Chapter 8
T he first day of shooting, Renee pulled her rental car up to the gate of Lola’s house in the Hollywood Hills. She was so exhausted that she almost couldn’t feel the anxiety thrumming in her chest, her stomach, the palms of her hands.
Almost.
She had spent the previous night sleepless, too hot, and snarled in the sheets of her hotel bed, thinking of all the reasons she should back out before she totally humiliated herself.
She wasn’t qualified to direct anything , let alone a feature-length film, a monthslong shoot, under the eye of Lola’s team—who clearly didn’t want her here, since they’d assigned Micah to babysit her.
Renee nearly longed for the toxic atmosphere of her MFA program.
At least there, like a toddler tripping over her own feet, she didn’t have very far to fall before hitting the ground.
Here, she risked plummeting from much greater heights.
In the dim hotel room, Renee had mentally composed a dozen panicked emails to Dragan, and actually looked up the deadline to withdraw for a tuition refund.
She’d begun accepting that when Kadijah called her Walk Away Renee, it would no longer refer to her abysmal dating record.
It probably wasn’t too late to get her job back at Prince’s, if she begged.
She had steeled herself for the look on her mother’s face: disappointed, not surprised.
But then, as the sun was lightening the sky, Renee thought about Lola.
Or more accurately, thought about Lola again.
This time, it was an image of her that wouldn’t leave Renee’s mind—and not the image of Lola’s mouth falling open as Renee’s lips tightened over her nipple, which Renee barely thought about anymore.
No, it was of Lola sitting in that production meeting like a silent piece of set dressing, while the real players talked around her, about her.
But she had put her foot down about working with Chess Waterston.
Lola said she didn’t know what she wanted out of a film about her life. What Renee heard was an unspoken yet . She was putting her story in Renee’s hands until she figured out how she wanted it told.
When it came down to it, Lola needed her.
That felt big. It felt important.
Now, the gate swung open and Renee drove up to a generous, Spanish-style home in white stucco with a terra-cotta roof.
A burbling fountain stood in the middle of the circular drive, ringed with mature palm trees.
Renee whistled through her teeth. Lola had come a long way from Fellows.
The crew had congregated near the craft services van serving coffee, surrounded by hard-sided cases of gear.
Micah loped over to meet Renee as she parked.
His tan glowed in the bright morning sun, a fitted chambray shirt hinting at the taut physique beneath.
He looked fresh in a way that felt personally offensive to Renee, who felt as fresh as the crumpled wrapper of a fast-food breakfast sandwich.
She frowned down at her dingy black polo.
She’d chosen it after agonizing over whether to wear a normal T-shirt or something nicer to signal she wasn’t just another crew member.
She had settled on the worst possible compromise.
“There she is, our woman in charge!” Micah said. “Let me introduce you.”
Renee met the sound operator and his assistant, the gaffer and best boy, an additional camera operator, two production assistants, a makeup artist and her assistant, a hairstylist, a still photographer for behind-the-scenes shots, and Micah’s assistant.
Renee’s mouth went dry. Outside of professional shoots where she’d been a production assistant, the largest crew Renee had worked with was three people. Once.
After Renee greeted everyone, she pulled Micah aside as she poured herself a much-needed coffee. The acidic first sip turned her stomach. She chased it with another swallow.
“Big crew,” she observed.
“It’s a big production.”
“Sure, but we’re not going to be able to get that authentic feeling with twenty-five people behind the camera. Do we really need two makeup artists?”
Micah was looking at her like she’d proposed they shoot the film on first-gen iPhones. “We want everyone looking their best.”
Renee sighed. “Then let’s get one of them inside with Lola.”
“No, no, Lola’s in hair and makeup with her own people,” Micah said as his phone rang.
“Check in later!” he mouthed, then clapped Renee on the shoulder—at the exact moment she’d raised her cup for a sip.
The black coffee sloshed straight down the front of her polo.
Cursing, she pulled the soaked fabric away from her body.
At least the coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn.
Micah, already mid-conversation, hadn’t even noticed what he’d done.
Renee grabbed a stack of paper napkins and began to rub at the stain.
The napkins instantly disintegrated, leaving wet white nubbins clinging to the black material.
“You gotta blot, not rub,” someone said.
Renee looked up. This was Alejandro, the sound operator. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with light brown skin and a mop of black curls under a Dodgers cap.
“It’s fine,” Renee huffed. “This shirt isn’t exactly a family heirloom.”
Although Renee had to admit that the first day of shooting, when they were filming with Lola’s stylist, manager, and publicist as they chose a look for the premiere of Lola’s fake boyfriend’s blockbuster, was not an ideal time to be wearing napkin crumbles.
An anxious strawberry blonde, flicking at the screen of an iPad, approached Renee.
“Can I show you where you’ll be filming?” she asked.
“That would be great. Remind me, you’re …”
“Cassidy. Lola’s assistant,” she said.
Cassidy led Renee through a gigantic front door that looked hewn from a hundred-year-old oak and a marble entryway, to a spacious sitting room with a fireplace and huge cream-colored couches.
“Jason St. Jude will be here in an hour, and Gloriana and Veronika will be here in thirty,” Cassidy said.
Perfect. That meant she had about thirty seconds to decide where to set up the cameras.
Renee pulled at the now-cold, wet fabric of her polo as she took stock of the space and tried to focus.
There were so many people waiting for her, so many choices to make.
She felt like she’d forgotten where she was supposed to begin.
Cassidy must have read the panic on Renee’s face. “Um, maybe I could tell you how these things usually go?”
“Yes, please,” Renee said.
“So Lola tries on the dresses in her office, so we’ll need that off-limits for the crew.”
“Absolutely.”
“And then she comes out to model them. I think in front of the fireplace is a nice spot for that, because Gloriana and Veronika can sit on that couch there. And when Jason arrives, he usually wheels in a garment rack with all the dresses right in the front door. It’s so glamorous.”
“Okay, right,” Renee said, then took a deep breath and turned to the crew.
“Let’s get Camera B on a tripod focused on the couch.
We’re going to be getting the manager’s reaction there.
And I’ll handle Camera A on a gimbal. The first shot’s going to be Jason St. Jude coming through the front door with the garment rack full of dresses.
Let’s get moving!” she said with as much authority as she could muster.
The crew got to work. Renee gave Cassidy an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
Cassidy responded with a slight smile. “No problem. Lola asked me to make sure you got your bearings.”
“Oh. Well, I appreciate it. Where is Lola?”
Cassidy pointed at the massive staircase with a fancy wrought-iron railing. “Upstairs. Turn right, the door at the end of the hall.”
Moments later, Renee was poised to knock when Lola’s bedroom door swung open.
“Cassidy, can you—oh, Renee!”
“Hi!” Renee’s eyes went wide. Lola was wrapped in a robe, her hair up in rollers, her legs bare.
“Hi—I wasn’t expecting you! I mean, not up here.” Lola leaned against the jamb. “Nervous for your first day of filming?”
“I’m not nervous,” said Renee, whose stomach was a Gordian knot of nerves.
Lola smirked at her. “You wouldn’t be, Renee Feldman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that you’re always so confident. Nothing intimidates you.” Lola’s expression clouded as she took in Renee’s outfit. “What happened to your shirt?”
Renee tugged at her polo, which did not make the trail of napkin particles less visible. “Oh, that—craft services coffee was a bit of a jump scare.”
“Oh my god, I’ll get Cassidy to make you a cappuccino.” Then she grabbed Renee’s hand and pulled her into her bedroom.
Lola led her past the bed, which Renee absolutely did not look at with any curiosity, and into a truly massive closet. Lola knelt, her robe riding up to reveal a smooth swath of thigh, and pawed through a lower rack of hangers.
“What are you doing?” Renee asked.
“Finding you something clean to wear. You can’t go out there like that.”
“It’s no big deal.” Renee crossed her arms. “As a PA, my stuff got ruined all the time.”
Lola shot her a scolding look.
“Fine, yes, a clean shirt would be good. Thanks.”
“Here.” Lola stood, holding up an oversize white button-up.
Renee looked at the label and started. “This has got to cost a thousand dollars!”
“Do you want it or not?”
Without thinking, Renee gripped the hem of her polo. She pulled it up high enough to expose the band of her sports bra when Lola let out a faint gasp, the button-up bunched in her hands. Renee paused and waited for Lola to turn around.
But she didn’t.
Renee didn’t either.