Wildest Dreams

12. Pierre

PIERRE

I t’s the day of table reads—one of the most critical days of filmmaking, as it sets the tone for the entire production—and I am dragging.

After having lunch with Kendall yesterday, I couldn’t think of anything else. I walked around the grocery store for an hour, debating what to cook for her before settling on gourmet pizza. Then I couldn’t sleep. Then I almost forgot to eat breakfast.

I can honestly say I’ve never been this nervous about a date in my entire life.

Table reads are being held at the local library off Main Street. Though two stories, the library is relatively small. It’s a brown brick building that looks at least a hundred years old. It even has the original windows with little blocks of yellow and pink stained glass around the edges. There is one librarian at the desk who looks completely starstruck when I walk in with a few other recognizable faces. A little sign indicates that table reads are upstairs, so that’s where we all head.

The second floor of the building consists of three small conference rooms to the right of the stairs and a large auditorium with a stage to the left. I walk into the auditorium, where the edge of the stage is being used as a table to hold scripts. A circle of tables takes up most of the room. A few people greet me when I walk in, then I find my name card—right next to Marina’s—and sit down. In front of me is a fresh script, two ink pens, and a bottle of water.

Marina isn’t here yet. The last time we worked together, she was always late. I have no reason to think this shoot will be any different.

It’s past time to get started and everyone gets settled in their chairs. The director, Belladonna, calls Marina and yells at her on speakerphone in front of the entire cast. Marina assures her she’s almost here, and though I’m annoyed by her tardiness, I also dread her walking in the door.

We continue to wait, so I get up and stretch my legs. Out the window of antique rippled glass, I see a long black car pull up and Marina steps out, wearing a white tank top, beige pants, and enough jewelry to make the King of England jealous. I have to admit that she is attractive in that cookie-cutter Hollywood way. She has long, straight dark hair, brown eyes, dark skin, a sharp jaw, and she’s almost as tall as I am. It’s no surprise that all the major designers want to work with her. At the height of her modeling career, you couldn’t open a magazine without seeing her in an ad.

I go back to my chair and take a sip of water. When Marina finally appears, she walks to her seat beside me without so much as apologizing or even acknowledging anyone else. Belladonna welcomes her in a tone dripping with sarcasm and we finally begin.

After introductions and the director’s speech setting expectations, we settle into the rhythm of the dialogue. Marina is a great actress, which is reassuring. When we are delivering lines to each other I am careful to avoid her gaze—I’ll save that for the camera—though she looks at me with an intensity that could burn a hole in the side of my face.

We break for lunch at noon and a caterer comes in with a spread of rosemary chicken, smothered pork chops, collard greens, squash casserole, mashed potatoes, and enough buttered rolls to feed the entire town.

I fix my plate and return to my seat, scrolling through the news on my phone, when Marina finally decides to speak to me.

“I’ve been telling myself you must’ve lost your phone, but clearly I was mistaken.” Her voice sends chills down my spine.

I sigh. “Marina, I’ve been busy. I’m seeing someone, and I’m not interested in you.”

She made a noise of disgust. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was only calling because I was bored and wanted to go over lines.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here today, so…”

She cuts me off. “Who is this girlfriend? She must not be anybody or I would’ve heard about it. You know the studio wants us to stage some pictures for them to leak to the media. They’re not going to like you being seen out with some rando.”

“She’s not officially my girlfriend yet, and please don’t call her a rando. Let’s keep this project strictly business. I’m not interested in staging photos with you or pretending to be something I’m not, nor something we’re not.”

She sits back and crosses her arms, her leg shaking in frustration.

“Is she here?”

“Who?”

“Your non-girlfriend.” She pouts like a child.

“None of your business.”

“What’s her name?”

“Marina—”

“Oh, she’s Marina too?” she says sarcastically. “You have a thing for girls named after me? How sweet.”

I finally stop talking to her and pretend she doesn’t exist. We get through the rest of the day without any further snark, and when the table reads are done that afternoon, I slip away as fast as I can before she can say anything else or try to follow me home.