Page 48 of Caught in a Storm
Which is true, she is. Earlier, in bed—Margot still naked but wrapped in sheets, Billy holding a cup of espresso—he smiled, happy and warm beside her. “I’m so glad you came back,” he said.
She probably has nothing to worry about. Families have their own rules. Especially broken families. Just because Margot and Lawson aren’t friends—far from it; they haven’t spoken in years—that doesn’t mean Billy and this Robyn woman can’t be on good terms.
The moving truck turns on its blinker and slows. “Okay,” Billy says. “Here we go.”
It’s one of the nicest houses on the street—big, but not a mansion—nestled among a bunch of steadily blooming trees. It’s green with bright white shutters. A ten-speed bike leans against the pole of a basketball hoop. Birds watch them from branches, then scatter when the moving guys jump out of the truck. You’d have to drive an hour to find a place like this outside of Manhattan.
Billy shifts to park. “Caleb’s gonna freak when he sees you, by the way.”
Margot steps out of the car and immediately spies the place above the garage. It’s more of a miniature house than an apartment: two big windows and a red door. Yesterday, she packed an overnight bag and hopped on a train heading south like a girl in a country song. Now she’s here. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she knows that she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet.
The front door of the main house opens. That door is red, also. A man wearing sneakers and a T-shirt steps out. Billy was right. He’s eighties-killer handsome—tall, perfect hair. He shakes his head, miming disbelief. “Hey, Billy,” he says. “And hello there…Margot Hammer?”
Margot is about to say hello back, but then a woman appears holding Gatorades. Sometimes dire thinking is best, because, of course, this is Robyn—Rob—and she’s very, very pretty.
The window above the front door opens and Caleb sticks half his long body out of it. “Dad! Holy shit!”
Margot feels Billy’s hand on her lower back. “Cay, come on. No need to swear.”
Part 3
Actually, I Like It
Chapter 30
The stunt car pitches right, then left, then shimmies more than any real car ever would, like it’s about to explode. Lawson Daniels jams his foot down on the gas pedal, which is connected to nothing, then he pretends to be shoved back in his seat by raw horsepower. Acting! he thinks. He shifts from third to fourth gear. He checks the rearview mirror, holds for two beats, then delivers the line.
“Good luck, you stupid motherfuckers.”
There was a whole discussion about “stupid motherfuckers.” An R rating versus PG-13 matters—there’s a whole box-office calculation. Lawson did fifteen takes this morning saying, “dumb bastards,” then twelve before lunch with “dumbass bitches,” which made absolutely zero sense and was a complete waste of everyone’s time.
“Dumbass bitches?” he asked earlier as the crew stood watching, hands on hips. “I’ve never heard a British person say that in my bloody life.”
“Maybe just do it,” replied Hugh Ward, the childlike director. “Could be good for a laugh, yeah?”
“Is this a comedy, though?”
Hugh didn’t know and didn’t hide that fact. This is his first feature. His reel to date is entirely made up of student films and Adidas commercials. “We’ll sort all that in post, mate. But for now, let’s think in terms of action-comedy, but with an edge.”
Hard turn now. More acting. Jerk the wheel, grimace, grunt like it hurts. Hold the wheel, straighten. Another shimmy like he’s speeding over debris. Sound will be added later—debris, too. Gas pedal again. Line: “Yep, that’s what I thought. Cheers.”
For fuck’s sake, he thinks.
Lawson is trying to remember who’s chasing his character, exactly. Is it the drug dealers or the Russian mafia blokes? He’s always prided himself on a certain level of engaged professionalism, but he’s found his attention drifting these last few weeks of shooting. More flubs than usual. More clarifying questions to the assistant director, Harry, who’s somehow even younger looking than the director. Lawson committed to this nonsense before the Oscar nom, now he feels like the prince of bloody Wales cutting the ribbon at a new Sainsbury’s in Liverpool.
“Annnnd cut!” shouts Hugh. “Fantastic, mate! That’s a shot for the trailer, for sure.” Hugh is very concerned about the teaser trailer, which is due next week, even though there’s still a month of shooting left.
After a loud buzz, the hydraulic arm holding the silver Porsche 911 relaxes, and the stunt car settles, like something in an amusement park.
“That’s it, then?” Lawson asks. “Good? We’ve got it? Please say yes.”
Hugh sticks his head in the driver’s-side window. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “But no. I’m thinking maybe we go head on. Do a few like that. You staring down the audience. The audience staring you down. Fuck the fourth wall. Effective, right? Especially for IMAX.”
Lawson notes the rig of cameras—seven by his count—all set and focused for a day of profile shots. Changing and relighting will take hours. “Bloody kettle better be on, then,” he says.
“ ’Course, mate,” says Hugh. “We brought England with us, remember?”
The car doors don’t open properly, because they aren’t real, so Lawson contorts himself into a pull-up and climbs out the sunroof.
