no-brainer.
‘Coffee?’ Again, she was surprised at how normal she sounded.
‘You’re a doll,’ Megan said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Back soon.’ Or possibly never again.
She went to the coffee van first. There was a queue. With production stopped, everyone had time on their hands.
‘Hi,’ she heard.
She turned. It was Coffee Guy, as she and Megan had dubbed him. A man in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, solidly built. Genevieve only ever met him here in the line. They had a running joke that they shared the same level of caffeine addiction. She wasn’t sure what he did on set. A technician, she’d guessed, or maybe one of the security guys, since he wore the black waterproof jacket with the studio logo on the left pocket that they all sported. They never talked much – like today, the line moved too quickly to allow in-depth conversations – but she always enjoyed their exchanges. He’d been to Australia once, he’d told her. He’d gone scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef. She’d never even seen the Great Barrier Reef and she’d grown up in Australia, she said.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve never seen the Chrysler Building and I grew up in New York,’ he said.
‘It’s there, look.’ She pointed behind them.
He turned, raised his eyebrows. ‘So it is. Wow.’ He gave her a big smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘This is my tenth coffee today,’ he said to her now. ‘I may look peaceful on the outside but I’m like Niki Lauda on the inside. The race-car driver? No? How about Nick Faldo? The golfer?’
She was too jittery to be able to joke back to him. She just smiled. His heart was racing? Hers felt like it was on warp speed. She collected her three coffees, smiled at him again as she walked past and then delivered the drinks back to Megan and Tim. They were still gossiping in the trailer. She couldn’t join in. She couldn’t even drink her coffee. Her pulse rate was at dangerous levels already. There was something she had to do. Right now.
‘Back in a while,’ she said to Megan.
‘More coffee? You won’t be sleeping for weeks.’
Genevieve had to ask for directions. She hardly knew what the director looked like, let alone where his trailer was. She’d had more dealings with the production manager. It had been going so well for her here in New York. She’d loved every minute of the past two years. She’d worked on feature films, music videos, TV ads, one-off specials. She’d met film stars from her childhood, up-and-coming indie actors. Nice people, horrible people. She’d seen great actors with ordinary faces and poor actors with photogenic faces. She’d pinched herself every day to think that the career that had begun as an after-school job in outback South Australia had brought her here, to New York, to the set of an Emmy Award–winning TV series —
That she had brought to a halt.
Her final steps to the director’s trailer felt like a prelude to an execution. Five people were standing in front of it. She knew just one of them, Laurence, the third assistant director. He was reading something on his phone that was making him frown. She waited, then took a breath and walked across to him.
‘Laurence? Can I have a word? In private?’
‘It’s not a good time —’
‘I know something about —’ she made a vague gesture, ‘the situation.’
‘Sorry, who are you?’
Why would he know who she was? ‘Genevieve Gillespie. I’m the hairstylist.’
‘You know something about the article?’
She nodded.
‘Stay there.’
She’d thought she could tell him and he would then tell the director. But he’d gone up the stairs, spoken to someone and was now back in the doorway, beckoning her over. To talk to the director? The director who had won four Emmys and was rumoured to be directing his first feature film for Harvey Weinstein as soon as this series wrapped?
He gestured again. Hurry up, it said.
She’d longed to meet the director. But not in circumstances like this.
She walked up
‘Coffee?’ Again, she was surprised at how normal she sounded.
‘You’re a doll,’ Megan said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Back soon.’ Or possibly never again.
She went to the coffee van first. There was a queue. With production stopped, everyone had time on their hands.
‘Hi,’ she heard.
She turned. It was Coffee Guy, as she and Megan had dubbed him. A man in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, solidly built. Genevieve only ever met him here in the line. They had a running joke that they shared the same level of caffeine addiction. She wasn’t sure what he did on set. A technician, she’d guessed, or maybe one of the security guys, since he wore the black waterproof jacket with the studio logo on the left pocket that they all sported. They never talked much – like today, the line moved too quickly to allow in-depth conversations – but she always enjoyed their exchanges. He’d been to Australia once, he’d told her. He’d gone scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef. She’d never even seen the Great Barrier Reef and she’d grown up in Australia, she said.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve never seen the Chrysler Building and I grew up in New York,’ he said.
‘It’s there, look.’ She pointed behind them.
He turned, raised his eyebrows. ‘So it is. Wow.’ He gave her a big smile. ‘Thanks.’
‘This is my tenth coffee today,’ he said to her now. ‘I may look peaceful on the outside but I’m like Niki Lauda on the inside. The race-car driver? No? How about Nick Faldo? The golfer?’
She was too jittery to be able to joke back to him. She just smiled. His heart was racing? Hers felt like it was on warp speed. She collected her three coffees, smiled at him again as she walked past and then delivered the drinks back to Megan and Tim. They were still gossiping in the trailer. She couldn’t join in. She couldn’t even drink her coffee. Her pulse rate was at dangerous levels already. There was something she had to do. Right now.
‘Back in a while,’ she said to Megan.
‘More coffee? You won’t be sleeping for weeks.’
Genevieve had to ask for directions. She hardly knew what the director looked like, let alone where his trailer was. She’d had more dealings with the production manager. It had been going so well for her here in New York. She’d loved every minute of the past two years. She’d worked on feature films, music videos, TV ads, one-off specials. She’d met film stars from her childhood, up-and-coming indie actors. Nice people, horrible people. She’d seen great actors with ordinary faces and poor actors with photogenic faces. She’d pinched herself every day to think that the career that had begun as an after-school job in outback South Australia had brought her here, to New York, to the set of an Emmy Award–winning TV series —
That she had brought to a halt.
Her final steps to the director’s trailer felt like a prelude to an execution. Five people were standing in front of it. She knew just one of them, Laurence, the third assistant director. He was reading something on his phone that was making him frown. She waited, then took a breath and walked across to him.
‘Laurence? Can I have a word? In private?’
‘It’s not a good time —’
‘I know something about —’ she made a vague gesture, ‘the situation.’
‘Sorry, who are you?’
Why would he know who she was? ‘Genevieve Gillespie. I’m the hairstylist.’
‘You know something about the article?’
She nodded.
‘Stay there.’
She’d thought she could tell him and he would then tell the director. But he’d gone up the stairs, spoken to someone and was now back in the doorway, beckoning her over. To talk to the director? The director who had won four Emmys and was rumoured to be directing his first feature film for Harvey Weinstein as soon as this series wrapped?
He gestured again. Hurry up, it said.
She’d longed to meet the director. But not in circumstances like this.
She walked up
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