Lies, Love, and Breakfast at Tiffany's Read online

He didn’t look fine.

  Adam and I shared a glance that encompassed a whole conversation.

  We debated our possibilities and finally settled on Adam getting Dean the lemon water/energy drink/apple cider vinegar concoction that had worked so well before. Adam scurried off, leaving me alone with my boss.

  “Dean. Executive staff is coming today. Bronson, the sound editor, is already waiting in the reception area. They’ll be here any minute. What can I do to help you get ready?”

  “I’m ready.” He shifted his shoulders and lifted his chin. “I am!” he insisted when I raised my eyebrows at him.

  Adam raced in with the water and nearly spilled it trying to hand it off to Dean.

  “I hate this stuff,” Dean said, but he knocked it back, swallowing in deep gulps, likely so he could avoid it being on his taste buds for longer than necessary. He stood. “I’m ready.”

  He didn’t look any more ready than he had a moment before, but film editors had to work with the messes we were given. Even if it was a walking, talking mess like Dean Thomas.

  When we arrived in the reception area, everyone else was already waiting. I sighed, the lone woman in a pool of suits and ties. Other women worked in the business, but I didn’t get the pleasure of working with them often.

  With Dean busy being broken, I felt guilty, like I hadn’t been babysitting him closely enough, like the responsibility of his bad behavior somehow fell on me. I hated that.

  Danny and Christopher came in with the executives and immediately lit up when they saw me. Danny embraced me and then turned, with his arm still around me, and said to the CEO, “Silvia here is a keeper. Her name better be listed above the line for editing because when Sliver of Midnight wins an Academy Award for best film editor, I expect her to be recognized for her work on it.”

  Dean, who had been all but ignored as we entered the area, bristled. He apparently felt a compliment to me was a slap in the face, or rather a punch in the gut, to him.

  We stood around making small talk before the executives said they wanted to see samples of the projects we were currently working on. We moved to the editing suites—the place where the magic happened.

  Bronson had his personal suite, and Graham, the SFX editor, had his own suite as well, though the special effects needed for Sliver of Midnight had been so minimal, I oversaw and signed off on the work Graham did for the film. Graham was still a pretty new employee, and I doubted Dean knew Graham worked for the company.

  The executives and production staff mingled and talked as we made our way to my editing suite. Technically Dean claimed it as his, though he hardly did any of the work there. He turned on the systems and sat in the chair like he knew what was going on. When he looked at the screen to open the files of a current project, he lost some of his credibility. He didn’t know what the files were called or where they were stored on the servers.

  “Actually,” Dean said, “let’s have our assistant do some assisting. You guys all know Silvia Bradshaw, right? She’s our new assistant film editor.”

  “New?” Danny snorted. “She’s been with the studio six months.”

  “Yes, well,” Dean shot back, “considering I’ve been here for decades, she seems new to me.”

  Calling attention to his time with the company was old arsenal. He used it with me all the time, but it seemed to do the trick with everyone else, because no one said anything more while I slid into the seat next to him and took control of the editing board. I opened files and explained where we were with two of our current productions. Dean took over a few times to point out a few things he’d personally worked on, like a petulant child demanding attention.

  Danny spooned praise over me and none at all over Dean. Dean obviously noticed because he kept bringing the attention back to himself and the previous movies he had worked on and the awards he had won.

  It was awkward, and I felt incredibly grateful when it was all over. Bronson was all too happy to take the wheel and guide them to the sound studio.

  In Bronson’s lair, he showed the executives how he had created one of the most disturbing sounds I’d ever heard by slowing down a dog’s howl. At the lower speeds, the mournful noise became horrible, painful, agonizing.

  The executives all laughed, enjoying the moment of cringing that they all displayed. They’d done a good job hiring Bronson; he knew his stuff. We visited several other suites to talk to various directors and editors, all doing their part.

  We went to Graham’s editing suite last. He brought up some work on the car crash scene he was doing for Gray Skies.

  Adam, who had yet to be introduced to anyone on the executive staff, and who had been a mix of both hope and fury since Dean seemed to have purposely left him out, must have found his courage because he stepped forward.

  “Gray Skies,” he said. “Funny you should mention that. I’m a huge fan of the series, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys because my resume—”

  “Not now.” Dean’s face and neck blotched red in fury that Adam would dare attempt such a leap for an audition when it was supposed to be all about Dean’s great work on Sliver of Midnight. He turned to Adam and muttered low, “This is hardly the time or the place for you to make a power grab.”

  “Power grab?” Adam look wounded, but if his trembling limbs and curled lip were any indicator, he was also enraged. “And not the time? When is the time, Dean? Because you promised me for months now—almost a year now—to get me an audition for a part in that series. I’ve watched parts come and go to actors with half my skill for almost a year! When is there going to be a better time?”

  “Well, this certainly isn’t it. And if you’re going to pull that kind of attitude in my studio, you might as well empty out your desk. You can go find employment elsewhere. I don’t have time for an assistant who doesn’t know how to keep his place.”

  Adam’s face went bright red, matching the color of his hair—and Dean’s face. Adam’s trembling limbs became positively spastic. He stuttered a few times before finding strength in his voice. “What kind of assistant is it that you want?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know. You want one like Silvia. You want an assistant who will do all your work for you. You want an assistant who is willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done, even when it means bringing in help from another production studio to do your job because you’re so stupid drunk that you’re passed out on the company couch while another editor put together your Academy Award–­winning movie. That’s right!”

  He clapped his hands to call everyone’s attention even though he already had it. “Here’s how hard your editor is working: Sliver of Midnight was not done by Dean. You guys keep talking about a best picture and even a best film editor award, but the only award he should get is the studio’s best drunk! He didn’t do any of the work. He didn’t do anything on that movie. Silvia did most of the work. And then, on the night before it was due, when she needed somebody to sign off on all the details, she enlisted the help of an editor from a competing studio to get the work done.”

  I leapt forward in an attempt to—I didn’t know . . . stop him? Put my hand over his mouth? Punch him in the trachea to prevent him from saying anything else?

  “What is he talking about?” Christopher demanded. His quiet request sounded like a shout in the silence that followed Adam’s outburst.

  “It’s a lie!” Dean shrilled. His face had shifted from the angry red to a sickly yellow color, like a dying leaf on a diseased tree.

  I was caught between fleeing, fighting, and freezing. I forced my muscles to relax, uncurled my fingers from the fists they had formed, and shifted my body so my stance was casual. For a moment, I considered calling Adam a liar and denying everything. But if I had to lie to be where I was, then it wasn’t worth being there.

  “What is he talking about?” Christopher asked again.

  The entire staff had
their eyes on me, except Dean, who had his eyes fixed on the ground. In a matter of moments, Dean Thomas had become a beaten man. Gone was the playground bully. The only thing left was the child.

  “I . . . I can explain.”

  And so I did.

  “Now . . . the first thing we have to do is stay calm.”

  —Susy Hendrix, played by Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark

  When the clamor and chaos died down and everyone retreated to their own corners to figure out what to do with the mess they’d been handed, I followed Adam to his desk.

  “What were you thinking?” I whisper-yelled at him. “How could you do that to me?”

  He grunted and flopped down in his chair. “This isn’t about you. This is about me sticking it to the man.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s about all of us! You didn’t stick anything to anyone except to Dean and me and you.”

  “How do you figure that? This can only help me. They’re going to notice me, now. They’re auditioning for a new part—Merrill—and I’m going to be there. They’ll remember me. I finally got my chance to stand out.”

  “As a stool pigeon!” I wanted to use him as a punching bag. He really didn’t understand the ramifications of his actions, the consequences that should have been obvious to anyone with sense.

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through to try to make it in this business. I’ve been waiting for a long time for this chance—”

  I interrupted him before he could make himself look like the victim of the hour. “Chance to what? Ruin the prospects of everyone present—yourself included?”

  “Why do you keep saying that? This doesn’t affect me at all.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Because this is a good old boys’ club, and you just proved you aren’t one of them. If you can’t play nice in the sandbox, then they kick sand in your face and send you packing. No one is giving you an audition after this.”

  His face was impassive. He didn’t believe me. But it didn’t make me less right.

  I tossed a look of sheer fury at Adam. “Did you not hear them? They actually talked about lawsuits! Lawsuits, Adam!”

  His face paled. I’d finally gotten his attention. “I didn’t mean to make things hard on you—I was just so mad. He’s been promising for so long. It just came out. I didn’t plan on doing any of that.”

  But he had planned on it. Every action from him proved he had intended to be noticed, either because Dean pointed him out or because he pointed himself out. Standing here, arguing with Adam, was not helping me. I had to call Ben. I had to warn him. Because it would be awful if he found out about this mess via his boss instead of me. I didn’t know how long it would take for the executives at Portal Pictures to contact the executives at Mid-Scene Films, but chances of them delaying were slim. Portal Pictures would meet with their own lawyers first, then they would contact Janice at Mid-Scene.

  I didn’t know what would happen then. Maybe everything would be fine and we’d all laugh about this tomorrow and say what a great joke it had all been. But nothing seemed further from likely than the joke scenario.

  “Hold my calls,” I directed Adam. “Don’t let anyone into my office. Tell them I’m very busy and can’t be disturbed.” In my panic, I forgot that Adam was Dean’s administrative assistant, not mine. But I sincerely doubted that he would be doing anything for Dean anytime soon. Not after what had happened. Not only would Adam refuse to take orders from Dean, it was unlikely Dean would want Adam anywhere near him.

  Adam shot me a look that declared his doubt in my sanity, but I didn’t care; I was too busy pulling out my phone and hurrying to the safety of my office.

  I dialed Ben’s number before my office door could skim closed. It rang three times, then went to voice mail. “Call as soon as you can, Ben. It’s urgent. Life-and-death urgent!” No reason to sugarcoat the truth. A panicked message was all I had to offer.

  I waited a full minute, then tried again. “Please pick up,” I begged with each ring. As soon as it went to voice mail, I hung up and tried again.

  My next seven calls went to voice mail. I didn’t leave another message. What could be said beyond that first pleading?

  I tried to contact Ben with fervent desperation via all social media direct messages, email, and phone to no avail.

  I paced my office.

  Maybe they’d already contacted Mid-Scene. Maybe Ben couldn’t answer because he was cleaning out his office and placing his Superman action figure into a box alongside the book of puns I gave him for April Fools’ Day. Maybe he’d been yanked into the office of Mid-Scene’s lawyer. I’d always thought of Janice as the nicest woman I knew, but that was because I’d never been on the opposite side of her lawyer temper. I’d seen her get feisty. The thought of her glaring at Ben over the top of her glasses made me shudder. She’d chew him up.

  That decided it.

  I had to go to him. I had to see him physically, in person, right now.

  He needed to know how sorry I was. He needed to know how I never meant for any of this to happen. He needed to know I was on his side—whatever that side might be. And I needed to see him to make sure he didn’t hate me over this debacle that was entirely my fault.

  Ben not hating me was the most important thing because now that I knew he loved me, I didn’t want it any other way.

  I grabbed my keys, my phone, and my purse and flung the door to my office open wide.

  On the other side stood a man with his hand raised, poised to knock.

  Owen Theodore Carlson, Esq., offered a polite but coldly professional smile. “Miss Bradshaw. We need to talk.”

  Candace, the HR representative for Portal Pictures, stood behind him. She looked like she might faint if anyone spoke too loudly in her direction. She hated confrontation, and if her wide eyes and pale face of abject terror offered any insight, the meeting with Owen the lawyer wasn’t going to be a friendly chitchat.

  My head bobbled, though I hardly understood what I was trying to communicate, as I stepped to the side and allowed them entrance into my personal space within the company.

  The door swung closed, but I managed to catch a glimpse of Adam’s horrified face just before it clicked shut. So much for him guarding my door.

  I resolutely turned toward the two people the company had sent to deal with me. Any words now could only be used for self-defense.

  The shakedown from Owen the lawyer and Candace the HR representative could be described as nothing less than hostile. Owen, as if he knew of my weakness, sat on the chair to my right. He scooted it back and to the side enough that I could not see both of them at the same time and had to turn my head back and forth as they spoke.

  They’d scoured me mentally and emotionally before they were done. They’d pried hard, trying to gain access to all the personal details of my life.

  There were questions I didn’t mind answering: How many man-hours had I put into the film? What was my work ethic? Could I show them any notes or records I’d kept regarding my processes during postproduction? I’d already given a lot of this information to the executives when I explained everything to them, but Owen wanted all the little details. How long had I worked for Mid-Scene Films? How long had I known Ben? What kind of person was he? What was his work ethic? How much work did he do on the film? How many actual man-hours were spent?

  There were questions I didn’t love answering but felt obligated to, since the security cameras would confirm or deny my words: What time did Ben arrive at the studio the night before the preview? To which rooms was he given access? Were there any other projects he was allowed to either view or access? Where was Dean during the time Ben and I worked on the film? How much of the film was Dean’s work? Once Dean was sober again, did he have any recollection of there being an interloper in our offices?

  That was what they called Ben: the interloper. Had
I been seeing Ben on a personal level prior to the incident?

  That was what they called our night of collaboration: the incident.

  Who else had I allowed to access Portal Pictures files? Was I aware of the egregious breach of contract? Was I aware that the charges currently against me were enough for full termination? What did I have to say in my defense?

  Finally came the questions I refused to answer: How long had I been seeing Ben socially? Were we intimate? Was intimacy the reason I’d jeopardized the security of Portal Pictures? Would I be willing to stop seeing Ben?

  It took a full twenty minutes after they’d gone for me to be able to stand on shaking legs and, once again, gather my things to make my retreat. I had to get to Ben. The drive to his house was a blur. I blinked and found myself standing on his porch and knocking on his door.

  “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” I asked as soon as he appeared. His arms had been opening as if to embrace me, but upon seeing my distress and likely hearing it in my voice, too, he dropped his arms and asked what was going on.

  “Has anyone from Mid-Scene Films talked to you today about Sliver of Midnight?”

  His whole body tensed. His studio and my movie said in the same sentence only meant one thing. “How did they find out? Oh. Adam.” He answered his own question before I could open my mouth to spit the word out.

  I nodded.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate.” He opened his door wider and ushered me into his house.

  He led me straight to the kitchen and fetched me a glass from the cupboard. It was the same Kylo Ren glass I’d used before. Or maybe he had a collection of them. I smiled to see my picture back on the fridge where it belonged. As I filled the glass with ice water, he leaned against his counter and tilted his head. He rubbed the back of his knuckles over his chin. “Mid-Scene hasn’t contacted me, yet. How long has Portal Pictures known?”

  “Since this morning. Adam had a breakdown and has been declared mentally incompetent.”

  “Who made the declaration?”