Say You Love Her, An L.A. Love Story (3 page)

“We’ll talk about this after we’re done here,” Monroe says.

I shrug in agreement.
 

Monroe goes right into a discussion about me signing off on the new script by the end of the day because we start shooting on the Universal lot next Tuesday.

Pearl’s plump face twists into a severe scowl. “You pushed production up a week when we haven’t even finalized the fucking script that
you
changed. Did you know about this, Charlie?”

I open my mouth, tongue-tied. The answer is no.
 

“And,” Monroe says, challenging her.
 

“And we might have to add cast—”

“We won’t,” Monroe interjects.

“Reschedule locations—”

“We won’t have to.”

“Revise budgets—”

“I say we just go with the very first script and—”

“Forget it,” I say, noticing how Angelina is tapping the butt of her pencil nervously against a marked-up page inside of her notebook. “Angelina’s been hired to fix the script, so that’s what she’s going to do.”
 

Monroe huffs and rolls her eyes. “I still think my last draft is fine. It reflects the book. The last time I checked, I was number two on the
NYT
best-sellers list.”

 
“Hey, I’m only putting my money on the script that Angelina fixes.”

“That’s perfect. You can fund that script, and we can just make my movie with mine.”

I snort and shrug indifferently. “Sounds fine to me as long as your script has nothing to do with your book, which I own the film rights for.”

She grits her teeth. “I could just take your ass to court.”

I remain cool, calm, and composed. “Haven’t we been here already?”

There’s a release of collective sighs. Everyone’s tired of the bickering.
 

 
“It doesn’t need to be fixed, Charlie,” she roars in a last-ditch effort to get her way. “Isn’t that right, Shane?”

Shane’s eyes expand like a deer’s trapped in headlights. “Uh,” he says. He looks at me, probably hoping I’ll pull him out of this tough spot.
 

“It needs to be fixed,” Angelina says in a small voice. In one fell swoop all eyes are on her. She looks down bashfully. “But like Charles said, we can fix it.”
 

 
“Charlie,” I say.

I gaze at her as she nods. “Okay, Charlie.” She cuts her eyes to Pearl. “And I’ve also read the original script. I’ve figured out a way to keep the essential elements intact so you can stay on your production schedule.”

Pearl grunts in relief and says, “I’m happy to hear it.”

I wonder what Angelina’s thinking when she shifts her gaze away from my face and stares at Monroe, who, along with everyone else in the room, had observed our brief eye-lock. Something is going on between us. It’s still pulsing through me. What in the hell is it?

“Fine, we’ll go over the script after this meeting like I already said,” Monroe says snippily. “Now let’s discuss Mandy Hill. She’s finally agreed to play Clara Richardson.”

“Hell no,” I say. “What the hell happened to Jennifer Woodson?”

“She backed out,” Pearl replies, glaring at Monroe as though it was her fault.

Monroe sighs loudly as she rolls her eyes. “Mandy already knows the lines, so don’t make a big deal out of this, Charlie.”

“How can she know the lines when I warned you that under no circumstances do I want Mandy Hill involved in this movie?”

“Is this how we’re going to conduct business from now until we wrap? This shit has gotten old, and we’ve only just started,” Pearl grumbles.
 

I jab a finger in Monroe’s direction. “She’s the one who’s making this hard,” I say.

“I’m not the only one who’s making things hard for you, Charlie Lord.” Monroe points at Pocahontas. I’d forgotten she was in the room. “Who is she, and why is she here?”
 

“Who, Lydia?” I ask, wondering what the hell she has to do with making things hard for me.

Lydia blinks, offended. “My name is Lilac!” she yells at me. “And I’m an actress. Charlie invited me to the meeting, as an actress.” She throws that last part in just as a reminder. She’s seeking restitution for blowing off her job in order to keep me company all weekend long, which was her decision, not mine.

“Yes, I know he invited you. But why?” Monroe is being harsh.

I jump to my feet. The time has come for Lilac to go home. “Keep talking movie stuff. I’ll be back,” I say as I lead her out of the trailer. She’s kind of reluctant to leave but follows anyway.
 

“What the fuck is going on, Charlie?” she yells as soon as we’re outside. “You promised me a part!”

“Actually, I didn’t
promise
you anything. I said maybe there’s a part. But you blew it when you opened your mouth.”

“I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“You spoke. That was wrong. You should’ve let me handle it. If you hadn’t noticed, shit was already strenuous in there.”

She grits her teeth. “You didn’t remember my name. And is the bitchy bitch your girlfriend?”

I ignore the question and take her by the hand. “Let’s go. I’ll call you a cab.”

She snatches her hand back and whacks me across the face. “Fuck you, you lying asshole!”
 

I didn’t see that coming, but I take it because not only is she a girl and I don’t hit chicks but I deserve it.

She stomps toward the front gates. Her tiny heels beat the pavement. I hate that I’m relieved to see her go. Maggie calls me a scoundrel every now and then, and that’s exactly what I feel like.
 

I lean against the trailer, watching Lilac until she’s out of sight. I’m bummed. I need a cigarette, but I haven’t smoked in three years. Plus, it’s hard to bum cigarettes in LA. Smoking is a dying habit in this city since you can hardly find a place to do it legally. Instead I take some deep breaths. Spring air in L.A. smells and tastes like mud. I can feel an old familiar friend waking up inside of me. I don’t know who the hell he is, but he doesn’t want to be here. He hates meetings and power struggles over shit that doesn’t matter. He wants to ask Angelina if she wants to get out of here, take her home, and fuck until he knows a lot more about her than he does now. He hasn’t felt this way about a girl since he first saw Daisy. I shake my head. I can’t let my old friend rule my dick and my brain anymore. So I push him back into his hiding place. After another long breath, I’m in the right frame of mind and ready to rejoin the meeting.

I’m back in my seat. Angelina turns in my direction. We lock eyes for a fraction of a second. It’s satisfying to know that she acknowledges my return. Pearl is confirming the line items for the budget.
 

“All we need is a final script so that we can plan the rest of the shooting schedule.”

“Then Angelina and I will get it finalized,” Monroe says, which surprises the hell out of me.

 
I raise my hand. “What am I, chopped liver? I’m working with Angelina on the script. However,
you
can join
us
.”
 

Monroe sighs. “Whatever.”
 

I swear she’s possessed by Maggie, or maybe it’s the other way around.
 

The meeting ends. Only the three of us remain in the room. Being alone with Angelina and Monroe makes me nervous. Monroe takes off her sweater. She’s wearing a tight tank top. She brushes a pile of her hair to one side of her shoulder. Angelina has on tight black stretchy pants and a plaid shirt. I’m getting an idea of what’s under her clothes as she unpacks her copy of the script, a notebook, and a laptop from her bag. She doesn’t notice the way Monroe is watching me. Monroe is still in foreplay mode. I’m not sure if I’m with her. Angelina powers on her laptop and asks us to hover. She points out weak “beats” and “plot points” and “character action.” She asks Monroe what she meant to say. Monroe answers. Angelina rewrites the scene right there on the spot. Surprisingly, Monroe doesn’t fight her on even one point. Despite behaving like the queen bee, she really cares about how this movie turns out. Thirty-five pages in, at the end of act one, Angelina tilts her head and asks Monroe, “This story isn’t true, is it?”

“Hell no,” Monroe says. “The truth would ruin my mother. I wanted to give her a little solace even if she doesn’t deserve it.”

Angelina watches Monroe with an odd expression. “Well, what’s the truth?”

“You really want to know?”

“Please.”

“She spent more time in men’s beds and running her well-oiled prostitution ring than raising me. I hated her then, and I hate her now.” It shows on her face.

Angelina appears to contemplate that for a moment. She’s like a machine. I’m not sure if she’s enjoying this process or not. “That’s exactly how Clara Richardson is depicted in the story, and while you’ve succeeded in shaming her, you’ve also managed to make her look like a caricature. You’ve ruined her with an unrealistic, almost cartoonish, depiction.”

Monroe is frowning. She’d taken all of Angelina’s criticisms too well.
 

Angelina glances at me. I wonder if she’s asking for help until she says, “We’re going to have to find her humanity or you’re going to be spending a lot of time and money making a movie that’s bound to flop.”

Monroe looks off with a frown. Angelina raises her eyebrows at me, and my heart skips a beat.
 

“Okay,” Monroe finally says and clears the frog out of her throat. “Let’s do this.”

We stay throughout the night. Mainly I listen while Angelina talks Monroe through the changes and then types them up. The next morning, I send Mary, the assistant, out on a coffee run as soon as she gets in.
 

“Mint tea for me,” Angelina says while typing.
 

“I thought all scribes lived on coffee,” I say.

She pauses—more like freezes—and then returns to typing. I wonder why she did that.
 
I find her puzzling.
 

Mary brings breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It’s nine-thirty at night. “The end,” Angelina says as she types three hash tags. I sign off on the script. Mary, who hung around for this moment, prints off copies, and gets them ready for distribution.
 

“I guess we’re in production,” Monroe says, beaming at me with tired eyes.

Angelina yawns as she stuffs her computer into her bag. “Congratulations.”
 

“We have to celebrate once we’re rested,” Monroe says.

 
Angelina slings her bag over her shoulder. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“I’m staying in downtown Long Beach.”

“That’s too far. Stay with me.”

“Or you can stay with me,” Monroe says out of nowhere.

“No, with me. We’re practically family.” I’m insistent.
 

“I don’t want to impose,” Angelina says and yawns again.

“You’re not imposing. And Daisy wouldn’t forgive me if I let you drive home in your condition. I have five bedrooms, and there’s only one of me.”

Monroe is about to plead her case when Shane bursts through the door. “Ready?” he asks her.

“Ready?” I ask Angelina. Although seeing Shane here agitates the hell out of me.
 

 
“Five bedrooms? Why?” Angelina asks.

I smile. “I ask myself that all the time.”

She snickers and massages her temples. “Why not.”

“Does that mean you’re in?”

She smiles tiredly. “I’m in.”

“I’ll drive.”

“But what about my car?” Angelina says.

“I’ll make sure it’s safe.”

She ruffles her eyebrows as she ponders. “Then I’ll get my overnight bag out of the trunk.”

“You have an overnight bag in the trunk?” I ask.

“I’ve had a lot of late nights like this so I’m used to crashing in someone’s guest room.”

I smirk at her, flirting. “Not the couch?”
 

“Not yet, knock on wood.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me?” Monroe asks, interrupting the moment we’re having. I tear my eyes away from Angelina to watch Monroe slip into her sweater.

Shane’s face lights up as if he’s going to hit the jackpot the second Angelina changes her mind and goes with them. Just entertaining the thought of fucking them both at one time is enough to get a man excited.

“Let’s go, Angelina,” I say forcefully, wondering why the hell Monroe is making this into a power struggle. I fling open the door. “I’ll drive.”
 

Angelina shrugs and follows me.

“Monroe, are you ready?” Shane asks.

I don’t hear Monroe’s response because I don’t give a damn what Monroe does from this point on.
 

Finally we’re out of there, and I’m driving on the 10 Freeway, heading to Pacific Coast Highway.
 

“You’re not tired?” Angelina asks. I glance over. Her eyes are closed. Her beautiful face is aimed in my direction.
 

Hell no. I’m too excited that she’s with me to be tired. “I’m like a roach,” I say.

Her chuckle is feather-light. “How so?”

“I’m always awake and into shit.”

“Sweet shit?”
 

I take a glance at her smile. “I thought it was ants who like sugar.” I’m enjoying the banter.
 

“Roaches too. I’m the roach expert. I’m from Louisiana.”

Her eyes are still closed. She resembles Daisy, but then she also has her own allure.

She opens her eyes and catches the moment where I’ve taken my attention off the road to study her.
 

“So what are we? Brother and sister by marriage?” she asks.

I’ve come to a stop at a red light. “Something like that,” I say.

She grunts thoughtfully. She’s looking at me as though we’re having naked pillow talk. “So you live in Malibu too?”
 

I swallow the lump in my throat. My skin is hot. I hope I haven’t turned red. “Too?” I croak.

“Daisy and Belmont live here. At least when they’re in L.A. Do you live near them?”

“You know you don’t have to call him Belmont. He’s Jack.”