30. Sienna
Sienna
“Arms up.”
I do as I’m told, allowing the costume designer to get under my armpits. It tickles, but I don’t think laughing is a great idea right now.
She seems pissed—as if I’ve personally offended her in some way.
I’m guessing it’s because of all the meetings I’ve missed so far. And, instead of saying something about it, she’s just being super passive-aggressive.
Or maybe the reason she’s speaking to me in clipped sentences and avoiding eye contact, is because I’m an embarrassment to everyone in production for being caught with my pants down.
“Arms down.”
I watch as the woman straightens my skirts.
I’m wearing a slip dress and ballet flats.
My character is a lovesick florist, still hung up on Holden’s character from the first movie.
He left. She was heartbroken. She keeps a sprig of lavender in her pocket now, wherever she goes, because he gave her a lavender plant when they first met.
I head into a conference room, and every single fucking head turns my way.
Own it, Sienna.
Their opinions don’t matter to you.
Flip the narrative.
I raise my chin, forcing myself to keep my back straight. I haven’t gone to a million reformer classes to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
I flip my hair over my shoulder and take a copy of the script from the pile.
“I didn’t think you would be joining us today, Sienna,” says a man on my right whom I vaguely remember from the previous movie.
“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises.”
“You can say that again,” interjects a woman a few seats down whom I’ve never seen before.
The director takes his seat at the head of the table, and as I look around the table, not one single person is smiling.
I hear the sound of rustling paper as everyone grabs their scripts, turning pages until they find the first scene. I watch everyone stare blankly at the sheets in front of them. I know that look. It’s the getting-into-character look when making a movie is the only thing you care about in life.
Even when I was hung up on Holden and thought about him 24/7, I was forced to separate from my emotions when I was on set. It actually helped at times when things were tough between us. It was nice to escape, to abandon my life for the day and become someone else.
But I realize now there are consequences to pressing pause on your real life. Like exes, problems eventually come back, calling your name, dragging you back in. And the only way you can shake them off for good is if you confront them head-on.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. She came in wearing this black and purple romper. You’ll never guess what the print was,” says a woman who’s sitting opposite me to the woman sitting next to her.
I can’t help but tune in to their conversation.
“Lily’s always been a little eccentric,” says the other woman. “Bold personality, bold fashion choices. I’m guessing she was wearing polka dots.”
“Gingham.” The girl looks like she’s about to throw up. “A black and purple gingham romper. It was so ugly.”
I stare across the table at the woman. That was me two years ago, when my biggest concern in life was other people’s fashion choices.
“I hear gingham is making a comeback,” I say.
The woman turns toward me, a disdainful look on her face. “I hear having foursomes with murderers is coming back in, too.” She sticks her finger up. “But I’m sure you already know that.”
The room falls silent, every face turning my way.
Wow, I really know how to attract an audience.
I smile and relax back into my seat. I’m the female fucking lead in this movie. This chick will probably be lucky to have three lines.
“Let’s begin,” says the director, opening the script, and acting like that didn’t just happen.
The co-director sitting beside him tosses me the evil eye. They’re married. From the looks of things, she’s not happy to see my face, which suggests her husband has seen my ass. In all its glory.
Typical. Even married men can’t help themselves. You can have a ring on your finger, thirty years of marriage behind you, and still want to click subscribe in order to see a young, hot actress’s butt.
This is exactly the kind of thing that terrifies me. What I have with my men is good now, but things change. People grow old. Develop wrinkles. Gravity starts pulling things to the ground.
I adjust the script in my hand, my palms suddenly clammy.
It’s not even been twenty-four hours, yet I crave to look in their eyes and feel that reassurance that only they can make me feel.
But I’m still on the fence about giving myself completely to them.
Surrendering feels easy with them, but it’s scary.
It didn’t feel scary in the mountains. The thought of quitting actually felt very easy when I was up there.
But here in LA, I’m back in my head again. Which would explain the overthinking.
“Damnit!” The director slams his hand on the table, startling a few cast members. “This orange juice has pulp in it. I specifically remember asking for no pulp.”
Someone clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.
“Sorry, sir!” squeaks out the intern, scurrying back down the hallway to get the correct type of orange juice.
Poor thing… She’s an intern, probably still in school, and this grown-ass man is losing his shit over some pulp?
His wife/co-director rubs his back. “It’s okay, Rupert,” she says in a soothing voice.
You’d think he’d lost a leg.
Cash is right. People here are so rich and entitled that they start looking for problems because they’re bored.
And this used to be me.
A couple of years ago, I was sitting in the hair and makeup trailer, bummed that they’d used the wrong blush on me. I was crying actual tears while Grammy, back in Michigan, was drawing her last breath.
Since when did I become so out of touch?
“Lily! O-M-G! Melissa and I didn’t think you’d be here.”
I sit back, humoring myself as the woman jumps up, wrapping her arms around the woman who’s just walked in.
The woman she was tearing to shreds only minutes ago.
“Cute skirt,” she says in the fakest voice I’ve ever heard.
“Thanks.” Lily smooths the gingham maxi skirt she’s wearing and sits down.
I catch the woman’s eye across the table as she sits down again.
What a bitch.
I let a smirk crawl onto my face as I grab her attention. “You don’t think it’s dreadful anymore?”
The woman purses her lips and looks away, adjusting her hair so it covers more of her face.
I drop the script back on the table, my chair scraping on the floor as I stand up. The attention is back on me again.
“Sienna?” calls the director, swiveling around in his seat as I march out of the room. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m out of here.” I spin around and take one last look at all these people whom I’m now positive I never want to see again.
“You can’t do that,” he grumbles loudly. “You just got back, and you need to learn your lines.”
“You don’t get to tell me what to do. So why don’t you take that pulp and shove it up your ass?”