A 'SUB' REQUEST (Cate Blanchett x OC)

Chapter 2: A 'sub' request

As I made a left turn onto West Pico Blvd the next morning, I got a call from my boss, asking me to send some subs to CAA to package some talent. Subs in the entertainment industry refer to "submissions", or when a film company or studio submits a script or a pitch to talent (actors, directors, writers) to gauge their interest in being involved. If they are, then they are "attached" to the project as part of the "package". 

"Hylda Queally would like some projects on classical music for a high profile client" My boss said. 

"Ok, did she give a budget range or genre?" I followed up, my attention more on my blinker rather than the call. 

"No, but it's a specific request." My boss responded, "the client requested you in particular - I guess your Juilliard connections from back in the day paid off, huh?"

My memories flashed back to the night of the screening, and the feeling of possibility flooded my chest. 

"Oh and one other thing, the client is a bit of luddite - she prefers physical copies of scripts. Can you get an assistant to print them out and drop them off at Hylda's townhouse in West Hollywood? Don't have to run them by me, I trust your judgement." 

"Sure - I'll deliver them myself. It's on my way home." 

A Google Maps search of the address yielded very little. It was a quaint cottage-like townhouse giving off retro pastoral vibes, and none of it screamed celebrity agent. The entryway was spacious enough for my 2010 Honda Accord, which I parked in a shaded area before getting out. 

Hylda came to the door on the first ring. Brunette, sharp features, in her late 50s. We exchanged greetings and I handed her a cardboard box of scripts that I tried to stack on top of one another as neatly as possible. 

"One thing you should know, this is actually not my house -" Hylda said with a knowing look in her eyes, "This is the client's house. And she's requested you upstairs." 

And to my astonishment, Hylda shuffled past me at the door like she's done this a hundred times before and motioned for me to head inside. By myself. 

A flight of wooden stairs leads to the second floor. I barely stole a glance around as I moved one foot in front of another, but the living room was laid out in the style of an English manor, with a note of Australian irreverence. My thoughts blurred as I eyed the top of the landing - I was alone in a stranger's house, but I felt alarmingly safe. 

The bedroom door was wide open. 

"So. It is you." 

It was barely 6:30pm, the room was dimly lit, and Cate was wearing a lavender nightdress, reclined on an upholstered chaise longue. A cigarette lay fresh in the ashtray on her nightstand, a flimsy wisp of smoke rising from the end. The image floored me. It evoked my early childhood memories of watching the first ever indie movies starring Gena Rowlands in the 70s, the rebellious and gritty spirit of them, and the reasons why I fell in love with cinema as a preteen. 

There was a grand piano in the corner. The placement seemed out of place at first for something that usually stays in the living room, but oddly intimate. 

I bent down to put down my cardboard box, and straightened up only to be met by those searing blue eyes again. They studied me thoroughly, with a piercing but tender ferocity, like one of those male-operated cameras that she used to condemn at award shows for objectifying the female form. 

"I hope you didn't have to go out of your way to come here," she added. 

"Not at all," I said, "It's a gorgeous place you got here." 

"Thank you. I had it remodeled about 6 months ago. After my divorce." 

I couldn't help but look down at her right hand, which was resting above her breasts on her collarbone - the ring that I felt the other night was on her pinkie, not her ring finger. 

A silence. "I'm sorry to hear that." 

"No need - I noticed that you've been staring at the piano for a while now. I decided to keep it in here after my ex-husband left it to me. A vintage." 

"It looks absolutely divine." I said, feeling like I'm treading a tightrope of social boundaries. "I brought you some musical scripts by the way - none in German, I'm afraid. Because Americans are philistines and can't imagine anything past Nashville, unfortunately." 

"I see you're a snob for Europe." She let out a bright laugh. "I'm in no position to judge - my father was from Texas originally."

"I'm sure he'd prefer Berlin over Texas, I can guarantee you."

Her mood darkened. "Yes, but he passed away when I was 10." 

My face grew hot. I've really crossed a line now. "I'm so sorry, that was inappropriate." 

"Not at all, sweetheart." 

She stood up in one swift but elegant motion. Without casting a single glance at the pile of scripts at my feet, she gestured me to the piano. 

"Please, play something for me." 

I walked over to the bench in a daze. The events of the day have driven away any classical sensibility from my mind, and as soon as I placed my hands on the keyboard, jazz flowed from my fingertips. Easy Living by Billie Holiday. The simple tune filled the room like the aroma of green tea in hot water. Cate's silhouette flowed under her nightdress in my peripheral vision. Her sharp cheekbones and steely gaze belied the suppleness of her curves. 

"So," she sat down next to me after I finished, "is there a reason that you came here to deliver the scripts on your own? Hylda never said that this was my address." 

"I don't trust the assistants with the most basic tasks. In fact, I don't trust gen-Z at all." 

She tilted her head back with a cackle, "you're an old soul. How old are you?" 

"25. I know by definition I'm also gen-Z, but I prefer to think of myself as the last generation of millennials." 

The laughter has vanished from her rosy lips, but lingered in her eyes. "Do you date older men too?" She takes a puff of her cigarette and looks at me with her head tilted. 

"Not particularly." 

"What's your type of men then?" 

"I prefer men who are clothed." 

She smirked, "I absolutely know what you mean. When I was younger I was conditioned to enjoy looking at the male body. Now it really doesn't hurt to keep it all covered up." 

"Is this what you tell your daughter when you give her the birds and bees talk? So much to look forward to." 

She gave me a playful smack on my knees. "25 years old. That's a beautiful age. But I was so painfully insecure back then. Just starting to get a glimpse of success on stage, but no idea how to pan it into a career. And I'm telling you, it doesn't get much better - I still think I'm utterly lousy in most of the stuff I've been in..." 

I took a deep breath, and I said it: "I think you're...divine in everything I've seen you in." 

She held my gaze with a wistful look in her eyes. Our faces were less than a nod's width apart. 

A knock on the door. Hylda's voice: "Cate, Andrew's on the phone for you." 

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