Chapter Twenty-Four
Evelyn arrived on set the next morning in peak form. Her makeup, like her hair, had come out perfect. Her head was clear, no sign of a headache. She couldn’t help but wonder if lighting the hanukkiah the previous evening had done the trick, because suddenly she felt alive with hope and possibility.
She had nothing to worry about. David had been safely relegated back to his medical bay.
Jared Sparks had nearly twenty years of experience in both music and film.
So what that almost all the major musical numbers had to be reblocked at the last minute, and she was dangerously close to becoming one of those cautionary television tales—Evelyn “Icarus” Schwartz, the executive producer who flew too close to the sun.
She had managed every disaster in television before this one, all to great success. No doubt it would be the same with A Christmas Carol.
Approaching the studio with her tablet in hand, she was surprised to hear that Jared Sparks had already arrived.
His voice boomed through the door, echoing out into the hall.
His distinct British accent, the way he elongated every r like he was growling hungrily, was completely mesmerizing.
Her feet came to a standstill outside the door. He was reciting Shakespeare.
“‘From fairest creatures we desire increase.’” Jared spoke eloquently, passionately. “‘That thereby beauty’s rose might never die. But as the riper should by time decease, his tender heir might bear his memory . . .’”
Listening outside, her hand wandered toward her heart.
He was magnificent. For one, his vocal timbre was stunning.
The recordings she had heard of him didn’t remotely capture the unique tonal quality of his voice in person.
But it wasn’t just that. His breathing was controlled.
His pauses strategic. He was able to modulate his voice, controlling his pitch, volume, speed and tone, articulating key passages and phrases to heighten the emotional connection to his audience.
Evelyn was blown away. Though he might have learned some of that skill set while studying music for six months at Juilliard, or during the two-year stint he undertook studying Shakespeare at Bristol Old Vic Theatre in England, what Jared had was beyond training. It was God-given talent.
She could already envision the row of Emmy Awards that would line her shelves. She would have so many of them she would use the extras for doorstops. Jared Sparks was a consummate professional.
She figuratively patted herself on the back for the wise decision to hire him.
The passionate pitch she had made to the top-tier executives—the gamble, really—that Jared Sparks, despite his exorbitant price tag, was the only person with enough talent and star power to play Scrooge.
Evelyn took a deep breath and, not wanting to fan-girl all over the man, forced herself to maintain a veneer of professionalism, stepping on set.
Jared Sparks was naked.
Correction. He was still wearing his infamously tight leather pants, but he had taken off his top, socks and shoes.
Her eyes trailed over his form. The tufts of brown curls all over his chest. His erect nipples. He was also sitting on a stool, legs spread open . . . which, given the degree of tightness of said pants, left nothing to the imagination.
Yet, somehow, among all that early-morning nudity, he had managed to keep on his jewelry. A series of leather bangles with silver charms danced up his left wrist and matched the Buddhist prayer beads he wore in rows and as a necklace.
Evelyn blinked, speechless, and tried to make sense of the vision before her.
For one, it was winter. Far too cold to be walking about outside shirtless.
But she found herself thinking back to the nonstop barrage of emails that Jared’s agent had sent her.
Jared has a very delicate nature. Jared needs emotional clarity to prepare.
Jared must have yellow starbursts and blue M&M’s ONLY, filled up three quarters of the way in blue gallon freezer bags.
Suddenly, she felt very worried. There was something very #metoo about the scene that instantly rubbed her the wrong way.
She glanced toward Demi, who amazingly didn’t seem bothered—and decided to put her concerns on the back burner for the time being.
Evelyn had trained Demi early on to report to her immediately if something felt off about working with a cast or crew member.
In her seven years working at CBS7-T, but especially since Marla’s passing, she had pushed out dozens of problematic staff.
Indeed, part of her impetus in creating Women in Film & Television was to create a safer space for all those who came after her.
But Demi wasn’t complaining. In fact, it was the opposite.
The entire set had gone full-blown catatonic, mesmerized in their places by the man.
Most of them were now kneeling on the ground before him, chins balanced on their fists, mouths slack .
. . like they were all witnessing the arrival of the Moshiach.
She decided not to overthink it. He still had his pants on, after all. He wasn’t touching people inappropriately or masturbating into a potted plant whenever a woman entered the room. The man was a little peculiar, yes . . . but also, thus far, totally harmless.
Talent always had to be managed.
Jared was just coming to the big finale of his sonnet. “‘Pity the word,’” he continued, his eyes lifting to the heavens while his voice dipped into melancholy. “‘Or else this glutton be. To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.’”
Simply remarkable. Evelyn placed her tablet under her arm and began applauding frenetically.
“Bravo!” she shouted, from her vantage point at the back of the room.
“Bravo!” She motioned for everyone in attendance to do the same.
The crowd joined in, cheering alongside her.
After a solid sixty seconds of nonstop adoration, she introduced herself properly.
“I’m Evelyn,” she said, extending one hand.
“Executive producer of A Christmas Carol. We’re so honored to finally have you here. ”
“Evelyn,” he said, his dark eyes settling on her. “I’ve been longing to meet you.”
He popped off the stool, came down the stage, quickly making his way toward her.
A flush of heat instantly rose to her cheeks.
Jared didn’t walk around set like some mere mortal.
He glided . . . groin first. She forced her eyes to remain firmly focused on his eyes.
“I cannot tell you how honored we all are to start the morning off with such a tremendous performance. I’ve always been such a huge fan of Shakespeare—”
“Evelyn, Evelyn, Evelyn.” He sighed, interrupting her. “Let’s not begin with such dreadfully boring formalities, right?”
From there, he ignored her hand lingering between them, and instead grabbed her by the arms, pulling her forward and planting four quick kisses in succession on each of her cheeks.
She recognized it immediately as a greeting from the European tradition.
But, as an American, she totally wasn’t expecting it.
“Wow,” she said when he released her. “Okay. Wasn’t expecting that.”
“It’s much better though, right?” Jared inquired curiously. “To touch, to kiss, to feel the intimacy of this relationship that you and I are just about to begin.” He placed one finger on the center of his chin, angling his head sideways. “I will admit, though, you’re not what I expected.”
“Oh,” she said, surprised. “Well, yes . . . many people are shocked at how young I am.”
She wasn’t insulted. It was unusual for someone Evelyn’s age to be at her level professionally.
Most executive producers she worked with were in their fifties, at least. Quickly, she moved to alleviate any of Jared’s concerns.
She puffed out her chest and met his eyes directly.
“But I assure you, Mr. Sparks, I have years of experience doing live productions under my belt. I am here to personally assure that everything—from your time in New York, to your costume fittings, to the candy available in your dressing room—will be to your specifications.”
“Right,” he said, and tugged on one ear. “It’s not that, actually.”
She squinted, confused. And then, as was her nature, sought to satisfy the man again. “Then, if I may ask,” she said, trying her best to be delicate, “was everything in your dressing room to your liking?”
“It was fine.” He sighed again, this time longer, and his eyes drifted over to a stage-door exit. Evelyn couldn’t help but get the sense that something was dreadfully wrong. Once again, she attempted to suss her star out.
“And your costume?” she asked, pointing politely at his bare chest. “Was there an issue with the fit of the items in your dressing room?”
“It’s just something feels off.”
“With the costume?” She was relieved to hear his partial nudity came with a good reason.
“Well, I apologize for that, Mr. Sparks. As you know, we do our best with the measurements sent to us beforehand, but mistakes happen. People lose weight. People gain weight. Measurements can get tricky between continents. But no worries. I have you scheduled for a one-fifteen final fitting with our costume designer, and any issues with your wardrobe will be resolved then.”
She waved Demi forward, and God bless the woman, because she was already on it, tapping out an email to Pooja, head of costume design.
Evelyn was certain that this news would satisfy her shining star, and yet, when she waved for Jared to follow her—tried to nudge him along so that they could get the rest of the cast and crew in place to begin their first day of rehearsal together—he wasn’t moving.
She returned to his side, trying again. “Jared,” she said pleasingly. Politely. “If you would just follow me, we can get everybody ready to start rehearsal.”
His head angled upward toward the sky. “It’s quite a thing, innit?”
“What?”