Read Online Aurora 07 - Last Scene Alive by Charlaine Harris - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlaine Harris
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entry into the van, so I climbed in the backseat with Meredith Askew and the assistant to the director, Mark Chesney. Celia was in the middle with Robin, who barely managed to fit his long legs in, and Barrett was in the front passenger seat. The head cameraman, Will Weir, drove. He seemed to be everywhere.
Despite what Meredith had said when she invited me, Celia didn’t seem anxious to talk to me, at least not immediately. Mark asked her about her next project. “I’m doing a movie about the sixties radicals,” she said. “I play one of those bombers they had then.”
After some exclamations from Mark and Will, Celia twisted in her seat to face me directly.
“I was in your library the other day,” she said. “I really wanted to meet you then, but I ended up checking out some books for research. Now I have my own Lawrenceton, Georgia, library card! Quite a souvenir of the role!”
I smiled faintly and agreed, glad I hadn’t been in the library to witness the fuss when she had entered. Celia didn’t address me directly after that. She and Meredith chattered back and forth about the industry, and Mark added a comment or two from time to time.
If I’d agreed to come because I wanted to observe them , I would have been in hog heaven.
As it was, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was out of my element. I found myself thinking of a book I’d left half-read at home and wishing I’d stuck it in my purse so I could pull it out now.
But I gave myself a little lecture to get “up” for the occasion. After all, how many chances would I have again to ride in a van with a group of Hollywood insiders?
The answer, to my relief, appeared to be none.
The treatment we got at the restaurant was amazing. It was like—well, I don’t know what it was like. Waiting to greet us at the door was the manager, whose embroidered pocket read
“Smoky.” Smoky was a short man with a thick thatch of curly, light hair. He was built like a tree trunk, and his heavy, hairy arms waved emphatically as he told us how pleased he was to have us in his establishment. Beaming with pride, he led us to a private room. We had to parade the length of the restaurant to get there. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that Smoky walked quite slowly and mentioned Celia’s name—and Barrett’s—much more often than necessary.
Once we were seated at a large rectangular table, covered for the occasion with a red paper tablecloth, we were served instantly by a group of favored servers, all of whom yearned desperately to be noticed by someone, anyone, in the magic circle of Hollywood. I had never been waited on with such perkiness, such assiduity. I didn’t know whether to jeer or weep.
“Is it always like this?” I whispered to Robin as we were studying our menus.
“Yes,” he said, quite matter-of-fact about the spectacle ordinarily normal people were making out of themselves.
There was already a lot to think about.
Robin was at my side because Celia had maneuvered so that that should happen. She sat directly across the table, flanked by Barrett and Will Weir. Meredith and Mark Chesney sat at the ends. The rest of the tables in the private room were empty. The voices of our group sounded unnaturally loud as the menu was discussed with exhaustive— and boring—
thoroughness. Robin and I began to talk about our mothers. I’d never met his, but he’d talked about her often and with fondness, and of course he’d met my mother when he lived in Lawrenceton. We kept the conversation going while we placed our orders and received our drinks. That procedure took twice as long since the young people in the Heavenly Barbecue colors (sky blue and deep red) were determined to impress themselves on each and every member of the party; my choice of entrees had never received such attention.
I could see that this was all to impress Celia; somehow, though Celia was not remarkably famous, these young people could tell she was the
Despite what Meredith had said when she invited me, Celia didn’t seem anxious to talk to me, at least not immediately. Mark asked her about her next project. “I’m doing a movie about the sixties radicals,” she said. “I play one of those bombers they had then.”
After some exclamations from Mark and Will, Celia twisted in her seat to face me directly.
“I was in your library the other day,” she said. “I really wanted to meet you then, but I ended up checking out some books for research. Now I have my own Lawrenceton, Georgia, library card! Quite a souvenir of the role!”
I smiled faintly and agreed, glad I hadn’t been in the library to witness the fuss when she had entered. Celia didn’t address me directly after that. She and Meredith chattered back and forth about the industry, and Mark added a comment or two from time to time.
If I’d agreed to come because I wanted to observe them , I would have been in hog heaven.
As it was, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was out of my element. I found myself thinking of a book I’d left half-read at home and wishing I’d stuck it in my purse so I could pull it out now.
But I gave myself a little lecture to get “up” for the occasion. After all, how many chances would I have again to ride in a van with a group of Hollywood insiders?
The answer, to my relief, appeared to be none.
The treatment we got at the restaurant was amazing. It was like—well, I don’t know what it was like. Waiting to greet us at the door was the manager, whose embroidered pocket read
“Smoky.” Smoky was a short man with a thick thatch of curly, light hair. He was built like a tree trunk, and his heavy, hairy arms waved emphatically as he told us how pleased he was to have us in his establishment. Beaming with pride, he led us to a private room. We had to parade the length of the restaurant to get there. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that Smoky walked quite slowly and mentioned Celia’s name—and Barrett’s—much more often than necessary.
Once we were seated at a large rectangular table, covered for the occasion with a red paper tablecloth, we were served instantly by a group of favored servers, all of whom yearned desperately to be noticed by someone, anyone, in the magic circle of Hollywood. I had never been waited on with such perkiness, such assiduity. I didn’t know whether to jeer or weep.
“Is it always like this?” I whispered to Robin as we were studying our menus.
“Yes,” he said, quite matter-of-fact about the spectacle ordinarily normal people were making out of themselves.
There was already a lot to think about.
Robin was at my side because Celia had maneuvered so that that should happen. She sat directly across the table, flanked by Barrett and Will Weir. Meredith and Mark Chesney sat at the ends. The rest of the tables in the private room were empty. The voices of our group sounded unnaturally loud as the menu was discussed with exhaustive— and boring—
thoroughness. Robin and I began to talk about our mothers. I’d never met his, but he’d talked about her often and with fondness, and of course he’d met my mother when he lived in Lawrenceton. We kept the conversation going while we placed our orders and received our drinks. That procedure took twice as long since the young people in the Heavenly Barbecue colors (sky blue and deep red) were determined to impress themselves on each and every member of the party; my choice of entrees had never received such attention.
I could see that this was all to impress Celia; somehow, though Celia was not remarkably famous, these young people could tell she was the
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