Page 50 of The Actor: Harrison

“You’re sure there are no other usable shots?” I ask Christopher, but my hope dies when he shakes his head before answering.

“We sifted through hours of material but, for some reason or another, it doesn’t work,” he confirms.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking to see them personally. I have to remind myself that I hired people to do this job. I wanted the best and I got the best. I don’t have to do everything like in my previous movie, but rather let them do their jobs. But it’s difficult. It’s so damn difficult to delegate to someone else and trust what they’re doing.

I trusted someone once, because he told me he was more experienced, and I had to let him do the job. He screwed me over so badly that I swore I wouldn’t let anyone else use me in that way.

“Okay.” I rub my hand over my face, trying to erase the disappointment before it pisses them off. “We’re out of budget by a long shot. I need to ask Kevin for more money for the reshoots or we won’t have any budget for the promotion. But I want to ask him all at once, so, if there are other scenes to reshoot, I need to know,” I say firmly.

I already have to mentally prepare for this. I don’t want to go through the process of being insulted twice.

“I can put together a rough sequence up until the end and then tell you which ones we need,” Nolan suggests, and it doesn’t escape me that he didn’t use “if” in his sentence. He’s sure there will be others and I dread the moment when he shows me the list.

“I’m okay with that, are you?” I ask Christopher and Ellen.

“Yes, sure.” They answer in unison.

I grab my phone from my pocket. “Okay, I’ll cancel my lunch and stay here with you, so if you need something I can help you right away.”

“Oh, no. Absolutely not!” The firmness in Nolan’s voice makes me stop immediately. I turn toward him with a raised eyebrow in a silent request for an explanation.

He looks like he’s trying to not physically throw us out of the room. He’s a middle-aged man with nothing remarkable about his appearance—not his dull sandy hair or his pale blue eyes. He is not an ugly person, but definitely someone who blends into the background. What does make me look at him twice is there’s something off about him. If I saw his face on the news with “serial killer” in bold letters under his mugshot, I’d definitely think, “Oh, yeah. I saw that coming!”

“I chose this job because I can stay in a room alone without anyone breathing down my neck. I hate people. I don’t want to deal with them any more than necessary and you are definitely not needed here. I will call you when I have something to give you.” He blurts it all out with a vehemence that leaves us speechless.

Well, you can’t say he isn’t honest!

“Okay,” I say, dragging out the word, trying to figure out if he’ll snap if I say something else.

Ellen snorts. I stand up, not sure if we’re dismissed or not, but I see Christopher and Ellen doing the same and I don’t breathe until we’re safe out of the room with the door closed between us. As we walk away, we hear the unmistakable click of a lock shutting us out for good measure.

“What do you think he does in there?” Ellen chuckles.

“I don’t want to know. As long as the job gets done, I don’t want to dig deeper into his life,” I confess and we walk out fast before he decides to shoot at us.

I step out of the Uber in front of the “Jail,” a glamours restaurant I’ve seen on the cover of magazines but never even driven by the place, let alone have a meal here. But Harrison wanted to meet here, apparently the chef and co-owner is a friend and he loves to come. He says this is the best restaurant in Los Angeles, maybe even in the United States. I think he just loves his friend and wants an excuse to come here as often as he can.

I take one look at the sleek black metal door and know I’m way underdressed for this place. My skinny jeans, vans, and tank top definitely don’t belong in a place like this. I put aside my discomfort and walk into the total black, modern reception area. The blond behind the counter smiles at me, though I can see the questions in her eyes. She’s probably wondering what I’m doing here.

“Hi, there’s a reservation for Harrison Bates. Is he already here?” I get straight to the point, making it clear that I’m not here by mistake, despite my appearance not exactly fitting into this place.

Her smile never wavers, but I see the doubt in her eyes. Anyone seeing Harrison come in could take a chance and pretend they’re here for him. Fans would do anything for a few seconds in his presence.

“Your name, please?” she asks.

“Sienna.”

She looks at her iPad and nods. “Mr. Harrison is waiting at the table. Please, come with me.”

If she thinks it’s weird for someone like me to hang out with someone like Harrison, she’s good at hiding it. We walk into the dimly lit restaurant, even though it’s noon on a sunny day in Los Angeles. The tinted windows help to keep prying eyes on the street from getting a peek into the lives of famous guests.

The place is a modern classic, minimalist in its decor. It’s classy without being pretentious and I have the feeling that people who can afford this place are the type who wear thousand-dollar-or-more watches you don’t even notice unless you’re rich yourself.

“I’ll spend all my income from this movie on a meal in this restaurant,” I say when I reach the table.

Harrison raises his eyes from his phone and smiles at me. He stands up and kisses me on the cheek before pulling out my chair like a real gentleman. I’m not used to guys that do that, I’ve always considered it way too old-fashioned, but I admit, sometime it’s nice. Especially coming from someone like Harrison, it doesn’t seem forced, just good manners.

“Can you let me gift you this lunch? I know you’re all for splitting the bills and everything, but I really want to try their new fish tacos. Sady bragged for a month about how perfect they are and I want to verify myself if it’s true,” he pleads, almost pouting.

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