Stevie Astra was reinventing herself. Or at least she was trying to. It had been a rough year. Hell, it had been a rough decade. She wanted something new, something different, something that didn't feel like it was killing her.
She sunk into the cheap upholstery of the studio's car, the steel grey cloth wheezed out a fabric softener smell with a hint of mildew as if it had been cleaned quickly and too often. Outside the cityscape was flattening, gone were tall glass paneled sky scrapers. Now chain link fences and large lots left gaps in the skyline. Marnie shifted beside her, rummaging in a large vinyl tote. Stevie fidgeted, her temple pressed to the glass. Maybe she was getting car sick.
"You called the Studio?" Stevie asked, swallowing a wave of nausea.
Marnie freed a crumpled tube of mentos from the bottom of her bag and squeezed out a candy from the paper and foil. She nodded clacking the mint against her teeth.
"And?" Stevie lifted her head to give Marnie an impatient look. She regretted it immediately, hugging her stomach and dropping her body back into the seat hard enough the springs squeaked.
"They cast your leading man."
"Who?" Stevie's body gave a little shiver. It could be the car sickness, or too much A/C, or that for the first time since she was a teenager she was feeling her anxiety without a cocktail of booze, prescription pills, and fast food to push it down. Marnie pressed her lips together and made a suggestive humming sound. "Tell me."
"Wait until we are at the studio."
Stevie curled her lip. Marnie pressed the roll of mentos into her palm.
"Is it that bad? Tell me it isn't that bad," Stevie moaned, kicking her converse into the car mat.
"Quit it, you're not sixteen anymore. You can wait til you meet the director."
Stevie narrowed her eyes at her manager. She should be grateful Marnie had stuck around after the studio had quietly axed Pegasus.
Most managers would have split when their band broke up. Marnie was going against the label by taking Stevie on as a solo act without any plans to make an album. And Stevie was grateful- when her nerves unclenched for more than thirty seconds at a time.
She squeezed four mentos into her mouth, squishing them into her cheeks like a chipmunk. Marnie gave her a tired-single-mom stare, but turned back to the contract open on her lap. It was tabbed with dozens of post-its and was the size of a biology textbook.
Stevie eyed it warily. She was used to the music industry. Familiar with its ins and outs; the small eccentricities that made it deeply desirable to the man on the street.
Filming a movie, specifically a Greetings Channel made for TV movie, was daunting and unknown. It was what she needed, what she wanted, to start over again completely.
Maybe making a big sappy Christmas movie wasn't the classiest or coolest way to do it, but what a kick in the pants to all those 'Mother's for Purity' who had burned Pegasus' CDs and posters. Or the shock jocks who had started a clock for her eighteenth birthday then called her nonstop the week of trying to get an interview. Or her ex who had sold his tell-all to a trashy grocery store rag.
"Screw them," she thought as she crushed the mints between her teeth; the soft centres clinging to her molars. Stevie Astra was going to live out a Christmas Miracle and no one was going to ruin it for her.
---
The second Lionel Thelwell arrived on set he called his agent. This was a trap. He should have known it was a trap when they wouldn't send him the script.
There was no way this was a professionally produced film and not an elaborate tax shelter.
"We need to talk," he said the second the line picked up.
"Deep breaths. Be calm. Find your centre. Stay away from paps and PAs," Neve's annoying, distant voice filtered down the line.
"Don't quote that Los Angeles rubbish at me. This is a travesty," Lionel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt like Dorothy in a warped Land of Oz. If only he could click his heels and say 'there is no place like home.'
"Listen, Li," Neve started. He could tell she was choosing her words carefully. This was well trod ground for them, he was the type of actor that got cold feet about every production. Neve had talked him back onto sets and into theatres for over a decade but for the first time his artistic integrity was on the line. Not to mention his dignity.
The Greeting Channel lot was not a studio, but a compound. It had the efficiency and kinetic pace of an assembly line. Large warehouse doors opened, Santa sleighs rolled out as autumnal hay wagons rolled in. It was late summer in LA, balmy and hot, and yet across the lot Lionel could see snow falling. Unknown possibly carcinogenic chemicals spewed skyward from diesel-powered cannons so fat flakes could float down. Lionel's mouth opened as he watched it; disgusted but mesmerized.
Neve's voice broke over him. "You wanted to leave England, you wanted the Hollywood career, and you're the one that slept with the babysitter-"
"I didn't sleep with the babysitter," he hissed. Her callous phrasing snapped him back. He looked over his shoulder making sure no one could hear him. He was constantly watched; no moment was safe. "You've known me for twelve years. Who are you going to believe? Me or Tawny?"
There was a pause with only the click and hiss of a flame on the other end of the line, Lionel knew his agent was either putting on the kettle or lighting a cigarette. It depended on the hour; he had lost track of London time. He always pictured his calls coming in the dead of night when the LA sun was shining. The two places permanently inverted.
"Li." Neve was patient but firm. This was another conversation that had been happening for months. As the tabloids dissected his failing relationship Lionel was stuck protesting down the phone to whoever would listen. "Grow up. The truth doesn't matter. Who you are doesn't matter. Not to Americans. Not to the casting directors. And sure as hell not to the people who make their bread and butter by carving every hint of scandal they can out of four grainy photographs."
Lionel gripped the phone tight against his ear; a cocktail of panic and frustration making his ears ring. He had worked hard, paid his dues on stage and in front of the camera, but it was all grinding to nothing in the rumour mill.
"This can't be the only option," he pleaded. Neve sighed.
"It's not. Come home."
Lionel froze, he could go home. He could pack up and not look back. Except she was still here and she needed him. More than anyone ever had.
"I promised Sunny I would stay," he muttered into the phone. "Just until her dad gets back."
"She isn't your kid," Neve chided him. "And living in LA is expensive. This only works if you have an income. Greetings Channel is willing to pay you enough you can keep a small apartment until the New Year. If Roland's back by then."
Salvador Roland world-class director was in New York and Tawny his model ex-wife was in LA. Sunny, their daughter, was stuck between the two places. Lionel felt responsible for her.
Even if he rarely saw her, even if Tawny hated that her daughter called his phone when things got bad at home. To him, she was young and fragile, even though she had been a smart-mouthed ten year old when he started dating Tawny and was now creeping towards fourteen.
Roland was due back in the new year. He had a movie deal. He might cancel on his daughter over and over, but he wouldn't cancel on the studio.
"He'll be back," Lionel muttered trying to sound certain.
"Just do us all a favour and stay the hell away from your co-star when the camera's not rolling."