Zoe went silent for a minute, and Alex could hear a saw going in the background, then someone shouting about lighting. “Are you on set?”
“Yes, endlessly sitting around while people make adjustments, forget their lines, eat way too many mini-bagels off the craft services table.”
Zoe was complaining, but Alex knew she loved being an actor.
“What’s the project this time?” Alex asked her.
“It’s a thriller, a noir kind of thing, period and everything. You should see my hair right now. If I have to pick a lock, I’ll certainly have enough bobby pins. And this tweed suit! Talk about itchy!”
“Period sounds fun. You get to dress up.”
“That’s true. But it also means there are five times more things that can go wrong on the set. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. The director’s always yelling things like ‘Oh, that shot was beautiful except that Corolla just drove by in the background.’ Or ‘I thought I told you to take off that digital watch!’ I got here at six a.m. and haven’t shot a single line yet.”
“It’s a hard life.”
Zoe laughed. “It is! They ran out of blueberry cream cheese two hours ago.”
“My god, how are you able to survive in such harsh conditions? Besides, I thought you weren’t eating berries.” Zoe was always on some strange diet or another, seeking out ways to hold on to her youth, which at thirty she already thought was fading.
“I’m back on berries now. Trying this diet where I drink two glasses of water, eat a single egg, then wait four hours and have a handful of unsalted peanuts and blueberries.”
“What a feast.” Unlike Alex, Zoe loved to eat, so she knew it must be torture for her friend. Alex saw eating as a necessity, something to do when required, preferably with as little fuss as possible.
“It’s supposed to tighten the skin around the jawline,” Zoe explained. “Though I don’t see how. Still, it’s worth a try.”
Alex felt sorry for Zoe, for the enormous pressure Hollywood put on female actors to be eternally youthful, a standard they didn’t apply to male actors, which meant that as women aged, many got less and less work. Zoe lived in constant fear of this, even though she was still getting fantastic roles. This was due in no small part to her outstanding ability to network and make people feel good about themselves, and her almost preternatural ability to flatter the right people, even when she found them to be toady and insufferable.
“So how are you doing, really?” Zoe asked, her voice a little quieter. “I mean about the shooter.”
“Freaked out,” Alex told her honestly. “A little shaky.”
“Did you think he was going to shoot you?”
“I sure as hell did. He got close, too. If it hadn’t been for that second gunman, you probably wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”
“Jesus, Alex. You got someone you can get a drink with?”
“You mean I should call Brad?”
“I mean call anybody.”
“I’m okay,” Alex assured her. “Just need to curl up on the couch and shake for a while.”
Just then a car laid on its horn, making Alex jump. Someone cursed on the street below. She heard the slam of a van door, probably another film crew arriving.
“And I probably need to get out of this city.”
“How did the TV interview go beforehand?” Zoe asked. “I mean, do you think it did any good?”
“I don’t know. The reporter was a little . . . chatty.” Alex felt bad even saying that, thinking of the woman in the hospital right now, probably undergoing surgery. “I’m not even sure if they’ll air it now.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t go as you’d hoped. I know you were excited.” A loud klaxon started sounding on Zoe’s end. “Here we go. They need me on set.”
“Okay. Hang in there. Hopefully reinforcements will arrive with blueberry cream cheese.”
“If wishes were horses,” her friend said. “Not that I could eat it anyway. Berries, yes. Cheese, no. I’ll check in on you later.”
“Thanks.” Alex hung up, and instantly the landline rang again.
Thinking naively that Zoe had forgotten to tell her something, Alex picked up. A rushed voice said, “This is Diane Schutz with the Boston View. Would you be willing to give me an exclusive on your experience witnessing the shooting today?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Alex told her, and hung up. Her cell phone suddenly buzzed on the counter, startling her. She looked at the screen, seeing a blocked number, so she pressed ignore. It rang again, showing an unknown local number. Dreading talking to more reporters, she turned off her phone, took a shower, and changed, then slumped down on the couch.
What an afternoon. She didn’t even have the energy to make tea. She stared across at a collection of boxes that her ex-boyfriend Brad had packed up but never taken to his new place. Brad loved this city, thrived in it, but the more Alex was here, the less she seemed to understand it—how people worked, what they thought about, what they valued.
Finally she got up, made a cup of tea, and tried to reclaim her day. At the counter, she sipped from the hot mug and flipped on the TV, only to be confronted with endless coverage speculating on the shooting. The second shooter had eluded the police, and there were no updates on the condition of the reporter. She flipped it off.
She hadn’t eaten all day, too nervous about her interview to make breakfast this morning. At last she switched on her phone to order some takeout. Alerts from dozens of missed calls sprang up, mostly from blocked and unknown local numbers. But her dissertation adviser from Berkeley had called, leaving a message to call as soon as she could. She hadn’t heard from him in a year, not since she started her postdoc research in Boston.
She returned his call and he answered on the second ring. “Philip!” Dr. Philip Brightwell was a warm, gregarious man whom she’d been lucky enough to have as the head of her dissertation committee. He’d been a tireless champion of her work at the University of California at Berkeley, and she owed him a huge debt of gratitude. She could picture him now, sitting in his office with teetering stacks of papers on either side of him, his sepia face eyeing a stack of blue exam books.
“Dr. Carter!” he returned, always making a point to address her formally since she’d received her PhD. She had to admit she loved the sound of it.
“How is California?” she asked.
“Oh, you know. Cursedly sunny and mild. What I’d give for a real rackingly good thunderstorm right about now.”
“Well, one’s brewing up here, if you want to borrow it.” She missed California, the creative buzz in the air, the strange mixed-up seasons in which flowers bloomed in January, filling the myriad hidden stairways of San Francisco with exotic blooms. She hadn’t wanted to leave the Bay Area, but came across the country to be with Brad after he got a job at a prestigious law firm.
“And how are things in Boston?” Philip asked her.
“Had quite a morning.”
“How so?”
“I went to a wetlands dedication ceremony, and a gunman showed up.” Her voice shook as she said it, even though she was trying to keep her tone light.