The man threw up his hands, disgusted, and turned his back on me.
The second man held out his hand. “I’m George Farley,” he said.
“I’m an A.D.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Edward here is our D.P.”
I smiled at him warily.A.D., D.P.“Cassandra Barrett,” I said, hoping this was the appropriate response.
George waved an arm toward the sweep of the gorge. “We’re filming a movie here, and when Edward was doing long-range pans today, he kept getting your tent. You see, we were under the impression we’d be the only ones here this time of year.”
A movie? How they had gotten permission to film in Tanzania was mind-boggling, but I could see that the already excavated sites on the edge of the Serengeti plain would save the production costs of bulldozing their own. “Well,” I said, “I’m sorry to disappoint you. But I’m working here too.”
“Tell her to take the tent down, then.”
The cinematographer—theD.P.—had not even bothered to turn around when he spoke, and my hands clenched at my sides. “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said, biting off each word. “It’s too hot to work without an awning.”
“Work?” The cinematographer pivoted, and slowly smiled. George Farley’s eyes burned like a man who’s discovered gold. “You’re an anthropologist?”
Against my better judgment, I nodded.
“Ah,” Edward sighed. “There is a God.”
George led me back beneath my linen awning. “You’re aUCLAanthropologist? You’re here on an excavation?”
“Believe me,” I said, “this isn’t exactly an excavation site.” I explained the program at the university; the various field sites used around Africa to teach excavation hands-on.
“So you’re not really working,” George pressed. “You might have some . . . free time.”
“I might,” I said.
“Three hundred dollars a day,” George said. “Yours, if you’ll agree to be a technical advisor on the movie.”
It was more than I made at UCLA; it was certainly enticing. Without knowing a thing about the movie, I thought of how tempting it would be to actuallyprofitfrom Custer’s enforced sabbatical. I thought of the satisfaction I would get from screwing Custer in a way that didn’t jeopardize my future at the university.
When I did not say anything, George jumped forward to fill the silence. “It’s a film about an anthropologist, and the star, Alex Rivers, insists that we get him the real McCoy so he can learn about excavation firsthand.”
“Insists?” Edward interrupted, smirking. “Demands.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have one already?” I said. “Seems to me you’d have thought of that before you came all the way out here.”
George cleared his throat. “You’re right, and we did, but he had to leave unexpectedly about a week ago.”
“In the middle of the night,” Edward added, under his breath. “Probably by force.”
George gave him a dark look. “Alex isn’t as bad as all that,” he said, turning back to me. “We wired the States but it would take time we don’t have to find someone and you . . . well, you—”
“I’ve dropped into your viewfinder,” I said lightly.
“Three hundred and fifty,” George said. “And a room at the lodge in town.”
It wasn’t ethical; it wasn’t something Archibald Custer would condone. It would mean spending all my free time babysitting a spoiled movie star who’d already fired someone, instead of poking through the site for my own research. I opened my mouth, prepared to decline their offer graciously, when I thought of Connor.Don’t you ever wonder whatyou’re missing?
“Well,” I said, smiling brilliantly, “when do we start?”
GEORGE HAD LEFT ME WITH AN IMPROVISED CONTRACT SCRIBBLED ON the rear flap of the romance novel I’d been reading, and almost immediately I’d taken down my awning and driven into town to call Ophelia. Me, on a movie set with Alex Rivers. Personally, I wasn’t expecting much from a celebrity—living in L.A. had shown me how shallow and egocentric their worlds were—but I knew Ophelia would consider this a tremendous stroke of good fortune. She devoured the trade journals, always knowing what producer had hooked up with what director and what star; she stared like a groupie when we walked past movies that were being shot on the streets of L.A. I could imagine what her reaction would be—she’d die, or at least she’d say she was going to, because that was her answer for most things, from winning a part as an extra on a TV commercial to running out of lettuce when making a salad.
Ophelia Fox had been my roommate since we’d been thrown together by a computer our freshman year atUCLA. Back then, she’d had the unfortunate name of Olivera Frug, and she’d still been a B-cup and a blonde. I sort of anchored Ophelia to the real world, and in return, well, I suppose she made me laugh.
I also knew more about Ophelia than anyone else did. When I stayed atUCLAduring my first Christmas break because there was nothing for me in Maine, I was surprised to see Ophelia was staying too. In her usual flip manner, she told everyone it was a way to work on her tan.
