“Good evening, Mr. Holt,” she says, smiling at me somewhat stiffly before shifting her glance to Evan. “And you must be Mr. Bancroft.”
“Uh, yeah . . . that’s me. I am,” Evan says. He’s usually a little smoother than that, so I shoot him a surreptitiously curious glance. He’s looking all dazed and confused.
“Welcome.” She steps back to allow us inside. “I’m Law’s wife, Linh. He’s wrapping up a call. Please come in.”
We enter a grand foyer with an intricate stone chandelier suspended from the ceiling.
“That piece is incredible.” Evan tips his head back to study the light fixture.
“Thank you,” she says. “My father made it.”
“Your father?” I ask, looking from her to the chandelier. “Wow.”
“He’s a sculptor. Chap Brody. It was a housewarming gift.”
“Chap Brody is your father?” Evan’s mouth hangs open in uncharacteristic awe. It takes a lot to impress my jaded production partner, but apparently this does it. Chap Brody is the only Black sculptor I know by name. Real talk, he’s the only sculptor I know by name, period. That’s not really my thing as much as it is Evan’s.
“You’ve heard of him?” Linh asks with a pleased smile.
“Of course.” Evan looks almost boyish in his enthusiasm. “I’m kind of an architecture geek, and I’ve come across his work in a lot of cool spaces. He’s a genius.”
“So he keeps telling me.” She laughs, leading us down a stark white corridor lined with vases and busts and various other pieces displayed in dimly lit alcoves.
Lawson collects beautiful things—the most beautiful of which is his wife. He’s one lucky man. By the way Evan can’t take his eyes off Linh, he must agree. We’re trailing her into their living room and I elbow him, giving him my what the hell face. Seriously? He’s going out like that in the man’s house? He gives me a confused look like he has no idea what I’m talking about, but he knows.
“Wine, or something stronger?” Linh asks. “I have appetizers here, too, while we wait for Law.”
The appetizers are various combinations of vegetables, fruit, and seafood. Also some kind of dumpling in a brown sauce, all of which Evan and I devour. We load up small plates and sink into the luxurious white couch at the heart of the living room. Through a wall of glass, an aqua-blue infinity pool glitters under strategically placed floodlights, but Evan seems more interested in the view inside the house than out. Linh’s Black and what I’m guessing to be Asian ancestry blend beautifully. I can count the times he’s looked away from her.
“Mom, I’m stuck.”
The statement comes from a young girl, maybe ten or so, standing at the foot of a staircase. She’s a replica of Linh, but with fairer skin and silkier hair.
“Oh.” Linh rises and tops off our wine. “I’ll be right back. Algebra calls.”
As soon as she leaves the room, I turn on Evan. “You do know she’s Lawson’s wife, right?”
“Uh, yeah.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and he’s clueless. “And?”
“And you’re all up in her grill. Stop it.”
“A man can look. She’s gorgeous.”
“You’re asking for trouble. Stop that shit.” I suck my teeth and reach for another dumpling.
“Gentlemen,” Lawson enters the living room. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
He’s a typical Hollywood exec. Since he’s home, he’s shed the shiny suit for the studied casualness of a button-up and slacks. Linh has melanin working for her, so it’s hard to discern her age, but I’d put Lawson Stone in his late-forties, early fifties. The work he’s probably had done may have firmed his jawline, but he wears the years in his eyes and his too-uniformly black hair.
“I see Linh got you started,” he says, holding up the bottle. “How’s that pinot noir? It’s Linh’s favorite.”
“She’s great.” Evan takes a sip of his wine and mock toasts. “I mean it’s great. Delicious.”
“Good.” He scans the room. “Did she go check on dinner?”
“Your daughter needed help with homework,” I tell him.
“Ah. Algebra.” He reaches for one of the appetizers. “We both suck at it, but Linh sucks a little less. Thanks for coming tonight.”
“Thanks for having us,” Evan replies. “We’re looking forward to discussing next steps in pre-production on the project.”
“Yeah, now that we’ve found our Dessi,” I say casually, studying my drink, “we can fill out the rest of the cast. Verity’s retooling the script and—”
“We need to talk about this girl before we get ahead of ourselves.” Law stuffs a dumpling in his mouth, chewing around the words. “We’re not sure she’s the right fit.”
I set my glass of wine on the low table by the couch and straighten. “What are your reservations?” I ask, keeping my voice low, even, reasonable.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Law barks out a laugh. “No one knows who the hell she is, for one.”
“Did you watch her audition tape?” I ask. “And her reel?”
“It has nothing to do with her talent. Obviously she’s talented. So are half the contestants on American Idol, but I’m not offering them the lead role in a film of this scope either. We’ve drafted a list of suitable actresses with the kind of drawing power this budget merits.” He extracts a folded piece of paper from his pocket, offering it to me.
I don’t accept or even glance at it, but keep my stare fixed on him. I sense Evan tense on the couch beside me. “I won’t be needing that.”
“Excuse me?” Law’s brows jerk into a frown and the hand holding his little slip of paper drops back to his side. “These actresses—”
“Will not be in my movie,” I say with a calm that disguises the anger roiling beneath the surface.
“Your movie?” he asks, brows lifting. “Our money—”
“Your money is funding my movie, but you don’t control it, and you don’t control me. If you have any illusions about that, I can go elsewhere.”
“Now let’s not be hasty,” Evan says. “I’m sure there’s a middle ground.”
“There’s not.” I stand and face Law. “Neevah Saint is a non-negotiable. I’ve given you six months to find the lead, and you haven’t.”
“There are several acceptable options on this list,” he says extending the paper toward me.
I ignore it again.
“Neevah Saint,” I say. “Or we walk.”
Evan growls a protest, which I also ignore.
“Think long and hard before you say more, Holt.” Law’s polite veneer is thinning and his irritation, his condescension, starts to show.
“You think I need you badly enough to let you ruin my movie?” I scoff and shake my head. “Do you know what Spike Lee did when the studio tried to pull the money for Malcolm X because they wanted it shorter?”
“No, what?” Law answers cautiously.