Chapter One
Isabel Chase sang quietly to herself as she climbed the stairs. Angry singing would be the most accurate way to describe it, born from the soul-sucking night she’d just experienced at the hands of the food service industry in America. She clutched tightly to that Bon Jovi anthem, the effects of which were half security blanket, half soothing cocktail. She sang the song quietly to herself as she climbed the final flight to her third-floor walkup. She sang a little louder once she landed outside her door, her outrage over the night’s happening bubbling to the surface with each step closer to home. She was pissed off, and though it was close to midnight, angry, aggressive singing helped.
Today had been yet another sucky day among many as she slogged through the dim, dark drudgery of her current existence. Her calves pulled from the climb, coupled with the lengthy night on her feet. At long last she opened the door and stared blankly into her studio apartment. “So, I got fired,” she said matter-of-factly, and tossed her bag onto the floor of her cluttered makeshift living room. “Again.” She slammed the door, causing pages of her most recent screenplay to flutter and scatter in a beautiful snowstorm of white. Only there was nothing beautiful about tonight. Nothing at all. She blew a strand of dark hair off her face only to have it flutter back and cover her right eye. Well, wasn’t that just par for the golf course of defeat?
Isabel’s black-and-white cat, Fat Tony, blinked back at her in utter disappointment. Of course he was disappointed. They needed that job for food. His disapproval seemed endless lately, and today it had surely hit a new low. Because who loses five jobs over two years? Okay, so she’d quit three of them herself and maybe, possibly, she was projecting the disappointment onto her cat, but it cut deep regardless. Fat Tony’s opinion mattered. She didn’t have very many people she could count on in her life, but Tony was a constant.
“You don’t understand, Tony, or you wouldn’t look at me that way.” She walked past him into the room, grappling for the right words to properly express her outrage, to articulate the injustice of this particular job dismissal. “That waiter captain guy is an ass who’s been gunning for me for six months now, ever since I came on at that restaurant. He’s been waiting for any opportunity to take me down, and tonight he found one. I’m pretty sure he’s banging the hostess, too, if that matters to you.”
Fat Tony blinked.
“So I didn’t know the precise seasoning on the special. Is it the end of the free world? The dish is seasoned, right?” She held out a hand to punctuate and then repeated the gesture for extra emphasis. “We know that much. So just order the sixty-five-dollar special and I will happily bring it to you with a smile.”
Fat Tony stared back at her evenly.
“You come to a five-star restaurant to have seasonings listed back to you? No. No one does that! Fennel is a stupid seasoning anyway. I think we can all agree. As in, who wakes up in the morning and thinks, tonight I’m going out for something with a little fennel in it? Zero people. That’s who.”
She was halfway to shouting at Fat Tony and felt bad about that. He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care and jumped in supreme boredom from his spot on the entryway table to underneath the flap of the shabby and threadbare armchair, leaving her to commiserate on her own. “Fine. You’ll be back when I pop the can on your dinner. Why? Because you and I need each other, Buster. Just don’t expect me to list the ingredients.”
Annoyed that she still wore her all-black server’s attire, she unbuttoned the shirt as she walked to her portable closet and exchanged it for a comfy off-the-shoulder sweatshirt that felt like a magnificent exhale. Oh, yeah. That was nice. A beer would also alleviate some of the tension, and there was a stout in the fridge with her name on it.
Isabel popped it and sat at her very simple wooden desk, the one she loved with her whole heart. She’d found it at a secondhand store right there in Keene and stored away extra cash until she could bust it free. They’d been inseparable ever since. The small town in New Hampshire where she’d lived most of her life carried very little in the way of excitement, except for the brilliance that came each autumn when the leaves changed and the landscape streaked with bright purples, yellows, oranges, and all hues of red. She loved it when the seasons shifted, dazzling the eye. That didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to get the hell out of there, first chance she got. Leaves and colors only went so far.
Her eyes fell to the small framed photo of her and her dad when he’d lifted her onto his shoulders following a softball game when she was nine. She’d only played one season and was easily the worst on the team, but he had wanted her to play so badly. She adjusted the frame in its spot and made a mental note to call him the next day. See if he wanted to grab a beer. Make sure he was eating. Check in on any possibility he might go on a date and end his long streak of “lonely but okay with it.”
Isabel opened her laptop to her latest project, a short she’d been tweaking for submission to the Vital Reel Film Festival in New Mexico. With any luck, they could start shooting in a couple of months once the budget and logistics were somehow squared away. Just thinking about it made her feel better about the fennel. She’d always found success on the festival circuit and waited for the moment it would turn into more. Any day now, right? Until then, she schlepped from one annoying day job to the next, living for the moment she could return to her laptop and lose herself in another crazy, awesome, or human story. There weren’t a million things Isabel was good at in life, but writing was one of them. She just hadn’t been able to convince the wider world of that thus far. So she pressed on. It’s what she did.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
She flicked a gaze to her vibrating phone across the room.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
She could stare at it until it stopped or make the short journey to answer it. Uh-uh. No thanks. People sucked lately, and sometimes, she just needed a few hours away. Plus, her feet hurt. When the notification ceased, she pulled in a breath and refocused on the project. This one was grittier than her last. She’d already killed two characters. Perhaps a result of her own soul-murdering struggles of late. But really, who knew?
Bzzz. Bzzz.
“This day is not finished with me.” She stalked the length of the room and answered the phone without bothering to check the readout. “Isabel Chase, glutton for punishment.”
A pause. “Izzy, is that you?”
Celeste. Isabel smiled at the sound of her good friend’s voice and sank into the armchair. They’d gone to Boston University together, bonded in a creative writing course, and had never looked back. She and Celeste could go months without speaking only to fall right back into their unique friendship groove whenever they did. Not too many people got Isabel. Celeste did.
“Yes!” She tried to backpedal. “Oh, man. Sorry about the asshole greeting. Rough night.”
“I think it’s about to get better.”
Isabel smiled curiously into the phone. “Why? Whatcha got?”
“I’m taking off next week for London. One of their indie networks is gonna shoot my pilot. The one about the bipolar funeral director looking for love.”
Isabel shot up from the chair. “Get out. I love that script.”
“If you mean get out of the country, then yes. That part is already happening. I’m packing as we speak. It’s been a whirlwind.”
“You’re getting a TV show in England?” Isabel asked slowly. She tapped her lips, attempting to process. “Are you magical or just way better at your job than me?”
“Neither. But there’s more.”
“You’re a very generous infomercial. What else could there possibly be?” Isabel squinted at the wall as she tried to fathom what it must be like to be Celeste. To be successful doing what she’d always wanted to do. To be out there writing for a living wage and not living project to project with a side of waitress. “But you should also know that the awful part of me is nothing but envious right now and wishing you overwhelming failure as soon as your plane lands. It’s not pretty in my head and I’m not willing to apologize.”
Celeste chuckled. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be Izzy without the sarcasm-laced death threats every now and then. I’ve come to expect them.”
“I’m not that bad, am I?” Isabel asked.
“No. It’s endearing generally. I just wish you believed in yourself as much as I do.”
Isabel kicked the end table softly. “Working on it. So, tell me the more.” Fat Tony peeked out from beneath the chair and swiped at her feet. She dodged him and the game continued. Unfortunately, he was better at it than she was.
“Now that I’m heading to London,” Celeste said, “there’s a staff writer job open on Thicker Than Water.”
Isabel went still, her game with Tony forgotten as his claws latched onto her sock. Thicker Than Water was the family drama Celeste wrote for. The hit family drama that lived at the top of the ratings. Everyone and their mother watched that show. It warmed hearts and tugged at heartstrings. That’s what it was known for. The romances weren’t half bad either. Steamy, if predictable. “Oh yeah?”
“It’s possible I was able to slide the spec script you wrote over to Taylor Andrews. It’s also possible she wants to meet with you Monday morning on my recommendation.”
Isabel didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. There were no words. She’d written that spec script for an episode of Thicker Than Water on the off chance Celeste would see a moment to present it without damaging any of her professional relationships on the show. And now it had happened. And it had worked. Taylor Andrews was the showrunner on Water and executive producer at only thirty-two years of age. She was the It Girl in TV these days, as pretty much anything she touched turned to solid gold in the ratings. She offered the occasional master class online, which Isabel had hoped to be able to afford one day. “So, what you’re saying is—”
“That there’s a very good chance you’re the next staff writer on Thicker Than Water, so don’t blow it. And make sure you bring a copy of your short, the one that won at South by Southwest. Totally her style. She’ll eat it up.”
Isabel moved to her desk and began scribbling notes as she listened, little goose bumps popping up on her arms as a powerful bolt of energy hit. She felt the dreaded prickling on the back of her neck and gripped the phone hard, fighting off the irrational fear. Nope. She would not do this now. “Got it. What else? What can I do? Any tips? This is too major to screw up, and sometimes I babble when I’m nervous.”
“Well then, don’t be nervous. Be yourself, but maybe not…too much.”
Isabel laughed as her symptoms receded. “Got it. Keep my snarky opinions under lock and key.”
“At least for now.” Celeste rattled off the important details of the meeting and let Isabel know that the gate guard at Paramount would have her name. God, she would need a plane ticket. A hotel room. A Valium.
“I owe you big-time, Celeste. I’m serious. I’m not even going to wish bad things for you in England anymore. No poisonous smog. Not even a minor mugging. If there is anything I can ever do for you, consider it done.”
“Trust me,” Celeste said, “I know you will. It’s what we do, the two of us. Now quit yammering and start making plans to get here. Oh, and pack light. It’s summer in LA.”