Redemption (5 page)

“Just make sure my trip to Philadelphia stays under wraps—at least until the contracts get signed.”

“You got it. We’ll put out that you’re in Montana at the ranch. One more thing—Laura Hayes called.” Laura was his co-star in
Lyin’ Hearts
. “She wants to talk to you about living arrangements on location. She’s having trouble finding a place. I told her the house you rented had a couple extra bedrooms—”

“Sure, if she wants to bunk with me that’s fine. I won’t be around much anyway. Most of our locations are only available during odd hours. Just make sure she knows the press will have a feeding frenzy if they find out.”

The thought of sharing digs with Laura didn’t concern Matt. An easy friendship had already sprung up between them during their previous meetings. He made a point of not getting involved with his co-stars—nothing like a hard lesson learned.

After hanging up, Matt took the pages that had fallen from his printer, and started reading. Before he could get through the first page, Marty called from his cell phone. “Matt, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Try me.”

“Kaslow’s is balking. Apparently they’ve got some new tight-assed executive who objects to the idea of letting in the likes of us Hollywood degenerates.”

“Send them the pages of the script that are set in the store. That should set their minds to rest. Just make sure they don’t know who all is associated with this. If they think I’m involved, they’ll have visions of explosions going off in Housewares.”

“All right. I’ll be meeting with them next week. If they don’t go for it, I don’t know what we’ll do. There’s really no other suitable place.”

“They’ll go for it. Offer more money if you have to—though with the publicity they’ll get from this, they should be paying us a promo fee. Didn’t you say they were close to declaring bankruptcy?”

“Actually, they’ve just been bought out. It’s apparently the new owner’s representative on the board who’s throwing the objections at us.”

“Find out who it is. We’ll woo him if we have to.”

“Her—it’s a woman. Hey, maybe you should take a shot at it—”

“I trust you, Marty,” Matt said dryly. “Do whatever you have to; just get it finalized by next Friday. I want to get in there before I leave Philadelphia.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Marty promised, then hung up.

The photos Marty had taken were still scattered on his desk. Matt gathered them up, intending to save them for Karen, who would use them to draw up the storyboards. Her job was crucial to the film’s success. The look and feel—the
mise en scene
—was as important in this film as the characters. And this place was the perfect location to convey that. Even from the photos, he could see that Kaslow’s exuded the kind of image called for in the screenplay.

Gleaming woodwork, elegant chandeliers, that huge fireplace in the men’s department—all quietly proclaiming “Establishment,” and all of it painted over with a thin layer of snobbery.

That attitude was the real villain in this picture and what had originally attracted Matt to the script. A lighthearted comedy on its surface, yet underneath it poked at certain attitudes of society with a subtle viciousness. The plot was simple, a Cinderella story turned on its heels.

Matt would play the down-and-out Luke, discovered sleeping in the ladies’ lounge by Jane, a Main Line debutant. In a plan to fool her overbearing parents, Jane recruits him to be her “fiancé,” and a farce ensues, a quirky twist on
Pretty Woman
.

Matt’s attention caught on the photo in his hand. In one corner was the image of a woman, a severe figure dressed in black and clutching a briefcase. Probably an employee, he figured, and then an idea occurred to him. He picked up the phone and called Marty.

“Why don’t we offer to use their salespeople as extras? They know the routine, and if it sweetens the deal…”

Stuck in Santa Monica traffic, Marty agreed. “Hey, after five years of location scouting, believe me, I’ve learned a deal can never be too sweet.”

Chapter Three

C
LAIRE
G
APED
A
T
T
HE
C
ONTRACT
on her desk. GrayWolf had actually offered to cast some of the store’s employees as extras! When word of that enticement leaked out, everyone from shoe clerks to janitors would be clamoring to be in the film. She could even imagine some of the board members preening before the camera.

And there were more incentives: Kaslow’s name would be featured prominently in the film—Claire made a note to have them define “prominently”—as well as listed in the credits. In addition, they had asked to use the store’s fixtures and merchandise as set decorations and props. Claire didn’t need to ask for a definition there. Technically, a “prop” was anything an actor actually touched, while a “set decoration” was merely an object that appeared on screen.

Their costume designer would provide many of the clothes the characters would “try on.” For a moment, Claire wondered if they would consent to feature only the brands the store carried. Then she shook her head firmly. She had no intention of actually allowing this intrusion, despite the very attractive terms of the contract.

And besides, Kaslow’s would make a comeback financially without the help of Hollywood. Already, Marketing was working on some of the ideas she had brought up in their meeting. Though Claire had been careful to refrain from appearing to butt in, her influence, as the person who effectively controlled the budget at Kaslow’s, was considerable.

Joan stuck her head in the door. “This just arrived. It looks like the script for that movie.” Her eyes were eager as she set the package on Claire’s desk.

“It’s only the scenes they want to shoot here,” Claire explained. “When is my meeting with their representative?”

“Tomorrow at nine a.m. Are we going to sign the contract? I heard they’re offering roles as extras to the employees.”

“We haven’t decided yet. And I believe they were only interested in using our sales associates—for authenticity,” she said, her eyebrows raised skeptically. “Even then, there’s hardly any guarantee that anyone will get screen time. Most film footage ends up on the editing room floor.” Instantly she regretted the words. She was beginning to sound like the resident expert on motion-picture filming. “Would you get Garrett Brown on the phone? I want to hear what our legal department has to say about this.”

“Certainly, Ms. Porter,” Joan said and with an air of stifled excitement left the room. More than once during the last week, Claire had noticed Joan, a wistful look on her face, stuffing a movie magazine into her desk after her coffee break. Claire wished she could spare her the disillusionment. A career in Hollywood was about as glamorous as that of a Women’s Wear mannequin.

After she was gone, Claire picked up the script and began reading. Occasionally a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. It really was a romantic comedy and, if she was any judge, a well-written one. Odd, she thought, that an unknown production company was producing a script of this caliber.

She tucked the pages under a spreadsheet of last week’s sales figures. So far, every discreet inquiry she had made into the identity of GrayWolf Productions had come back unanswered. No one seemed to have heard of them. Claire was beginning to get the impression it was an upstart production company without a credit to their name. Hardly a threat to her peace of mind, but one she still wanted to keep out of her store.

The phone on her desk buzzed. Claire spoke with Garrett Brown, who agreed the contract was generous, though unusual. Apparently the identity of a filmmaker wasn’t normally listed on the location contract, just the name of the production company entering into the agreement.

There were still plenty of questions, though. With a glance at the script, Claire reminded Garrett of their meeting tomorrow with Marty Baker. She only hoped the answers would show the deal to be more disadvantageous than the board could allow.

The traffic in Philadelphia was just sliding into a smooth rhythm after its rush-hour staccato. Matt glanced up from his notes as the car slid to a stop at a red light. He was touring locations with Jackson Li, the photography director.

The driver motioned toward the left. “Robert Indiana’s
LOVE
sculpture.”

They’d received permission to film one of the closing scenes there, in Logan Circle. As Matt gazed at the large red letters, the director’s vision he had been honing all week kicked in.

“You know, Karen ought to talk to the weatherman, try to arrange a layer of snow for when we film there. What do you think, Jack?”

“Save the cost of special effects making the canned stuff,” Jack said, then added thoughtfully, “And you’re right: a white background would focus attention on the actors in the scene, highlight the stark letters of the sculpture.” He gave Matt an appraising look. “You’ve got a good eye. You sure you’ve never done this before?”

Matt laughed. “No, but I’m still only one step ahead of the doubting Thomases. One misstep, and I won’t get a job directing a used-car commercial.”

His phone buzzed. Matt glanced at the screen, saw Marty’s name, and answered.

Marty’s voice was bleak. “I’ve gone to the line with the cash offer, Matt, ponied up every possible incentive, and still no dice. Kaslow’s won’t budge.” He sounded like he was holed up inside a foxhole, armed with just an iPhone. “Their point woman, the CFO, is like some sort of accounting wizard. I swear she’s got the last fifty years of Philadelphia location fees memorized, along with a few other facts and figures I’d never heard before. Even their attorney is starting to feel sorry for me.”

Marty was as good at negotiating locations as anyone in the business, so Matt was surprised to detect a bit of awe in his voice as he continued, “The woman just reeks ‘cool disdain.’ You ever try to reason with a block of ice?”

Matt laughed. “You need to up the offer?” He quickly calculated. The cost of finding a new location, not to mention recreating the look that already existed at Kaslow’s, would be more than double what they were offering.

“I don’t think she’ll go for that. She seems to think we’re trying to shoot some kind of low-budget porn film.
Attention Kaslow’s shoppers: Sex for sale on the fourth floor. Get it while it’s hot
.”

“I sent the script—”

“Yeah, she says they get rewritten all the time.”

“Well, that’s true.”

“Look, you said the cat will be out of the bag soon anyway. Any chance you could come by here, spring her in advance? Reassure these suits we’re on the up and up?”

Matt sighed. He turned to the driver. “How far are we from Kaslow’s?”

“It’s just a few blocks from here, on Market.”

“Then let’s head over there. Marty says Kaslow’s execs are still balking, and I’m ready to get something signed. If they won’t come on board, we’ll have to talk to Macy’s.”

“The nearest Macy’s is in New York,” Jackson informed him.

“Oh yeah? Think they’d consider moving?”

Matt sighed, then told Marty he would be there shortly. He’d handle the negotiations himself, cut through whatever bullshit the execs were giving Marty. As much as he hated throwing around his star status, sometimes it was the easiest way to pry open doors.

While they waited for Marty’s boss to show up, Claire returned to her office to retrieve another copy of last year’s sales figures. She had gone into the meeting armed to the teeth with objections, in the form of location rates, replacement costs for the valuable store fixtures, even estimated childcare expenses for the employees who would have to stay late to restore the premises after the film crew left.

When she returned to the conference room fifteen minutes later, she noticed a few office assistants fluttering near the door, their voices pitched high with nervous excitement. On the sofa in the reception area, a brawny man sat holding a cup of coffee. Claire ignored the commotion and strode into the room, clutching her rolled up sheaf of papers like a rocket launcher.

She spared a brief glance toward the newcomer. Instead of the short, balding, movie-mogul type she had expected, the man relaxing at the table was well-built. He half-reclined with panther-like grace, one denim-clad leg crossed over the other, his firm jaw carpeted with a casual stubble of light brown beard, his face shadowed by a low-slung sports cap. Before his identity could register on Claire’s suddenly sluggish brain, she heard him speaking.