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“Listen,” I begin. “I took a look at the shooting schedule for next week, and I have some thoughts.”
“Do you now?” Reeve folds his arms. “Remind me again, what’s your experience shooting a big-budget movie? That’s right, you have none.”
I hold my ground. “I’m not trying to cramp your style, there are just some concerns coming from upstairs, and I think we can work together to—”
“The only work you need to do is staying the hell out of my way.” Reeve interrupts, glaring.
“I’m on your side,” I try to appeal to his reason. “And if I can just show them how you’ll come in under budget, they’ll leave you alone for the rest of the shoot.”
“Really?” Reeve scowls. “Because my producer and I have been through this budget a hundred times already, and I’m telling you, it’s leaner than my buddy Jackson on a cut. So where exactly do you propose we save this money? You want Darcy to live in a little cottage somewhere? Feel like shaving off a week of shoot days? I’m sure it wouldn’t fuck with the plot too much. Oh wait, it will.”
I take a measured breath. He’s an artist, and I can respect that. Fuck, I’m more than a little jealous he gets to bring his vision to life on such an epic scale. But that doesn’t mean I won’t do my job. A hundred grand here, a few more there… It might add up to enough to keep Bradley off their backs.
“The carriages,” I start, producing my notes. “Explain to me why you need five—no, six different models. They cost a fortune, and they’re not even in the same scenes together. Can’t you just re-dress one with new livery and insignias? And why is the costuming budget so high for characters we barely see?” I continue. “Georgiana Darcy, Anne de Bourgh… They barely appear in a single scene in the script, but their wardrobe costs are triple the entire budget for the Bennett family. This silk bill alone is astronomical.”
“Because they’re rich, titled women,” a familiar voice answers from the doorway.
I turn. Jolene is standing there, eying me with clear disdain.
“Anne de Bourgh is an heiress, with a snob of a mother, and a vast fortune at her disposal,” Jolene continues, icy. “She would never be seen dead in the simple muslins that the Bennetts can afford. And as for the carriages… I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference between a chaise, a curricle, and a barouche, but let me assure you, they all haveverydifferent meanings in Regency society. Saying we could slap some new paint on one and reuse it is like saying James Bond could pull up to a casino in a Honda Civic, as long as it had an Aston Martin wingtip slapped on the front. The idea is fucking ridiculous.” She gives me a withering stare. Which of course only turns me on.
Fuck, she’s magnificent when she’s passionate about something.
I exhale. “Fine,” I admit grudgingly. “But if it’s not the carriages, you need to cut somewhere else. Have your line producer go through the budget again,” I tell Reeve, warning. “Otherwise, I’ll go looking for savings myself.”
I leave before he can start throwing things. Clearly, this is a losing battle – for now. But I’ve been in the finance business long enough to know when the higher ups start viewing a project as a money pit, things go south fast—and unfortunately, that day came and went the minute Bradley took over at the studio.
If I can’t get Reeve to come around, there’ll be no movie left to save.
I retreatout to the back terrace, where they’re setting up for a shot nearby. It’s quiet enough to settle in with my laptop and work, but before long, a group of crew hauls out some boxes, and then loiters, eating breakfast sandwiches and shooting the shit in the morning sun.
“Whatshername, the Jane girl, is already at it,” one of them is saying. “Saw Rudy the lighting grip sneaking out of her room the other night.”
There’s laughter. “Can’t really blame her,” one of the women says cheerfully. “Two months on location, got to get that dick locked down ASAP.”
“Speaking for yourself, are we?” one of the older guys says with a smirk.
She laughs. “Why, you volunteering? I need someone to keep up, that gammy leg of yours might slow you down.”
“There ain’t nothing wrong with my leg. Not when I’m on my back, anyway.”
There’s more laughter, as they toss around more predictions for on-set hookups. “That Hugo Chambers is a right ladies’ man, mark my words, there’ll be some broken hearts around here soon enough.”
“Broken hearts, or ripped panties?”
“And what about the Austen girl, the American? She seems like she’d be up for a laugh.”
I tense at the mention. Jolene?
“She’s hot. And single,” the woman reports, to whistles. “Aww, come off it, Rob, she’s out of your league.”
“How do you know what my league is?”
“Oh, I know. You think the makeup girls don’t talk?”
They’re laughing, and I’m fuming over the thought of her hooking up with any of these guys, when I see Jolene herself come into view, strolling around the side of the house with that production designer, Hazel. She’s gesturing wildly about something, looking fired up. Probably relating our carriage fight, I realize, if the scowl on her face is anything to go by.
“Hey, Suit Guy.”
