Page 34 of Cast to be Mine

I closed my eyes for just a second and grounded myself. No time for nerves and freaking out.

“Ms. Stone?”

I turned. A woman stood at the bottom of the trailer steps, clutching a clipboard to her chest like it was a shield. She was maybe fifty, with a cloud of curly, gray-streaked hair and a kind smile.

“Hi, I’m Patty. I’m your PA for the shoot.” She climbed the steps and held out her hand. “I’ve got your call sheet, your sides for today, and I took the liberty of stocking the fridge. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything. If there’s anything you want, anything at all, you just tell me and I’ll make it happen.”

“Hi, Patty.” I shook her hand, a little dazed. “You can just call me Grace.”

“Oh, honey, that’s sweet.” She patted my hand. “But on set, I like to keep it professional in front of the crew. Sets the tone. Now, let’s get you settled. Hair and makeup at six thirty, wardrobe at seven fifteen, and we’re due on set at eight.”

There was a robe hanging on the bathroom door with my initials embroidered on it. My initials. I almost cried.

“You okay, sweetie?” Patty asked, watching me.

“Yeah. Sorry. I’ve just never…” I gestured at the trailer. “This.”

Patty’s face softened. “First big one?”

“That obvious?”

“Not at all. I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years. I can always tell the ones who appreciate it.” She set the sides on the vanity. “The ones who don’t appreciate it are usually the ones throwing phones by week two.”

I laughed. “I’ll try to keep my phone-throwing to a minimum.”

“You do that.” She patted my shoulder. “Now. Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

By six thirty I was in the hair and makeup trailer, which was its own production. Three people worked on me at once. One on my hair, one on my face, one on my hands. The character was a CEO who’d been dragged into a conspiracy, so today I was being made to look like I’d been through hell.

I loved every second of it.

I also used the time to run lines in my head. Today’s scenes were all ship interiors. I knew the scenes. I felt them in my bones. I’d rehearsed the catwalk scene so many times in my living room that my neighbor had banged on my door and told me to stop stomping around at two in the morning.

Wardrobe was a fitted cargo jacket and boots they’d distressed to look like I’d been fighting for my life for three days. The wardrobe supervisor, a tiny woman named Fran with pins in her mouth, circled me twice, tugged the jacket sleeve a quarter inch down, and nodded.

“Don’t sit down,” she said around the pins. “You’ll crease the jacket.”

“For how long?”

“Until we’re done with you.” She took the pins out of her mouth. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Patty walked me back to my trailer. I sat very carefully on the edge of the couch, thinking about how this was the most spoiled I’d ever been in my working life and how I could absolutely get used to it.

My phone buzzed. Becky.

Day one!!! Don’t throw up on Jack Montana.

I typed back. No promises.

Where’s the hot director?

I stared at the text. The hot director. I’d done such a good job not thinking about him for ten whole days. Okay, nine days. Maybe two.

Eyes on the prize, I sent back.

Good girl. Get a pic of the ship set for me.