Chapter 4 Harper
“They appear to be stuck,” Kelsey whispered as she and Harper scanned the living room from the second-floor landing, stowed away behind a case of Mediterranean artifacts.
Below the landing, three of the four weekend warriors had draped themselves across designer chairs and couches, a flutter of papers on the floor in their attempt to find a decent script.
“Like beached whales,” Kelsey continued, and Harper corked a giggle with her hand. The team did look like a pod waiting for a giant wave of inspiration to sweep them away.
Harper nodded at the counter where she’d serve lunch. One of the producers had requested pigs in a blanket so she’d already slipped a baking sheet full of them into the oven before hiding away with her friend. “I need to help Dirk with the lunch trays.”
“Can’t you wait until they ask for food?” Kelsey sighed as if Harper was depriving her of much-needed entertainment.
“Only if we want Dirk to lose his job.”
Kelsey snorted. “My father is never going to fire him.”
“Then he’ll fire me, and I don’t have anyplace else to go.”
“He’s not going to let you go either,” Kelsey said. “But if you decided to leave, you’d land right back on your feet.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Even if she managed to get a full-time production job, she’d need at least two roommates to afford LA rent.
If only Evan would read one of her scripts and recommend it to another director or producer. Maybe she could actually get paid for doing what she loved.
She glanced down the hall at the closed door to his suite, the stack of clean towels and breakfast tray she’d delivered still outside.
As the team below reviewed mounds of printed scripts, pre-approved by a host of first readers, Evan and Marlo had stowed themselves away the past two days, waiting for the producers to recommend a story idea that would continue Evan’s legacy in the industry along with the income to expand his portfolio, reputation, and square feet.
While Marlo had yet to make an appearance this morning, Mop Man—with the actual name of Chet Taylor—joined Sissie and Tony. After he’d winked at her yesterday morning, when she brought them a round of cappuccinos, she refused to meet his eye.
Sissie shoved a lapful of papers onto the floor. “This is all rubbish.”
Chet peeked over the top of a paper, his feet perched on the arm of the opposite chair. “No one says rubbish anymore.”
“He’s cute, huh?” Kelsey whispered from their hiding spot.
“If you like mops.”
“Rubbish is still rubbish,” Sissie spouted like a diva whale. “Where did Evan get this trash?”
Chet leaned forward on the chair, elbows on his knees. “Probably from the guy delivering his pizza.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Tony removed his clunky black glasses and cleaned them on the same T-shirt he’d worn Friday and Saturday. “Lame writer move.”
Harper cringed at his snark. Writers, she’d learned over the years, were considered a necessary evil in Hollywood.
While a script was essential for every production, finding the right one with the right setting for the right budget was a daunting task.
And many novice screenwriters would do about anything to watch their story on the silver screen.
Like impersonating a pizza delivery guy, if necessary, to get on a set.
Then again, pizza might have been the writer’s full-time gig. Most didn’t work as a director’s housekeeper while waiting for their big break.
This dream of hers to become a screenwriter was part wonder, part albatross.
But from the time she was a girl, she’d dreamed about writing something so remarkable that a director would find it compelling enough to put on a screen.
And that viewers would want to journey with her and her characters until the credits rolled.
That was the magic of story—she could take moviegoers to a million places without ever leaving their seats— but at times like this, she hated the whole industry.
Sissie took a sip of her contraband cocktail. “At least the writer didn’t attempt to send it by singing telegram.”
Troy groaned. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. My assistant kicked out the messenger before he finished the logline.”
Chet leaned back and tossed a tennis ball into the air, catching it with the opposite hand. “Anyone that bold should be heard.”
“I heard plenty,” Sissie said, “and my office door was closed.”
“It’s a wretched business,” Chet replied.
And Harper agreed.
Chet picked up another stack from the pile of scripts. “There’s got to be a decent idea in here somewhere.”
Sissie laughed. “Decent won’t convince the man upstairs. We need something creative and compelling and . . .”
“Brilliant,” Chet said, holding up the stack.
“I’d take a diamond in the rough right now.” Sissie kicked the papers that she’d dropped. “Just the tiniest glimmer.”
“Maybe Evan should have invited an actual screenwriter to this party,” Chet said.
Sissie shook her head. “He doesn’t want to deal with actual writers.”
“Which makes our job practically impossible.”
Kelsey poked Harper’s arm. “This is your chance to wow them.”
Harper swatted her friend’s hand away. “Did you just hear what they said about writers approaching them?”
“But your ideas are brilliant.”
“Only because you’re my best friend,” Harper said.
“I told you that I’d always be honest with you.”
And she had. Four years ago, when Harper was a junior at USC, she’d asked Kelsey what she thought about one of her manuscripts. Her friend had grimaced before speaking. “It reads film school.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“If you want to shoot a film for USC,” Kelsey had said. “It’s not ready for the big screen.”
Harper had wished in that moment that Kelsey wasn’t quite so candid.
“I’ll be your friend until the end of time or I can be your Hollywood connection,” Kelsey told her. “But I can’t be both.”
Harper had thought long and hard about Kelsey’s ultimatum. She needed someone to open doors into the film industry, but in the end, she’d chosen friend. And she’d never regretted it. Kelsey still listened to her many ideas and read a few of her recent scripts, but she’d stopped critiquing her work.
“One time,” Tony continued, “someone pounded on my window as I pulled into the lot. He kept shouting that he held the ticket to my success.”
“Maybe he did,” Chet said. “Missed opportunity.”
“I didn’t lose any sleep over it, especially after the many names he pelted at me before security escorted him away. Desperation carries a stench of its own.”
“That’s Tony Bates,” Kelsey whispered, and Harper knew him as one of Evan’s favorite associate producers.
“Like you’ve never been desperate,” Sissie said.
“We’ve all been desperate,” Tony conceded. “But we can’t show it. And we would never, ever send a screenplay with flowers or in a pizza box or . . . I was going to say chocolate, but I was glad to eat the entire box before I tossed the script.”
Brutal, all of them. They had no idea how difficult it was for a screenwriter to find an actual director or producer willing to read their work.
Any decision-maker in the industry, for that matter.
No wonder aspiring writers tucked their pages under windshield wipers or pitched their idea in the form of a telegram.
“They’re the desperate ones,” Kelsey whispered. “Dad’s going to have another meltdown if they don’t propose revisions to at least one of those scripts by tonight or come up with a better idea on their own.”
Harper wished she had the courage to barge into the discussion and tell them about Miles, but she hadn’t even prepared the essential elevator pitch—an entire movie in sixty seconds or less.
Besides, there wasn’t much difference, really, in her knocking on a producer’s window or accosting them with an unsolicited idea when she was supposed to be serving lunch.
“Are there any pigs in a blanket around here?” Tony called as if a platter of finger food might appear.
Harper stepped out from behind the case. “That’s my cue.”
Kelsey followed her. “I’m going with you.”
And she had no reason to protest. It was Kelsey’s house, after all. She could go wherever she liked.
The two women jogged down the steps, into the family kitchen that was now cluttered with plates, espresso cups, and tumblers. Evan had told Wendi not to let anyone interrupt the creative flow except for the delivery of food and drink, but someone needed to clean up the mess soon.
Harper pulled on oven mitts and opened the oven to check the croissant-covered hot dogs. They needed another minute or two to bake, so she pulled out bags of pre-cut veggies and cheese to replenish an empty plate.
“I think today is your day,” Kelsey said as she helped Harper arrange the veggies.
“It’s really not.”
“Carpe diem!”
“You’re my friend, Kelsey, not my agent.”
Kelsey studied her for a moment, and Harper knew she was replaying the same conversation from four years past. Then her friend turned toward the open living room. “Harper has an idea for you.”
“Kelsey,” she hissed. This would not, could not, happen. Sissie, Chet, and Tony were not merely beached. They were killer whales. And killer whales, the skilled dolphin hunters of the sea, didn’t just eat smaller prey. They ate other whales!
Kelsey nudged her forward like she’d been tossed the last ring on a sinking ship. “Come on, Harper.”
And she had no choice. It was up to her now to swim.
Tony eyed her skeptically. “You’re not going to sing your pitch, are you?”
Harper tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a cackle.
“What’s your concept?” Chet asked, catching and releasing the tennis ball.
Harper inched into the living room but didn’t dare look at Chet. “It’s for a movie . . .”
“I sure hope so.” Sissie lit a cigarette and took a long draw. “Or we’re all wasting time.”
Stupid. Why did she say that? Of course her idea was for a movie.
Harper pulled off the oven mitts and scrunched them in one hand.
“You have a title?” Sissie asked.