show premiered.
It was the kiss of death, a guarantee of bad luck.
The moment one felt safe enough to cheer the inevitable success of your show, the set would catch fire, and a critic with an axe to grind would publish his scathing one-star review in the New York Times.
Evelyn didn’t consider herself particularly superstitious, but she also had no interest in testing her luck out.
It was better to just avoid ever speaking about such things.
Still, the woman wasn’t taking the hint.
Demi kept going on about it, talking about how good everyone was doing, how the music and dance numbers were so moving and made her get teary-eyed.
Evelyn kept waving her away, trying not to pay attention, when thwack.
The door to the set was thrown open, and in streamed a throng of tiny screaming children.
“What the—” Evelyn rose from her seat.
She didn’t have enough time to stop them.
Before she could even figure out what the hell was going on, the children descended.
Like a pack of rabid, attention-starved coyotes, they sped for the stage, touching everything, darting in between cast and crew, squealing with delight at the sight of the makeshift Christmas village now being blanketed in fake snow.
The entire production came to a silent and still stop.
“Excuse me,” Evelyn said, fully using her outdoor voice indoors. “What the—”
“Evelyn!”
The voice caught her off guard. She twisted in her spot to see Barry Peters. Decked out in an expensive suit and a tie dotted with tiny little Christmas trees, he wore a broad smile that, she realized, was meant to claim innocence. She bit back her annoyance and confusion to play the game.
“Barry,” Evelyn said happily, and offered her hand. She couldn’t help but notice his was sticky. “I’m so glad you had the opportunity to stop by.”
He puffed out his chest, all confidence. “Wasn’t going to miss the chance to see our very own CBS7-T master of live-action television in her element.”
“Oh, Barry.” She forced herself to accept the compliment, touching her heart. “You honor me.” And then, as polite as humanly possible, she got right down to figuring out what the hell he was thinking, bringing a bunch of kids to her set. “And these must be . . .”
“Our special guests, obviously!”
The grimace she was trying to pull upward into a smile froze in place. “Our . . .” She swallowed over the words. “These are the special guests you emailed me about?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, oblivious to any problem.
“My kids, their cousins. A few friends. I was telling them all about your fantastic little puppet plan last night, and of course, the little ones wanted to see it. Plus, I promised their mothers I would get them out of their hair for a while. You don’t mind if I leave them here for a bit, do you? ”
“Excuse me?” The air went out of her chest.
“Just for a few hours. I have a lunch appointment in twenty minutes, and frankly, the restaurant isn’t really conducive to entertaining small children. You’re about to take your lunch break, right? And you like children, right?”
It was an unfair question.
It was an unfair . . . everything.
Her eyes shot from Barry to Demi to a little boy with blond hair shaped like a bowl around his eyes, who was staring up at her sixteen-foot Ghost of Christmas Future puppet. He was picking his nose.
Evelyn breathed once, deeply, and swallowed her rage.
She wanted to tell him the truth. That this was totally inappropriate—that a set was not a place to entertain your snot-nosed children while they were off from school for winter holidays.
But because Barry Peters was her boss—and also, clearly, a top-tier narcissist—she did her best to let him down respectfully.
Assertive but not aggressive. Forceful but not a bitch.
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” She smiled, very ladylike.
“Sure,” he said.
She waved him off to a side, until they were both pressed up against cinder blocks and basically in the dark. “I appreciate you being in a jam here,” she said, beneath her breath. “But I don’t believe this is . . . safe, or unionized. I’d like to call legal.”
He shook his head, annoyed. “There are kids everywhere in here.”
This time, the words came out way less polite.
“Those children,” she snapped at him, before once again, pulling back, “are actors. They’re professionals.
” She also wanted to add that they followed instructions.
Unlike his offspring who, judging by the way Snotty McGee kept tip-toeing toward the puppets, had clearly never heard the word no.
Then again, the apple never fell too far from the tree.
“Evelyn,” he said, his tone edging into anger. “You know I fought for you on this project.”
“I realize that, Barry.”
“And considering all the money and time spent making this show happen exactly as you wanted it to happen—” his eyes lifted to meet hers directly “—I think you could be a little more hospitable to the folks who decide whether this show is the first of many for you . . . or the last of your career here.”
There it was. The last great play of every narcissist. The ultimatum.
She tipped her own king over. “Of course.” She beamed, and forced the words out through her teeth. “What’s a few hours, right? I mean . . . we’re already so far ahead.”
“That’s the spirit!” Barry said, and slapped her on the arm once. The intensity of the strike caused her to lose her footing.
Barry departed. The children took their cue. All at once, the screaming began. The little ones started running around set, going for the puppets, while the older ones began complaining they were bored.
“Evelyn . . .” Demi grumbled beneath her breath. “What should we do here?”
Evelyn surveyed the disaster unfolding before her.
She needed to think quickly. There was no way to continue this rehearsal and babysit seven unruly children spanning between the ages of what appeared to be six and seventeen.
She needed someone to hock them off on, who liked doing that sort of thing . . .
David.
He loved kids. He had wanted a whole, big family.
She shook the memory away.
“Wait here,” she said, and raced toward the elevators, only turning around to offer one final instruction to her most trusted member of staff. “And whatever you do,” she said, the words coming out strained, panicked, “don’t let them touch the puppets.”