Chapter Two
The iconic Bronson Gate at Paramount Pictures loomed large in front of Isabel’s rental car. She swallowed, but her mouth was dry. This gate, though a replica of the original, was historic. The arch was recognizable in most any social circle, and looking at it now made this whole thing a little more real. And terrifying. Must not forget the dash of that.
She gave her name to Jesse the gate guard (it said so on his name tag). He took her license into his booth to call the Thicker Than Water production offices to announce her arrival. Isabel took a moment to ruminate on the people throughout Hollywood history who’d passed through this very entrance. Cecil B. DeMille, Orson Welles, Gloria Swanson, Gene Kelley. Don’t even get her started on the Brady Bunch. Jan Brady was more than just an idol. She was a way of life. Imagining herself creating a character that would resonate with someone similarly had Isabel chomping at the bit to get to that meeting and prove herself. If only underneath that passion wasn’t an ocean of crippling self-doubt and anxiety. Story of her complicated life.
Isabel wasn’t new to the writing game. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t crafting stories. As a kid, she’d have her Transformers act them out, doing all the voices for the different characters. Nowadays, she collaborated with her director friends and found nothing as rewarding as seeing her work brought to life with skilled precision, even if on a small budget. She’d received awards, local write-ups, and film festival glory. None of that had amounted to a full-time career. No one had come banging on her door as a result.
But all of it had led up to this meeting.
The one that could be the break she needed to put away her server shoes forever. She’d pretty much auction off her soul for the chance. Cheap too. She’d Craigslist the sucker.
“Ma’am, Ms. Andrews’s assistant will meet you in Bronson Parking Lot E to your right once you’re through the gate. Put this on your windshield.”
She accepted the visitor’s pass and smiled. “Will do. Thanks.” The guard saluted her with a grin, which seemed both excessive and exciting. Seconds later, she was off, her heart thudding away with nervous, pent-up energy. Cue a reprisal of the goose bumps as they trotted back onto the stage of her life.
She drove slowly, nodding to the steady beat of the song on the radio, doing her best to take in as much of the studio’s property as she could on the short drive. Who knew when she’d be back? She passed the wrought iron original Bronson Gate just inside and wondered how she could get her photo next to it. Next, she zoomed past the Paramount Theatre, where all the fancy screenings and premieres took place on the lot. She’d read all about it.
Golf carts crisscrossed the narrow street, and stressed-out-looking people spoke into headsets as they passed. She’d nearly taken out an entire tour group because she’d been watching the numbers on the large warehouses that served as soundstages, looking for a glimpse of Stage 9. She hadn’t been able to spot it. Though she did locate a bookish-looking twentysomething waving from the entrance to a small parking lot. Isabel rolled down her window and stuck her head out.
“Isabel Chase?” the woman asked. She carried a file folder and sported those large, black intellectual glasses that were so popular lately. She should probably look into getting a pair for herself if she had any hope of looking intellectual, or popular, for that matter.
“Right. I’m Isabel. Chase.” The woman had already said that part. Fuck. She should work on her listening skills. And her language.
“Great. You can park here. I’ll wait.” Once she exited the car, she joined the woman who, while friendly, seemed in a hurry. “I’m Scarlett Mann, Taylor’s assistant. If you’ll follow me, we can head to the writers’ room and see if we can snatch her up for your chat.”
“Awesome. I’ll follow you.” Were her palms itching? Yes. She flexed them, hateful hands that they were. Deep breaths. Shoulder rolls. Anything to get her through this day without looking like she didn’t know what she was doing. Why was she so horrible at this kind of thing?
Isabel followed Scarlett past several soundstages, dodging equipment trucks and cables along the way. “Do you watch the show?” Scarlett asked.
Of course she did. Sometimes. The content was tame for a nighttime drama, but the characters were solid and had huge followings. She knew, however, what the correct answer to the question was. “I watch, yes. It’s a fantastic show.”
Scarlett smiled at her. “Well played.”
They entered a small, nondescript one-story building across from Stage 9. It was beige on the outside and the opposite of glamorous. She glanced up at the soundstage across the street briefly as they made their way inside and saw the plaque on the outside that read Thicker Than Water. On the other side of those walls was where it all came together. Surreal.
Down a short hallway, and past what looked to be several offices and an open space dotted with cubicles, Scarlett paused in front of a closed door and knocked. They waited in silence, the sounds of overlapping voices floating out until, impatiently, Scarlett finally opened the door herself.
And there it was, the writers’ room.
A long wooden table sat in the middle of the space, occupied by three men and two women. A box of donuts sat in the center of the table, close to empty, and the room smelled of strong, and maybe a little stale, coffee. A large flat-screen monitor took up almost an entire wall to their right. In front of them at a white board stood Taylor Andrews herself. She held a dry erase marker and used it to point at one of the men. Isabel tried not to stare but easily lost the battle. Taylor Andrews was standing just feet from her, and she had to cue herself to breathe.
“The problem is if we leave those two onscreen for too long, their lack of chemistry really starts to show and then the episode shrivels up and dies a slow death. Why did we cast that guy again? He has as much presence as a hibernating turtle.”
The man with a patchy brown beard shook his head. “Because that pushy casting agent swore by him.”
“Yeah, well, lesson learned,” Taylor said. “We need to be more aggressive at those auditions. Make a note.”
“Can we kill him off?” the young brunette woman asked. “Worked last season for what’s-his-name.”
“Not yet,” Taylor said. “We might need him to wrap up the whole embezzlement storyline, which definitely needs fleshing out. Kathleen, can you see what you can come up with on that front, and make it specific. Candace, maybe you can help her? We’re playing it way too broad in the planning stages and we’re going to screw ourselves later.”
The second woman, who looked to be in her fifties, was apparently Kathleen. She nodded and started tapping away on her laptop. “Already on it. I have an idea, but let me play around with it first. Candace, maybe we can chat this afternoon?”
Candace nodded. “Done.”
“Great,” Taylor said. “Let’s address it on Thursday. Is that doable?”
“Thursday is perfect,” Kathleen said.
Scarlett stepped into the room and raised one finger. “Taylor, don’t mean to interrupt, but I have Isabel Chase for you. She’s your ten a.m.”
Taylor turned to them, drew a breath, and smiled as if another giant boulder had just been strapped to her already heavy load.
Isabel winced internally and felt the self-doubt slither up her spine. She was not an imposter. She was not an imposter.
“Right. I’ll be right there.”
That smile sideswiped Isabel, and she faltered. She knew Taylor Andrews was attractive, but the photos she’d seen hadn’t done her justice. She now realized they’d been startlingly conservative because the woman looking back at her was stunning. Perfectly layered blond hair that fell just past her shoulders and perhaps the most piercing green eyes she’d encountered in her twenty-nine years of life. But then, eyes like those wouldn’t transfer to a photo in a magazine, the color too unique. Taylor wore designer-looking jeans, black heels, and a blue top underneath a slim white jacket. She held the room easily, and there was no question who the showrunner was. That, right there, was a woman with presence.
“I’ll get her set up in your office,” Scarlett said and led the way out.
“Thank you, Scar,” she heard Taylor say before jumping right back into the story meeting. Isabel wanted desperately to stay and listen, be a fly on the wall of the brainstorming session. She’d collaborated with other writers on more than one occasion, but never on such a high-profile project, or on a long-term narrative. Thicker Than Water was entering its fifth season, and though the ratings had slipped from the rare heights of seasons one and two, it was still the show people talked about around the water cooler each week.
Opposite the writers’ room on the other end of the hallway, they arrived at Taylor’s office. In between, the open space made up of a series of cubicles was likely for Scarlett and the writing staff.
“Have a seat,” Scarlett said. “Can I get you some coffee while you wait? It shouldn’t be long.”
“I would do hard labor for some. Thank you.”
Scarlett smiled. “Careful what you promise around here. Cream and sugar?”
“Just black.”
Scarlett nodded, and the sides of her mouth turned down. “You’re hard-core. Black coffee coming right up.”
Left alone in the quiet office, Isabel peered across the desk at the various documents. Scripts, notes, schedules, and red tape paperwork, no doubt requiring a signature. Taylor Andrews would have a busy life, but she was actually doing everything Isabel only dreamt about. She could learn a lot from this woman if only she was given the chance. She took a steadying breath and tried to relax, reminding herself that she was a real writer and not some phony hack. She’d written hundreds of decent scripts, some of them quite excellent, or she wouldn’t be sitting here. In Hollywood. On the Paramount lot. This was happening. It was real and she better just—
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” a rich voice said from behind. She turned to see Taylor breeze past her to her desk, leaving an aroma of something fruity and awesome. “It’s nice to meet you. Taylor Andrews.”
Isabel stood and accepted Taylor’s outstretched hand. Her grip was firm, her eye contact direct. Unfortunately, she was even more attractive up close. Man. She shook it off because don’t be stupid. “Isabel Chase.” She took a seat as her nerves clenched and the back of her neck prickled. She was a good writer. She was a good writer. She was a good writer. She just needed to be a good writer who projected an aura of confidence. “I hope I didn’t pull you from a valuable session. You guys seemed to be in the middle of a, uh, complicated story meeting.”
Taylor inclined her head to the side. “We always are, but I’m hoping in the end, the interruption will have been worth it. So, let’s get to it.” She leaned back in her chair, letting go of some of the formality she’d started with. “Celeste speaks highly of you, and her opinion goes a long way with me. Most of my writers have come from the recommendation of people I trust, and that formula has never failed me. Well, thus far.”
“Celeste is good people.”
“Tell me how you know each other.”
“We were classmates, and worked on a few projects together after graduation. We had a great synergy, which is hard to find.”
“Any of those projects include an ongoing narrative?”
“No.” Dammit. “I have to be honest, I’ve never worked on a series before, though I’ve written a million spec scripts. Just hard to get them in the right hands.” She nodded a few dozen times and hated herself for it. “As you just alluded to, it’s about who you know.”
“True.” Taylor met Isabel’s eyes and studied her. “Why don’t you tell me about them.”
“Them?” Isabel blinked in an attempt to clear her head. She had to chase away the extra energy and stop herself from staring. Taylor was striking in the rarest sense, which was an entirely insulting thought. This woman was accomplished and respected in the world of television and deserved more than an ogling from a nobody like Isabel. She thought instead about Fat Tony hacking up furballs. A handy distraction.
“The projects. What was one of your favorites?”
“Oh! Right.” She reached into her bag and located the DVD that contained her reel. “These are a few of the shorts I’m most proud of, interspersed with clips from some longer-form projects.” She lifted her bag. “I also have a thumb drive, if that’s easier. Or there’s my website.”
Taylor accepted the disc and set it on her desk. “This is fine. Right now, I’d rather hear about your work from you.”
“Okay.” Isabel clenched and unclenched her fists before diving in. She smiled because she really was passionate about her writing. “My last project was a twenty-seven-minute grunge piece about a bass guitarist in a metal band who fantasized about playing in the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. It was a commentary on clean and dirty, of grit and gloss.”
Taylor leaned forward and pointed. “It was at South by Southwest last year.”
Isabel smiled, caught off guard by the fact that her work was known. “It was.”
“You wrote and directed and won your division.”
Hold the phone. Taylor Andrews had looked her up. “Yeah, well, the audience was really receptive. I was lucky.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. That festival comes with a discerning audience. I should know. I’m there every year and remember your short.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize you’d seen it. That’s—”
“It was brilliant, and I don’t mind saying so, one of the standouts of the festival. But there’s a big difference between that and this. Huge. Thicker Than Water is every bit as artistic. The distinction comes in the structure. Pacing.”
“Of course.” Isabel sat back. “Five acts and a teaser. I’ve studied the show a lot. I’m not just a writer, I’m a fan. I hope that doesn’t make me seem less focused.”
Taylor smiled. “I’m happy you’ve done your homework. I love my show and what I do. I want my staff to share my passion.”
“I do. I will.” Isabel didn’t know how to articulate how hungry she was for this opportunity, how very hard she was willing to work to prove herself. She decided to lay it all out there for Taylor. “My mom walked out on my dad and me when I was a baby. He raised me on his own, but he worked a lot. I used to watch Full House reruns, The Brady Bunch, even the older stuff like The Patty Duke Show, which my friends made fun of me for.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eye, feeling somehow vulnerable during this confession. “Those characters kept me company those nights on my own. They were, in a way, my family when my dad couldn’t be. I get how important television can be, an escape from the world and its awful complications. Television kept me from being lonely. It was my first love.”
“And that is something I can work with,” Taylor said quietly. She took a moment and studied Isabel, clearly processing. “Let’s talk about your spec script.” She reached behind her and found Isabel’s script, recognizable by the bright yellow cover.
“Great. I’d love to.”
Taylor leafed through the pages. “It’s good, I’ll admit, and it’s why you’re sitting here. You have a knack for capturing individual dialogue, a hard skill to teach.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve worked your way into the characters’ heads nicely. However, I am concerned about your lack of experience writing a series. This script shows what you can do on a one and done, but can you map out a season? Can you track characters over time through growth and change? There are big differences from the world of features, and shorts too, for that matter.”
Isabel nodded because Taylor was right. “No, I get it. But it’s actually the ongoing narrative that attracts me to the work, the chance to write a character for an extended amount of time. To really explore their internal lives in a way a two-hour film doesn’t allow for.”
Taylor nodded. “It’s not easy, though, to tell a story so rich that it has enough staying power to extend over several years. In some cases, over a decade.”
Isabel took a breath. “Ms. Andrews, if I could—”
“Taylor is fine. We drop most pretense around here.”
“Taylor, then.” She took a deep breath and ran her fingers across the gravelly surface of the coffee mug. “I feel more than ready for this challenge. No one works harder. I feel like everything I’ve done has led me to this moment, and I’m not about to let anyone down. Myself included.”
“As a staff writer, you won’t be writing your own scripts,” Taylor said, sitting forward. “You should know that up front.”
“I’ll do whatever you need.”
A long pause hit and circled the room. A chill moved across Isabel’s skin and she braced herself for whatever Taylor would say next.
“Fine then. Can you start next Monday?” Taylor asked. “We’re into August and you’ve missed weeks of season planning already. If you’re not there for this week’s meetings, you’ll have even more catch-up.”
And just like that, she was in. Wait. She was in? Tiny leprechauns danced a jig in her head in some random celebration both perplexing and enjoyable. She didn’t even like leprechauns.
Hired.
She refrained from leaping out of her chair and leading a parade across the Paramount lot, and took the more professional approach. “Sure. I just need to head home and pack. Figure out where I’m going to live.”
“If you want more time, we can hold off. I’m anxious for the help, though. Losing Celeste has been a blow that has us all pulling more hours.”
“No, no. I’ll be there on Monday. I’d like to jump in as soon as possible.”
Taylor stood. “I have to run to a production meeting, but I’m looking forward to having you on the team, Isabel.”
“Me too,” she said, smiling, like she could help it if she tried. “Not looking forward to having myself. To being on the team, I mean. That’s more what I was going for.”
Taylor had the decency to chuckle. “I understand. If you’ll wait here, Scarlett will get you set up with new-hire paperwork and you’ll need to check in with security for your studio credentials. See you on Monday.”
“Monday it is.” She leaned forward to set her mug on the desk only to overreach and send it tumbling onto its side, opening the floodgates of rushing coffee that covered Taylor’s desk, her papers, and splashed onto her crisp white jacket.
Oh no.
That did not just happen. Satan on a Triscuit. That did just happen. She glanced up at Taylor and winced, leaping into action, looking around the room for some way to rectify the situation, to save this awfulness from spiraling further. Taylor’s only reaction was a step back from the coffee and the rescue of a nearby file folder from the attack.
She held up a hand. “It’s fine. Scarlett will take care of it.” She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. “See? Good as new.”
“I’m so sorry.” Isabel was shaking and doing anything in her power to roll back the last two minutes of her life. How quickly the pendulum had swung. Elation to mortification in the span of seconds. That could be the title of her jaded little memoir.
“No need. It was an accident.”
“Right, but still.” Isabel surveyed the brown, soggy mess, frustrated with herself. “I’ve ruined everything on your desk.”
Taylor tilted her head from side to side. “All replaceable.” She seemed to act on an impulse and took a seat in the chair across from her desk and next to Isabel’s. “I’m getting two things from you. Tell me if I’m right.”
Isabel met Taylor’s eyes. For the first time that day, they didn’t cause her pulse to race. In fact, staring into their depths, she found an unexpected calm, prompting her to release some of the shock and horror from the coffee catastrophe. “Okay.”
“You seem like a person who probably comes with some strong opinions. You know what you want and you go after it. I’m getting that from your work.”
“That’s true. Sometimes to a fault.” Why was she being so honest? Stop that.
“You also seem incredibly anxious.”
She smiled and nodded. “Also true.” She gestured around the room. “All of this. It’s what I’ve worked so hard for, and I guess it has me freaking out, which is the most unprofessional thing in the world to say to someone who just hired me.”
Taylor took both of Isabel’s hands in hers. She had nice hands, Isabel realized absently. Feminine and warm and strong. “Well, you can relax because the hard part is over. You’re in. You’re one of us now, and I look forward to the strong opinions.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Isabel said, managing a smile. She gave Taylor’s hands a squeeze. “And thank you. For the pep talk. A slap across the face might have been quicker.”
“I’ll file that away,” Taylor said with a wink and stood to go. “Scarlett will be in about those credentials. Try not to destroy the rest of the place in the meantime.” And then she was gone, leaving Isabel alone with a myriad of warring thoughts. Two words floated to the top.
Studio credentials.
They were arranging for studio credentials. She closed her eyes and swallowed, taking a moment to commemorate the occasion, pushing aside the last ten minutes to fully focus on just how many years she’d slogged away on her laptop, script after script, character after character, one festival entry followed by another to get to this very moment. Finally. Her limbs numbed. Her mind slowed down. Her spirit soared. She hadn’t skipped since the fourth grade, but she was feeling a distinct pull in that direction.
Days like today didn’t happen to her. They just didn’t. She was a nobody who kept her head down and spent all her time putting words on the page. For the first time in years, she could breathe, and she welcomed the abundance of fresh air as it infiltrated her lungs, and what glorious air it was! Maybe she was turning into a somebody after all. Fennel oversights and server shoes might just be a thing of the past. Isabel basked in that thought before snapping into action.
So much to accomplish in a very short amount of time. Packing. Planning. Panicking.
Monday was right around the corner.