Page 22 of Take It Till You Make It
“No,” I answer honestly. “There’s a lot of standing around in this business, isn’t there?”
Crispin’s smile makes my traitorous legs weak. “There is. I forget you don’t have experience.”
For some reason, my hackles rise. “I have experience, it’s just not Hollywood experience.” I make air quotes around the word Hollywood.
He holds up a hand like I’m a tiger about to pounce and he’s hoping to calm me. “I meant Hollywood.” He emphasizes the name of the town. “I’ve seen your podcast. I know you can act.”
I freeze. I can’t even imagine him watching my podcast. It seems like he’d get halfway through one video and decide he’s seen enough. “You’ve seen BellyLaughs?”
“Well, seeing how starstruck Terrell was to meet you made me curious. I was just going to watch one or two to get an idea of what you brought to your role, but I couldn’t stop watching. You’re funny.”
I shake my head. “It was just good writing.”
He squints at me. “Have you ever seen The Mankind Project?”
“The movie? Yeah.”
“That writing is spectacular. The acting?” He shakes his head. “It’s a shame, actually. That could have been an Oscar winner.”
“Hmmm.” I consider what he said. “I don’t remember it enough to know if you’re right, but maybe I’ll give it another watch with that in mind.”
He has the oddest look on his face as he watches me. Finally, he swallows and says, “You’re a good actor.”
“Okay.” The photographer steps up next to us, his huge camera lens poking my arm. “We’re ready for you, love. Go ahead and step into the light so I can see how it likes you.”
I’ve never done a photoshoot before. Turns out it’s harder than I expected to look or feel natural. My smiles are stiff, my shoulders are granite, my knees are locked. I think the photographer is going to pull his hair out, until Crispin holds up a finger to ask the photographer for a moment and steps onto the set. He looks very contemplative as he approaches, like he has some serious advice to give me. He’s worrying his lip with his thumb as if considering his words and stares down at the floor as he walks, though that might be because everything is white and it’s hard to see where the steps are.
He stops directly in front of me, raises his gaze to meet mine at the last second, and then blows a puff of air directly into my face.
I startle and jerk away from him. He reaches for me, wrapping long-warm fingers around my upper arms, to make sure I don’t fall backward. I can’t help but laugh. “What was that?”
“An icebreaker.”
He turns and strolls off set, leaving me gaping at him. When I force my gaze back to the photographer, he’s examining me critically, but I can’t tell why. I huff out a laugh. “Guess I’m ready now.”
The crazy thing is, it totally works. After that, my body is languid and flows into the strange poses the man with the camera barks at me. His enthusiasm grows, and he throws in a compliment now and again that makes my smile more genuine.
“Fabulous, this light was made for you.”
“Your body has great angles.”
I don’t even know what that means, but I’m swept into his enthusiasm as his assistants rush around us changing the lighting, the set, or fluffing wrinkles out of my skirt. On command, I throw an arm over my head and wrap the other across my chest while giving the photographer a steely look. With my hands on my hips, I push my shoulders and chest forward and look down my nose at the camera being held about knee height. He encourages me into one crazy, awkward position after another, and I find myself feeling like a flipping supermodel.
Finally, he pops up from the floor. “Great, now it’s Crispin’s turn.”
“I’m done then?” I ask, grinning like a kid who just got off a rollercoaster.
“No, we still need you.” He’s so dismissive, it pops some sort of bubble in my head where I thought he’d been amazed at my natural talent.
As I shuffle off the set, skirting around assistants who are bringing in totally different props, I frown at the memories of my photoshoot, which suddenly seem awkward and stilted.
Crispin stands in the middle of the white set. The staff has placed the occasional ocean-themed prop to break up the dull landscape, like a plastic wave cresting as if to crash ashore, a sea star randomly stuck to the side of a white post, and what looks like a pile of fishing net with a message in a bottle sticking out of the middle of it. I squint around, realizing I have no idea what props were scattered around for my shoot. If the California boy gets ocean stuff, maybe the smalltown girl got…what, gossip magazines and an ice cream parlor? Yeah, I have no idea.
As Crispin strikes pose after pose for the photographer, I stifle my scoff. His expression barely changes. Worse, the photographer seems okay with that. And the poses he has Crispin do are much more subdued than mine. Mostly, hands in pockets or hooking his jacket on a finger and throwing it over his shoulder. Finally, the photographer lays on his back, has Crispin stand over him and reach down toward the camera with splayed hands and a “bloody devilish” look on his face that the photographer asked for. I hope I get to see that picture, because I suspect it’ll make me want to reach back.
“How’s it going?”
I nearly jump out of my towering heels when Sally speaks from beside me. Oh, my goodness. Sally is gorgeous in a pink satin gown with gold spaghetti straps and a slight bustle. She looks so sexy and innocent at the same time; her hair is half up but tumbles down her back in waves. A gold choker makes her neck look long enough to entice a giraffe. I must admit, I’m glad I’m finished with my photoshoot, because she makes me feel like the thirteen-year-old little sister again.
