Hot New Thing Page 3

  I watch her disappear down the hall. Maybe that’s what happens when you skip two grades and get fast-tracked for college at sixteen. You turn into a bitch.

  “You’ll be fine,” June says as our driver turns in at a set of towering black gates. Up ahead I spot a massive sandstone archway framed by palm trees. And the familiar PMP scroll below the words Pallas-Mills Productions. I clutch the seat. Ohgodohgodohgod. What makes me think I can do this?

  “Today will be easy,” June adds. “You’ll get fitted, go through makeup, do the table read. Maybe some blocking if there’s time. That’s all.” She punches out a number on her phone.

  That’s all? That’s enough. Sure, I’ve done readings and blocking before. I’ve done walk-throughs, too, to get camera angles and for lighting checks. For commercials and for that movie of the week. But this is different. This is the big time.

  The driver rolls to a stop at the archway. “Miss Lily O’Neal,” he tells the uniformed guard. “For an eight o’clock wardrobe call. June Weatherby chaperoning.”

  The guard looks at a clipboard. I hold my breath. What if I’m not listed? He finally looks up. “Yep, they’re clear.” Our car glides forward.

  The place is a maze of narrow streets and squat buildings, manicured lawns and flower beds. Awe fills me when a little golf cart whips out in front of us. I swear it’s Emma Stone sitting beside the driver.

  “I’ll do my best,” June says into her cell. “I’m having lunch with a casting director today, and I’ll mention your name.”

  When she ends the call, I ask, “You won’t be having lunch with me?”

  “Good Lord, no. Craft Services is hell on my stomach.” The driver parks in front of a two-storey white building. “Besides, I’d only be in the way. And I need to get out and network.” She grabs her bag and opens the door. “Ready?”

  Nerves tight, I follow her inside and down the hall to a room crammed with people and mirrors, rolling wardrobe racks and clothes. People are shouting and talking; the noise level is stupid loud.

  “Lily O’Neal is here for her fitting,” June tells a thin blond.

  “She’s with Trish.” She points to the corner. “Red hair. Wearing blue.”

  Trish’s hair isn’t red, it’s pink. But she is wearing blue. And a scowl. “Oh my god. Nic told me you were small, but not this small.” She grabs my wrist and propels me onto a small wooden platform. “He should have told me you were Asian. That would have been a clue. Plus, you’re late.”

  Two minutes, max. I look at June, but she’s on her phone, plugging her free ear to drown out the noise.

  Trish hands me a pair of black shoes. “Size seven. Will they fit?”

  I nod. “They sh—”

  “Good,” she interrupts. “Because we build character from the feet up.” She pulls a mannequin forward. “I already altered Naomi’s costume, but you’re shorter and thinner than the specs your agent emailed.” Heat hits the back of my neck. I thought thin was good.

  She whips the tape measure around my hips, adjusts the mannequin, orders me to lift my arms. Her scowl deepens. “There’s no way I can fix this today.”

  The flush spreads into my cheeks.

  She does my waist. “Oh Lord.” My bust. “Impossible.” She shakes her head and checks my bust again. “I need to cut the damn costume down by a whole size!” After more adjustments to the mannequin, she hurries to the nearest wardrobe rack.

  June pockets her cell phone. “Are we done?”

  We? I may as well be on my own.

  “Trish, darling,” a familiar voice calls. Brooklyn Cory. I’d recognize that voice in my sleep.

  The chatter in the room fades as Brooklyn swoops forward in a cloud of perfume and honey-blond hair. Massive black sunglasses hide her eyes. Flashing a diamond the size of an olive, she kisses Trish. “What fabulous creation have you dreamed up for me this time?”

  Trish flips through the hangers on the rack. “One sec, Brooklyn. I need to dress Iris first.”

  Brooklyn’s bee-stung lips turn down. “Is she here? I heard they got a nobody for the role. That’s Nic for you. Where does he find these unknowns?”

  I turn hot and then cold. I seriously want the floor to swallow me whole.

  Trish shoves a peach-colored top and a beige skirt into my hands. “This’ll have to do for today. If Nic has a problem, tell him to call me.” She looks at Brooklyn. “Brooklyn, meet Iris.”

  “Oh.” She takes off her glasses and openly appraises me. Whoa, talk about bloodshot eyes. “Hello.”

  Her bio claims she’s thirty-five, but this close and without makeup, Brooklyn looks older. And more plastic. I step off the platform and smile. “Hi.”

  “Aren’t you precious?” Brooklyn drawls. Trish snickers.

  My smile fades. Precious? Precious is for Chihuahuas.

  “Come on, Lily,” June says. “We’re due in makeup.”

  We turn to go. When we reach the door, I hear Brooklyn say, “What was Nic thinking? At least Naomi was beautiful.”

  Then the two women laugh.

  Chapter Five

  Claire to Lily: KISS EQ for me!!!!!!!! Will call 2nite 4 sure.

  Mr. Basi to Lily: 4/20. Return corrections ASAP.

  I shove my phone back in my pocket as we approach the hair and makeup trailer. I shouldn’t have checked my messages. Like I need to worry about math too? My stomach is already knotted, thanks to Brooklyn.

  Inside makeup, a stout woman with brilliant purple hair and green eye shadow is waiting for us. “You must be Lily?”

  “Yes.”

  She gives me a warm smile. “I’m Ellen.” She gestures past the four full makeup stations to the empty one at the back of the trailer. “I’m ready for you.”

  June touches my arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Pickup at the same time.”

  I grip my costume like it’s a lifeline. June’s a pain in the ass, but at least she’s a familiar one. “You aren’t taking me to the soundstage?” I feel like a kid being left at school for the first time.

  “I have things to do. People to see.” She pats me like I am a little dog, but at least she doesn’t call me precious. “Good luck with those cheeks of hers,” she tells Ellen. “It doesn’t matter how much weight she loses, they still have no definition.”

  Man. June should be the patron saint of insensitivity.

  Ellen leads me past floor-to-ceiling cupboards, shelves with wigs and fake body parts, a woman having her hair blow-dried, a guy being made up to look like an alien. “Don’t worry.” At first I think she’s talking about my cheeks, but then she adds, “Soundstage two is easy to find. I’ll give you directions.”

  After I sit in her black swivel chair, she drapes me with a plastic robe. “Nic wants a natural look for you. Hair tied back, light makeup.” She removes brushes and foam wedges from a drawer, compacts and tubes from a nearby trolley. “Your cheekbones are perfect, by the way. Don’t worry about her.”

  It’s not June I’m worried about. It’s everybody else.

  Ellen tests a couple of foundation shades on my chin before finding one she likes. She jots something in her notebook, then starts dabbing liquid on my face. “What other roles have you done?”

  Lulled by Ellen’s easy attitude and gentle touch, I relax. A few minutes later, when she’s warning me to avoid the nasty bean salad on the Craft Services table, the trailer door opens. The murmur of conversation fades. My shoulders tighten. Not Brooklyn Cory again. Please, God, no.

  “AJ,” someone calls out. “How’re you doin’?”

  A lanky man in jeans, yellow high-tops and a fitted blazer high-fives a makeup artist. “Hey, man, good to see you.” He gazes down the length of the trailer. “I’m here to see Ms. Lily O’Neal.”

  I grip the sides of the chair. Who is this guy?
>
  Ellen points. “Here.”

  Slowly he makes his way toward us, stopping at each station to talk, ask questions, crack a joke.

  “AJ does PR for Nic Mills and some of the other directors,” Ellen whispers when she sees me staring.

  PR? I chew the corner of my lip. Why does he need to talk to me?

  “Ellen, you sweet thing,” he drawls as he approaches, “you’re looking especially hot today.”

  “I always look hot,” she says, but her tone is indulgent and she winks at me.

  “Too true, dollface.” AJ turns to me. “Ms. Lily O’Neal, I am most pleased to meet you.” His formality and exaggerated southern accent make me smile.

  “Mr. Mills wants to issue a media release about you taking over Ms. Braithwaite’s role, and I’m the lucky guy writing it.”

  Me in a media release? Whoa.

  He pulls a blue pen and tiny coiled notepad from his jacket pocket. “Nic told me to contact”—he looks down—“June Weatherby, but she hasn’t answered my emails or returned my calls, and Nic wants the release out this afternoon.”

  Unease skitters down my spine. I’d rather he talked to June.

  The first few questions are straightforward. He asks about Arbutus Academy and my acting credits, my feelings about landing the role of Iris and working with big stars like Brooklyn Cory and Etienne Quinn. I make sure I give every answer a positive spin.

  “Plastic surgery?”

  “None.”

  He raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “None,” I repeat. Dad is totally against any kind of surgery. Mom is way more liberal, but for now she’s backing Dad. That’s fine by me. I hate needles. “Someday, maybe.” Like when I’m forty.

  “And your ethnicity is—?”

  My unease grows. “I’m Canadian.” I shut my eyes as Ellen dusts a fine coat of powder over my face. “Born and raised in Vancouver.”

  When I open my eyes, AJ is studying me, a puzzled look on his face.

  “Vancouver, British Columbia?” I add. For sure he knows it.

  “Yeah, got that.” He taps his pen impatiently against his notepad. “But where did your parents come from? Originally, I mean.”

  The cape feels like it’s choking me. I shift in the chair and run my finger around the neckline. Plus, it’s making me hot. “My mother’s Chinese and my father’s Irish-German.”

  “Which one do you identify with?”

  The million-dollar question. Either-or. Depends on who I’m with and what’s going on. Or who’s asking. But I can’t tell him any of that, so I say, “I identify as Canadian.”

  “Not sexy enough,” he says. “Have you been to China? To Ireland?”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I’ve been to both. My mother and grandmother were born in China, so we go back every five years or so. And Dad’s taken me to Ireland to see where his parents came from. He still has cousins there.”

  He writes something down. “Which one did you prefer?”

  Sweat pools under my arms. He’s leading me down a road I’m not willing to take. “They’re both nice.” I hesitate. “So’s Canada.”

  He grimaces. “Canada is so white bread. At least Ireland is hearty brown.”

  Huh? What’s with the bread thing? “White bread, brown bread, whatever. Anyway, I’m more like toasted sourdough.” I give him a level glance, feigning a confidence I don’t feel. “And we all know how good sourdough is.”

  He and Ellen laugh. After a few more questions—“Where are you staying?” “What do you think of LA?”—AJ heads for the door.

  “There.” Ellen wipes a tiny smear of lipstick from the corner of my mouth. “You’re in paint.” In paint. Made up for the cameras. She steps aside. “Lily, meet Iris.”

  I stare at my reflection. The camera washes everybody out, so I’m expecting tons of makeup. Ellen’s gone heavy on the foundation and blush, yet my skin looks almost translucent. And she’s given me cheekbones. “I look older.”

  “You’re supposed to. Iris is twenty.”

  I tilt my head from side to side. I was worried about the false eyelashes, but she did a great job putting them on.

  “Let me give you directions to the studio,” she says, removing the cape. “You can’t miss it.”

  Apparently, I can.

  Panic rising, I stare down the narrow road at the silver trailers on either side of me. I turned right at the first intersection like Ellen told me to, and I’ve walked at least three minutes, but for sure I’ve gone the wrong way. There’s no studio here.

  There’s nobody here. The place is quiet and deserted. And even though it’s still early morning and only February, heat radiates up from the pavement. Gingerly, I blot my hairline. Ellen’s makeup is starting to run. I need to get inside. Plus, I need to change!

  When I pull out my cell to check the time, I practically hyperventilate. I’m due in the studio in exactly one minute.

  This can’t be happening. Anger bubbles up. If June had stayed…If Ellen had given me better directions. Maybe she did. Maybe I made the mistake. Tears sting my eyes. Maybe I was supposed to turn left, not right.

  I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. Getting hysterical won’t help. I need to retrace my steps. Jog back to the intersection. Find somebody and get directions.

  Behind me, a trailer door slams. Dizzy with relief, I spin around. And I almost do a face-plant in front of Etienne Quinn.

  Chapter Six

  “Whoa!” He rushes forward and grabs my arm, and all I can think is that his dimple is huge and he smells. In a good way. Like maple-sugar bacon. If there is such a thing. (If there isn’t, somebody should get on it, because maple-sugar bacon is the best smell in the world.) “Steady there.” He drops his hand.

  I almost snatch it back, but that would show my creepy, stalkerish fangirl side, which might make him run. And I need directions. “I’m supposed to be on soundstage two in, like, three seconds, and Ellen in makeup told me to turn right only maybe I passed it or she made a mistake or…or something.”

  Or maybe I’m dreaming, and I’ll wake up in rainy Vancouver instead of in front of the hottest guy I have ever smelled. I stare into his denim-colored eyes. He’s wearing eyeliner? I look at his ugly green sweater. He’s dressed like a dork?

  It’s makeup, you fool. A costume. This is a movie set, remember? You are an actress, not a crazed fangirl. I take a breath. “So now I’m late, plus I need to get into Iris’s costume and—”

  “You must be Lily.”

  Etienne Quinn knows my name? Face flames. Actress disappears. Crazed fangirl returns. “Yes, I—”

  “You can change in your trailer.”

  OMG. His French accent is doing crazy things to my brain cells. “Trailer?”

  He points to the unit just down from the one he stepped out of. “Number six. It was Naomi’s. Now yours.”

  Nobody told me. But trailers on movie shoots are like flies at picnics. They’re everywhere. I should have known. “Nobody gave me a key,” I bluff, “so I thought I’d change on set.”

  “First day they leave the key inside.” He pulls a cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll tell them we’ll be late.”

  We’ll be late. He’s going to wait. I bolt inside, vaguely registering two pink loveseats and a tiny kitchen with a microwave and small bar fridge. The key is propped against some pink roses and white daisies. Welcome, Lily, the card says. Nic.

  OMG. Flowers. For me.

  In the bathroom (massive, with a large vanity and changing area), I whip off my jeans and sweater and throw on the beige skirt, peach top and clunky black shoes. I check myself in the mirror. Eww. Gross.

  Outside, Etienne is pacing. At least he looks like a loser too. I swallow. Except in a totally hot, non-loserish, movie-star kind of way. Wide shoulders. Narrow hips. Great bu
tt. I stifle a snort of laughter. Too bad his jeans are so Value Village.

  We start to walk. “Nic had an unexpected conference call, so he’s pushed the start back half an hour.”

  “Great.” Great? Man, I sound lame. I can’t help it. I’m walking down the road beside Etienne Quinn, who smells like maple-sugar bacon. Who won an Emmy two years ago. Who dated Brooklyn Cory even though she’s practically old enough to be his mother.

  He shoots me the famous Etienne look—a flick of too-blue eyes, a barely there smile, the flash of a dimple. Sexy flirt meets little boy lost. “So you’re my love interest.”

  My throat constricts. Amazing I can still breathe. “Your guitar is your love interest, remember?”

  He gives me a full-on grin this time. “I don’t kiss my guitar.”

  OMG. He is such a flirt. Digging deep, I channel the always (unlike me) calm Iris. “You don’t kiss me either.”

  “But I try to.”

  I look away. Yeah, he does. During a scene we shoot on location outside the library. Thankfully, I’m spared the need to answer because we reach the intersection. “So which way was I supposed to go?”

  “Left, not right.” We cross the street, passing a group of people dressed like space aliens. “Ellen’s dyslexic.”

  Soundstage two is a cavernous space with massive ceilings crisscrossed with lights, ladders and support beams. The cameras and dollies have been pushed aside to make room for three long tables set up to form a giant U. Against the wall is a table with coffee, muffins, fruit and juice.

  “Would you like something?”

  “No, thanks, I’m good.”

  “I’ll see you in a minute.” He heads for the coffee.

  You belong here, I remind myself as I step gingerly over the floor cables and head for a seat. You’re cast.

  My stomach flip-flops when I spot the placard spelling out my name—Lily O’Neal/Iris. Oh man! It’s practically in the center of the U. I slide into my seat, open my script and hide behind it. This still feels like a dream. After a few minutes, a man wearing chef’s whites slides into the chair beside me. “Hi, I’m John Samuel.”