Behind the Scenes

Chapter Three

The hotel is in an unimpressive building wedged between a Gregory's Coffee, which is a nice coincidence, and a mini-mart. We duck under the scaffolding framing the entrance and into a narrow foyer with surprisingly dim lighting.

          Deandra gives the concierge our names.

          "Ah yes, the author," he says, and tells me about the building's history as a family-owned bookstore that sold rare, underground and banned books, and was the birthplace of the Mary Shelley Society in the 1940s.

          "How very...symbolic," I say with a polite smile, and glance at Deandra in the hopes she'll have more to say. Unfortunately, she's staring at her phone. I should've guessed. 

          "Your publishers thought you'd appreciate the atmosphere. Maybe it'll inspire you for your next work," he says with a wink.

          I try not to let my smile transform into a grimace, but I'm not sure I succeed.

          I follow Deandra into the elevator, which is somehow even darker than the shadowy foyer. Her tapping fills the silence. I watch the numbers of each floor light up in turn over the elevator doors as we travel up and up.

          "Do you think the others will get the same spiel?" I ask, hoping to get some relief from the incessant clicking of Deandra's nails against her screen. 

          It works. She pauses and looks at me quizzically. 

          "The others?"

          "You know. Catherine, Joe, the rest of the cast?"

          Understanding dawns in Deandra's eyes and she snorts. And I mean actually snorts, which is a surprising first display of emotion to show to a near stranger like myself. 

          "Oh, they're not staying here," she says as the elevator comes to a stop on the ninth floor and dings to announce its arrival. "They're booked in at the Hampton. I wish we were staying there, but 'the talent'"--I can practically hear the air quotes around her words.--"is always given the bigger budget. They're the stars of the show."

          Deandra grumbles that last part mostly to herself as she wheels her suitcase off the elevator and down the hallway. 

          I smirk. Clearly, whatever clientele she imagined she'd work with as a publicist did not include lowly authors. Still, I'm disappointed. I'd been hoping to see Joe before we were stuck in front of a bunch of cameras. 

          Our rooms are side-by-side and Deandra lets herself into hers and shuts the door without a backward glance at me. I enter my own room, which surprises me with its chic décor and clean finish compared to the reception area. I pass through the kitchenette to the queen sized bed and prop my suitcase beside it. I stare out the wall-to-wall window on the other side of the bed at the building across the street. The quintessential New York City skyline it is most decidedly not, but it'll do.

          I take my phone from my purse and start a new text to Millie. 

          Help! I type. My publicist hates me.

          I hit send and the reply arrives almost immediately. 

          Who do I need to murder? 

          There's a knock at my door and I put my phone away to answer it. Deandra lets herself in as soon as I've opened the door and starts giving me the rundown of all my appearances, of which there are five in total: TV spots on The Talk, Good Morning America, and Today, an appearance on the Pop That Culture podcast, and a phone interview with Reader's Digest--not to mention the film's premier landing toward the end of all of that, in four days' time. 

          I know my schedule is nothing compared to the cast's, who have dozens of interviews lined up back-to-back for the next week and a half to promote the movie. That doesn't mean I'm not dreading it. Nobody wants to hear me talk about the book, which came out almost two years ago. I'm only being included because Cath has told anyone who'll listen how much of a collaborative effort the movie was, but other than lending moral support and fetching water bottles, I wasn't much help to the movie-making process. 

          Do I have a lot of great behind-the-scenes stories? Yes, but I'd rather keep those to myself, my treasure hoard for when Cath and Joe are rich and famous and I can point at the screen and say, "They made a movie out of my book once," and regale whoever will listen with stories nobody knows but us. Like the midnight pizza parties, just me, Cath, and Joe--sometimes Maya, if she'd shot any scenes that day--sitting in camping chairs outside our trailers while the sounds of Brooklyn's night life mingled with Joe's stories of being onstage in London, or Cath's gossip about which directors were rumored to be sleeping with which actors. Or the early morning coffee runs, just for me and Joe (Cath refused to drink anything but green tea), with the real treat being Joe's sleepy grin as I delivered him his coffee in the make-up trailer, our fingers brushing together as the cup changed hands. 

          I'm not sure how many people know what Joe's smile looks like that early in the morning. The thought of sharing it, through words or otherwise, hurts, somehow. I wish it was a secret that was only mine, as impossible as that may be. A girl can dream. 

          "Now, we need to talk about your look," Deandra says, startling me out of my thoughts. 

          "My look?" I ask.

          Deandra points a manicured finger at me and runs it up and down in the air.

          "This..." She waves her hand as if to encompass my whole being. "We have a hairdresser arriving in a few minutes to give you a blow-out that you can hopefully make last until everything's wrapped. I also need to look through what outfits you brought to see if we should make any...adjustments."

          Suddenly, I'm nine years old again, and none of the other girls will play with me because of my unruly curls and buck teeth. My hands instantly start to sweat and the heat rises all the way up my to my forehead. I know without needing a mirror that my face is as red as a cherry. 

          "Sure. Fine," I mumble. Thankfully, Deandra isn't looking at me to see the embarrassment she's caused. 

          I lift my suitcase onto the bed and open it, pulling out each outfit one by one. Deandra assesses each one carefully, humming and hawing over every piece. 

          "These'll do," she finally declares, then looks me up and down a final time. "I guess that saying is true. Don't judge a book by it's cover, huh?"

          She smiles at me as if we're in on the same joke. 

          I give her what I think is a smile. It's my best attempt at one, given how mortified I'm feeling. 

          Thankfully, she starts moving toward the door. 

          "I'm heading out to pick up your dress for the premier. The front desk will buzz you when the stylist arrives. Her name is Angie. Make sure they check that it's her before sending anyone up."

          She walks into the hallway and the door falls ever-so-slowly shut behind her. I release the breath I'd been holding with an audible whoosh. I step up to the bed and lift up each piece of clothing I'd picked out with so much thought and care, wanting only to do my best for the movie's sake. I fold the pieces one by one and gently place them back in my suitcase before zipping it up and placing it back on the floor beside the bed. I wipe my tears on the back of my sleeve and wait for Angie to arrive.