“That’s how I had mine,” Sister Tommy commented. “They were all ten and eleven months apart. Twelve months is the longest.” It still seemed rough to Alex, but Brigid didn’t mind at all, couldn’t wait to do it again and come home with another baby. Alex could guess now that she intended to stay pregnant for the next four years.
Alex left for the airport by cab the next morning. Everyone was busy, and she said goodbye to them at the house. She wasn’t going for as long this time, and they were accustomed to her leaving. She was taking one suitcase of summer clothes. She didn’t need anything fancy to work on the set, and she had packed one decent dress in case she had to go anywhere.
The flight took six hours, and when she arrived at one o’clock local time, there was a limo waiting for her, with a driver holding a large card with her name on it. She had told them that Mr. Green would be flying in by private jet that night. The producer’s assistant had made separate arrangements for him. Hers were made by the studio, as Mr. Green’s assistant. The driver carried her bag in when they got to the house in Bel Air that had been rented for “them.” It had been rented from an actor who was on location in Thailand for eight months shooting a movie. They had asked that there be no staff in the house. Mr. Green would bring his own personal staff, because Alex didn’t want anyone reporting that he wasn’t there. She was going to have to hire a cleaning person for herself. It was complicated creating an identity for a person who didn’t exist.
The driver set Alex’s bag down in the small bedroom at the back of the house where he assumed she would stay. She carried it to the master bedroom herself after he left. The house was spectacular. It was mostly made of glass with pale travertine floors. The art was beautiful, the furniture was upholstered in shades of ivory, and the pool was enormous. It had a sound system they could have used for a rock concert, and a theater-sized movie screen. She walked around grinning to herself as she checked it out. She felt like she was in a movie, not working on one. The bed looked like a football field with another wall-sized movie screen facing the bed, and you could have catered a party for three hundred in the kitchen, and they had. Alexander Green was being treated royally. Alex wished she had someone to show it to, but she didn’t. Fiona and Brigid would have loved it.
The producer’s assistant called her shortly after she arrived and asked if everything was to Mr. Green’s satisfaction.
“He’s going to love it,” she assured her. “He’s not here yet, he’s coming in on his own plane tonight. But he’s going to be very pleased. Thank you so much.”
“Anything we can do for you?”
“I’m fine.” There was a white Cadillac Escalade in the driveway for her use. And a white convertible Rolls in the garage for Mr. Green, which she would have loved to sneak out but didn’t dare, although she might at some point.
There was food in the refrigerator of every kind, and liquor, magazines, soaps, cologne, body washes. The studio had asked for a list of all of Mr. Green’s favorite brands and products, and she had had a ball filling it out, and they were all there, including some she hadn’t thought of. It was luxury to a degree she had never seen before, and in a way it seemed like a shocking waste. They had money to burn, but Hollywood behaved that way and they wanted their phantom writer to be happy. She was, and would have been with a lot less. But she and Rose had to make requests suitable for the persona they had invented, and Alex thought the white Rolls they’d added as a surprise was the final touch. She went out to the garage to look at it, and then sat in it for a few minutes. It smelled wonderful, of new leather. She had to call Bert on her cellphone and tell him about it.
“You’ll go to jail if they ever catch on to you,” he teased her.
“No, I won’t. And they won’t. I’m going to be very careful.”
“You’d better be or your cover will be blown forever.”
“I’m not that stupid, Bert.”
“Well, enjoy every minute of it, and kiss the Rolls for me.”
“I will,” she promised.
Alex watched two movies that night, and slept in the master bedroom. She was up at six the next morning and swam in the pool, which was heated to the perfect temperature. She was dressed and ready to leave the house at eight o’clock to be at the studio at eight-thirty. She set the GPS in the luxurious Escalade, and arrived at the studio right on time. They were expecting her at the studio gate. They were going to be filming mostly in the studio, except the location shots. She parked outside a building and walked inside. A studio assistant was waiting to escort her to a meeting room when she said she was Mr. Green’s assistant.
“Did he arrive all right last night? Was everything to his liking?” the assistant asked anxiously.
“It was perfect,” she reassured her. “He came in about midnight and loves the house. He swam in the pool right away.”
“Are the staff quarters working out?”
“Also perfectly.” It reminded her again that she needed to find a maid for herself, or she’d be scrubbing bathtubs and toilets for six months, which she didn’t want to do. She was going to call a cleaning service that afternoon. Rose had gotten the name of one for her from a friend in L.A.
The assistant ushered Alex into a room, and there were already several people sitting at a long oval conference table when she walked in, carrying her briefcase, and they introduced her. She was wearing white jeans, and they were all wearing short shorts and flip-flops.
The director introduced himself to Alex immediately. His name was Sam Jackowitz, and he introduced her to the screenwriter she would be working with, Malcolm Harris.
“Thank you for facilitating this process for us,” the director said gratefully, as Malcolm looked her over and didn’t say anything at first. Half a dozen production assistants filed into the room. It was their last chance to go over final details before they met with the actors the next day, to hear their notes and comments about the script.
They’d been in the meeting for an hour before Malcolm spoke to her. “You work for the greatest writer that ever lived,” he said in an undertone as she stared at him for an instant, finding it hard to believe his enthusiasm.
“He’ll be very flattered to hear it,” she said politely.
“I’ve read every book he’s ever written. I’ve learned so much from him as a writer,” he said. “He must be awesome to work for.”
“He is,” she assured him.
“How long have you worked for him?”
“A long time. Ever since I started working. I was an intern for him in college.” She was making it up as she went along, but it sounded convincing even to her, and Malcolm was eating it up.
“Darkness is my favorite of his books,” he said in awe.
“Mine too,” she agreed. “He’s very pleased to have this one made into a movie.”
“We’re going to make an incredible picture,” he promised. “What does he think of the script?”