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LOS ANGELES, PRESENT DAY
Edward Thatcher is sitting against the backdrop of his home office. The lights are dimmed to a comforting level, and there's a growing pile of empty coffee mugs scattered across his oak table. Sheets of white paper, marked in a ray of colorful crayon, peek out from underneath the mess.
Across from Edward is Rose, his student. Tomorrow, Rose travels with Edward's wife, Maria, to New York City, acting as her intern for Maria's film, The Red Apple. They're discussing this as the camera fades in close to the pair, their relaxed nature symbolizing their close mentorship.
"I don't want to go," Rose says.
"And why is that?" Edward asks, gently.
"I don't deserve it."
Edward says nothing. Her comment doesn't warrant a response, because obviously it's not true. Rose looks away from him, down at his signed Los Angeles Angles baseball that sits in a glass case at the corner of his desk. Rose had bought him that for Christmas some years ago.
"I'm serious," Rose says again, "technically, I didn't even make the internship list this year."
"And yet, you have one," Edward remarks, "Tomorrow, you'll be on a flight to New York City for it."
"Only because you convinced your wife to hire me for a few months," Rose grumbles, and the young woman crosses her arms over her chest like a child, symbolizing her immaturity.
"Freshmen and sophomores rarely make the internship list."
Rose stares at him blankly, "I'm going to be a junior."
Edward finally releases a sigh, "Look, half of your so-called peers are just nepo-baby assholes, who couldn't tie a shoe without their parents hiring someone to do it for them. The list is complete bullshit and has nothing to do with actual talent."
A beat of silence. Rose is frustrated, and Edward can tell.
"Trust me," Edward continues, "I should know. I've worked for the department for the last fifteen years."
"I'm sorry," Rose relents, guilt plastered on her face, "I'm not trying to be ungrateful."
Edward gives her a small smile. Rose reminds him so much of his only daughter, who is a few years younger. He leans forward in his chair, locking his eyes on Rose before saying, "My wife didn't need convincing of your greatness. She was more than willing to let you help this summer."
Rose begins to soften, her cheeks forming an embarrassed blush.
"You deserve this, Rose. You got here all on your own and that is something to be proud of."
Willow Moreau cleared her throat loudly, the ruffling of the bent script in front of her breaking the intimacy of the audition.
"That'll be all," Willow remarked to the older man in front of her. His eyes left the copy of the script, meeting hers with an unsure glance. He couldn't tell if Willow cut the audition short because she enjoyed his performance, or if she hated it.
