Page 60 of Pick-Up
“Oh, I love the people here!” he says. “And they love me!”
I steal a glance at the local makeup artist, who has finally stopped hyperventilating.
“They’re very welcoming and thrilled to have us. Especially since we have made it our personal mission to protect their land, keeping it groomed, fertile and succulent. Working with these people is mucheasier than navigating Hollywood, for example.” He leans in, covering his mic, and whispers so the sound won’t catch it: “The Jews.”
I freeze. I cannot have heard him right.
“Sorry—what?”
“TheJews. You know how it is.”
I stand up. This is my limit. “I am literally Jewish,” I say.
He scans me from top to bottom. “It’s okay,” he says.
“No,” I shake my head. “It is absolutely not.”
So ends our love affair.
We get the footage we need, and Charlie gets his initial photos for print, which look vibrant and luminous. If Martin ends up looking terrible (physically and fundamentally), then there is justice in the world. I wonder if Ethan has qualms about what a shit bag this guy is.
The rest of the day is mercifully Martin-free. He retires to his residence on the other side of the island, and we break for lunch. A buffet—an embarrassment of multicolored riches on rows of tables adorned with tropical flowers—is waiting at the restaurant.
Beside me on the buffet line, Ethan readies to take a plate of food back to the villa, grumbling about work to catch up on. Of course he takes only the salads and fruit. Not a fritter on his plate. In contrast, mine is a culinary revelation: fried food, ten ways.
He looks from my plate to his. Raises his eyebrows. Says nothing.
Wise man. But it’s also sort of unlike him to pass up a prime opportunity to give me shit.
I surreptitiously study his face. His brow is creased. He looks stressed. During the shoot, I’d noticed him hammering away on his phone off to the side. I’m tempted to ask him what’s up, but it feels like none of my beeswax.
He grabs a utensil-napkin roll-up and turns to head out. I shouldn’t care that he’s leaving. His absence can only make life less complicated for me. I can eat my lunch in peace. And yet I’m a bit bummed to see him go. Who else am I going to mock and heckle?
“You ditching us plebes?” I say, as he starts toward the stairs.
“No choice,” he says, without breaking stride. “I’m all tied up.”
Point, Demon Dad. I will be hearing this for the rest of my life. Or at least whenever in his presence.
The rest of the crew piles a cornucopia of tropical fruit, conch fritters, coconut shrimp and papaya salad onto plates. There is a gluttonous sweet and sour sauce, a thin hot pepper marinade that stains the plate orange and a vinegar-and-lime dressing with pickled pink onions that I consider mainlining.
We’ve got a mandated hour break and, though we are still a bit behind, I’m glad for it. I need to decompress post-Martin. I’m still considering whether to bring up what he said with theEscapadestaff, since I’m not sure if any of them heard. On one hand, it was unacceptable. On the other, I don’t want to blow up this whole project and risk losing the larger opportunity. If I tell my coworkers and they do nothing, where does that leave me—with them but also with my own moral compass?
I sit down at a table, shaded by a large umbrella, with Jackie, Derek and Stephanie, then order a passion fruit iced tea. Make it a double. It arrives adorned with sprigs of fresh green mint. Heaven.
Martin is a scumbag, but the place is special.
“Do you mind if I join you?” asks Charlie, approaching our table with a more measured plate of food than mine.
We all hustle to make room. Because we are courteous. And also he is not unhot. Not that Professional Sasha cares.
“It’s so good to finally meet you in person,” I tell him as he settles next to me. “Have you guys all worked together before?”
“Actually, I don’t think so,” says Charlie, surveying the group.
“You’d remember,” says Stephanie, sliding a chunk of pineapple off a toothpick with her teeth.
“I’m sure that’s true.” He laughs.
