The Last Take Page 2

  There are few things in life I hate more than small talk. Is it so hard for people to just sit back and enjoy the silence? The need to fill any quiet moment with shallow chit chat is a testament to how insecure and self-conscious society is these days.

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

  Eric laughs. “Right, an action director who doesn’t watch a lot of TV.” They chuckle together like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

  “I’m not an action director,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “I’ve just done a lot of action films. It’s not my thing. I have other things.”

  “Right, right,” Eric says, now distracted by a leggy blonde who just walked in with a man much older than her. And by the way he rubs her lower back, I’m guessing it’s not her grandpa. “Ah, here he is!”

  Eric and Simon both stand, and I turn to see Nolan Smith. Finally gracing us with his presence. I get up, shaking his hand with a tight jaw.

  “Adam, good to see you,” Nolan says, his easy smile blinding me. “Sorry, my meeting ran over. You weren’t waiting long, were you?”

  Before I can answer, he waves over the server and orders an Old Fashioned. He leans back in his seat, nodding at a few people around the patio. Unlike his right-hand man, Eric, Nolan doesn’t need to leer at the ladies. They are already leering at him. From his shaved head to his dark skin to his Lamborghini parked out front, Nolan Smith is the most eligible bachelor in the restaurant.

  But his eyes are now trained on me.

  “Let’s just cut to the chase,” he says, ignoring the waitress as she sets down his drink. “The director just backed out of my film. We start shooting in three weeks. I need someone to step in, and I know just the man for the job.”

  I take a sip of water to buy myself more time before responding. “I’m flattered that you thought of me, Nolan. But the thing is—”

  “Let me walk you through it,” he jumps in, rubbing his hands together. “It’s a sci-fi action comedy. Think Doctor Dolittle meets Planet of the Apes. A young veterinarian who can talk to animals must expose his powers when all the animals in New York City revolt against humans for reasons unknown.”

  Eric and Simon are grinning at Nolan, clearly excited about the movie—or at least how much money it’s going to make them.

  “He discovers there’s something in the water, and it’s a race against time to find the anecdote and save the city. Lots of mayhem, lots of laughs. We’ve already got Damon Reeves signed on for the lead. Eric is producing and Simon’s on the script. We just need someone to bring it home.”

  I watch Simon, who looks pretty smug after the big spiel Nolan gave his story. I try not to openly grimace. It sounds like the worst movie ever.

  “I think that someone is you,” Nolan finishes, in case that whole sales pitch didn’t make his intentions clear. “Action and sci-fi is your forte, after all. You could do it with your eyes closed.”

  I feel a knot forming in my stomach. “The thing is, I’m not sure that’s the direction I want to keep going in,” I reply, contemplating the quickest way to shut this whole thing down. “I want to pursue something with a little more substance. No disrespect.”

  “More substance than the millions we’ll make on opening weekend?” Eric says, pumping fists with Simon. “It’s going to be next summer’s blockbuster.”

  Jesus, he is such a douche.

  Nolan leans forward, lowering his voice. “Look, I get it. You’re going through a weird time right now. I was sorry to hear about your father.”

  My shoulders seize up at the mention of it. “It was months ago now. I’m fine.”

  “What a legend, am I right?” Eric chimes in.

  “I still have an autographed copy of one of his books,” Simon adds. “I went to a signing when I was thirteen. Stood in line for an hour. He was my first favorite author.”

  I swish the water around in my glass. “Yes, the great William Thorne. Literary genius.”

  Nolan is still watching me, like he’s trying to analyze his next best angle.

  “The thing is, I think it’s time to move on to something new,” I continue, moving back to the main subject.

  “What do you have lined up?” Nolan asks.

  “Well… nothing yet.”

  “I see.” Nolan smiles to himself, checking his phone. “Let me put it this way. It’s harder than ever to make a massive box office hit. These days, with your streaming and your on-demand, if you want your films in movie theaters, you’ve got to stick with the big leagues. And to stick with the big leagues, you’ve got to keep playing the game. When was your last film? A year ago?”

  “Something like that,” I reply, scratching the back of my head. I’ve heard about Nolan’s hard sell, but I’ve never experienced it like this.

  He sucks air through his teeth. “You don’t want to stay away from the game too long, my friend. I know some ballers who took a break and never got back up.”

  He picks up his cocktail and finishes it in one long gulp. “Look, you’ve heard my pitch. Now I’ve got to be somewhere, so I’ll leave you with Eric to discuss details.” He leans across the table to shake my hand. “But I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

  Eric and Simon watch him leave in awe while I feel the knot tightening in my stomach. It hasn’t been that long since I did a film.

  Eric motions towards the empty Old Fashioned glass to order one for himself, before picking up where Nolan left off. “We obviously want you on board. Galactic Man? My youngest LOVES that movie. I can’t get him to take the helmet off.” He laughs and I suppress a groan, knowing my name will be forever attached to such garbage.

  “Nolan is right,” he goes on. “You could do this with your eyes closed. What’s the big deal? You come in, you direct, you take home a big check. Everyone wins.”

  “It’s just not what I want to do anymore.”

  “Make this your last action movie?” Simon suggests.

  “I said that last time, and the time before that,” I mumble. Being a director in Hollywood, you got type cast just like everyone else. You do one goofy action sci-fi, and then another, and the next minute, you’re the goofy action sci-fi guy. No one wants to be that guy.

  “So make this one different,” Eric says, reading my mind. “How’s this—you’ll have full creative control. Whatever your vision is, it’s our vision, too. We just want you on the team.”

  “Full creative control?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

  “Within the parameters of the script, yeah,” Simon jumps in, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

  “This isn’t just some funny, outlandish action story,” Eric says. “This is a story about humanity, and our role in the animal kingdom. This is a story about understanding, and communication, and fear of the unknown. And in this social climate?” He makes a whistling sound. “What could be more relevant?”

  “And you’re saying I’d have full creative control? I can set the tone, the style?”

  “Within the parameters of the script,” Simon parrots before Eric places a hand on his arm to silence him.

  “Full creative control. And this is what we’re offering, plus ten percent of the film’s gross.” Eric writes on a napkin before sliding it over to me. I look at the obscene amount before turning it over.

  “I need to bring my own first and second assistant directors,” I say, still unsure if I’m making the right decision.

  “I don’t see why that would be a problem.” Eric nods.

  “And I need my team to pick the production assistants. The last lot I got were basically teenagers and I don’t need people dicking around on set.”

  “You got it.”

  I frown, watching Eric flinch as he sips the Old Fashioned.

  “So,” he splutters. “Can I tell Nolan we have a deal?”

  I look at his outstretched hand. I guess it’s truer now more than ever.

  “We have a deal,” I say, shaking his hand.

  You don’t say no to Nolan
Smith.

  3

  Evie

  “Let me get a small double shot cappuccino with soy milk, a regular almond milk skinny latte, and a gluten-free blueberry muffin.”

  I nod my head, tapping the customer’s order on the iPad. “Sure, do you want whipped butter with the muffin? It really takes it to the next level.”

  She looks at me like I’ve just asked her if she wants a mammogram with that. “Like… real butter?”

  “As real as the cow it came from.”

  “Ew, that’s disgusting. No.”

  She taps her card to pay with her face scrunched up and I head to my rightful position at the espresso machine. “I think I offended that girl. Have people always been like this about dairy?”

  Sylvia looks up from the sandwich she’s making as my customer walks toward a table, where another pretty young blonde is sitting.

  “Ignore her. She’s an idiot.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say, paranoid they can hear from their window seats. “She’s probably lovely.”

  “I do know that. I’ve seen her at a casting before. She was abusing the assistant for spelling her name wrong.”

  Sylvia goes back to making her turkey on rye, her long nails nearly poking holes in the plastic gloves. With her long black hair and olive skin, she looks like she should be in an exotic razor commercial, not working with cold cuts. She’s the only real friend I’ve made since moving to Los Angeles. My first day at the café, I dropped an entire tray of iced coffees, and as my manager Glen was about to send me packing, she told him it was her fault. Just like that, took the blame for me. I suppose it helped that Sylvia is a gorgeous model and Glen has a crush on her. But I knew I had found a true pal.

  “Maybe you could join one of those medical trials to get some extra cash?”

  I’ve spent the morning filling Sylvia in on my money issues, but so far, none of the solutions are very appealing.

  “You realize I come from a family of doctors, right?” I say, twisting the portafilter into the espresso machine. “I don’t want to be a lab rat. Surely there are other options.”

  “I know some gigs the girls at the agency do when modeling work isn’t coming through. But I don’t think it’s up your alley.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  Sylvia sighs. “I don’t know, like one girl did lingerie waitressing for some rich guy's business dinner. Just handed out drinks and laughed at their gross old white man jokes. She took home like five hundred bucks.”

  “Five hundred dollars for one night of waitressing?” My eyes widen as I watch the coffee trickle into the cup. “I could do that.”

  “Sweetie, you wear a t-shirt over your bathing suit at the beach.”

  I bunch my shoulders. “I get cold easily.”

  Once I’ve made the coffees, I call out the name and the two blonde girls collect their order.

  “Have a great day,” I call after them, which they completely ignore.

  “Excuse me, Miss?” A man from earlier is standing at the other end of the counter. “I found a hair in my muffin bag.”

  I close the distance between us, and he pulls out a long red strand from the brown Kraft bag.

  “You got the lucky bag,” I say with a light chuckle, but then register his expression. “I’m so sorry. I tie it back and wear this little cap, but it still somehow wiggles free. I always say it’s my confetti. I’m a par-tay.” As I sing-song the last sentence with jazz hands, I know it’s a mistake.

  We’re cast into silence.

  “Um, how about I refund your muffin and get you another, on the house?”

  He pushes the bag closer to me. “It’s the least you could do.”

  “Again, I’m so sorry.”

  “Just make sure you keep your head away from this one, will you?”

  My face falls, but before I know it, Sylvia is next to me.

  “Listen, buddy. She said she was sorry. Now how about you go sit on that stool over there and we’ll bring it over when it’s ready. Okay?”

  The man opens his mouth to respond, but is taken aback. By her abruptness or her beauty, I’m not sure. But he does as he is told and disappears from the counter.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper, pulling her aside. “You could get fired for talking to the customers like that.”

  “You’re too nice,” she replies, returning to wrap another sandwich and placing it in the display cabinet. “So, what are you going to do about this rent thing?”

  I groan, grabbing another muffin from the cake stand with tongs and keeping it at arm’s length as I slide it into a hair-free bag. “I don’t know.”

  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but have you thought about calling—”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re not even going to consider it?”

  “Going to them for help is not an option,” I say, twisting the bag closed so that no hairs can sneak in before I deliver it to the angry man. But before I can leave, Glen pops his head out from the side office.

  “Evie, did I hear you say that muffin is on the house?”

  “Um… sort of?”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “You know, muffins don’t come free. We don’t have a nice little muffin tree out the back.” He laughs at his own joke. Sylvia rolls her eyes. Meanwhile, I feel the familiar dread of making yet another mistake, curdling in my stomach.

  “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just a hair got in his bag and… customer is always right and all that…”

  “I see. Well, I have to dock it from your pay. Maybe you could consider a hairnet.”

  He disappears back into the office, and I look at Sylvia with rounded eyes.

  “I know you don’t want to call them,” Sylvia says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “But it kind of looks like you don’t have a choice.”

  I wind some blue yarn into a soft ball, tucking the tail inside to keep it from unraveling, and place it in the box. I’ve been wanting to color coordinate my collection for weeks now, and it’s nice to get around to it.

  I’ve finally gotten used to the sound of sirens and shouting from the streets of LA outside my window, and no longer need to have my TV on level forty volume. I flick through the channels and land on a cooking show, which reminds me I will need to feed myself at some point this evening.

  I look around my little studio. It’s not the biggest or the fanciest apartment I’ve ever had, but it’s all mine. And it’s in a great location, right between the café and Guerilla Productions. I glance at the note that was left under my door, waiting for me when I got home.

  $1,350 by the end of the month. No excuses. - Ron

  I push the note off my coffee table so I don’t have to look at it. I did a thorough analysis of my finances and the findings were not promising. With my current schedule of work and interning, even if I live off ramen noodles, I will only have about half of that by Ron’s deadline. Caroline already told me that if I cut down my hours at the studio, they would have to give my spot to someone else. And I can’t walk away now, not when I’ve only just got my foot in the door.

  I grab another ball of yarn, this time lime green, and start winding forcefully. My phone buzzes on the floor.

  Sylvia: Have you called them yet?

  I huff, throwing the ball into the box and typing.

  Evie: No, getting a few things done first.

  Before I can put my phone down, I get a reply.

  Sylvia: Stop stalling.

  I pick at my nail as another comes through

  Sylvia: Just do it.

  Ugh. I know she’s right. If I want to keep my internship and my apartment, I need help. I just have to rip the Band-Aid off. I launch myself off the floor and pace, staring at the number I’ve brought up on my phone screen.

  My heart races as the phone rings in my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Dad… hi. It’s Evie.”

  “Yes, I know the sound of my own daughter’s voice. I may be getting older but I’
m not hard of hearing just yet.”

  I smile to myself as he talks. At least he answered, and not Mom. If there is an easier parent to talk to, it’s definitely not Diane Miller.

  “How are you?” I ask, desperate to buy myself a little time.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “What?”

  “I just can’t remember the last time you called us. Something must be wrong. Did you get mugged on the filthy streets of Hollywood?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” I say, immediately feeling exhausted. “I just thought I would check in.”

  I can tell by my dad’s silence that he’s not buying it, so I inhale before diving right in. “Well, actually. There is something I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Sorry Evie, my pager’s going off. I’m on call tonight. Let me pass you through to your mother.”

  Before I can beg, plead or protest at the offer, another person picks up the line.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Is it my birthday?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s been a long time since you called, so it must be my birthday.”

  “It hasn’t been that long,” I mumble. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing quite well, thank you,” she chirps down the line. “Your father and I have both been busy at the hospital. Your sister has been coming to dinner every week. Of course, that probably doesn’t excite you like the glitz of LA.”

  Again, with the exhausting.

  “You know it’s not like that,” I say, knowing it’s pointless to explain myself for the hundredth time. “How is Sarah doing?”

  “She’s wonderful. She just got an attending position.”

  “Wow… that happened fast,” I say, remembering a time when that was my career goal, too.

  Mum makes a funny noise. “Yes, well… good things happen when you stick to the plan.”

  I close my eyes, psyching myself up to ask what I called to ask. Even though my mother is making it increasingly impossible to get the words out.