Page 22 of The Actor: Harrison

I kick myself for that. I should sound more confident with him but I can’t help feeling small and scared. This is the first time I’ve had to deal with a production so big and I feel like everything is slipping from my hands.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he yells. “Is that your set or not? Who’s running it? Because you clearly have no clue about how to be in charge.”

Anger rises in my chest. Like it’s my fault that a spoiled, unprofessional brat is driving me crazy. Making me look like a fool and reinforcing the idea that I’m not fit for a big role in Hollywood—it’s making me simmer even more. I’ve been there once because of a man; I don’t want to go back again.

“Harrison is the one creating problems, calling in sick for the third day in a row. I know we’re behind schedule, but let me handle this the way I see fit,” I say in a firmer tone.

He scoffs and I want to hang up on him.

“Handle it like you see it fit? Are you sure you’re up to the job? Because it seems like I have to put a more experienced director on set to guide you. You have a problem with Harrison, that’s the problem. You assured me we could save on hiring an experienced producer on set because you could flank the new guy you’ve already worked with and guide him in a job you’ve been doing your entire life. But here you are, calling the executive producer at six in the morning because you can’t handle your beef with Harrison. What the fuck are you doing on that set?”

“I don’t need anyone here. I’m more than capable of handling it. I called you because it’s the right thing to do, not to dump the problem on you. And I want to remind you that I didn’t want Harrison. You pushed him on me. If it was up to me, he’d be out the door since day one.” At this point, I’m fuming.

“I did what I needed to get you the money to film this fucking movie. If you’re so confident in solving the problem, did you go find out what this sickness is?” He mocks me, knowing Harrison stayed home after our fight.

He doesn’t believe he’s sick like everyone else here. I’m looking like a naive fool to feed him this lie. Maybe I’m really not fit for this job. Maybe it’s too big for me and I don’t have the experience to handle people—problems—like Harrison.

“I’m on my way there and to bring his ass on set,” I grit out.

“We’ll see,” he murmurs before hanging up so abruptly I find myself blinking at the phone.

“Well, that was quite a conversation.” Ellen looks at me like she wants to rip off his balls with her bare hands.

“I swear, I’ve never met a bigger prick, not even when I was trying to make it big in Hollywood. And I’ve met some shady producers.” I let out a sigh.

“Are you going to see if Harrison is really sick?” she asks.

“I have to. I gave him three days to give us an explanation, I’m not waiting longer.”

I arrive at Harrison’s house on the Hollywood Crest—in the heart of the most exclusive neighborhood of Holmby Hills—almost an hour later. The house is nestled in with lush trees and greenery, giving it the privacy a Hollywood star like Harrison needs.

The gates open as soon as I’m in front of them, even before I figure out how to ring the bell. He probably has cameras on the entrance, letting him see who’s about to disrupt his day. I drive along the driveway until I reach a fountain in the middle of a paved roundabout in front of the house.

“A freaking Tuscany-style villa?” I mutter to myself while turning off the car and walking up to the front door surrounded by what appear to be orange trees.

It always amazes me what rich people can afford and what they decide to buy with their money. Harrison didn’t plant these trees, they look like they’ve been here since the eighties, probably since when this mansion was built, but what did he think when he saw it before buying it? “Damn, I love orange juice, let’s buy a freaking mansion with orange trees!”

Maybe it’s because I come from a middle-class family, but I’m not used to Hollywood extravagance.

The door in front of me swings open and a disheveled Harrison scowls at me. I didn’t expect him to be so…imperfect. His hair is sticking out all over his head like it’s been days since he washed it. He’s wearing a white crumpled t-shirt with gray sweatpants and looks like he’s been to hell and back.

I frown as I enter when he steps aside to let me in.

“I thought you’d come when I called in sick the first day,” he mumbles as he guides me into his house made of arches, stucco, raw wood and stone.

We reach a country style kitchen and he beckons me to sit on one of the stools at the counter while he pours two cups of coffees, fishing a bottle of honey from a cabinet and putting it in front of me. He knows how I take my coffee and I don’t know how to feel about that.

“What happened to you?” I ask when he doesn’t offer any explanation about his clearly distressed status.

He shrugs. “I almost died three days ago.” He peeks from behind his cup to gauge my reaction.

“You what?” It takes me a few seconds to register what he said and process the information.

“You know the pasta you gave me on set the other day? Well, turns out it wasn’t vegan after all.”

“What does that have to do with you almost dying?” I don’t understand what he’s talking about.

“There was butter and mozzarella in it and I can’t eat them,” he explains.

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