Chapter Thirty-Four
GRAMERCY TAVERN IS one of those New York dining institutions I’ve heard of but never had a reason to go to.
It’s all rich, dark woods, sexy lighting, and white linens from the second Rebecca and I walk in the door.
They already have their holiday decor up around the space, with tasteful touches like evergreen boughs that are draped across wooden beams and shelves.
We’re greeted by a lovely hostess immediately, our coats whisked away by a porter as soon as she hears we’re there for Chris Ross’s dinner.
We’re led through a full dining room to a private room tucked in the back.
My heart races as I take it all in: the long table running through the middle, the candles, the handful of people milling about with drinks in hand.
My brain is in work-mode overdrive, so Chris is the first person I register.
He’s talking with the white-haired man I met at the Limelight office months ago—John, the director of photography.
Chris looks better than he did on the Zoom just a few weeks ago; he’s less gaunt and tired looking and his sandy blond hair has been tamed into submission.
I feel Oliver before I find him. A warm sensation zings up my spine.
My eyes scan the room, unseeing all the other faces until they settle on the far corner.
There he is, looking devastating in a bespoke gray suit and black sweater, head bent slightly as he talks with a short brown-haired man I’ve never seen before.
Oliver’s eyes are already on me. A current passes between us, electric when it runs all the way through me. He put me up for this job—but why? With the way we left things before graduation and all the years after when we didn’t speak, why?
“May I get you something to drink?”
My attention snaps to the tray-bearing waiter that appeared in front of Rebecca and me. She orders a dirty martini; I ask for the same. When the server leaves with a polite nod, he’s replaced by Damian, the producer we met with just last month.
“Welcome!” he says, and I notice the reddish tinge to his cheeks that matches the ginger hair. “So glad you could both join us.”
I smile and avoid looking at the empty drink in his hand. Chris had said this dinner was more civilized than the wrap party; I can only imagine how rowdy an all-cast-and-crew event gets.
“Good to see you, Damian,” Rebecca says.
“Happy to be here,” I reply. “Thanks so much for the invite.”
“Come, come, let me introduce you to some people.”
With a jerk of his head in the general direction of the room, Damian leads Rebecca and me around the space.
First, we meet the only other woman in the room, a tall, athletic-looking person named Michelle, who I learn was the unit production manager for the show.
Chris and John break away from their conversation to greet us with handshakes and hellos.
We make our way to the corner, where Oliver and the stranger are still talking quietly with each other.
“Adam, please meet Celia and Rebecca,” Damian says as he waves his empty drink around us. “Rebecca here is our music supervisor, and Celia cowrote the music with Oliver.”
Adam is about my height, with a wiry build and watery eyes. He smiles at us, exposing straight teeth already stained a pale shade of purple thanks to the glass of red wine in his hand.
“Are you going to tell them what I do, or are you going to make me say it?” Adam asks of Damian, who laughs and claps a hand on Adam’s shoulder.
“Sorry, sorry—Adam is our head writer. The best in the business, honestly.”
We all exchange nice-to-meet-yous and quick how-are-yous. A martini appears in my hand just as Damian looks to Oliver and says, “I heard you two went all the way up to Maine to write the score.”
Oliver nods. “We did. My family has a studio up there.”
“How did that work?” Adam asks, his gaze bouncing between Oliver and me. “Did you two have to live together and work together?”
“Yep. Roommates and coconspirators,” I reply with a smile. I can’t bring myself to look at Oliver when I add, “It was pretty easy, actually. He’s a great collaborator.”
Not the truth, exactly, but not a lie, either.
Adam shakes his head, flabbergasted by this. “I could never. I can’t speak to anyone when I’m in the middle of writing. Even my wife knows to leave me alone.”
“We know,” Damian smirks.
The clinking of metal on glass turns everyone’s attention to the middle of the room.
Chris stands at the head of the table, fork in one hand, glass of what looks like whiskey in the other.
It hits me then, all at once—I’m here, in this room, surrounded by people who have decades of experience in the industry I’ve been gunning for all my life.
They’re Oscar winners, studio favorites, the people who are responsible for making some of the most beloved movies of the last ten years.
And I’m here. My heart jumps into my throat. Now I just have to convince them to let me stay.
“Before we sit down to eat, I just wanted to take a second to say thank you,” Chris says.
“We all know it takes a huge crew to get a show off the ground, and every one of you played an integral part in that. You read Adam’s words, saw my vision, and ran with it—so a moment of gratitude for all of you, for helping me to build this plane while flying it. ”
“To building the plane,” Michelle replies as she raises her champagne flute.
The rest of us raise our glasses as Adam adds, “And to safe landings.”
A chorus of chuckles rumbles around the room while everyone clinks their glasses together and drinks. A group of servers descends on our table to pull out chairs. I make my way toward it, a little uncertain of where I should sit, when I feel a light tug at my elbow.
I glance behind me to find Oliver much closer than I expected. His scent finds me, cutting through the savory smells coming from the kitchen. When I take a deep breath through my nose, his pupils dilate.
“I got your text,” he whispers. “We’ll talk after dinner.”
My cheeks heat and my mind reels. I need an explanation from him, but this is not the time or the place.
There’s no way anyone can hear us, but the people in this room cannot even see this exchange; I can’t risk them getting the wrong idea.
I smile as brightly as I can when I step away, hoping this will look like an easy conversation between friends to anyone who might be watching.
The table is set for ten, but there are only nine of us here, including a man I haven’t met yet. Everyone is settling into chairs, and there are three open spots left: two next to each other to the right of where Chris sits at the head, and one on the other side, between John and Rebecca.
I make a game-time decision to sit between Rebecca and John. I have to put some distance between Oliver and me. If I sit next to him, I won’t be able to focus at all.
This means he takes the seat directly across from me.
As we both settle into our chairs, my eyes look to him, but he’s quick to fall into conversation with Damian.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’ll all be fine—just yesterday, we sat at the piano and told each other we weren’t ready for this to be over.
I’ll get some answers, and we’ll get through it together.
Dinner is served as a series of plated courses.
It’s rich, hearty food dished up in tiny, elegant portions, the kind of fine dining I can never afford on my own.
Between bites of steak tartare, roasted squash, and tortellini, I manage to learn a lot about John.
He’s been married four times, divorced three, and has two kids, one of whom is working as a cinematographer, just like him.
When he makes a sarcastic joke about how hard it must be to be a nepo baby, I force myself to laugh.
Conversation weaves around the table. Sometimes, the whole group talks about Lineage; other times, they talk about Chris’s last movie, which they all worked on together.
I contribute as much as I can, but it’s obvious that I’m the least experienced person at this table.
I’m introduced to Tom, the last person for me to meet, and learn he’s also a producer.
All the while, I nurse my martini, intent on maintaining some control over myself despite how overwhelmed I am.
Not that it would matter—everyone here is drinking plenty. The wine flows through every course. Voices grow louder and faces grow splotchy and red as the evening wears on. Everyone’s lips seem to be loosening, too. We shift from industry chat to industry gossip by the time the desserts arrive.
When Tom starts telling a story about a book adaptation they had to kill because they discovered the author had a semisecret identity dedicated to harassing women online, I let my attention wander to Oliver for the first time since sitting down.
I’m surprised to find he’s already looking at me, that singular focus of his locked in despite the empty wineglass next to him.
I feel hot all over, all the way down to my bones.
“You said you went to Juilliard, right?” John asks, effectively snapping that tether between Oliver and me.
“Yes! I did my undergrad there in music.”
He sighs as he runs a hand over the gray five o’clock shadow on his jaw.
“My youngest is talking about going there for acting. She graduates next year, but my ex-wife is trying to talk her into staying in LA where they live. Would you be open to talking to her about it? Telling her what campus life is like and all that?”
John looks like he’s in his sixties, and he has a daughter that’s seventeen? Ignoring the mental math, I say, “Yeah, of course. Happy to help. I’ll give you my number?”
When John and I exchange digits, I can’t help but think—One down, five more to go.