Something to Talk About(48)

“What was your favorite film to direct?” she asked, because asking famous men about themselves was a good way to not have to talk for a while.

Barry didn’t answer the question, though.

“Look, you seem like you can handle yourself,” he said as he chewed a bite of his sandwich. “If you can handle me, I know a guy who’s looking for a second AD. I’ll recommend you.”

Emma rolled her shoulders down from where they’d shot up toward her ears. She looked at Jo, standing across the lot and talking to Aly by the drinks.

“If I can handle you?” she said. Maybe playing innocent would get her out of this.

“I mean, you are more than welcome to use your mouth,” Barry said so casually that he could be talking about traffic, “but your hand is all I need.”

Emma flinched hard enough to drop her fork onto her plate.

“What?” Barry had the gall to sound incredulous. “You’re already trying to sleep your way into the business. I can get you more opportunities than her.”

Emma wanted a lighting fixture to fall on his head. No, she wanted to bring it down on him herself. There was a scream inside her mouth, behind her eyes, building from a clenched fist in her chest.

“Please excuse me,” she said, and hated herself for the civility.

She left her plate and fled. Saliva was thick in her mouth, her blood rushing in her ears. Jo must have finished her conversation, because Emma almost ran into her twenty yards from the table where Barry still sat.

“Excuse me,” Jo said.

Emma was afraid that if she opened her mouth, she might vomit. She opened it anyway.

“Jo, I—” She didn’t know if she could say this out loud. “Barry . . .” She bit down on a grimace. “He’s . . .”

Jo sighed, half rolling her eyes. “Ms. Kaplan, I know you’re . . .” She paused. Emma stared blankly at her, no idea what she was going to say. “If you’re starstruck here, you have to get over it. I pulled a lot of strings to get him here for you. Don’t make me look bad. He can open a lot of doors for you if you make a good impression.”

Emma remembered telling her how much she liked Barry. Before Jo invested, before the baseball game, before everything, when they talked, when they told each other things, Emma had gushed about her favorite movies, which meant she gushed about Barry and his movies. Of course Jo thought she was starstruck. It wasn’t like Jo heard or saw anything. It wasn’t like Barry had been anything but pleasant to anyone but Emma. No one knew about it. Emma wished she could pretend it didn’t happen, could go back to how excited she was to meet him, just this morning. She glanced at Jo, who looked more annoyed than concerned. Of course she was worried about Emma making her look bad. Of course that was all that mattered. Emma was furious with her suddenly, for everything.

“I’m not starstruck,” she snarled, keeping her voice low. “I’m the opposite, in fact. Unimpressed. And I have other work to do at my desk, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“Is this really what you want to do?” Jo asked, her eyebrows up by her hairline. “Throw this opportunity away?”

Emma didn’t bother responding. She left without a second glance.

She wasn’t sure how she made it back to her desk, only that she did, and knocked her tablet off it as she reached for her purse. It hit the ground with a crack loud enough that she spared one moment to worry it broke, but she didn’t care enough to check. Instead she grabbed the purse and locked herself in Jo’s private bathroom just in time for the tears to start.

She was so angry: at Jo, at Barry, at herself. She couldn’t believe—or, she could. Maybe she even should. She knew people thought she was sleeping with Jo. Even though she wasn’t, even though Jo was maybe with her former costar, the rumors of their being together had been around long enough that Emma should’ve been used to people assuming she was sleeping her way into the business. But the way Barry said it, the way he assumed she would—she felt sick, and stupid, and like she needed to get it together.

She gave herself five minutes in the bathroom, figured there was no way Jo and Barry would finish lunch in that time. She spent only half of it crying, used the rest to make it look like she hadn’t cried at all. She blew her nose until nothing more came out, then cold water on her fingertips, patted gently under her eyes; a cold, wet paper towel to the back of her neck to cool herself down. She was grateful she tended toward minimalism when it came to makeup so that she didn’t have smudges of dark liner and shadow everywhere. Instead it just took a little touching up, and her waterproof mascara held up like a champ. She looked in the mirror, and as long as she could ignore the hard rock in her stomach, she could almost believe she was fine.



* * *



—

Emma spent the afternoon finding excuses to not be near Barry. The crease between Jo’s eyes got more pronounced every time Emma said she was so sorry but she had to step away, but Emma didn’t care. Jo could think whatever she wanted.

Avery texted a couple of times. She knew today was the day Barry Davis was going to be on set, and she knew Emma loved his movies, and she was being a good sister and checking in. Emma didn’t reply to any of her messages.

She thought she was going to make it through the day. It was almost five, and they weren’t shooting late. They were running through blocking for what would be filmed tomorrow. Normally, Emma and Jo wouldn’t be around for this, but Barry was here to observe, and so they observed with him. It was the last thing Emma had to get through before she could go home.