Chapter 2 #2
In truth, I have neither a lawyer nor an agent. I do, however, have the willingness to exploit this if it gets me the job.
“Whoa, no,” Kelvin says, holding up both hands. “That’s not what we meant.”
Vespa gives me a tight smile and says, “We don’t discriminate based on relationship status. Or anything else.”
“Of course not,” I say with a smile, waving a dismissive hand.
“I believe that’s illegal. But …” I look between them both, hoping I’m reading this and playing this correctly.
“If you’re looking for someone you can count on, that’s me.
And if my boyfriend being local helps reassure you, I understand.
Even if it doesn’t officially factor into your decision. ”
I punctuate this with a wink.
They exchange another glance. Come on, nonexistent boyfriend who’s almost a fiancé. Do some heavy lifting for me.
“It’s just,” Kelvin says slowly, “we’ve had some issues with cast members. You know … getting together. Breaking up. Drama on set. Quitting. Revenge.”
Revenge? Okay, that went somewhere unexpected. Especially at a network known for making sweet, heartfelt movies. I make a mental note to check Reddit later to see if I can find out what that’s all about.
“Things blew up, resulting in bad press,” Kelvin continues. “Brightmark makes positive, uplifting content, and having our actors’ personal lives not aligning with that hurts our brand.”
“We’ve seen your social media accounts,” Vespa says.
“And your personal brand aligns very well with Brightmark. With the studio’s move to Sheet Cake, we’re making a fresh start.
We’re not just looking for actors to fill one role.
We want a committed cast who will appear in multiple movies.
Actors who will stick around and be the new faces of Brightmark Studios. ”
Oh. Oh. No wonder they’re taking this so seriously. This is much bigger than a single role. It sounds more like a studio stock company or contract players.
Which makes me want the job even more. Even if this wasn’t my original dream job, the idea of a long-term safety net versus a singular role in one movie sounds amazing.
“I am definitely not single and not into drama, on set or off. Absolutely never into revenge. Just a newly local girl in a committed relationship who would really like”—the stupid air horn blows again and I almost fall out of my metal chair—“to work with Brightmark studios.”
Kelvin sets down his pen and says, “You said you’re here at the festival with your boyfriend?”
I stiffen. “Yes?”
Again, Vespa and Kelvin share some silent communication. The yes is coming. I can almost taste it!
But at the same time, I feel a shroud of doom settling over my shoulders like an icy scarf. Because I lied. I may be desperate, but lying to get a job makes me feel icky.
Lying is wrong just in principle. Of course.
But in a more practical sense, lying is like dropping a spool of thread over a cliff. The lie tumbles down, taking on a life of its own. You have no idea how far down it will go, how much the thread will unravel before it runs out or hits the rocky bottom.
“We’re hosting a lunch today for some Brightmark execs, producers, and cast members,” Vespa says. “We’d love to have you join us.”
“That would be wonderful.” I relax back into my chair. Crisis avoided. I managed to draw that yarn back up, no problem. Whew. “I would love that.”
Vespa stands, closing her notebook. “Great. We’ll see you both in just a few moments.”
I cannot move. I am now a statue, forever immortalized in this trailer because of my stupid lie.
“Both?” I whisper.
Vespa starts packing up her things with no regard for the alarm bells ringing in my brain. “Yes,” she says. “You and your boyfriend. We’d love to have you both for lunch. Since you’re here together.”
“When?” I ask, hoping they don’t hear the quiver in my voice.
Kelvin looks at his watch. “In about twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address, but it’s close.” He laughs. “Everything in this town is. Is the phone number in your resume correct?”
I nod dumbly.
“Well, not to get ahead of ourselves here, but let’s just say this was a very productive audition,” Vespa says. She winks, which looks ominous paired with the purple lipstick, but I dredge up a smile.
“Wonderful,” I say.
Terrible, I think. Looks like I actually took the spool of thread and tossed it out of an airplane before leaping out behind it.
Kelvin holds open the door, and I exit the trailer in a daze, immediately thrown back into the heat of the day and the bustling activity of the festival.
Of course—the festival. There are thousands of people here.
How hard can it be to find one man willing to be my fake boyfriend for the next hour or so?
Like some kind of mirage appearing in a sun-soaked desert (if the desert were a festival celebrating cake and all things deep-fried), I spot a perfect pretend boyfriend.
I notice him first because he’s big. Taller than most of the people having to walk around him since he’s standing in the middle of the path.
Dark hair, slightly messy like he’s been running his hand through it or maybe just took off a hat.
Warm skin that looks like it gets a healthy dose of sun and a dark beard emphasize the rugged look.
His gray athletic T-shirt hugs a physique clearly borne from hours in one of those gyms where they throw tires and things.
But it’s not the looks or his proximity that make him perfect.
It’s the giant stuffed unicorn in his arms. I see it and I just know. This man is fake boyfriend material. He’s even got the perfect prop! Unless he won the unicorn for a girlfriend.
But he’s totally alone—looking a little lost and sad, actually—and my feet are already moving.
He seems slightly familiar. Maybe I follow him on social media?
There are so many accounts and people who flash through my feed that I don’t always remember.
Or maybe he just has one of those faces that looks familiar to everyone.
Before I can tell myself not to dig a deeper hole, I’m touching his arm and asking, “If you’re single, can I borrow you for an hour or so?“