Page 2 of Unscripted

Did I need to tell someone? Was it on me to sort out the logistics of my own termination?

Moving on autopilot, I went to the production trailer and climbed the three metal steps to the line producer’s tiny, makeshift office. I knocked on the door once before letting myself in.

Kevin took one look at me, saw the disassociation on my face, and let out a frustrated huff.

“What’d he do now?” he said in his thick, Irish brogue.

The office was so small there was nowhere for me to sit, so I just stood, half leaning against the wall.

“How long will my visa last in the case of unemployment?”

“Damn it,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, Poppy. You’re a great assistant, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. It’s not your fault he’s a little prick.”

All I could manage was a shrug. He was right: I was good at my job; I worked too hard to make sure I was. I knew my termination had more to do with the whims of a man-child than with my performance.

My primary concern now, other than not crying until I got back to my hotel room, was the possibility of being forced to leave England.

There was a reason why I clung so tightly to this job, why I had put up with so much from Frank, why I had been so eager to move thousands of miles away from everything I knew. A reason other than my career goals.

The root cause of that reason was something I was happy to continue to ignore, shoving it down and pretending everything was fine, but what it boiled down to was this: I could not go back to the United States.

I needed to stay in the UK, far away from the problems I left behind. From the person I had been trying not to think about ever since I landed in London.

“Your work visa is valid for a period of sixty days after your employment ends,” Kevin continued, “but if you aren’t on the shoot anymore, production’s not going to be able to cover your housing or per diem.”

Of course. If I didn’t find a place to live, a new job, and an income, it wouldn’t matter how long I could legally stay in the UK. I had some savings, but it definitely wasn’t enough to bankroll a sixty-day hiatus.

“Great. Got it. Understood,” I rambled, my brain still processing my new reality.

“I’ll call around, see what’s shooting right now. Try and get you a day-playing gig,” Kevin said.

“Thank you, I appreciate that.” Any job, even one that paid me a day at a time, could help.

And then that was it. What more could I say? What else could I do? It wasn’t fair, but that was the job. Long hours, quick turnovers. I loved every second when I was in it and now loathed it just as much from my new position on the outside.

A walkie-talkie on Kevin’s desk squawked, letting the crew know that rehearsal would start in ten minutes. I took that as my cue to leave, giving Kevin a quick wave before exiting the trailer.

A very nice transportation assistant drove me back to the hotel that housed the crew. Arriving at my room, I looked around at the barely unpacked suitcase strewn open on the floor. I had been so busy catering to Frank’s every need that putting away my own clothes had seemed like a luxury I didn’t have time to afford.

Sitting on the bed, I didn’t immediately cry like I thought I would. I knew a breakdown was on the horizon; those tears would have to come eventually. But for now, I tucked all that low simmering panic away and focused on the facts at hand: I was out of a job, in a foreign country, with a sudden lack of disposable income. Those things were all true.

But I wasn’t totally alone. There was one person I knew on this side of the world that did not work on the film crew.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling down to a number I had been meaning to call for weeks but hadn’t had the time.

I let out a breath—trying to release the emotions of the day—and hit "call."

2

Blair Connelly and I met in college when we were assigned as roommates our freshman year. We were both from South Carolina, both knew no one at American University, and both liked Twilight and Ke$ha. It was a match made in randomly picked roommate heaven.

When we graduated, Blair moved across the pond to London. She took a job at a publicity firm and worked her way up the corporate ladder. She was always impressive—both the prettiest and smartest girl in any room—but she really took the British public relations world by storm.

Though we hadn’t spent much time together after college because of our physical distance, the bonds we formed as 18-year-olds on their own and learning how to do laundry for the first time proved hard to break, and it was because of her I had somewhere to go after “coffee-gate”.

When I filled in Blair with what had happened, she immediately set into motion, offering me a place to stay while I figured out things. She lived in a two-bedroom flat with her fiancé, Hunter, and the second bedroom, which they’d previously used as an office, had recently been converted back to a guest room. They had just moved out the computer monitors and put in a sleeper sofa.

“It’s the most comfortable mattress; you can barely even tell it folds into a couch,” she assured me over the phone.