“If it wasn’t, everyone would do it. Don’t get me started on the things that hold women back in this business. You adopting French hours for this film is huge, and I hope more directors follow suit.”
“Well, not perfectly. Some folks are still here fourteen hours a day, sometimes more, but I hope the ten-hour workday for most has helped.”
“So much. There are a lot of really talented women who give up on this business because they can’t disappear for literally sixteen or eighteen hours a day, and can’t afford care for their kids that long.”
“The adjustments haven’t actually been that hard. I’d do whatever it took to get you on set. You’re my secret weapon.”
I’m not exaggerating. She is, which is why I use her whenever I can. The only projects she’s missed were when she was having a baby.
“Well, the ladies say thanks.”
“Hey, my mom was a working photographer. A single mom at that. I know how hard it can be.”
“Are you spending Thanksgiving with her family? Sienna’s right,” Jill says, licking the forgotten Popsicle, grimacing and tossing it into the trash can beside the table. “I don’t want to think of you alone.”
“Nah. I’ll do Christmas with them. Iwantto be alone. I want one meal that isn’t shoved down my throat between takes or in front of a laptop, and I’d like to eat it in peace.”
“You’ll swing by on Friday?” Her worried frown remains unmoved by my explanation.
“Sure.”
“But what will you eat on Thanksgiving?”
I shrug. “Takeout.”
“No. So I have this great place my agent told me about. I’ll give you the info.”
“Okay.”
“I’m just concerned.”
“I think you’re spelling smothering wrong.”
“And I think,” she says, turning back to my laptop and pinging a knowing smile between me and Neevah onscreen, “she’s fantastic.”
So much for keeping anything secret around here.
TWENTY-SIX
Neevah
I’m soaring.
Tossed through the air, wind whipping the skirt past my knees and thighs. A blur of legs and flying feet. My partner’s strong hands anchor at my waist, whirling me to his right and then his left. Propelled through his legs, I glide across the floor on my back, hopping up for a flying run into his arms again.
Caught.
Held.
Lifted.
Spun.
I’m a weightless wonder. One in a kaleidoscope of hand-painted butterflies taking flight, our way made straight to a chorus of trumpets. The band blares “Flat Foot Floogie” as a hundred feet stutter through the intricate steps of the lindy hop. Electricity crackles the air, charging our bodies into frenetic rhythm. We move, we dance, clothes clinging to our bodies with the sweet juice of fervor. Sweat drizzles between my breasts, coats my neck and arms like dew. In the thrall of this dance, a syncopated stomp, I drip the wine of winding hips. I dip. I sway in an intercourse of jazz and blues and swing.
“Cut!” Kenneth calls.
The fifty or so dancers roar and clap and laugh, triumphant. We’ve been practicing this number for hours. Days, really, and finally, it’s falling into place. It’s one of the dance centerpieces of the movie, and Lucia, the choreographer, has been relentless.
