Takes two

© by Elsa

David studies the script. His lips move but I hear no sound, he reads it, but to himself. I’ve seen him like this a hundred times before. He is already rehearsing, memorising the text and trying to get the right intonation to it. He’s a pro, and it’s a joy to work with him. He should quit smoking, then he’d really be my hero. The smoking’s a bit of a letdown for me but since the rest of him is definitely worth while, I ignore the bad habit. He takes a bite from the sandwich I’ve offered him and nods appreciatively.

“Tastes great, Wendy. As always. Thanks.” His attention is on the script again but not before light blue eyes have accompanied his smile.

Enters Paul. Gawd, is he a hunk or what. “G’morning, all,” he greets everyone and smiles broadly as people greet back. I like him a lot. What pleases me most is that he’s got eye for everyone, including the not so flashing people like me – the kitchen chef. I offer him a sandwich from a tray which he kindly refuses.

“Thanks, but I had breakfast already.”

Despite the odds, he’s pretty healthy. Unlike the character he plays, he DOES eat regularly and healthy. And he doesn’t smoke.

“Antonio in?” He asks to no one in particular but meets me.

“Yeah. He’s in make-up.” Since I tour the studio with food and drink, I get everywhere and people know that. “Mr. Hamilton is later. He’s got a dental appointment.” I can’t get to call the man Bernie, despite his efforts to make me do so. He’s Mister Hamilton. Period.

“Thanks Wendy.” Paul crashes down next to David. “That the script?”

“Yeah. It’s rubbish.”

Laughing and surprise. “It is?”

“Here, listen to this. Camera on Starsky. Looks at Hutch who clearly feels miserable. Starsky: I’m sorry, I’ve got to go. Remember you’re a Jew.”

“Yes? And?”

“Wait, wait. Hutch: Don’t let them waiting. I’m a Jew and hurt but okay.”

Paul’s reaction is as can be expected. “Let me see that. Hutch would never say that.”

“Right. And Starsky would never leave him like that.”

“What’s the scene about?”

“We are involved in a Nazi group. You’re undercover and I’m a target.”

Inwardly I shake my head. What kind of fool writes a script like that? It should be the other way around. Why does a secret script writer, an amateur like me, see that instantly and a bloke who gets paid well for this, doesn’t?

“Who’s directing?” Paul flips back to the first page and finds the name he’s looking for. “Greg Mazescki – who is Greg Mazescki?” He turns to David. “D’you know him?”

David shakes his head. “Nope. The script writer doesn’t ring a bell either.”

“They’re a team,” Nigel, the camera man, explains as he checks the light. “I hear they’re always working together.”

I miss out on the rest of their exchange of names and knowledge but when I return with tea and coffee, Paul asks me, “Wendy? You’ve done a round of coffee here, right? Have you met the new director?”

“Yes. It’s that man over there. With the black shirt and the grey trousers.” I pour coffee into his mug and hand it to him. Two sugar. He likes it sweet. David’s on strong tea this morning. Cream, no sugar.

“I’m telling you, any fool can write a script, but very little people can write a good one.” David sighs, probably assuming that I have no idea what he’s on about but Paul apparently wants to explain, because he says, stirring his coffee, “The script writer wants Starsky to go undercover in a Nazi group. Which is of course…”

He sips his coffee and sighs delightedly at the taste of it.

“Nonsense,” I fill in and Paul nods, as does David. There’s something encouraging in both their faces.

“It should be the other way round,” I blurt out. “Hutch would be the ideal undercover cop, with his blond hair and blue eyes, being the perfect Nazi recruit, answering to their description of Arians and all that creepy stuff. And Starsky of course, should be the target – the ideal target. Jewish, with a job that would make him a worth while target for an ultra right political group: cop AND Jewish. To a Nazi, everything he hates. And Starsky would never tell Hutch to ‘remember’ in what kind of capacity he’s working. Hutch wouldn’t repeat that either. That’s just so…”

As suddenly as I’ve burst out into my instant version of the script, I shut up and feel myself colouring up to the roots of my hair. My cheeks flush and clumsily I shrug my shoulders and turn to the tray with mugs and the thermos. I hope my face doesn’t show because now I feel utterly small and I’m convinced I’ve made a fool of myself. I mumble some kind of apology and get myself out of there as quickly as I can.

 

From behind one of the set pieces I eye David and Paul, who by now are discussing the script with the new director Mazescki. Paul points in my direction. Uh-oh. I feel a very uneasy sensation in my stomach. Mazescki shakes his head and argues and his hand also waves in my direction, although I’m fairly sure they can’t see me from where they’re standing.

Mazescki’s body language says more than my ears can catch. You’re listening to some nitwit girl who brings you sandwiches? You pass my script writer? What skill does SHE bring in?

“What’s wrong, Wendy?” I startle from the voice of my colleague Sam, who’s definitely one of the nicest men around. He’s a technician and totally unimpressed by stardom and diva behaviour of swollen-headed directors. He’s so down to earth that it’s a blessing to have him around.

“Paul and David are having an argument with the new director, about the script. Mazescki doesn’t agree, by the looks of it.”

“And? Are they right?”

“Yep. The script is crap. Part is, anyway. I heard a bit about it.”

I hope he doesn’t ask any further. I have the idea it’s my fault they don’t agree and if this is going to cause a scene, I feel responsible. My alarm beeps. I need to check on things that are boiling in the kitchen. “Gotta go, duty calls.”

 

The rest of the morning I’m busy and with lots of things to do, the script thing moves to the background. There’s a group of fifty people who’ll have to be fed this afternoon, so I’ve got a lot of preparing to do. I sing to the songs on the radio… It takes two-ho-ho-hooo, it takes two…

By one o’clock someone enters my kitchen, unasked, unannounced. Mazescki and a few men and women I don’t know are swarming all over the place. And as much as they all have to say, in the kitchen I’m my own boss. This is my ground, they’re on my turf. And as shy as I am out there, I’m very confident in here.

“The kitchen is off-limits to non-catering personnel,” I snap at Mazescki.

“I’m hungry. We’re done shooting and I want something to eat.”

I dislike him instantly. What a world of difference to Paul and David and Antonio who are the real stars of the show and who are always polite and kind.

“I said,” I say slowly and calmly, “the kitchen is off-limits to non-catering personnel. You can wait in the lounge. Lunch will be served when it’s ready.” Normally, I would have said that it was ready and that I was going to serve it in a minute but not to this stuck-up monkey.

“Surely you can give me something in advance?” His voice changes, turning smoothly into a from-one-girl-to-another tone. He’s not a girl and I don’t buy it.

“Are you diabetic?”

“No, but—“

“Any allergies? Food intolerances?”

“No, but—“

“Anything in particular about any food in particular that I should know of?”

“No, but—“

 “Well, since you’re not diabetic and you don’t need any special things, you’ll have to wait just like the others.” I grab a burning hot frying pan from the stove and with it in my hands, I approach him. The pan shoos him out, he staggers back and his face furious with humiliation he grumbles something I can’t hear. He leaves, his retinue on his heels.

I smirk. Serves him well, that pompous asshole. And then: applause.

“Bravo! Wendy! Excellent! Bravo!”

I look up and meet two pairs of blue eyes and the biggest grins I’ve seen today. Paul and David. Standing in the doorframe and looking at the disappearing group.

“I told you she’s good,” Paul says with a strange proud smile and nods at me. “I can always see that pretty mind of hers at work. I’ve asked her on more than one occasion what she thinks and she’s never wrong.”

David steps closer but Paul puts his hand up. “Uh-oh. You heard the lady. The kitchen is off-limits to non-catering personnel.”

“Come in,” I laugh and make a gesture. “It’s not of course, but HE doesn’t have to know.”

“Listen,” David says as he appreciatively puts his nose in the air when he smells the delicious scent of the soup I’ve made, “When you’re done here, why don’t you come over to us and help out with the script? It’s not all that bad, it’s only—“

He searches for the right word. Paul, highly amused, folds his arms over his chest, and leans against the stainless steel sink.

“Unlike Starsky and Hutch?” I suggest, feeling myself blushing again. But this time I’m not uneasy any more.

“Exactly! Unlike Starsky and Hutch.”

“But the director—“

“It’s the content that makes a story believable. We need good content makers.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

I don’t know how to react. “They want to make you say the wrong things,” I softly reply after long seconds of silence and nod thoughtfully. “They go about the special bond the wrong way. They don’t see the Me & Thee thing.”

“See, David? She’s got it, this girl.” Paul steps over to me. Bright, dark blue eyes meet mine. “You write, don’t you, Wendy?”

I nod and swallow. “Yes. A bit. Not very good. Errr…. Amateurship… just for fun… You don’t want to read it.”

“Yes I do. Bring some of it with you tomorrow. And come over to us when you’ve eaten.”

When you’ve eaten. The guy actually cares about my well being! He doesn’t say, when you’re done working here… no, he says, when you’re done eating…

Someone calls out from the set. The men leave my kitchen, but not before Paul has made me promise to come, his intense smile urging me and making it impossible to say no. David laughs, aware of the magnetism they both radiate. My knees feel rubber-ish.

Lunch never tasted as good as it did that afternoon.

 

 

The End

Elsa, July 2004