Between takes, p.2
Between Takes, page 2
Well, this was his revenge. Shane was the type who would sit on the other side of the bathroom door telling her how totally fine it was that she wasn’t going, and how great he was that he wasn’t pushing her into doing anything she didn’t want. All the while, her bath cooled, and her guilt grew.
She sat forward and looked down at her reflection in the glass coffee table. “He’ll keep calling me and calling me until I come over…he’ll make me feel guilty.”
Shane launched over the back of the couch. “This is ridiculous.”
In unison. “Okay, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go, I’ll go.”
And loud enough the neighbours could hear. “Goddamn it.”
Shane squeezed Evie into a giant bear hug. “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
“Let me go wash this crap off my face and get into something more appropriate.” Evie was still in a robe after changing out of her last outfit for the photoshoot.
“You might want to spruce up a bit.” He lifted the sleeve of a very old, very worn robe that appeared to have survived moths, the Great Depression, and the sinking of the Titanic. “But I say keep the makeup as is. It’s perfect for the club we’re going to.”
She raised a brow and sipped the mojito he’d handed her earlier. “Sexy time in Slutsville?”
“Not even close.”
Chapter Two
They want sixteen fifty for a one-room that doesn’t even have a bathroom.” Simone Lavoie stared out the giant floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Queen Street West. Even the view appeared ugly: a busy intersection in the west end with a Starbucks, a homeless shelter, a furniture store, and a Pizza Pizza making up the four corners.
“It’ll have a bathroom.”
At the sound of a gruff voice, Simone pulled her cell phone from her ear and turned to see two men, one of whom had let her in the apartment, carrying a plastic shower shell into the kitchen.
“Hold on a sec,” she told her brother as she followed them down the narrow hallway. She peeked her head into the kitchen, no bigger than some people’s walk-in closets, and saw the men shoving the shell into a corner between the fridge and what looked like an uninstalled garbage disposal.
“I’m going to glue this in so you have a shower. You can multitask.” He shrugged as if this were a perk that should’ve been included in the Kijiji ad.
Simone stood for a second, lost for words—something rare for her—then rolled her eyes and turned to leave. As she stormed out of the apartment—a second-floor “studio” above a sushi restaurant—she heard the man grumble, “Then don’t live at Bathurst and Queen.”
It was Simone’s second day apartment hunting, and it was quickly shaping up to be the worst experience of her life. Out on the street engulfed in the cacophony of traffic and people, she remembered her brother and lifted the phone back to her ear. “Gabriel? Ugh. Why did I think this was a good idea?”
“Because you were sick of Montreal, and this is a great opportunity for you.”
“And the rent alone is going to suck up everything I make. Anything decent is almost double what I’d pay in Montreal.” This was the fifth apartment she’d seen that day and wasn’t even the worst by far. She leaned against the hot brick of the building and watched the chaos around her. A never-ending line of cars passed through the intersection, hobbled by yet more cars and pedestrians, some who waited for the lights and others who crossed when they saw an opportunity. She wasn’t used to this chaos. Perhaps it was the light, or the lack of green space, or the architecture? Something felt off.
“Answer me this. Can you afford a higher rent? If so, pay it. You’ll appreciate the apartment more, and in the end, you won’t hate the city as much.”
Gabriel was right. She’d been looking at places the same price she’d paid in Montreal, and obviously the city didn’t meet her expectations. Too late to keep searching, it was best to admit defeat for today and head back to the Airbnb she’d rented for the week.
“Sometimes you’re smarter than you look.”
He chuckled. A sad sound, not his usual jovial roar. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
A pause, then, “It’s Maman.” Simone rolled her eyes but stayed silent. “I brought Marissa home for dinner—”
“How’d that go?” Simone snorted.
“It was as if I’d brought home a biker chick named Bertha with tattoos all over her face.”
“And what’s wrong with biker chicks?” Simone dodged a cyclist as she crossed the street to catch a streetcar.
“You know what I mean. Maman treated her like she wasn’t worth her time. She didn’t ask any personal questions or engage her in conversation. When Marissa asked about her, she gave one-word answers. She had no interest at all in getting to know her.”
Gabriel had to be serious about her. He rarely brought women home to meet their mom, and if he did, he certainly didn’t care about her reaction. This was someone special. She didn’t know the first thing to say to her brother to make him feel better. Genevieve Lavoie was pigheaded and could hold grudges for several lifetimes. The last thing you wanted to do was get on her bad side, a place where Simone currently sat because of her sudden move to Toronto. Genevieve had grown up in a small town in Quebec, spoke English only when absolutely necessary, and didn’t feel anywhere outside of Quebec was worth her time. Even Montreal, where Simone had settled after university, was far too anglicized for her liking.
“Was Marissa speaking English?”
“She tried French, but you know how Maman is. It wasn’t good enough for her. Why the fuck they insist on teaching Parisian French when the country speaks Quebecois makes no sense.”
“Give her time. She hates change.” That was the only advice she could offer. Nothing could forcibly change their mother’s mind.
The only person who ever spoke English in their house and got away with it was her father. Simone had learned, at a very early age, never to argue with her father, for any reason. It was an unspoken rule in their house. She’d spent most of her childhood afraid of him. As the middle child of three, it had somehow fallen on her to protect her younger brother and older sister from the strange conversations that seemed to happen whenever anyone agitated her dad.
Not that it had been terribly difficult to do that. They’d grown up in a small town surrounded by farms and forests, easy places to escape. By the time she was eleven, things had settled into a routine. She and Mani, her older sister, would pick up Gabriel, who was the youngest, and head into the woods at the end of their street. Out there in the world of make-believe and fairies, they could say whatever they wanted—in whatever language they chose—play games, read each other stories, and forget everything happening at home.
Sometimes she could pretend her life had been this idyllic romp spent exploring caves and climbing trees. It was easier when talking with Gabriel. He didn’t remember much because he was four years younger, too young to remember the really bad years, before her dad got help. But Mani remembered. Two years older, she had nightmares and misunderstandings mixed with her memories. She’d been too young to really understand, but old enough to remember the chaos that could descend on their home.
“Have you spoken with Mani lately?” Simone changed the topic before Gabriel could get too agitated about their mom. She’d always been close with Gabriel because—as the most similar—they had banded together against their mom and bonded over their concern for Mani.
“She left me a voice mail a few weeks ago saying she’d started a new job in Halifax. You know how she gets when she starts something new. All excited until it actually starts to feel like work. She hasn’t responded to any of my texts though.”
Simone suspected Mani had already moved on from that new job. She hadn’t spoken to her sister in years. All her information was filtered through Gabriel, who got bits and pieces—usually voice mails left in the middle of the night so he couldn’t question Mani’s decisions or voice his concern—two things Mani hated. It was one reason she never called Simone. According to her there was too much judgment.
By the time she’d gotten off the call with Gabriel, the streetcar was descending into the underground, where she’d catch a subway to the east end.
She had a meeting with the line producer, Jess Cirillo, at the studio, even though her new job didn’t officially start until tomorrow. Jess was in charge of the day-to-day production of the show and wanted to fill her in before she met everyone. Already Simone could tell she would like working with this woman, whose directness cut through all the bullshit.
Gabriel had been right. This was a huge opportunity for her, and standing at reception in the gigantic sprawl of buildings that housed the soundstage for the show she would start working on tomorrow, she was still surprised at how easily this gig had fallen into her lap. And at the perfect time in her life too.
“Simone, hello.” Simone watched the mop of dark, curly hair bounce in through a side door. “Thanks for coming in today. I wanted a chance to talk to you before things get crazy.” Jess, no bigger than five-two max, bounded up to Simone and pumped her hand a few times before pulling her toward the door she’d just come through.
As soon as they were inside, an even more hectic environment than Simone could imagine stampeded past. Crowds of people rushed by, not walking, but physically running as if their speed helped them save lives. It looked like a scene out of a disaster movie rather than a soundstage. Some carried clothing, while others clutched tablets or boxes or piles of scripts, everyone shouting and talking and calling out to people as they streamed by.
“First table-read tomorrow, so everyone’s freaking out.” Jess led Simone into a small office stuffed with boxes and a small desk. “Have a seat. It’s not fancy, no window, but as my mom used to point out about my room, it has a door that closes and locks. So basically this is paradise for me.” Jess slid a large tablet onto her desk and plopped down. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Simone wasn’t sure if she meant her office or the job in general. Jess’s desk was covered with neat stacks of papers, a pile of multicoloured scripts, thick file folders arranged like Tetris blocks on her desk. “I want to thank you for joining the team—and it is a team. After a year of filming, we all work well together.” She rearranged her coffee mug so she could lean forward and put her elbows on her desk. “I wanted to have this opportunity to go over some things about the schedule and give you a chance to ask any questions you might have.” She took a breath and continued as if she were giving an Oscar speech and had only a few more seconds before the music began. “You were a dancer, right? Ballet?” Simone nodded. “I can tell. You have that form, and you walk like a dancer, with your toes pointed out a little.”
“I was never a professional dancer. I didn’t love it enough to give my whole world to it. I studied movement and went into choreography.”
“Is it a strange transition?”
“From dance?”
“To switch from choreography to becoming an intimacy coordinator?”
“Not really. A large part of my job is still choreography and movement. I deal with added elements and subtlety for sure.”
“Of course. That makes sense.” Jess riffled through one of her towers and produced a light-blue page. “This is the call sheet for tomorrow. We’re usually pretty good at sticking to the times on there. Although the first week is usually a bit of a misfire.” Before Simone had a chance to look at the sheet, Jess continued. “You’ll have a chance to meet everyone tomorrow and sit down with them and get a feel for the different personalities you’ll be dealing with. Did you get the first script?”
“I did. I had a few questions about some of the language in one of the scenes.”
“Okay.” Jess nodded, her curls bouncing enthusiastically. “You should talk to Cameron and Rob.” She picked up her tablet and typed a few lines. “Anything creative-related goes through them as the show runner and head writer. Anything to do with scheduling or logistics you can come to me about.” Jess leaned forward, her lips tightening into a straight line. “I really want you to feel welcome and supported here.” She punctuated that sentence with a quick smile and sat back in her chair. “Now. Do you have any questions for me?”
Simone settled in the hard chair and intertwined her hands on her knees, unsure where to begin. She now had so many. Someone knocked at the door, and a woman in her early twenties, maybe even late teens, popped her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Jess. Cynthia is in a panic because two of the actors didn’t get the schedule for the table read, and they’re still on vacation.” The chaos and noise from the hallway filtered in.
Jess swiped her finger across her tablet’s screen. “Who were the two?”
The woman consulted a slip of paper. “Emily Moyer and Hani Badaki.”
Jess checked her tablet. “Hani has only two lines in the next episode. They’ll be fine without her.” Her finger quickly scanned down a page. “Emily has three full scenes.” She drummed her fingers on her lips. “Have Jill come in and read her part. She can do a good Emily being Sonya. The table read’s mostly for the writers anyway.”
The woman smiled and ducked out, leaving the room in silence once again.
“Sorry. Where were we?”
“When we spoke earlier you had mentioned the need for an intimacy coordinator. Why wasn’t one hired during the first season?”
Jess opened her top drawer and pulled out a hair elastic and spent several seconds taming her curls into a bun atop her head. “All shows should be required to have an intimacy coordinator. The day-to-day filming moves so fast that a lot of the hidden emotions, things people don’t show, get steamrolled over. Another truth is that we have a lot more intimate scenes this season. At least one per episode as opposed to last season, where there were maybe three or four in the whole season. And one more truth is that…” Jess turned to look at a poster on her wall—an old print advertising Shakespeare’s King Lear with a giant red king chess piece breaking apart and becoming a flock of crows. “I think one of our male leads is propositioning day players and trading sex for better parts.” She fidgeted with the mug on her desk, spinning it around several times. “I overheard two women talking about it in a club bathroom. They didn’t name who it was, so I can’t be sure. But all these reasons add up to the fact that we need you here to make sure everyone’s concerns are being met. And of course Cameron jumped at the chance because of the whole Me Too movement. He wants everyone to feel safe and comfortable on set. We all do.”
“I’m certainly glad for the opportunity. I agree that this position needs to be more mainstream. As for the matter of the actor trading sex for…better parts? I’m not sure exactly what—”
“Nothing. It was something I wanted you to be aware of. I’m sorry to say it’s the main reason I thought of hiring for your position in the first place. Sexual misconduct shouldn’t be the wake-up call, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m glad you’re here now.”
“Have you ever worked with an intimacy coordinator?” Not all sets welcomed her. Some appeared standoffish, which made her job difficult.
“I have, but not to this extent before. An indie film called Your Choice. You might have heard of it?” Simone shook her head. “No? Oh, well. It was—anyway, they could afford to hire one for only two days. So not to the extent where you’ll be on set most days.”
“What I do takes time. And not everyone is happy that this time should be what one director I worked with stated was ‘wasted on worrying about what the actors are feeling.’ And that’s bringing it down to a G-rated level.” As she spoke, she used her hands and body to emphasize and imitate as needed. “I want you to know I’m excited to be here. I’d just like to know if I’m going to…” Simone crossed her legs and leaned forward. She wanted to be straight with Jess. It was always best to be up-front about expectations. “Basically I want to know what sort of egos I’ll be dealing with. The more I know now, the easier it will be for me to navigate them. Does that make sense?”
Jess smiled widely. What lipstick she’d been wearing had long since worn off, much of it a red trace on her coffee mug. Still, her smile was her best feature, brightening her eyes. She had a mischievous sparkle then. “This is going to be a fun season. I can’t wait to shake things up a bit.” She stood and grabbed her tablet. “Let’s go meet this episode’s director.” Her smile, if possible, grew brighter.
Chapter Three
The club was called Everything For Sale, tucked down an alley, hastily cleaned for the night guests, in the Discovery District. The front housed a gothic bank on Bay Street, which accounted for the cavernous basement where the club was located.
“I’m going to get recognized looking like this.” Several people had pointed at Evie, whispering into someone’s ear, as they passed the long line sweeping down the alley and around the corner onto the main sidewalk. She’d changed into the tightest pair of black jeans she owned and paired it with a camisole that covered the important parts and left her back exposed. Regardless of who she was, eyes would turn. Evie killed in that outfit.
Last spring she could go to the grocery store and walk down the street without anyone giving her a second thought. A normal, safe life. Things had changed since she returned from Estonia. Unsettling. She couldn’t go into a coffee shop without someone turning around to stare. This was Toronto, where no one gave a shit who you were, so they rarely approached her. Occasionally someone would come over and ask for her autograph or, more often, a picture of the two of them. Evie was always polite and in fact preferred that directness to the stares and pointing. But there was no helping it. If she went out without a hat and glasses, she would be recognized. And here she was looking almost identical to her TV counterpart, practically begging for it.
