Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

“Never be late to my set.”

I study every member of the cast and crew, looking around the large U-shaped table and giving each of them time to look me in my eyes and see that I’m not playing with their asses.

“Come prepared, and if you aren’t, don’t make excuses. This will be fun. You might even make some friends.” I point a thumb to Graham, who, along with Evan, is seated behind me. “Our assistant will make sure we’re one big, happy family. She always plans socials and other stuff to bond the team.”

“Hey, guys!” Graham says, and I can just imagine her waving and cheesing.

“So Graham’s got the fun covered.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “But this will also be some of the hardest work of your life. I won’t go light on anybody because we are here to serve this story. This is someone’s life we’re introducing the world to. I don’t take that lightly, and neither will you.”

I try to smile, to relax, but that gets harder once a movie is out of pre-production. I leave the petting and coddling to Evan and Graham. I don’t have time for games or tolerance for bullshit. I know how to get the best out of my actors, and it’s not berating them or bullying them. At the same time, I’m not here to make friends.

Though, despite my grumpy ways, that inevitably happens on set.

“Just so you know,” Evan says, walking up beside me, “you’ll hate this guy at least once before the movie is over. We all do, but then we see what he does, the movie he makes, and we forgive him. I’m going to apologize in advance for the beard.”

I smile before I remind myself that is not funny.

“He grows his beard out for every movie and the longer it gets, the more unbearable he becomes,” Evan says over everyone’s laughter. “We’ll try to keep him in line and the beard groomed. I’m Evan Bancroft, one of the producers, by the way. This is Verity Hill, our writer.”

Verity looks up from her phone and waves.

“Wright Bellamy is our music guy,” Evan continues. “He’s writing the score, but for those with music and singing parts, he’ll be working directly with you, too.”

Monk waves and flashes around a smile that dies when it lands on Verity. She rolls her eyes and looks away. And so it begins . . .

“We’re gonna do a table read,” I say, picking up where Evan left off. “Don’t show me all your good stuff. I’m not looking for tears. Save that for when the cameras are rolling. Believe me. We’ll get there. Today we’re just familiarizing ourselves with Verity’s brilliant script.”

With a sweep of my arm I gesture to the studio back lot we’ve transformed into 1930s Harlem, sprawled just beyond the corner of the set where we’re meeting.

“Look around,” I tell them, glancing over my shoulder to the building facades, the apartment stoops and fabricated city blocks, the reincarnated elegance of hotels and clubs long passed away. “This is our new home.”

I introduce the department heads—cinematographer, production designer, assistant director, and Linh, whom we did bring on for costuming. Lawson Stone is also present, but I’m hopeful this will be our last time seeing him for a while. It’s not unusual for a studio exec to attend the first read-through. It’s all hands on deck—the first time everyone involved gets to fully see the scope of what we’re making. Until now they’ve seen their parts, but I’ve been living with the entirety of this story for almost two years already. Of what it could be, and now it’s time to make it real.

“We are recording,” Evan interjects, pointing to the camera set up at the front of the room. It’s far enough back to capture everyone seated around the U-shaped table. “So don’t be thrown off by that. We have food coming. There’s water here. If you need anything, let me or Graham know, and we’ll take care of it. Before we start, we’d like everyone to introduce themselves.”

Mallory outdid herself casting this movie. I was anal about the role of Dessi, but Mallory and I have been working together for years. I trust her instincts, and they did not fail me. Even Trey turned out to be the right choice for Cal. I don’t particularly like the thought of him, all Disney and Nick at Nite, but the reality of him isn’t so bad.

I know everyone, so I tune them out for the most part, and flip through the script marking up places I want to pay special attention to.

Jill Brigston, seated beside me, bumps my shoulder. She’s the best cinematographer I’ve ever met and would have an Oscar by now if she was a man.

“I can feel you vibrating,” she leans over to whisper while the cast introduce themselves.

“What do you mean?”

“This crazy energy comes off you when we start a new project,” she says, green eyes sparkling with knowing humor under her shock of blonde hair.

She would know. She’s worked with me on just about every movie for the last ten years.

“I’m Neevah Saint.”

I stiffen, but don’t look up from my script. Don’t need to. I know exactly where she is in the room. To my right. Three chairs down, seated beside Trey. She’s wearing a white sundress that leaves her shoulders bare and smooth, along with a colorful headwrap from which her wild tresses sprout and overflow. There are lingering traces of a Southern accent in her voice, like honey sprinkled into something savory. At this point, it’s been nearly a year since I first saw her onstage and a few months since she flew out for Trey’s screen test. We’ve spoken a couple of times about the script, research, making sure she feels prepared, but any non-essential communication has gone through Evan and Graham, as it typically would.

I don’t need distractions or entanglements. She could be considered both. Of course, I’ll have to interact with her as the director, but I’ve decided to limit any contact beyond that to only the absolutely necessary.

“I’m really grateful for this opportunity,” Neevah says. “And honestly still pinching myself that I’m even here. The more I learn about Dessi, the more I realize what a privilege it is to introduce people to her story, to her life.”

I look up to see her spread a warm smile around the room.

“And I do hope to make lots of friends.”

That evokes a small murmur of laughter before the next cast members introduce themselves.

“I like her,” Jill says, pitching her voice low.

“Why?”

“She’s one of those people who pulls you in. Ya know? She’s sincere. And I have an instinct about folks.” She taps her nose. “I can smell a phony a mile away, and she’s the real deal. Good job finding her.”

“Monk found her.”

“Um, you fought pretty hard for her.”

I snap a glance up to study her face. “How do you know that?”

“Evan told me.”

“Figures.” I roll my eyes. “She’s the right choice.”

“I believe it and I saw her screen test. I see why you’re so into her.”

“I am not into . . .” I cut my words off when I realize how closely Jill is watching my face. Dammit. I gave her too much. Jill’s as observant as an owl.

“I am not,” I finish more evenly, “into her.”

Graham shoots us the kind of look reserved for kids talking in church. She puts a silencing finger to her lips.

“I just know talent when I see it,” I say in a barely audible whisper.

“Sometimes you just know,” Jill agrees, smiling like a sly cat. I don’t even want to speculate what that means or what idea has gotten lodged in her head.

Once the introductions are complete, I stand. Jill is right. I’m basically vibrating with the need to get started. I school my expression to implacable, but inside, my desire to tell this story echoes like a voice that hasn’t been used in a long time and is ready to sing.

“Alright,” I say. “If that’s everyone, get out your scripts. Let’s read this thing through.”