CHAPTER 1
The car was hot, and Ellie Addelstein was not happy.
This isn’t to say that a more comfortable, air-conditioned Uber would have improved her mood, but it did ensure that the short, curly-haired young woman in the backseat was smashing the “one star” button like she was going for the high score. The driver abandoned hope of a good review the second he picked up the pretty yet severe girl from the airport, and was sweating less from the high-noon sun as from the green-eyed glare of fury that lay behind her no-nonsense glasses. Unfortunately for the both of them, traffic from LAX to anywhere by car was the worst America had to offer, and they had hours left together.
“Ridiculous.” uttered Ellie to the reflection of herself as she readjusted her simple black dress for the fiftieth time. Ridiculous. A refrain she had often repeated to herself in the past month. It’s ridiculous The Public didn’t pick me as a Resident Playwright. It’s ridiculous Playwright’s Horizons didn’t offer me a fellowship. It’s beyond ridiculous that not Colombia, Yale, or even freaking Pace didn’t want me for their master’s track. It’s ridiculous I’m in Los Angeles right now, and it’s ridiculous that Daniel with his 2018 Nissan Sentra doesn’t have any goddamn AC.
The problem, as it often is, was money, of course. Ellie had spent the past three years of her life living every moment for theatre. Long nighttime rehearsals into wild daytime performances at every little black box from the East Village to Harlem. Working nonstop as an up-and-coming playwright-producer didn’t pay any bills, however, and Ellie quickly ate through her savings and then some, as her parents finally pulled the plug last month in August of 2021. Ellie faced the dreaded prospect of finding a survival job, and utterly refused, applying only to positions that fit her perceived experience and education. Only one got back to the theatre artist with no prior work experience, and it was an immediate hire, paying for her flight to Los Angeles: where millions of dreams are born and plenty (Ellie’s including) go to die.
Ellie blinked out of her frustrating daydream and noticed the car had stopped. The terrified man in the driver’s seat cleared his throat as politely as possible, too intimidated to speak.
“Thanks.” growled Ellie, in the least grateful way possible, and hauled herself outside the uncomfortable vehicle. The car quickly escaped from the scene, leaving Ellie standing on a curb, armed with a modest black suitcase, a bulging laptop bag, and a long-since depleted coffee cup. She looked up and stared down the monolith.
PINNACLE PICTURES adorned the metal and glass that stretched high above, boastful and bold. Ellie took a deep breath and forced it out sharply through her prominent, angular nose.
“I am an artist. I . . . am an artist.” This new muttering chorus carried Ellie up the walk and to the door. “I am good at what I do. I am beautiful. I am hot. I am a storyteller. This experience will not define me.” Her strong, short legs carried her curvy frame through the threshold of the main office building of Pinnacle Pictures, into the most hideous lobby Ellie had ever seen.
It’s not that it wasn’t well put-together, or shabby . . . no. Everything here was clearly very expensive, but . . . why the Hulk-Pants Purple walls? Why the gargantuan jungle ferns scattered seemingly at random? Why the alternating red and blue light bulbs in the confounding vintage chandelier? Ellie squinted at the eclectic disaster and noticed movement through the visual din. Someone was waving at her.
Off to the side, almost invisible astride one of those towering fern plants, sat a skinny light-skinned black man at the tiniest desk ever made. This was the owner of the hand that was still waving enthusiastically. Ellie pointed a finger at herself and raised her eyebrows. The owner of the hand nodded and smiled, dark eyebrows raising genially on his amber face. Carefully navigating the maze of coffee tables, sofas, and . . . good god, was that a hand chair? Ellie made her way to the desk, where its inhabitant spoke up from his seated position.
“Hii! Welcome to Pinnacle Pictures, my name is TJ, do you have an appointment?”
Ellie took a breath and put on her third-most polite voice. “Yes, Ellie Addelstein, I’m the new script supervisor?”
TJ’s face lit up even more than it already was.
“Oh yeah, hey, Ellie! I heard you were coming, I’m supposed to tell— hold on.” TJ expertly punched in a series of numbers on his phone console. It rang a few times. He held up a finger and mouthed just a second to Ellie. Finally, a muted male voice said, “Go ahead.” through the speaker.
“Mister Markley, I’ve got Annie Eddelstein at the front desk with me.”
This was the front desk? It looked like someone had stuck a fancy TV tray in the corner and added a swivel chair.
“Perfect, I’m on my way.” the call ended with a click.
TJ smiled at Ellie. “Mister Markley will be down in a minute to show you around. I can hold onto your suitcase until you leave.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Ellie slid him her suitcase, which he carefully adjusted to sit right next to him, not covered or hidden behind anything.
“Who is Mister Markley, I thought I was working for a Mister Zaminya?”
TJ nodded and waved thought away with his hand.
“Mister Zaminya is the owner, but Mister Markley runs the day-to-day operations here. Pretty much everyone works under him in one way or another.”
“Huh. Alright.”
The correspondence that Ellie received, which admittedly wasn’t more than three or four emails, didn’t make any mention of anyone named Markley. In fact, it was pretty explicit that she was going to be “script supervisor for Maxie Zaminya.” Ellie didn’t want to pursue the issue any longer. She was here to make money then return to New York, not to make waves.
“So where are you from?” asked TJ politely.
Ach, Smalltalk. My one weakness, thought Ellie.
“New York, but I grew up in Virginia,” she responded curtly.
TJ surprised her by opening his expression up even brighter.
“What! You’re kidding me, I’ve never met anyone else here from Virginia, I’m from Richmond!”
Ellie smiled, despite her training. “I grew up in Arlington, but I was in Richmond all the time during the summer, they had the best theatre camps . . . and the best restaurants!”
Ellie didn’t actually know that much about Richmond, having been to only one theatre camp and one Jewish camp, plus a vague memory of a good meal with her parents once, but positive socializing came so infrequently to her that she wanted to make the best of it.
TJ’s smile grew, surely reaching maximum capacity.
“No way, what’s your favorite restaurant!” he enthusiastically demanded.
“Um!” Oh god, thought Ellie. “Oh, it was . . !” What was it? Think, Richmond, soul food, must have been Brother or Sister or . . . “Mama . . . ” she eventually choked out.
“Mama J’s!” TJ offered triumphantly.
“Yes! Mama J’s! It had the best . . . mac and cheese!” And if that wasn’t on the menu at a place called Mamma J’s, shoot me.
“I LOVE their mac and cheese, but the catfish sammy’s where it’s at. God, I haven’t been back in over a year, but you know how it is, you gotta stay in the game and stick it out if you want to be an actor.” He twirled his hands and struck a casual pose on ‘actor’. “I am so glad to finally meet another person from the south— the first day I got here and they serve breakfast in the commissary and was looking and asking around for the grits and people were looking at me like—”
“Ellie Addelstein!”
She and TJ both gave a little start at the sudden appearance of a tall man nearby. Held in the warm embrace of TJ’s radiant tongue-flapping, Ellie didn’t notice the figure approach.
“Oo! Scared me there! Mister Markley, this is Ellie.”
The man extended a hand. “Cain Markley. Pleasure to meet you.”
No wonder they didn’t see him arrive; Cain Markley was as plain and unassuming as this lobby was outrageous. He would have stood out, but he happened to be standing on a rare unadorned patch of floor, so he blended right in. To be specific: Cain Markley was a thin-haired white man in his 60′s, wearing a grey suit that matched his grey hair. To be apt: Cain Markley was royalty-free background music.
Ellie readjusted the laptop bag on her shoulder and shook the hand extended out to her. “Nice to meet you too.”
“We’ve actually got a meeting here in about twenty minutes that I should pull you into, but I’d love to give you a brief tour before that.”
Ellie arched an eyebrow and retracted her hand from the shake.“A meeting? I just got here.”
Markley grimaced sympathetically.“I know, but . . . ” He held up his palms and gave his fingers a very unconvincing ‘razzle dazzle.’ “That’s Hollywood! Let me show you around.” He turned and started walking further into the building. Ellie turned her arched eyebrow to TJ, who shrugged and gave an earnest wave goodbye. Ellie nodded at him, and followed quickly behind, catching up with the steadily retreating Markley.
--
“Pinnacle Pictures was founded pretty late in the game in 1972, by Vladimir Zaminya. Me and Vlad go way back, I came on near the end of the decade, and that’s when we really found our niche, making the movies no one else wanted to touch.“Markley droned on, leading Ellie down a hallway of old movie posters.
“Oh really.” offered a bored Ellie.
“Yeah, and that’s when I learned the lesson of quantity over quality. B Movies. Nobody cares if Acapulcopocalypse or Croc-Borg: The Massacre are bad, they’re fun! And they make money. I just wish we had the sense to start serializing and rebooting before the market got flooded. Nowadays we’re just playing catchup.”
The past five poorly-designed movie posters had all been permutations of some franchise called Dead on Arrival featuring what looked like . . . a zombie airline pilot? Oh god.
“We’re currently filming Dead on Arrival eight on Lot B as we speak. We’re all very proud of that one.”
“Con . . . gratulations.” Ellie muscled in her voice at the last second to wrench it away from sarcasm. Stupid, stupid, stupid, was the new refrain in her head, cursing herself for not even Googling what films this studio made before she hastily accepted the job offer. She left the invigorating bosom of experimental Off-Off Broadway theatre in favor of . . . schlock! They had reached an elevator, which Markley called with a button. Mercifully, it seemed the parade of bad movies was over, but Markley’s drone was not.
“As a script supervisor, you’ll be working in a small team to sift through submissions to see if any would serve as a . . . good setting for a sequel of one of our signature film series, then, after you get some practice in, you’ll work with the screenwriter and a producer to adapt the screenplay into a production-ready script. Sound good?”
Ellie’s eyes narrowed as Markley finished this latest bit of information. “So . . . we’re taking people’s scripts that have nothing to do with . . . zombies or car chases . . . ” Don’t be sarcastic, don’t be sarcastic. “And we’re adapting to them so we can put zombies and car chases in?”
The elevator dinged. “Bingo!” They stepped in. “Or any of our signature film series, for that matter. If you’re unfamiliar, we have three private screening rooms you can use to catch up. Since you’re new, it only makes sense— how does it sound to get paid to watch movies!” Markley smiled expectantly, clearly having made this joke before.
Ellie hoped whatever she was doing with her mouth resembled a smile.
“That sounds . . . so good. So much fun.”
Cain nodded and looked away, apparently satisfied with the expression Ellie ended up with. “We have fun here.”
The elevator dinged again, and opened to a busy office floor, with sleek offices separated by long, central meeting rooms entombed in glass. Markley led the way forward. “About time for that meeting. Any questions before you dive into the deep end?”
“Yes, actually, I was contacted by who I thought was the owner, Maxie Zaminya—”
“Ah, clerical mix up there. If you’re a script supervisor you’re gonna be going through me. Or, more specifically, you’ll be going through my head of script supervision, Meghan. I’ll introduce you two after the meeting.”
“Yes, but I was led to believe that I was to be working directly with Mister Zaminya—”
Markley stopped and turned around.
“Look, Ellie.”
Ellie immediately didn’t like his tone. This was the tone of artistic directors back in New York trying to explain why their theatre wasn’t going to take a risk on an “underdeveloped puppet show” when they clearly hadn’t even read her script. She took a deep breath and grit her teeth. You’re here to make money. Make the money, then get back to your real work. Make the money, then return to your life.
“I don’t want to seem disparaging of the owner, but . . . Maxie is the owner in name only. He’s basically a kid, and he doesn’t always make decisions that have the company’s best interest at heart, artistically, and certainly not financially.”
He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. Ellie tightened her grip on her laptop bag as he got close in the way men in power do. His aftershave was alarmingly neutral, almost imperceptible.
“Maxie ’aint his father. Between you and me, he might’ve been drunk when he hired you. But I looked over your application, and I think you’re gonna do great here.”
He stepped away and flashed a smile that was either kind or condescending.
“Thanks” she said evenly.
He glanced down at his watch. “Better get to that meeting— right in here.”
Markley led Ellie into a large conference room, well-populated with an assortment of employees. Markley stopped at the front and began speaking with another older white man, a shorter reflection of himself, and Ellie broke off to find an empty seat in the back. She received some curious glances in passing, but Ellie was used to that in spaces like this. One look back was all it took to confirm her suspicions.
Yep, they’re all gorgeous. All the women and a good portion of the men were all conventionally attractive, and dressed in clothes that embellish that fact. Most of them were sitting, but she could tell by the long legs sticking out that they would probably tower over her. Ellie hefted her laptop bag down and scrutinized their sharp faces. These weren’t even actors, they were writers and producers, what gives? Thinking back to the charismatic TJ in the lobby, claiming to be an actor, but working as a secretary, Ellie averted her eyes and smiled smugly to herself, imagining all of these beautiful people on an unintended career path borne from their lack of talent, and not thinking for a second how she was in a hypocritically similar boat to them.
It’s not that Ellie wasn’t conventionally attractive, she was, and then some. Her curly brown hair shook out and cascaded over her soft frame in a casual, alluring way. Her black dress was one of the more formal pieces of clothing she owned, but was just as form-fitting as the rest of her likewise black wardrobe made for blending in backstage or in an audience during rehearsals. What distinguished Ellie from these Hollywood types was her energy and her attitude. You’d be sooner to call her fierce than pretty. Her eyes were more cruel than sparkling. Her hips were technically round and soft, but good luck describing them as anything but devastating when they were swaying towards you. People always remember her as much taller than her five-foot-two frame, simply from the confident energy she exudes.
And all of this energy and drive was currently being holstered in a leather conference chair, in the back of a room at the lamest movie studio in Hollywood. Get the money. Just get the money.
The meeting began promptly and quickly devolved into numbers and figures of currently performing Pinnacle films. Then how Pinnacle films have performed historically. Then how they predict future Pinnacle films may perform. Ellie had her laptop out to take notes, but quickly just filled a page with the word “no” repeatedly typed into the document, with an occasional “please” thrown in for flavor. She was in the middle of calculating how much it would cost to fly back to Virginia and move back in with her parents when she heard her name and snapped her head up.
“. . . Ellie Addelstein, a new addition to the script supervision team. Meghan, I think you’ll be plenty happy with Miss Addelstein.”
Ellie robotically waved at the room, receiving curt waves and nods, until her eyes fell upon a Korean woman in a yellow business skirt waving far more enthusiastically than anyone else and smiling far too large to be earnest. Meghan. Their eyes locked. Her face was happy but her eyes . . . they looked like they were asking for help. Ellie’s fingers began throwing in some “oh god’s” in for good measure. With great effort, she tore her eyes away from Meghan’s and cast her gaze firmly on her laptop screen.
Ellie fully tuned out, and found herself typing a note on her laptop that began, “If you’re reading this, then I have already died of boredom . . .” which came easily, as a second older white man had taken over the proceedings to talk about minimizing paper waste. It was the dullest, slowest part of the meeting so far, which made it all the more jarring when the door was flung open, banging its metal handle against the neighboring countertop.
“Again with this, Cain?” A furious baritone punctuated the room following the clamor, with a slight Russian lilt dripping off the “Again” and “Cain.”
Ellie’s head snapped up again, along with several other people in the room who were also definitely napping to behold the most interesting man Ellie had ever seen.
Working in theatre for so long, Ellie had seen plenty of costumes over the years, but never out in public, in earnest. His suit was immaculate, and perfectly hanging off of his tall, angular frame, but immaculate and well-tailored was a secondary description, as the silver metallic sheen of it took point. A pink, wide-collared shirt, complete with gold chain hanging on his exposed chest was tucked into a tight waistband that hugged the muscles promised there. A strong, smooth-shaven jaw was clenched tight, awaiting a reply. His hair was a pale blond, short and styled, his eyes dark behind trendy, pink-tinted sunglasses, the same color as his shirt. Everything about him dripped with excess, if not taste. Whether he paid a stylist to dress him, or he just put this together himself, two things were evident: one, he made it look good, and two, he couldn’t care less how much it cost.
Ellie heard Markley reply, but found she couldn’t take her eyes off this man. “Maxie, please, this is just a normal meeting, mostly budgets, you wouldn’t want—”
“I told you I was to be present at all meetings moving forward. You, up.”
He pointed a bejeweled finger at a middle-aged man sitting in the chair closest to him. The man immediately scrambled up and stood against the wall. The gaudily-dressed man lowered himself into the freshly-vacated seat, and held his right hand palm-up. “Drink.” he said, expectantly. A tall woman appeared behind him, depositing a rocks glass filled with clear liquid and a large ice cube into his hand. He took a sip, making a slight grimace as he swallowed. Was that . . . vodka? Ellie checked the time on her laptop. It wasn’t 2PM! When she glanced back up, the man was standing and gesturing wildly at Markley, who had lowered himself back to his seat.
“This is the third time in two weeks I have been ‘accidentally’ left out of a meeting, and I’m sick of it. I am the owner of Pinnacle Pictures, it is my company.”
Markley’s voice was gentle and careful.
“Yes, Maxie, but while we’re still in this transitional period—”
“Transitional period, I have been here almost a year and still I am being treated like a child who cannot handle his own business!”
“That’s because you CAN’T handle this business!”
Ellie’s eyes left Maxie for the first time since he entered to look at the portly bearded gentleman who rocketed to his feet to say this. His face was red, and his wielded finger was shaking. Maxie tilted his head, as if he couldn’t hear the first time.
“What was that, Joseph?”
“Maybe if you were here right after your father died, but we weren’t going to sit on our hands for two years waiting for you, and I’m sick of acting like you know what’s best for this studio when we’re the ones who actually built it!”
Maxie closed his eyes and nodded, almost sympathetically. “Ah, yes, this studio that you built and love and care for so much. Tell me this, Joseph Swann, executive producer, defender of the studio, did you build this company to throw it to the dogs at the first sign of trouble?”
The larger man blinked profusely and shook his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“A contract with Empirical Films, our competitor, with a sizable bonus, with side talk of scalping some of our best junior talent along the way.”
The red color drained from Joseph Swann’s face, replaced by a pale sweat. “Wh-what?”
Maxie snapped his fingers and the tall woman reached a slender manicured hand out, providing a single sheet of paper. Maxie didn’t take his eyes off the man opposite him. “Emails sent using company addresses are not private, and are available on-demand to any supervisor or superior.”
The other man blinked some more, mouth opening and closing. “That wasn’t . . . I . . . I can’t . . . ”
Maxie slid the paper forward across the table. “Here is your letter of resignation, whereas a standard severance pay will be acknowledged. Or . . . ” The woman behind Maxie was holding out a pen, which he calmly grabbed. “You are fired for corporate espionage and will receive nothing.” He clicked the pen, and presented it forward. “You have ten seconds.”
Joseph Swann sat down, staring at the sheet of paper in front of him. He looked up with contempt at Maxie, who gave a dazzling white smile back.
“Two seconds, Joseph Swann.”
Swann swore under his breath, stood back up, took the pen, and hastily signed the paper. The woman behind Maxie, quickly collected the paper and pen back, tucking it into a padfolio under her arm. Maxie gave a little finger-wave. Swann looked around, eyes landing on Markley, who sadly shook his head. Swann left without another word. Maxie finished his drink and stood up.
“My father built this studio with passion and determination. Moneymen and opportunists like Joseph Swann will drink their fill, but as long as it is Zaminya blood they suck, we will pluck the parasites free. Now. Where is Ellie Addelstein.”
Ellie was in shock. Not for any reason you might think, like the second-hand embarrassment of witnessing an argument in public; you endure a half-dozen breakups a year riding the NYC subway. Ellie was shocked at how visceral her reaction was at this brash, handsome man walking into this room and completely dominating it. The power he holds—he didn’t just fire a man more than twice his age, he made him quit. Ellie’s favorite characters in theatre were men like this, and she’d pursue the actors who played the part. It was fun for a while, but when she brought them home, they couldn’t keep up the act, and they all just dissolved into the meek boys they were. But here was as outrageous a man as she would write herself in her most obtuse drama, and she wasn’t twenty feet from him.
Due to this primal shock, Ellie paid no mind to the voice that was calling her name, even though it was the focus of her fascination that was doing the calling.
“I hired an Ellie Addelstein, she was supposed to be here?”
Cain Markley spoke up, wearing a blank expression. “Yes, Miss Addelstein arrived earlier, we’re setting her up next to Meghan who could use a little help on Hell Razor Six—”
Ellie stood up abruptly. “No, no, that’s okay, I’d like to make myself available for whatever Mister Zaminya hired me to do.” Anything other than Hell Razor Six, thought Ellie.
Maxie turned to the back of the room. Ellie stood tall. And their eyes met.
“royalty free background music “ 😆