Scared Scriptless (2 page)

“How’s the afternoon going, Madelyn?” He reaches for an apple.

“Good, good.” I try to stifle some of the unexpected awkwardness I feel by faking extreme interest in the pretzel bowl. Craig is the executive in charge (EIC) of production at HCP, which means he oversees the budget and personnel and is involved in creative decisions for
The Wrong Doctor
.

“I love how Ernesto followed that single-camera angle from the tunnel into the terrorist cell. If he can nail it, I bet that makes it on the season preview for the show. It looked amazing. And we need a killer sizzle reel for the network to promote season two. They can run promos of just that shot and the fans will freak out. It’ll go viral.”

“I know, I love that shot too. He’s really committed to making that work. It’ll be great.” I make sure to infuse my tone with enthusiasm. This is not the time or place to express doubts.

“Well, it’s already two-thirty. He better end up with something to knock our socks off after spending all day on two pages of material. According to the call sheet, there are five more pages to shoot today.” Although it doesn’t stop anyone from asking questions all day long, the call sheet has all the information the cast and crew need for that day of production, from the time everyone is expected to arrive on set to what pages of material we will be filming and in what order. “Will you get those all done by the time we wrap?”

Craig drives me and practically everyone else on the crew crazy at times with this micromanaging, but we all put up with it because we know how much pressure he is under.

“Yep, don’t worry. We lost a little time this morning, but we can make it up this afternoon. Frank and I are sticking to our guns here. We don’t want to fall behind our first day back in production.”

“I tell you what, Maddy. Let’s talk more about this tomorrow night. A PA will call me to let me know when you wrap, and you can just come straight to my place. I’m making you my infamous pineapple grilled salmon.” He winks at me as he walks away, before I can even respond.

And this is #702 on my list of why it may not be a good idea to date your boss.

Exactly twenty-four hours later, after a mad dash home to shower after we wrapped (late of course), I am wandering the aisles of Monte’s Wine Emporium near my apartment in Studio City, trying to find the perfect bottle of wine to go with Craig’s salmon. Beyond my standard glass of Pinot Grigio, wine is not my area of expertise, so I am a little overwhelmed as I walk through the Argentines.
Robust notes of cherry?
I’m so out of my comfort zone here. Back home, we Carsons usually drink beer or a whiskey concoction my dad perfected in Vietnam (supposedly) and that my older brother, Mike, christened “Waxy Sour” because of the strange film it leaves on your tongue after a glass or two. So I am really out of my element evaluating tannins, but I finally settle on a Malbec recommended by none other than Monte himself and head back to my car and onto the windy canyon road taking me to the city side. As I sit in traffic—another thing about LA that I will never get used to—I find myself mentally reviewing the pros and cons list I made last night about dating Craig. Since tonight is the third time that we’ve gone out and I am going to his house for the first time, where he is making me dinner, I think it’s fair to use the term “dating.”

Pros: Craig is the right age—thirty-seven, two years older than me. He’s already at the executive level at HCP, code for “job security,” meaning he’s not in one of the many Hollywood jobs that are completely unstable and unreliable. He has East Coast
manners. Small-town people like my parents (and me, I’ll admit) love that old-school gallantry. I can count on one hand the number of guys in LA who have actually opened the car door for me. I’m not saying he has to run around the hood to open the door, like Alex P. Keaton from
Family Ties
, but it’s nice to feel looked after.

Cons: He has a bad habit of name-dropping and often uses industry expressions like “Let’s put a pin in that.” He gets manicures on a weekly basis—on any given day, his nails look nicer than mine. And also, the biggie: He’s my boss. Yes, the hierarchy in the entertainment industry can be a bit fuzzy, but at the end of the day, the week, or the shoot, I turn those time codes in to him. When we’re paying the crew overtime, I get chewed out just as much as the much-higher-paid directors.

As I turn onto Sunset Blvd, I go right back to the plus column, which is headlined by two words: “dry spell.” It’s like being in the ocean and dying of thirst with the guys in LA. I know, ten years is a long time. That’s not to say there wasn’t a fling here or there. I dated a sound guy for a while and had a yearlong romance with a guy who gave tourists paragliding lessons. But given my main rule, established from day one—NO ACTORS—dating in LA is hard. I’m around
a lot
of actors and even more would-be actors. Their reputation for being vain, insecure, and needing attention—a deadly combination—is not unfounded. Billy Fox is an obvious exception to that, but even he has his moments. Before you go getting ideas, there is absolutely nothing going on between Billy and me. I’m happy to admit that most of the preconceived notions I had about him when we first started production turned out to be false. Working together on a set bonds people quickly, and only one season later, I know he’s one of my true friends in this town. But every time I see his picture in
US Weekly
with another gorgeous supermodel, I’m equally happy that’s all he is.

The truth is—and I think a therapist would probably be quick to point to this as a reason for my dry spell—I have a bad habit of still measuring every guy up against Brian, my high school/college boyfriend. Does that always happen with first loves? Brian has long since moved on and married a lovely girl from our hometown. And I am happy for him—I am!—I just wish there were more guys like him in LA. Guys who have calluses on their hands from something other than lifting kettle bells at the gym.

Wanda—yes, I named my trusty GPS after my favorite John Cleese movie—announces the turn into Craig’s neighborhood, which is marked by a wooden sign that reads G
ABLE
E
STATES
. The twisty road keeps going up into the hills above the Sunset Strip, which according to the map is “Beverly Hills Adjacent.” Taking in the mini-mansions around me, I suddenly have an eerie feeling that I am trespassing. The gorgeous brand-new houses are mixed in with older hillside homes similar to what I was surrounded by as a kid up north, but it’s mostly a lot of huge estates hidden behind tall fences. Compared to my tiny but adorable studio and my modest childhood home that my dad built himself in thirty days (or so the story goes), it’s clear that I am not in Kansas anymore. I’ve been in LA for a long time, but it’s sometimes still hard to wrap my head around the differences in culture, taste… excess. I wonder which will be Craig’s—the rustic cabin style or the mansion. Then the guessing is over as his house falls into view: a gorgeous Mediterranean-style version of the latter. My friends back home imagine that my lifestyle involves designer clothes, a membership to the beach club from the original 90210, and daily convertible rides up the Pacific Coast Highway. My life is so far from that scenario that it makes me laugh every time. Yet here I am pulling up to an actual gate and intercom.

Before I buzz the intercom, I do a quick check of hair and makeup in the rearview mirror. After deciding to wear my hair
down tonight, I have to stop myself from reflexively reaching for the hair band next to my watch to pull it up in its usual knot on my head. The tiny mirror shows only parts of my face at a time, but no question the mascara really does accentuate my almond-shaped brown eyes. All the sports and outdoor lifestyle as a kid seems to have left me with a permanent farmer’s tan, but right now, I’m grateful that the smooth rich tone means I didn’t have to attempt slapping foundation on my face, which I feel sure would have left me looking clown-like. Makeup in general is not my thing. What little I know, I’ve learned from watching the talented makeup artists work their magic on so many actors over the years. So I feel only a little bit self-conscious reapplying the rosy lip gloss that my friend Stella,
The Wrong Doctor
makeup artist, gave me. One last deep breath, and I hit the call button.

“Hello?”

“Craig, hi. It’s me.” I barely get a few words out before a loud buzzing noise interrupts me and the gate starts to open, allowing me to pull past an overgrown bougainvillea onto Craig’s circular driveway. Craig is standing outside his front door, and I must admit he looks great in a navy T-shirt, cuffed linen pants, and bare feet. It’s weird to see him wearing something other than a power suit. I suspect he’s thinking the same thing as he takes in my Gap T-shirt and tie-dyed maxi skirt.

“Maddy, hi. How was traffic?” he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

People in LA are obsessed with talking about traffic and discussing the best routes to get anywhere. If you don’t believe me, check out “The Californians” on YouTube, a
Saturday Night Live
sketch that is twice as funny if you live in LA because it’s not that far from the truth.

“It was fine.” I return the kiss—he even smells different than
he does at work. “It only took me forty-five minutes or so. Here…” I rather inelegantly hand him the bottle of wine.

“A Malbec, perfect. Let’s head to the deck.” Craig ushers me to his gorgeous backyard, which is surprisingly homey and warm, with lanterns dotting the lattice and big black iron planters overflowing with flowers. No question he had a professional decorator and landscaper comb every inch of this place. It’s perfect. I sip from the large glass of wine he poured me as he promises no shoptalk for the evening. It’s a new rule, since our first two dates involved quite a bit of talk about work, so much so that until he kissed me good night I wondered if they
were
actual dates. A few minutes ago, though, Craig insisted I taste the sauce he was finishing up and he spoon-fed it to me, so I think we’re safely in date territory.

“So, babe, if we’re not going to talk about work, I guess it’s time we get personal.” He places a piece of delicious-smelling steaming fish on my plate. “Are you ready to hear my childhood sob story?” He laughs and takes a bite of quinoa salad.

“Is it a sob story?” I ask.

“No, actually. I basically grew up in Pleasantville.” Craig’s story isn’t that different from mine. We both grew up in charming small towns. Craig’s family apple orchard in upstate New York sounds idyllic. He shares ridiculously exaggerated stories of his youthful escapades growing up on the farm. It reminds me so much of my own childhood: growing up in the mountains, the crisp winter air, the snow on the ground, and a town full of people who know my name. I had Craig pegged for a much different past—prep school, fraternities, and blondes with pixie cuts, which is part of the reason I was so surprised when he asked me out. We both had been lingering after a preproduction meeting for
The Wrong Doctor
, discussing the details of a complicated chase
scene we were prepping for season two. Abruptly he asked me to join him for dinner after we wrapped for the day. I was so taken aback, I just mumbled yes and then wished I were the type of girl who had sexy shoes under her desk. Except I don’t even have a desk, since I spend all my time on set. A pair of trendy wedges may have spiced up my outfit—a plain black button-down and dark jeans—but the Chuck Taylors had to do. At least I’d tossed them in the washing machine after our last location shoot out in the salt mines in Simi Valley, which do a great job impersonating the Middle East desert. I am five foot eight, so any heel would put me eye-to-eye with Craig’s five-ten frame, so perhaps it’s better that he has yet to invite me to Mr. Chow’s or The Ivy, two of his favorites. I was way more comfortable at the wine bar down the block from the studio, anyway.

“… so my haul that week was literally twice every other worker’s.” Craig is laughing and I realize I’ve been thinking about where to keep a nicer pair of shoes instead of listening to his story.
Focus, Maddy!
I nod to give him the impression I’ve been hanging on every word.

“And I’m a little embarrassed to admit, my tendency toward the dramatic got the better of me by the end. I poured the last basket of apples all over my dad’s desk in the front office. Red Delicious, Galas, and some Fujis were rolling all over the place. I glared at him, but all I said was ‘Good-bye, Dad. See you at Christmas.’ And I walked out. I didn’t even slam the door. I closed it gently and then I headed cross-country, and that was that. Once I actually moved out here, rather than just threatening to, they handled it okay.” Craig refills our wineglasses and I realize it must be almost 11:00 p.m. and, more importantly, that I have a really nice time when I am with him. One more for the plus column.

“So how did your parents handle you moving here?” he asks.

“Better than yours, it sounds like.” I smile, remembering. “I’m from a small town in Wolf County, up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I always thought I would stay there, but then I got an opportunity in TV. Actually, my parents loved the idea of me coming down here. And it’s not such a long drive, so I go back as much as I can. My dad and my older brother, Mike, manage the ski resort in town. They fight like those guys on
American Chopper
sometimes, but they love each other. And they’re cut from the same cloth—they’re total snow junkies.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Definitely. I miss grabbing my skis and hitting the slopes right after it snows. I miss getting to drive the snowcat in the dark, grooming the bunny slopes. But like I said, I get my fix every few months when I visit.”

“Do you ever think you’ll move back, or are you a Valley girl now?”

“Gag me with a spoon!” I do my best Valley girl impression, earning a laugh from Craig. “But yeah, I always did feel like I would move back, get married, have kids, work for the family business… but now, I don’t know… my life is here.”

“So, what’s next for you, Maddy? What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I thought we weren’t talking shop,” I say half-jokingly.

“We’re not. I’m talking about hopes, dreams, wishes.… What’s your heart’s desire? What would you do if you could do anything?”

I take a minute to think about this. I’m not sure I’m ready to put all my cards on the table with Craig yet. Reason #37 not to date your boss: How am I supposed to open up, allow him to get to know me, when any hint that I want to “produce someday” or “try directing” might make the higher-ups worry that I might jump ship, or worse, give me that
one
opportunity that I’m not sure I’m
ready for. I go with a conservative answer. “The truth is, I can’t really imagine doing anything else. I love what I do. It’s corny, but true. Well, you get it, right? I think we all feel that way, everyone from Bobby, the prop master, to that new twenty-year-old sound kid holding the boom. Almost everyone I’ve ever met on a set for that matter. We’re all part of the magic. We’re telling the story. And I love it, especially when it’s great. When we know what we’re doing is going to really impact the audience, make them laugh, cry, or scream at their TV… that’s when it’s really good. That’s what keeps us coming back to work in between. When it’s below freezing on an all-night shoot or the actors are being difficult, or we worked twenty-hour days five days in a row. I keep signing on for another season, another show because I love knowing I’m part of something special. It would be hard to give that up.”

I must be more tired than I thought, I think, embarrassed by my sentimental monologue. I know that when I start to get sappy, I’ve either had too much to drink or I’m exhausted. In this case, probably a bit of both.

“Cheers to that, Maddy. Well said.” Craig clinks his wineglass with mine. “Well, for the record, I think you have a bright future at HCP. Maybe you’ll produce or direct one day.” What is he, a mind reader?

Not sure if I am talking to my boss or my date, I go for the safe reply. “I’m happy where I am, with what I do. I like to think I’m not dramatic enough to be a creative type. Always talking about ‘my art.’ ” I smile, hoping I don’t sound totally obnoxious.