Dolly All the Time(97)
I check my inbox, and Nathan’s secretary is confirming our nine a.m. appointment. She’s always very formal, like she works for the king. I pull my copy of the script out of my bag. “True Story,” it says in the typewriter font that still makes me think something exciting is about to happen.
“You look pretty in red.” Mandy, my assistant, is standing in my doorway with a pink smoothie.
“Thank you,” I say. “Big day.” I straighten up in my chair in case there’s any part of my posture that would suggest I’ve recently been crouched on the floor.
She plops down on the sofa across from my desk. “So, Nathan at nine. In his office. With the director he’s considering, some guy named Rodney Whistler.”
“Yeah, I knew about him. But what I didn’t know is that Nathan’s also brought in Dan Finnegan as cinematographer.” Besides this being a total disaster, it’s weird that he invited a cinematographer to this meeting. Nathan has a little man-crush on Dan’s last movie, which won some awards and which Dan probably calls a “film.” I try to push away the thought that Nathan is looking for his opinion on this script.
“Dan with the man-bun who ruins everything?”
“The very one. Well, I made up the man-bun part.” I don’t really like the look on Mandy’s face. There’s pity there, as if we just opened a window and watched my big break fly away. I fold my hands on my desk in a vaguely presidential way to suggest the sort of calm and focus associated with a person who’s got this.
“I’m sorry, this could have been a really good movie,” she says. When I don’t say anything, she goes on. “I mean, he might not shit all over it?”
I laugh a not-giving-up laugh.
When she’s left, I bury my face in my hands and press my fingers into my forehead. I can feel the cog in my brain that’s popped out and snagged my entire system. Dan is a giant loose cog in my life, out of nowhere. I have no idea why he has this effect on me. I have to go into this meeting calm and dignified. I have to reply to his criticisms with be-that-as-it-mays instead of shut-up-you-stupid-jerks. Dan gets under my skin. And honestly, the whole purpose of skin is to keep things out.
* * *
Nathan has a huge corner office, which is supposed to convey his general importance, though I’ve never seen more than four people in there at a time. He normally likes to conduct meetings in the conference room next door with lots of food, specifically a large bowl of peanut M&M’s and a platter of wrap sandwiches. There’s always one of each kind—tuna, egg salad, turkey, ham, and one completely delicious grilled vegetable with mozzarella and the exact right amount of pesto. Unfortunately, today we are meeting in his office with four club chairs set around a coffee table and absolutely no snacks.
His assistant announces me at the door. “Jane Jackson, sir,” she says.
He takes off his reading glasses. “Come, sit,” he says and directs me to the club chair across from his. Behind him is a floor-to-ceiling window that almost perfectly frames the Hollywood sign in the distance. I think about this every time I go to his office, the almost of it. If this building were moved four yards to the right, that sign would be perfectly centered. I wonder if this drives Nathan mad.
“I’m excited about the script,” I say.
“Yes. We paid less for the option than I thought we would.”
“Good, that’s good,” I say. I smooth my dress over my knees and then squeeze my hands together. Calm, confident. Inexplicably, I think of Hailey Soul for the second time in an hour, and I mimic the way she rolls her shoulders back and looks just the right amount bored.
“Yes,” he says, though it sounds like no, just as Dan and Rodney appear in the doorway.
I squeeze my hands together tighter as Dan takes the seat next to mine and Rodney sits across from him.
“Jane,” Rodney says. “Nice to see you again. I think this script was a great find.”
“Thank you,” I say. And it’s just what I needed. A compliment, an affirmation. This is a great script and I’ve brought it here. Showtime, people. I stop myself before I turn to Dan and smirk.
Nathan says, “I wanted to meet and hear your thoughts on casting and how and where this thing gets filmed, but I was talking to the head of the green light committee last night, and there’s a little concern that this film won’t be commercial enough to make sense for us.”
“It’s plenty commercial,” I say without really thinking. “Super commercial.”
“It’s not, actually,” says Dan. He’s leaning forward in his chair with his forearms resting on his knees. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and there’s a thin bracelet around his wrist, just a piece of string. Literally everything about Dan is annoying.
“It is,” I say and then force myself to take a breath. “I mean, why would you say that?” I turn my body toward him and rest my hands in my lap, trying for the gesture of someone who has just completed a delightful yoga class.
“The casting doesn’t lend itself to big stars,” he starts.
“Which is great because we don’t have the budget for them,” I say and turn back to Nathan. “This film is funny and different and irreverent. It’s like spring break in movie form.”