Folly Cove (2 page)

•   •   •

It should have been an easy shoot. As sweet and sunny as the pop singer Tia.

Unfortunately, like so many things about life in L.A., this music video went belly-up fast. And it was Elly's fault.

To pinch pennies for the producer, Elly hadn't called her usual location scout. Instead, she'd booked a house in Laurel Canyon. The property belonged to the friend of a friend—a mostly out-of-work, stoned actor.

Elly had hung up after securing the house and pumped a fist in the air. The location fit their budget. The backyard was made private by a row of stately cypress trees, and one end of the infinity pool had a waterfall tumbling over shiny black rocks. It was perfect.

Perfect, until the day of the shoot.

The pool was the first thing to go wrong. The water should have been bathwater toasty; most pools in Southern California felt piss warm to Elly, making her long for the biting cold of the ocean at Folly Cove, where she'd grown up. Water so icy even in August that it sucked the air out of your lungs and numbed your limbs in seconds.

But this pool heater must have gone on the fritz last night, which resulted in Tia, who had been sitting on a pink inflatable flamingo in the water while they were fiddling with cameras and lighting, passing out from the cold.

Even worse, nobody noticed right away. Elly was the production designer; she was occupied arranging shrubbery with her assistant. The director, Paul, was busy yelling at
his
assistant to tell the neighbor to please shut his mower the hell off while they were filming.

“Silence on the set!”
Paul finally bellowed over both the mower and the constantly repeating track of Tia's next hit song.

That was when someone shouted to forget the shoot, because the singer was unconscious. Everyone assumed drugs. That's what you always assumed in L.A. Tia's agent immediately went into damage-control mode, demanding that everyone pocket their cell phones so no photos could be taken and issuing statements for publicity purposes about how the singer had taken vows of chastity and sobriety at eighteen.

Elly jumped into the pool to pull the girl out, since everyone else seemed momentarily paralyzed by the sight of the bony teenager in a sparkling silver mermaid costume lolling unconscious across an inflatable flamingo amid a herd of grinning inflatable dolphins. The girl's lips were Gatorade blue, a shade darker than the dolphins.

Hypothermia,
Elly thought as Ryder Argenziano, the cameraman and Elly's occasional hookup, helped carry the singer through the glass doors into the house. He started to call 911; Tia's agent immediately snatched the phone from his hand.

“She's coming around,” the agent snarled. “No ambulance. We don't want the press.”

Paul was useless—still hopping around on his little black leather sneakers, wringing his hands in distress—so Ryder took over. He instructed Elly to hold up a furniture blanket to protect the singer's
privacy while the wardrobe stylist stripped off the mermaid costume and wrestled her into a dry sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants so brightly spiraled in red and white that Tia's skinny legs looked like twin barbershop poles.

Tia was awake now, but her teeth were still chattering. The agent and stylist helped her into a sitting position and wrapped Tia in a blanket, urging her to drink coffee and eat a granola bar. She nibbled it between her hands like a hamster; she probably lived on Vitaminwater and lettuce.

Then Tia phoned her mother. “Mama! I almost drowned! I saw my life flash before my eyes!”

Ryder, who was standing next to Elly, leaned closer to her and grinned. “It probably lasted five seconds,” he whispered. “What could she have stored in her memory banks? The day she got her braces off? Her high school prom?”

Elly made a face at him. She had actually hesitated before taking this job because of Tia's high IMDb rating. Tia possessed star power no matter how young she was. That spelled headaches for everyone.

“Doesn't matter,” she said. “We're in for it now. Tia's been in the business since preschool. She knows the value of playing up a crisis to ramp up her demands on set.”

Just then the morning took another downward turn. The animal handler's portable electric fence had apparently been unplugged—probably by one of the production assistants—and now the bear contained within it came lumbering past the patio doors. Elly caught a strong musky whiff of its scent. She started for the doors, trying to move slowly to avoid catching Paul's eye.

Elly had wanted live animals for the shoot because she'd designed the set around the only decent lyric in the song, which referred to freeing the caged beast within every woman's heart. She'd contacted every affordable animal wrangler in Hollywood to see what beasts she could get to their location on a limited budget. She'd pushed Paul for the animals, convincing him that it was worth taking money from the camera package and putting it toward the set. She'd haggled with the trainer over his price, and this morning he'd arrived with only a boa, a
lethargic molting parrot with a cancer-victim vibe, and a black bear the size of a dog.

If Mr. Smokey the Bear here did any damage to the set or the equipment, it would all be on her. Before Elly could make it through the patio doors to yell at the handler, a neighbor's cat streaked across the lawn. The bear charged after it with surprising speed, crashing through the wall of flowering bushes that Elly had rented from a prop shop early this morning. The bushes were in tatters within seconds. Leaf confetti was scattered all over the patio and dirt clods were dissolving in the pool.

Damn it. What a nightmare mess to clean up. Plus she'd have to pay extra to replace the shrubbery.

“Okay, people, that's a wrap,” the director announced. Fortunately, Paul was standing with his back to the patio doors as the trainer rocketed down the driveway after the bear.

Paul was a short man who successfully practiced intimidation tactics. Elly had worked with him on several projects over the past two years. He wore leather no matter what the season in Hollywood: black leather pants and jacket, black leather shoes. Even his notebook was black leather.

“That's it for the day, huh?” Ryder said. He never seemed bothered by Paul or by anyone else, maybe because he'd grown up in northern California. His West Coast chill was partly what had attracted Elly to him, despite the fact that Ryder never wore anything but blue jeans and crap T-shirts, like somebody's basement-dwelling teenage son.

“Yup,” Paul said. “We're done here. You'll all get a full day's wages.” He knelt beside the singer. “Is your mom on her way to pick you up, Tia sweetheart?” He said “sweetheart” like other people said “toe fungus.”

When Tia nodded, he said, “Good. Fantastic. Really, really great. Now, make sure and let me know how you feel this afternoon, okay? Anything you need, anything at all, tell me and it's yours. Right, Michelle?”

“Of course. I'm on it. Whatever you need.” Michelle, Paul's assistant, a sleek Japanese woman wearing a vintage floral dress with bright purple high-tops, was taking notes at his elbow.

“Elly, call me after you get this place cleaned up,” Paul barked as he
stood up again. “Later, people.” He zipped out the front door, walking so fast he was nearly on his toes.

“That's it for me,” Elly said. “I'm dead to him.”

“Probably,” Ryder said.

She jabbed him in the ribs. “You're not supposed to agree!”

Ryder shrugged. “I'm no sugarcoater. That's why you like me.”

“That's why I
used
to like you,” Elly said.

“Oh, chill out. If you have lunch with me, I'll help you clean up.”

“Deal.”

When Elly called Paul on her cell phone an hour later while inching along the highway, the director cut straight to the point: he wouldn't be using her for this video when they resumed shooting tomorrow, nor for the commercial they'd talked about scheduling the following week.

“But I've done good work for you, Paul,” Elly protested.

“Not my call, sweetheart. It's the producer's. And you know how many fucks the producer doesn't give about whatever you did yesterday. This guy's all about tomorrow.”

“Come on, Paul. Go to bat for me. Who can you get to step in for me on such short notice?”

“That's the thing, babe. The stars aligned. I found this young guy—maybe you know him. Jay Goodwin? Anyway, I ran into him at my juice bar on Sunset. The guy's got a wall lined with VMAs, but he's got two days free. Producer's thrilled. Look, don't take it to heart. You've been around the block enough to know it ain't personal.”

Elly repeated this conversation to Ryder as they bought tacos at a food truck and walked over to Silver Lake Meadow by the reservoir. Ryder had stopped for a six-pack of beer, too.

“He's right,” Ryder said. “Hollywood is Tomorrowland and we're past our sell-by dates. Know how old Paul is?”

“Thirty?” Elly guessed.

“Twenty-six.”

“Crap.”

“Right. And you're on the wrong side of thirty-five. I'll be forty next year.” Ryder finished his first beer and uncapped another. “Paul's probably wondering how we still get around without wheelchairs.”

“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better.” Elly bit into the taco, savoring the sudden shout of spicy meat and salsa on her tongue. Beneath this note of pleasure, however, was humiliation: Ryder had accurately guessed her age. That stung, especially since she was wearing lash extensions and that new under-foundation primer her stylist promised “fills in your cracks and holes, like spackling your face.”

She said, “I'm thirty-eight. Guess I'd better invest in more maintenance.”

“Stop. You look fine.” Ryder waved a hand toward the park, where a pair of Latina women in platform sandals pushed strollers, a well-oiled guy in a Speedo was sunbathing, and a kid was riding a skateboard with a Chihuahua tucked under one arm. “Look at this cross section of humanity. There's always a way to make it in L.A., right? Walt Disney knew that. That's why he built his first studio right here in Silver Lake.”

Elly finished her beer. “Wasn't Disney only twenty-five when he built that studio?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Shoot me now.”

Ryder laughed. “You can always do something else if you get sick of production design. Why did you move here, anyway?”

Elly finished her taco and wondered what version of her past life she should share. She'd slept with Ryder a few times—he was the first since the affair with Hans, which had left her in zombie mode for two bleak years when it crashed and burned—but she'd sidestepped any personal conversation. Their hookups were fun and nothing more. She always had Ryder come to her house, but never allowed him to spend the night. She preferred to sleep alone. Besides, it would be a long time before she would trust a man again, after everything Hans had put her through.

“I moved here to be a singer,” she said finally. “I got a few gigs at first. You know: cable TV commercials, voice-overs for minor characters in cartoons. Never enough to keep me going. After ten years of scrambling, I finally started helping a friend who was a production designer. She trained me.”

“You could still sing on the side and work your way into something.”

Elly shook her head. “No. These days, anyone who makes it in music does it by having a YouTube channel and suffering constant sacrifices. As in: no fun, no food, and definitely no sleep. I'm not willing to chase a rabbit down that hole. And I'm happy designing sets. I'm thrilled just to be living someplace warm and far from the hospitality business.”

“When did you do that?”

“All my life. My family owns an inn north of Boston,” she said. “Folly Cove is the kind of old-school place where people have been coming for generations to marry off their daughters, or to celebrate milestone birthdays and anniversaries. You know: a pile of wood on a cliff above the ocean where people sit on Adirondack chairs on the lawn, swilling gin and tonics until it's time to stagger off to their prime-rib dinners.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Sure, if you're a guest,” she said. “But for us, life at the Folly Cove Inn was one deadly chore after another. Having an inn is like keeping house for a family of two hundred strangers.”

“Do your parents still have it?”

“Just my mom now.”

“What happened to the better half?”

She socked him lightly on the arm. “Dad was a drunk. Took off when I was eight. Haven't seen him since.”

“Ouch. Must have been hard on your mom.”

“You'd think, but no. She runs Folly Cove with an iron fist encased in a velvet evening glove. She's a Boston blue blood and never lets anyone forget it.” Elly finished her beer and set the empty bottle back in the cooler. “I wouldn't have minded my childhood so much if Mom hadn't made indentured servants out of my sisters and me. We were the cleaners, kitchen help, models, and entertainment, all in one.”

“How many sisters?” Ryder had finished eating; he rolled his napkin and taco papers into tidy balls and made a game of tossing them into a nearby trash bin. He made every shot.

“Two,” Elly said. “Laura's the oldest, I'm the middle, and Anne's the youngest.” She told him about the inn's TV commercials and brochures that she and her sisters had posed for through the years. “Photographers loved us because Laura's a brunette, I'm blond, and Anne's a redhead. One magazine writer even called us ‘Sarah's Singing Angels.'”

“I don't get it.”

“After the TV show
Charlie's Angels
? Sarah's my mom's name.”

He laughed. “Fun.”

“Not exactly. Once, I had to pose in the garden in a green dress with a white pinafore. That dress had so many layers, I looked like a cabbage.”