Chapter 2: What Is My Life
I still have no idea what's happening. Who was that man? And who in the blazes is Karen?
He's only gone a handful of seconds when the door swings open again and a smartly dressed woman in her forties walks in. She has a headset in her ear and she's typing something into her phone, but even as her fingers are still moving across the electronic keyboard, she looks up and begins studying me. She has an air of professional authority about her. Her eyes flick over me, just like the man's did.
Finally, she gives a satisfied nod. "He's right. You'll do." She gives me another visual inspection. "We might have to do something about that ponytail, but it's nothing we can't fix."
"Excuse me?" I say.
She types something into her phone. "Can you follow directions?"
"I...think so," I say, still completely confused. "Yes. But why - "
"How would you like to make a hundred dollars?" Abruptly looking up at me again, she reaches out and grabs me by the chin, tilting my head to the side. "You'll need a little more mascara, too. And a touch of bronzer. Easy fix. Will your boss mind if we steal you for a few hours? We can put in a good word for you."
"I don't have a boss," I say. "Not yet. But - "
"Even better." She smiles. She's very pretty, but either she doesn't know it or doesn't care - despite her insistence that I need a "touch of bronzer," she doesn't appear to have a stitch of makeup on. Her warm brown hair is tied back in a loose bun - what my mom likes to call "taking-care-of-business" hair.
She releases my chin. "A hundred bucks. Wait right here - I have to pee." She whips away from me and into the nearest stall without waiting for me to answer.
And honestly, I'm not sure what to answer. I still have no idea who this woman is - or even if we're in the women's bathroom - and I have somewhere to be. It takes me a moment to recover.
"Uh, actually," I say awkwardly, starting for the door. "I'm heading to a job interview. Thank you for the offer" - for whatever it is - "but I can't be late."
"Hold on!" the woman calls after me from the stall. The toilet paper dispenser squeaks. "We can go as high as a hundred and twenty for the day."
A hundred and twenty dollars sounds like a fortune to me right now, but I'm still not sure it's worth risking a real, full-time position. Especially since I still have no idea what that hundred and twenty dollars would be for.
But sue me, I'm curious.
"What sort of job is this, exactly?" I ask her.
Her clothes rustle. "One of our featured extras didn't show up. We need to find a replacement. Fast." The toilet flushes, and a second later she emerges from the stall. "So? What do you say?"
I still have no idea what she's talking about. "A featured extra? What's that?" And what happened to that incredibly attractive man who was just in here?
"For the movie." She gestures toward the door before quickly washing her hands. She even does that efficiently and professionally. She must see the confusion on my face because she goes on. "You know - that hoopla going on in the lobby. We're shooting a couple of scenes here today. A featured extra is just an extra who gets a little more screen time. We need someone to act as Mr. Walson's assistant for a couple of scenes. No lines. You just need to know how to walk and pretend to take notes." Her gaze gives me another sweep. "We might need to find you some higher heels, but we'll see what Orlando says. So? Are you in?"
I still don't know what to say. They want me to be in a movie? A real movie?
One of the names she just said suddenly sinks in. Walson? As in Omar Walson, the star of Passion Heights Hospital? I've had the chance to binge-watch a lot of TV in the past year, and that included six seasons of the gritty medical drama set at Passion Heights. Omar Walson is a huge part of why that show is so good.
"I've got to get back to set," the woman says. "You in or out?"
I start to tell her again that I have an interview to get to, but then I remember that motivational speaker's words: Say "Yes!" to all the possibilities, no matter how unexpected they are! This movie thing is certainly unexpected. And how often in life do you get the chance to work with Omar Walson?
The answer spills out before I have the chance to stop it. "In." Is this stupid and reckless? Of course. But I can't help myself. I've been praying for something exciting, something extraordinary, to happen in my life, and this sounds infinitely more exciting and extraordinary than a job interview. Maybe there's a reason this opportunity fell into my lap. Maybe my luck is changing after all.
The woman nods again, her eyes back on her phone. "Good. Follow me."
She marches out of the bathroom, and I hurry after her, still shocked by what I've just agreed to do.
"What's your name?" the woman asks me, almost as an afterthought.
"Maggie," I say, then realize she probably wants something more than that. "Margaret Blankenship. I go by Maggie, though."
"I'm Karen," she replies matter-of-factly. "The assistant director. Just do as I say today and we'll be fine."
We're halfway across the lobby, and for the first time I take a look at the crowd I rushed past on my way in. A ring of people and cameras are pointed toward a cleared space on the far side of lobby, and at least a dozen men and women dart frantically among it all, ferrying equipment or juggling multiple drink carriers stuffed with coffee beverages.
How did I miss all that? I think in wonder. There's even a retractable barrier set up around the crew, keeping casual bystanders outside, and a pair of bored-looking security guards stand at either end of the tape. A few people in suits and office wear linger just outside the barrier, watching the bustle with curiosity, but everyone inside the barrier ignores them. Karen leads me right by, undoing the barrier tape just enough to let me through.
My eyes scan the crowd. I'm looking for one person in particular - that startlingly handsome man who stumbled across me in the bathroom. My gaze finds him almost immediately, and my heart flutters as I'm struck once again by how arresting he is. Even from this distance, something about his presence draws the eye right to him. There's also something vaguely familiar about him, but I can't put my finger on what. It takes me a moment to notice he's standing right next to Omar Walson.
Any other day, I would be going gaga over Omar. He's every bit as tall, dark, and handsome as he appears on TV. More, even. But even though I know I should be freaking out about seeing him in the flesh, my gaze keeps shifting back to the man next to him. To that tousled hair, that square jaw, those golden-brown eyes...
He glances my way, and I quickly avert my gaze, hoping he didn't catch me staring. Whoever he is, he seems important, and I'd rather not embarrass myself by turning into the creepy, ogling extra girl within moments of walking on set.
Instead, I glance around at the rest of the production. Part of me wishes I had the guts to pull out my phone and sneak a few photos - I've spent the last year scrolling through my friends' social media accounts, drooling over photos of their fabulous lives, and I'm finally doing something cool enough to share - but I suspect that would be frowned upon. Instead, I obediently follow Karen and try not to glance back at my beautiful bathroom guy.
"Where are we going?" I ask her.
"To the makeup tent," Karen tells me. "We need to get some of that shine off your forehead."
I frown, touching my face, but considering how much sweat was pouring off me only a short while ago, I suppose a little extra makeup couldn't hurt.
"We'll need to clean up that hair, too, at the very least," she goes on. "And I'll see if Orlando has anything else in mind. He's a very hands-on director."
Orlando...why does that name sound familiar? She can't be talking about my handsome bathroom guy, can she? In spite of myself, I glance back at him again. He looks way too young to be a director - aren't most directors old men? This guy appears to be only a few years older than me, but he carries himself with a steady confidence. He's the sort of man who exudes intelligence, who commands respect.
I'm still staring at him when Karen grabs my arm, giving it an impatient tug.
"Scoot, now," she says. "Orlando wants this scene done before lunch. And he can't have you looking like someone who stumbled in off the street." She doesn't seem to recognize the irony in that.
The makeup tent is just outside the eastern entrance to the building. Half a dozen area fans keep it at least a few degrees cooler than the asphalt beyond the tent poles. Karen shoves me beneath the awning and begins barking orders in her flat but commanding tone, and I find myself pulled into a chair with a small army of people around me.
Meanwhile, I'm still thinking about my gorgeous bathroom man.
Orlando. There can't be that many Orlandos in modern America, let alone ones who look like that. And who are talented and trusted enough to find themselves helming an entire movie.
All at once, it clicks into place. And I wonder how I didn't see it sooner.
There's only one man it could be. One man who has that name, charisma, and title, all three.
Orlando Fontaine.