Even the traffic cooperates, and over lunch Tim tells me three highly respected directors are interested in having me for their next projects. One in particular, who I’d love to work with, wants to make sure I know how to waltz for a role.
“You know how Melvin is,” Tim says.
Oh, yeah. I met him at a party last year, and the man’s a character. Over-the-top, stubborn and eccentric, with an ego the size of Texas…which is where he grew up.
Tim continues, “He says he needs a man who ‘already has everything.’ Anyway, the movie’s going to have a choreographer for the two dance scenes, but you should know how to do a basic waltz by Friday. He wants to meet at the studio, and God only knows what he’ll want you to do. He asked for backflips when he was casting his last movie. Backflips! Crazy. I’m surprised nobody snapped their spine.”
I know nothing about ballroom dancing, but I can actually handle a backflip. Waltzing can’t be harder than that.
“You said two dance scenes. Waltzes for both?” I sincerely hope so. Because I don’t know about mastering two dances in five days.
Tim shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe. But waltzing is definitely on the menu. I had Benedict arrange for a dance instructor to come by tomorrow morning so you can start. You don’t have a lot of time, but it can’t be that hard to learn some steps. And Nancy’s a great teacher.”
I nod. I have a week. I can manage.
“All of Melvin’s movies have done great, and spy flicks are his forte. It’ll be a career booster for sure.”
Tim is absolutely right. And I should feel ridiculously optimistic about everything happening today.
Sunglasses covering half my face and a baseball cap over my head, I exit Bistro Nieve after the lunch is finished and step right into the Aylster lobby. Benedict’s waiting for me with a key to the reserved suite on the top floor.
Tall, with a gaze just warm enough, he’s the perfect assistant. Efficient, friendly and calm. He also makes everyone underestimate him. Until he fucks them over, with permission from me or on his own judgment. He also hides a sharp tongue underneath the soft packaging, complete with carefully cropped light brown hair and brown eyes.
Right now, those eyes are sporting dark circles from a lack of sleep.
“Late night out?” I ask.
“Late night writing. I had an inspiration for my screenplay just as I was about to go to bed.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” I’m used to getting struck by my best ideas when I’m in bed. It’s the worst when a clever comment or comeback pops into my head after a party’s over. Staircase wit.
“Yeah. It’s terrible for insomnia.” He sounds glum.
“So you’re done now? You said you had, like, ninety pages written.” That means he only needs maybe twenty more pages or so to go to wrap up a feature-length film script. He might not need two months off after all. My own optimism is building, pushing my shitty mood to the side a little.
“No. I’m back to ten pages. I tossed the old stuff because it was garbage.”
“You know, you can be overly harsh on your creative genius. I think it wants you to add those last twenty pages and forget the writing vacation.”
“No, it doesn’t. My creative genius says I need to do this.”
“Didn’t you rewrite the first ninety pages a hundred times?”
He laughs. “Oh, come on. It was twenty-seven. And each revision makes it better. I’m making it better.”
I make a vaguely skeptical noise in my throat and give up. He’s got that mule-like look in his eyes. “If you say so.”
We go to the top floor and enter the massive suite.
The place is immaculate, the curtains pulled away from the windows. Fresh flowers grace a glass-top coffee table, and there’s a black baby grand in the corner.
It reminds me of the pianist—again. Why am I so obsessed with her? Is it because she’s the first woman in living memory who’s ignored me? Or is it because I keep thinking about how I felt listening to her play? If I could just listen to it one more time, the odd restlessness in me might settle down.
Should I hire someone to track her down?
I’m looking for an Asian woman. Looks to be in her early twenties. Korean, probably, because we met in Incheon International Airport, although she could be some other Asian nationality flying through. She plays the piano really well. And no, I don’t know her name. Or have her picture. But I know she’s in L.A.
I sneer inwardly at myself. That sure narrows it down, because young Asian women who can play the piano are such a rare commodity in Los Angeles. I might as well try to find a flip-flop I lost at the beach when I was thirteen.