Read Online Scar Flowers by Maureen O'Donnell - Free Book Online
Authors: Maureen O'Donnell
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rolling.” He nodded to Gunnar, who called for places.
Karen fumed like a wall of static at his back. She would use it. Now they could work. Simon circled the ring of lights to stand behind Victor.
Victor. That was it. He only paid attention to Karen during scenes. Karen must be one of those performers who needs an off-screen rapport with her co-star.
Or, in the absence of that, with her director.
The makeup woman rushed in to adjust Karen’s hair while Gunnar called for quiet on the set and cued the clapper to start the audio.
Hunched at the camera, Brian checked the frame of the shot again, then tugged his stocking cap down over his plucked eye -brows. Opposite the DP, behind Karen’s left shoulder, the script girl sat forward in her chair, pencil ready over the script, glasses balanced on her head. Next to her, a white face materialized out of the gloom, over black-clad limbs and crossed arms. Red hair pulled back in a braid. Nadia the fight choreographer. She was alone, wrapped in an aura of chill authority that fit better with a visiting producer than with a crew member. She must be on her way to lunch after morning rehearsal. The script girl raised her eyes at Nadia’s approach and mouthed Watch out to one of the camera operators, who tried unsuccessfully to mask his snicker as a cough. Nadia appeared not to notice the shift of energy in the room.
“All right, everyone,” Simon called out. “This isn’t break time. Concentrate.”
He had felt Nadia’s attention on him this week. On her resume, she had listed twelve years of martial arts training and credits for stunt work and fight choreography on a few films from the late ’90s. All likely enough, and yet . . . Beyond the rumor that she was Paul’s girlfriend, she had not revealed what her riddle was. Gunnar had taken care of hiring her, and Simon had not spoken to her since the incident with Ricky yesterday.
It had been a whim, hiring Nadia. Possibly a mistake. Why the hell had he?
Because she didn’t play Hollywood games. Her own games, maybe, but not those of the backstabbing, “love you, baby” variety.
You don’t know what you’re doing this time, do you , Mercer?
The smack of the clapper sounded. Scene 97.
“Action.”
Karen did not move. She looked past Victor, not at the camera but into Simon’s eyes, and said her line while freezing every word: “Are you afraid?”
She spoke so quietly that the mic would not pick it up. But Simon smiled. He could use this take. The audio could be looped later to fix it.
Simon took one step to his right, so that Karen could not see him behind Victor. From his new position, Nadia faced him across the set. He found himself fixed on her as he spoke, as if she had been party to his thoughts this whole time. Why was she watching this scene when she probably had fight choreography to do? “Keep rolling. Karen, would you take it again. To Victor.”
Karen reached toward Victor, then let her hand drop. She purred the line, words that threatened to shiver into pieces with hidden laughter. Simon felt her words in the back of his throat, in his belly, behind his eyes.
The recollection of how he had heard—no, felt —Nadia’s voice at the film festival party flashed through him. Penetrating, a low vibration. Unexpected, coming from her slight form.
Karen turned to find out what had Simon’s attention and saw Nadia. The actress heaved a breath at the ceiling, snatched a scrim off a light pole and threw it to the ground. She marched out, hair bouncing on her shoulders. As Karen passed, Nadia’s eyes moved a fraction to catch Simon’s. He did not look away.
“Cut and print,” he said.
The fight choreographer stepped back into the hallway, a half smile on her lips.
Trouble is , there’s as much happening off-screen as on. And whose story is it?
12:05 p.m.
“Are you a dancer?”
Leah looked up from her script to find Karen sitting across the table. She had hoped to use this time to
Karen fumed like a wall of static at his back. She would use it. Now they could work. Simon circled the ring of lights to stand behind Victor.
Victor. That was it. He only paid attention to Karen during scenes. Karen must be one of those performers who needs an off-screen rapport with her co-star.
Or, in the absence of that, with her director.
The makeup woman rushed in to adjust Karen’s hair while Gunnar called for quiet on the set and cued the clapper to start the audio.
Hunched at the camera, Brian checked the frame of the shot again, then tugged his stocking cap down over his plucked eye -brows. Opposite the DP, behind Karen’s left shoulder, the script girl sat forward in her chair, pencil ready over the script, glasses balanced on her head. Next to her, a white face materialized out of the gloom, over black-clad limbs and crossed arms. Red hair pulled back in a braid. Nadia the fight choreographer. She was alone, wrapped in an aura of chill authority that fit better with a visiting producer than with a crew member. She must be on her way to lunch after morning rehearsal. The script girl raised her eyes at Nadia’s approach and mouthed Watch out to one of the camera operators, who tried unsuccessfully to mask his snicker as a cough. Nadia appeared not to notice the shift of energy in the room.
“All right, everyone,” Simon called out. “This isn’t break time. Concentrate.”
He had felt Nadia’s attention on him this week. On her resume, she had listed twelve years of martial arts training and credits for stunt work and fight choreography on a few films from the late ’90s. All likely enough, and yet . . . Beyond the rumor that she was Paul’s girlfriend, she had not revealed what her riddle was. Gunnar had taken care of hiring her, and Simon had not spoken to her since the incident with Ricky yesterday.
It had been a whim, hiring Nadia. Possibly a mistake. Why the hell had he?
Because she didn’t play Hollywood games. Her own games, maybe, but not those of the backstabbing, “love you, baby” variety.
You don’t know what you’re doing this time, do you , Mercer?
The smack of the clapper sounded. Scene 97.
“Action.”
Karen did not move. She looked past Victor, not at the camera but into Simon’s eyes, and said her line while freezing every word: “Are you afraid?”
She spoke so quietly that the mic would not pick it up. But Simon smiled. He could use this take. The audio could be looped later to fix it.
Simon took one step to his right, so that Karen could not see him behind Victor. From his new position, Nadia faced him across the set. He found himself fixed on her as he spoke, as if she had been party to his thoughts this whole time. Why was she watching this scene when she probably had fight choreography to do? “Keep rolling. Karen, would you take it again. To Victor.”
Karen reached toward Victor, then let her hand drop. She purred the line, words that threatened to shiver into pieces with hidden laughter. Simon felt her words in the back of his throat, in his belly, behind his eyes.
The recollection of how he had heard—no, felt —Nadia’s voice at the film festival party flashed through him. Penetrating, a low vibration. Unexpected, coming from her slight form.
Karen turned to find out what had Simon’s attention and saw Nadia. The actress heaved a breath at the ceiling, snatched a scrim off a light pole and threw it to the ground. She marched out, hair bouncing on her shoulders. As Karen passed, Nadia’s eyes moved a fraction to catch Simon’s. He did not look away.
“Cut and print,” he said.
The fight choreographer stepped back into the hallway, a half smile on her lips.
Trouble is , there’s as much happening off-screen as on. And whose story is it?
12:05 p.m.
“Are you a dancer?”
Leah looked up from her script to find Karen sitting across the table. She had hoped to use this time to
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