“The real one,” Gerry told his wife.
“The real what?”
“You’re supposed to know these things.”
Why? Chaz wondered. What did it matter what she knew about the film? Unless he had gotten her a job as his personal assistant. Well, of course he had. What do you expect?
The director kept his fingers curled and made a short pan between the trees: a patch of dry sage, ready to blow away in the tropical heat, on a hillside wide enough to carve faces, and the top floor of a Gothic folly where shadows grew like goatees under a waning sun.
“We’ll shoot exteriors during the Magic Hour,” he announced.
“Magic?” said Amber.
“The last hour before sunset. Everything looks fantastic, with the right lens. Technovision’s the best.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Chaz. “Freddie likes to use his own equip-ment.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Gerry. He glanced at Chanel. “Are you getting all this?”
“Sure, babe.”
With what? thought Chaz. Her phone? If she’s going to be his assistant she should carry a notebook. A thin one might fit in the back pocket of those skinny jeans. Barely.
Chanel clicked off several more exposures, then balanced gracefully against a tree trunk, slipped off one of her designer flats and knocked out a gob of moist, leafy earth. “What time is it?”
“I know, right?” said Amber. “It gets dark so fast now!” Tiny goosebumps rose like lines of Braille on her perfectly-tanned legs. The writer had picked this outfit for her, white shorts and a loose, scoop-neck blouse over a neon green bikini top. A perfect image for the one-sheet. He hoped the director was paying attention.
“If Gerry doesn’t get a meal every three hours,” said Chanel, “he’s not himself.”
“Four,” said the director. “Don’t worry about it. I brought my meds.”
“We can go back to the real house,” Amber suggested. “I could whip something up. Plus there’s some wine left. Robert Mondavi. It’s awesome.”
“No worries,” the writer told his wife, reaching for the phone in his pocket. “I’ll make reservations at Ernie’s.”
“I can do it,” said Amber quickly, opening her phone. “Ooh, you’re gonna love Ernie’s,” she said to Chanel. “The chicken molé is crazy!”
But Chanel already held a clear-coated fingernail over her own phone’s keypad. “What’s the number?”
“Not yet,” Gerry said to her.
“Why?”
“You have work to do.”
“Oh.”
The director Turned to Chaz. “I was thinking.”
“Oh?”
“After she leaves the party. Cuts through the woods to her car, trips and falls in a hole, blah blah. Starts to claw her way up. Then a sound, crunch crunch. Before she can climb out, someone steps on her fingers. She screams…”
The writer nodded. “Scene fifty-eight.”
“Yeah, well,” the director said, “I don’t think so.”
“No?”
“We’ve seen all that before.”
The writer managed to control himself. “How do you mean?”
“Try this. She hears something, I don’t know, twigs, crack crack. Keeps walking, follow-shot, handheld, till she’s in the clear. She thinks she’s safe…”
“That’s not in the script,” said Chanel.
The writer was surprised. She actually read it? Why?
The director shrugged. “So? We change it. She makes it to the cars. Music cue. Peaceful, calm. Starts to call her boyfriend. Then cut to her car. The door’s already open! Her eyes bug out, she backs away—and there he is, right behind her!”
“Who is?” asked Chanel.
“Our boy Eddie. Who else?”
Amber tried a grin. “That’d be cool. I mean—d’you think so, Chaz?”
“I don’t know,” Chaz said in a low voice. Now he’s a writer, too. Sure he is. “It’s a classic set-piece. I did a lot of research…”
“I have a question,” said Chanel.
“Yes?” said the director impatiently.
“Well, what’s her motivation?”
What’s it to you? the writer wondered.
“To get away,” Amber told her.
“Oh.” Chanel considered. “Then why doesn’t she run? Instead of walking, I mean.”
“She never runs,” the director said with disdain.
“But it’s a horror movie, isn’t it?”
“Trust me.”
“Either way,” said Amber cheerfully. “I can handle it. Can’t I, Chaz.”
“Where are the cars, exactly?” The director tipped his chin at the thick copse to his left. It trapped what was left of the daylight as the sun winked its last. “What’s beyond those trees?”
“Not much.”
“That can be where she parked.”
“It drops off. Plus there’s a fence.”
“So? She climbs over.”
“Too tall.”
“Then she opens the gate.”
“There isn’t one.”
“How about the other side?” The director turned to his right.
The writer shook his head. “The same. Galvanised chain-link. Another ravine.”
“This used to be a farm,” said Amber proudly. “It was his uncle’s.”
“Really?” said Chanel. “I love farms. What did he grow?”
The director wasn’t listening. He waved a hand, cutting them off. “So we shoot an insert. Some empty lot with a sign that says Parking. We don’t have to see her come out of the trees. As long as it matches.”
“That’ll work,” said Amber.
The director ignored her.
The writer noted this. A nearly sub-audible whispering began, as a buried irrigation system released a controlled flow of water through the enclosure. The automatic timer had come on. It was later than he thought.
“Maybe we should call it a day,” he said. “It’s almost dark.”
“Okay by me.” Chanel rubbed her arms, turned up the collar of her silk blouse and started back along a winding path she could no longer see. She hesitated uncertainly. “Babe? Are you coming?”
“You’re not finished yet,” the director said sharply.
“I’m not?”
“I told you. You need to walk the walk.”
“Oh.”
Chaz felt a pulse at his temple as his blood pressure rose. His wife didn’t get it yet. But everything was adding up. He turned to her.
“Amber?” he said with calculated calmness. “Why don’t you give her the grand tour?”
Amber was confused. “Wait. What?”
“Did you bring your key?”
“My—?”
“Here. Use mine.”
The writer stepped over to his wife, whispered something in her ear, reached into his pocket, took her hand and closed her fingers firmly against her empty palm. “You two go ahead, while I walk Gerry back. We have some business to talk about.”
“Yes,” the director said.
“Meet you at Ernie’s. Say seven-thirty? Take the Escalade.”
Amber stared wide-eyed at her husband.
“I know you can handle it,” he told her.
Now there was another sound, a deep, throbbing undercurrent beyond the trees.
“What’s that?“ said Gerry.
“The hills.”
“What about them?”
“They’re—settling,” said the writer. “Happens every night, when the sun goes down.”
“Then we can’t shoot live sound.”
“No worries. We can cover it in post.”
Amber’s eyes moved between the two men, trying to understand.
Chaz nodded at her solemnly, moving his head only an inch or two at a time, until she finally blinked.
She turned away.
“Let’s go,” she said to Chanel without expression. “I’ll show you the way.”
“Wait,” said the director. He took off his sport-coat and tossed it to his wife. “Here.”