Shards of Glass (14 page)

“You know what, Cal?” I said again, squeezing his firm leg. “You’re a really cool person.” I looked at his handsome face. Damn, he was fine. His mop of dark hair hung heavy over his brow and his beautiful brown eyes—rimmed with shockingly thick eyelashes—glimmered with hope.

He opened his mouth to say something but he stopped himself. But I knew a guy in love when I saw one—and Cal was falling for me. Hard.

Hard, in more ways than one.

And it pleased me to have him so into me.

But the real question was . . .

Would I be able to get Daniel out of my system?

I TIPTOED INTO Samuel Myers’s office in Century City, my sneakers making no sound as I slipped through the door. He was expecting me; his PA had just called him, but when I peered my head into the room I thought at first it was empty. Music was playing softly. Something classical. I looked around. Nobody was here. The room was vast and imposing, boasting floor to ceiling windows with skyline views. We were very high up—as high as you could be in LA for fear of earthquakes. A library lined one wall, replete with leather-bound books. Grand sofas and armchairs sprawled themselves on one side, and on the other there was a bar. In the middle, a massive conference table.

I suddenly had an uneasy feeling in my gut. Samuel hadn’t called me in here to fire me. No! He had other plans: to seduce me. My mind wandered back to my mother, the “being chased around the casting couch” story, with the “repulsive, gold medallioned director.” Samuel Myers scored no higher in the beauty stakes. He’d called me in to woo me. Or worse, blackmail me. “Give me a blowjob or you’re off the movie.” Ugh!! Gross.

Because where the hell was he? This was no bona fide “meeting!” I had imagined that Pearl Chevalier would be here too, and maybe one of the executive producers—a room full of them ready to offer their condolences, yet firing me simultaneously, paradoxically sugary-sweet smiles on their faces.

“Hello?” I called out tentatively. “Mr. Myers?”

A deep voice rumbled from somewhere in the library. “Hi, Janie. They just stepped out. They’ll be back in a minute.”

Goose bumps spread across my flesh. What the fuck was
he
doing here?

“Daniel?” I couldn’t see him, but I knew that unmistakable voice. I detected the sound of pages being turned, mingled with the gentle melody of the classical music playing in the background. Then Daniel spoke again, his deep, theatrically trained voice resonating:

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chilliest land

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.”

I stood there, motionless, my limbs floating—at least it felt that way. The words of that beautiful poem brought back a memory that I couldn’t place.

“Emily Dickinson,” I murmured to myself, “I love that poem.” I noiselessly walked over to the library and saw Daniel, not on one of the sofas, but on the floor, books spread about him, his head cast downwards, as he thumbed through an old leather-bound volume. Why
that
particular poem? Was it random?
Hope
is the thing with feathers
. Did he mean
me
? That
I
was hoping? Hoping for a real relationship with him? The little bird that didn’t ask for even a crumb? Because it was true; I had never asked anything of Daniel, but I had
hoped.
Hopelessly hoped. I shook myself out of my reverie and back to the point in question . . .what was Daniel goddamn Glass
doing
here, anyway?

He said nothing, just continued to thumb through the book. He didn’t even turn to look at me, so absorbed as he was. I wondered if he could sense my presence. Finally he raised his head.

“Do you always slink up on people that way?” he said wryly. I had forgotten how much his eyes affected me. Just a glance was all it took. My stomach somersaulted on itself.

“Do you always gatecrash my meetings?” I retorted, a faint smile sneaking on my lips.

“I was invited here.”

He was wearing a blue T-shirt that accentuated his pectorals and the color of his eyes, and a pair of worn jeans. All I could think of was the delicious package tucked away inside, and a flash of one of my sexy dreams replayed in my brain.

“Janie! You got here!” It was Sam Myers bursting through a side door, with Pearl Chevalier in tow.

Daniel gathered the books together and put them on the coffee table in front of him. He turned and said, “Damn, I was hoping to have a moment alone with you, Janie.”

Samuel thundered into the room, donned in a cream-colored suit that was too tight for him. Beads of sweat glittered on his forehead. I was tempted to hotline a call to my makeup artist to take away the shine. He was smiling inanely. This whole situation was confusing to say the least.

“Janie, so glad you could come,” Pearl said, offering me her cheek. Her skin was perfect—smooth and flawless. She really was beautiful and very un-LA, sophisticated, dressed in nude high heels and a navy blue suit. Another man came into the room, seconds later. One of the producers? He was debonair. Tall, dark, and unbelievably handsome. Not dissimilar to Daniel; an unusual, original face, but with green eyes, not blue—equally piercing, though.

“Janie, so ‘appy to mit you,” he said, his French accent taking me by surprise. I realized it was Pearl’s husband, the billionaire owner of Hooked Up, Alexandre Chevalier. He shook my hand. All three of them were beaming at me. I glanced over at Daniel, and he winked, his lip slipping into an ironic curve, which suggested amusement.
What the hell was going on
?

“Who’d like a drink?” Samuel exclaimed with a hearty wheeze. “Champagne, anyone?” He made his way to the bar and took out a bottle of Bollinger from the icebox. “Pearl, honey, would you get some glasses? You know where they are.”

“We don’t want to jump the gun,” Daniel warned.

“Oh, I think we have cause for celebration,” Samuel snorted.

“Well, Janie, I just wanted to say hi,” Alexandre said, kissing my hand with a flourish, “welcome aboard The Enterprise, and see you around.” He turned on his heel and strode out the door.

Samuel puffed out his large belly. I thought his suit buttons would pop. “Take a seat, Janie, make yourself comfortable. Daniel, explain to our Rambling Rose, here, what’s going on.”

I made my way over to the library, Daniel meeting me halfway. To my surprise he kissed me on the cheek, while his hand slid over my hip. “Missed you, Janie,” he whispered in my ear. Then he stood back when he noticed my bewildered expression. “What, did you think they’d asked you here to fire you?” He knew me so well.

“No,” I lied, “of course not.”

“Like hell,” he said.

“Why am I here, then?”

“Ah, you said, ‘then’ . . . so you
did
think you’d be fired.”

“Who thinks they’ll be fired?” Samuel roared. “Oh, him. He doesn’t know it yet.”

Doesn’t know it yet
?
Who doesn’t know it yet
? This was becoming more mysterious by the minute.

Pearl brought a tray of glasses over and set them on the coffee table. Samuel popped open the bottle of champagne and poured. I slumped on the sumptuous sofa, and Daniel sat next to me. Pearl perched herself on the edge of an armchair and Samuel remained standing.

“Janie, we’ve been watching the dailies and everybody is very happy with your performance,” Samuel said.

“More than happy,” Pearl added.

I covered my hands over my eyes and let out a long sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Samuel asked.

I uncovered my relieved face. “Nothing, just wondered what this meeting was all about,” I answered, “wondered if you were dissatisfied in some way.

Samuel handed me a flute of champagne. “I’ll cut to the chase. Simon’s gotta go.”

“But so much is in the can already,” I pointed out. ‘In the can,’ meaning already shot—I was beginning to sound like a pro. “Everyone’s been talking about coming in under budget, we—”

“I’m coming back on board,” Daniel interrupted. “With full artistic license to shoot the film how I envision.”

My heart was pounding—so much information. “Which is?”

“The sex scenes in black and white, which gives me leeway to be more . . . more creative, more experimental.”

“More experimental?”

“Would you be willing to be filmed nude?” Pearl asked me. “In other words, your nudity clause, Janie, would be null and void. Daniel would need the freedom to shoot at his own discretion. That would need complete trust on your part.”

I sat there, speechless.

“You’d have a closed set, of course,” Pearl added, “a privacy patch et cetera—I’m sure costume has explained all this to you and—”

“Janie, it’s in my interest, and in the producers’ interest, to make you look good,” Daniel interrupted, “and . . . what’s the right word . . . classy.”

I took a sip of champagne, thinking of the “privacy patch”, a skimpy bit of flesh-colored fabric that would barely cover my hoo-ha. No toast had been made and people had already started drinking, as if it was a done deal. “I don’t understand. I mean, Mr. Myers, what made you have a change of heart? I thought you and Daniel disagreed on the look and feel of the movie, and that’s why he pulled out.”

“Firstly, Janie, call me Sam. And secondly, in my line of business it’s important to recognize when you’re wrong. I misjudged you—which I was happy to admit—and I misjudged the
project.
I had originally wanted
The Dark Edge of Love
to be a blockbuster, to compete side by side with
Fifty Shades
—”

“Which we all know is impossible,” Pearl cut in. “Not only do they have an immense budget, but an unlimited fan base, impossible to compete with. That’s why we came to the conclusion our movie needs to go in the opposite direction and return to Daniel’s original concept. Artistic, with a European feel to it. Sam is the first to admit he got sidetracked, but he’s a hundred percent with us now.”

I remembered Samuel Myers tax loss analogy. This mind changing would have cost them serious dollars. Maybe they didn’t care. “Why does that go hand in hand with nudity?” I asked.

“It just does,” Daniel said. “I can’t be getting hung up over a right boob side shot or a centimeter too much of your ass.”

“My ass?” The reality of it hit me. Black and white or not, my petite ass would be plastered across HD screens across the world, some of them, twenty feet high. My little tits, not lush melons, not even peaches, but tiny, unripe cherries. And my bony frame that, in my mind’s eye, suddenly didn’t seem like part of Star’s sexy ‘brand’ packaging after all. “I don’t know,” I wavered. “I don’t think I’m right for the part.”

“You’re the
only
one for the part,” Daniel said, his tone emphatic. “I’m not interested in doing this project without you, Janie. As I said, I want a theatrically trained actress, someone who can improvise, someone who can sustain one, long, fifteen minute take.”

“What about a body double?” I offered, suspecting Daniel wouldn’t go for it.

“Defeats the purpose. This film is about acting, about passion and love, not about body parts. I can’t be spending more time faffing about in the editing room than on set.”

“What about Cal?” I asked. “Will he be shooting nude too?” I’d heard about what actors had to wear: a “cock-sock” to cover up their private parts. I tried to picture Cal in a cock-sock, getting an erection and it springing off like a slingshot.

Daniel cleared his throat as if he were about to speak but then stayed silent. He looked at Samuel.

“Look,” Sam said, “the truth is, and the truth can hurt sometimes . . . it’s like watching a wooden puppet and prima ballerina perform together. The wooden puppet is cute, but he’s still made of wood. The prima ballerina is flesh and blood, she’s alive—you know what I’m saying?”

“Who’s the puppet and who’s the ballerina?” I asked. I had a good idea but wanted to hear it from his lips.

“Cal,” Daniel said, his voice a hammer.

Pearl smoothed her pencil skirt over her fine legs. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose—she didn’t need them. “Look,” she began, “Cal is very, very handsome, and for a soap or light comedy he’s perfect, but seeing you together just . . . just . . . it’s like oil and water, it isn’t working.”

“It’s not his fault!” I blurted out. “We’ve had zero direction from Simon. Cal is a good actor, he just needs direction!”

Daniel shot me a look, which I couldn’t read.

“Cal’s gotta go too,” Samuel stated without remorse. “He’ll get his full fee, don’t feel badly for the boy.”

A chill spiraled through my limbs. Cal would be devastated. I felt somehow that it was my fault, that I was responsible. Had I upstaged him? Had I unwittingly made him look bad? “He’s a good actor,” I repeated. “He’s professional, reliable, he’s a nice guy!”

“We don’t give a damn about nice,” Sam hurled out. “We want menacing, we want dangerous.”

“We need drop-dead sexy, not just good looking,” Pearl added. “I did ask my husband if he wanted the role, but . . .” –she winked at me—“but we’ve gone down another avenue.”

“Another avenue?” I echoed, my heart still pounding at the thought of stripping naked in front of Daniel, directing me to do anything he wanted, to have ‘artistic control’ over my body—considering he pretty much already owned my mind. “What actors have you considered?”

“Just one actor,” Pearl said, looking at Daniel as if for his approval. I’d heard the name of Brandon Taylor being bandied about, the latest hotshot movie star who everyone was raving about. Perhaps they’d choose him to replace Cal.

Sam took a long gulp of champagne. “We’ve decided he would be the best thing for the movie.”