Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“LA has plenty of better shops, Connor.”
I stare out the windshield. “Dad, come off it. I don’t want to live in LA. I’d see Stevie once a month, if that.”
“Kids are adaptable,” he says, and when I don’t say anything in response, he continues. “Listen, you know how I feel. You could have easily come to work for me, C-suite from the get-go, seven-figure salary, but fine. You were doing important work.” I hear his air quotes and swallow down an expletive. Getting into it with him is never worth it. “Now I have to stomach that my son spent a couple hundred grand on school so he could film a bunch of housewives?”
I bite back the rant on the tip of my tongue, knowing it won’t make a bit of difference anyway. “It’s not housewives, Dad. Anyway, this is a one-off. The company needed opportunities for product placement, and they asked me to take it on. It’s a huge budget and they’ve already given me the green light to do my next doc when this show wraps.”
I wince at the boast I can hear in my own voice, the pathetic attempt to earn his approval.
“And then what? You continue to be their cuck the next time they—”
“Dad. Enough.”
He immediately falls silent. I rarely raise my voice to him.
Not long after he’d had his holiday fling with my mum, he’d married a woman he’d dated off and on in college, and they had a couple of kids. When I moved to the States, I lived with them for two years. My father is a multimillionaire who owns one of the largest real estate development firms in the States, and to me, a teenager raised by a poor single mum, money was power. He was intimidating and strict; Dad and I never butted heads because, like my two half siblings, I never dared talk back to him. He’d lecture us all while we sat there silently poking at our overcooked pasta. I moved out the second I could, got a partial scholarship to UCLA, and worked as a waiter to pay the rest of my tuition and to pay my way through film school at USC.
I thought that when Stevie was born, he might see this perfect little girl and magically turn into a decent human, but of course he didn’t. He loves his granddaughter as much as he’s capable of loving anything, but the only time he’s ever told me I did a good job was when Nat and I split up, and apparently, I undid all of that by following her to San Diego. In his words: What kind of a man does that?
“All right,” he says. “What’s the show? The Bachelor version ten-point-oh?”
Does Fizzy get this when people find out she’s a romance writer? The instant comparison to the one big property everyone is familiar with? “Yeah, Dad. Something like that. Listen, I’ve got to ring off. I’m about to head into the dead spot in Mission Hi—”
I end the call, letting him believe it’s been dropped.
* * *
By the time I walk on set, my blood pressure is as close to normal as it’s likely to get today. And I’m surprised that I feel my pulse settling further by association: Fizzy can be found here.
It would be an understatement to say the set is similar to yesterday, because it is in fact exactly the same. We want it to look like the dates are taking place on the same day, so the pastries in the case have been replicated, the stacks of cups arranged just so, and the actors are in the same seats as when we called cut at the end of the day. Even Fizzy is in the same outfit, the soft silk top and tight black pants, looking—if possible—even more beautiful.
Despite the way my morning started, I am only mildly overcaffeinated when our first Hero enters.
EVAN: THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
If there’s one thing you can say about Felicity Chen, it’s that she does not disappoint. When Evan steps through the door, Fizzy’s eyes fall straight to his crotch before swinging wildly to me. I manage to contain a laugh, but Fizzy isn’t quite so lucky. She lets out what can only be described as a guffaw that literally stops Evan in his tracks. A murmur of laughter ripples through the crew as Fizzy claps a hand over her mouth. Rory looks back at me. Without words she’s asking whether we should reshoot Evan’s entrance, and I shake my head, confident that Fizzy can save this with a joke and a moment of levity. But it’s Evan who surprises me when he continues walking and stops in front of her table with an amused smile.
“Don’t worry,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, and motions to his hip. “It’s gone. Bart Simpson is no more.”