Changing the Script Read online

  Table Of Contents

  OTHER BOOKS BY LEE WINTER

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1 Worst. Movie. Ever.

  CHAPTER 2 Lost in Translation

  CHAPTER 3 Setting the Scene(ry)

  CHAPTER 4 Hounds of Hell

  CHAPTER 5 Thorn in My Side

  CHAPTER 6 Beers, Bribes, and Brawls

  CHAPTER 7 Loyalties and Lies

  CHAPTER 8 Not Just a River in Egypt

  CHAPTER 9 Reflective

  CHAPTER 10 The Hardest Word

  CHAPTER 11 Let There be Light

  CHAPTER 12 The Body

  CHAPTER 13 The Boy I Knew

  CHAPTER 14 Rescues and Rumbles

  CHAPTER 15 Viral Sensation

  CHAPTER 16 Fifteen Minutes of Fame

  CHAPTER 17 Blue Skye

  CHAPTER 19 Curiouser and Curiouser

  CHAPTER 20 My Kind of Crazy

  CHAPTER 21 Secrets

  CHAPTER 22 Beginning of the End

  CHAPTER 23 Being There

  CHAPTER 24 Judgment Day

  CHAPTER 25 Confessions

  CHAPTER 26 Space

  CHAPTER 27 Permission

  CHAPTER 28 Much Ado About Something

  CHAPTER 29 Clearing the Air

  CHAPTER 30 It’s a Wrap

  CHAPTER 31 Purple Patch

  ABOUT LEE WINTER

  OTHER BOOKS FROM YLVA PUBLISHING

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  www.ylva-publishing.com

  OTHER BOOKS BY LEE WINTER

  On the Record series

  The Red Files

  Under Your Skin

  The Superheroine Collection

  Shattered

  Standalone

  Breaking Character

  The Brutal Truth

  Requiem for Immortals

  DEDICATION

  For my love. Thank you for everything you did on this book, even for the sarcasm-dipped-in-marshmallows notes. (The cartoons helped.) We got there in the end!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would be much poorer without the generous insights and technical expertise of film-making guru Silvia Lindner. For months, Silvia amused and educated me on everything from the subtleties between lights and lamps, PAs and ADs, O-1 and O-2 visas for working in Hollywood, and breaking down how the major studios act. Thanks. You’re a legend.

  Fellow Ylva author and doctor Chris Zett was as brilliant as ever in explaining all the ways my banged-up, stubborn cop would be treated and medicated. I appreciate the medical advice—even if Sam Keegan made a terrible patient!

  New Zealand Police Media were so wonderful. Their job is to deal with the media, but they helped out an Australian author bobbing up with constant questions about procedure, uniforms, weapons, and response times for back-up to regional areas. They were fast and amusing. Thanks!

  Also a big “cheers, mate”, to Australian policewoman Darrelle Dawes for helping out with police procedure on being surrounded in a hostile environment. Great insider info!

  Editors always help make a book sing, and thanks go once more to Alissa McGowan for thumping this one into shape with her usual rigor and humor. Always a fun ride.

  Beta readers Diana, Donna, and Alex were invaluable. Sorry, Diana, for making you read this so many times! You’re a saint. A shout-out also goes to my long-time beta, Char, who tried in vain to help once again, but the technology gods kept on intervening. Curses!

  For Astrid, boss-god at Ylva, my eternal thanks for keeping the faith in me.

  Lastly, to my readers, I would be nothing without you. Your love for the Breaking Character world is why this book now exists. I hope you enjoy this spin-off, too.

  CHAPTER 1

  Worst. Movie. Ever.

  Alex Levitin had just broken the number-one rule of Hollywood. She was late. And not just a little.

  Naturally her beat-up, elegantly rusting ’97 Prius had chosen today of all days not to start. Then her Lyft driver had insisted on taking a “shortcut,” cavalierly waving away Alex’s long and exacting set of directions.

  Bursting through the doors at the upmarket Lemontree Lounge and Grill, she scanned the room for the face of a film executive who was probably no longer here.

  She’d researched rising-star producer Caroline Bassett in the past week and now knew about the woman’s nut allergy, shoe size, and the fact that two months ago she’d left a TV soap she’d been producing to join the film studio—after a flurry of executives had been shunted out the door.

  Alex’s eye finally fell to an elegant, spray-tanned, sallow-cheeked woman at a corner table who appeared as though air was her favorite food group.

  She waited? That was…unexpected.

  Caroline Bassett wore expensive suits and ambition well. Her perfectly coiffed, highlighted blonde hair was a tribute to conservative news anchors and industrial-strength hairspray. She reclined against her white-washed wooden chair, waving around a cocktail in one hand and tapping away at an iPhone with the other.

  Alex slowed her scrambling pace to a saunter, hands running down her black pants as if to erase the impossible stench of hopeless, late, and unprofessional.

  Caroline glanced up, their eyes met, and her lips curved into a smile so fake it might have been airbrushed on. She dropped her phone to the starched white tablecloth.

  “Alexandra.” She rose, air-kissing her.

  “Ms. Bassett, good afternoon.”

  “Caroline, please. It’s a delight to meet you.”

  It is? Alex was pretty sure no one at a major studio would be thrilled to meet a relative unknown like her. “I’m so sorry I’m late. My car—”

  “Never mind.” Caroline waved away her excuse. “My time’s short, I’m afraid, so we’ll have to skip the formalities.” She paused, gaze darting to someone at a distant corner table. “I had no idea Cade was with Byron.” She sounded gleefully scandalized.

  Alex turned to see the A-listers in question canoodling in a small booth. “Um…”

  “Did you receive our script?” Caroline asked, her tone and focus suddenly as sharp as the crisp seam on her cream silk shirt. “Shezan: Mistress of the Forest?” She rolled her tongue all over “mistress” as though speaking of a sexual thriller instead of a tawdry, B-grade flick that reeked worse than a gutter outside a pub on a Saturday night.

  “I did. I’ve got to say, I was very surprised to get your message.” Alex had no clue what was in her indie-filmmaker repertoire of liberal, philosophical think-pieces that made any Hollywood studio think she should direct this movie.

  Truthfully, Alex had never seen a worse script in her life. Oh, it wasn’t just the sleazy male lead character, the cheap violence, or the asinine dialog. Nor was it the excuse to have a lot of loin-cloth-wearing Amazons of color that, as a lovely bonus, added a weird racist tinge. Her biggest objection was the ending. It hooked up the unrepentant, creepy poacher with the sweet nymph who guarded the animals of her forest.

  What. The. Hell? How was it even funded? By a major studio no less?

  A twenty-something waitress interrupted, her ample bust straining against her blouse, a fourth, unopened button threatening to give up its day job. The nametag suggested she was called ‘Desire.’ Unless the restaurant had misspelt Desiree, this was undoubtedly another unemployed actress.

  “May I get you a drink?” Desire’s eyes lit on Alex as though she was the tastiest morsel on the specials board. “Or something to eat?” S
he pointed to a paper menu on the table.

  Alex ran her eye down the list of exotic dishes that included eighteen-dollar raw-beet and tofu appetizers with unpronounceable garnishes.

  Caroline’s lips pursed.

  Oh, right. Hadn’t she said she was in a hurry? “I’ll stick to drinks.”

  The tight lips instantly ceased their puckering.

  “Do you have any Ethiopia Organico coffee?” Alex asked.

  “We have forty-seven coffee varieties, including that one.” Desire beamed.

  “Good. I’ll take a cup. No milk or sugar.”

  The waitress’s gaze lingered a beat too long before she turned to Caroline. “And for you, ma’am?”

  Caroline waved her away wordlessly.

  The waitress nodded and disappeared.

  A smirk edged Caroline’s lips. “You have a fawning groupie.”

  “Or more likely she’ll have a script she wants me to read. And a boyfriend.”

  “No doubt.” Caroline’s smile finally spread to her eyes. “I thought you English only ordered tea?”

  “I’ve been in LA fifteen years now. I’m adapting.” Alex cleared her throat. “As are you. From TV soaps to movie studios in five years. Impressive.”

  “Yes,” Caroline agreed. Her smile became shark-like. “I am.”

  Alex smothered a laugh at the lack of modesty. “So about Shezan… My main question is, why me?”

  “We’ve seen your work. Loved it.” Caroline’s smile resumed its earlier fakeness. “Especially that climate-change flick. Bold. Brilliant, darling. Art! You’ve turned a lot of heads.”

  Art? Riiight. Wasn’t schmoozing supposed to be a little more subtle?

  The organic coffee arrived, along with a coquettish smile before Desire departed with a jaunty swish of hips.

  Definitely an actress.

  Alex reached for her coffee. “Are you talking to a number of directors or just me?” She choked down a swallow of the scalding drink, wishing she could convince herself to appreciate the slightly burnt, bitter flavor. She’d read somewhere that the coffee beans deal had lifted a whole Ethiopian village out of extreme poverty so, on principle, she refused to hate it.

  “You’re our first choice.” Caroline’s words would probably have held more weight if her gaze hadn’t been roaming the room restlessly, weighing up everyone in a suit.

  Sure I am. Alex wondered how many others had turned this down before her. After all, Variety, usually the even-handed bible of the industry, had called Shezan: Mistress of the Forest the most toxic film ever green-lit, and had helpfully listed the assortment of directors and writers who’d said yes and later fled. No one smart would touch this dumpster fire now.

  Hell, Alex was only here for the free lunch and networking. It wasn’t a shrewd move to say a flat no to a powerful studio. She half listened as Caroline launched into a spirited defense of the wonders of Shezan. The executive dropped in carefully chosen keywords, although each came with an asterisk. Autonomy, within reason. Script rewrites allowed, with studio input. The sets had already been built and were ready, using the previous directors’ visions. And she’d get a big say in expenditure, as long as she stuck to the limited budget.

  “How limited?” Alex asked curiously.

  Caroline mumbled a small number before throwing a gulp of neon cocktail down her throat.

  Surely Alex had misheard. “Seriously?”

  “Look, it’s not one of our top-listed projects.” Caroline dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. The crimson smear left behind looked like a blood stain. “You’d be amply compensated, of course. But due to the situation with creative people linked to the project…ah…leaving us so unexpectedly, well, we’ve already sunk significant funds into it that we can’t get back.”

  “Why did the others leave?”

  “Various reasons.” Caroline gave a small shrug. “Who cares? They’re gone, and we want you. So, bottom line, we need someone talented and dedicated, who can make something feel larger than life on a tight budget. Someone who wouldn’t mind shooting in a distant location like New Zealand. That’s why we cast around for a well-credentialed indie director.”

  Alex’s bullshit detector shot up. “There are plenty of indie directors.”

  “Yes, but we need someone like you, who can bring to life a female-focused project, make it worthy.” She looked as if she was debating whether to whip out a pink pussy hat to sell her point. “And we need someone who also can fix not only the film, but also the, erm, small image problem Shezan has at the moment.” Caroline swirled her cocktail.

  Small image problem? Most toxic film ever was not a small image problem.

  “I’m not going to lie to you; we need your talent, your eye. You’re a perfect choice for us.” Naked ambition burned in Caroline’s gaze. Despite Alex’s years in LA, she had never gotten used to seeing this. The rawness of it was unsettling. There was a reason you shouldn’t look directly into the sun.

  “We can do bold things together,” Caroline concluded, patting Alex’s wrist with cool, spindly fingers. “And I want this deal.” Another shark grin. “Very much.”

  Alex took a sip of her coffee and debated whether to be honest. Honest…in LA. “I believe you,” she finally said. “So would I be right in thinking you want this deal so much because you’re new to your job? You need a few quick wins? Maybe fixing the ‘worst movie ever’ is your play to be noticed? That’s ambitious,” Alex said lightly. “I’m curious…as the studio’s only female executive, was it your idea to be the one to win over the gay, feminist filmmaker?”

  “Hmm.” Caroline’s expression sharpened but her lips twitched. “You know, Alexandra, I like you. You’re clever. Clever women go far in this town. Of course, they go much farther when people never realize just how clever they are.”

  “Ah. Did I just break the fourth wall by pointing out the game in play?” Alex’s lips curled.

  Caroline snorted and one immaculate eyebrow lifted. “I see your English streak’s still in you after all.” Her laugh was carefully curated. “You prefer to cut to the chase? All right: Tell me, shall we do this? Do you want a ‘quick win,’ too? One everyone will be watching? Big risk, but huge gain.”

  Far too big a risk. Even though Alex was between jobs, and no one in her indie world had sent her anything exciting lately, her reputation was all she had. There was nothing she’d heard today that had convinced her to put everything on the line. For all the experience she’d get in working with a major studio, there was no avoiding the fact that this film was a reputation killer.

  There was no nice way to say this. “Look, Caroline, I appreciate the offer and that you thought of me, but I don’t think…”

  Caroline’s phone jangled to life. Glancing at the name on the screen, she rose. “Excuse me, I must take this call.” She left without waiting for a reply and strode into the nearby bar area.

  Alex glanced around at all the networkers at adjacent tables. Then she turned her own phone off mute and scrolled through her mail. One new message made her scowl. She read her ex-girlfriend’s email, stomach plummeting, then read it again, much more slowly. Holy…

  She dialed a number she knew by heart. “Bettina!”

  “Alex?” The accountant’s crisp, professional voice had once made her melt into puddles. Those days were long gone.

  “You… I…” she choked out. “You said my finances were ‘fab.’ You said you’d sorted everything for me!”

  “What’s wrong?” Bettina’s unflappable voice asked. “Breathe and tell me.”

  Breathe? I’ll give you ‘breathe’! “You’ve forwarded me an IRS bill for $45,000!”

  “Ah that. Yes. It seems the IRS changed a couple of components of their tax act and I wasn’t aware.”

  “What? Isn’t that your actual job?”

  “Not exactly,” Bettina
said in a dismissive tone. “They’ve tightened some areas on individual deductions related to independent film companies like yours, and reallocated certain write-offs into a new category for which you don’t fit the criteria anymore. No one could have predicted that.”

  “Predicted… Bettina, it’s $45,000! I don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

  “No need to get hysterical.”

  “Hysterical!”

  “Not to mention glass half-empty. It could have been much more if I hadn’t found you some new deductions. Some of my film clients were hit with much larger bills.”

  “Bettina, this is so damned typical. You’re all front. Do you even know what you’re doing?”

  “If this is going to degenerate into insults, I’ll hang up. I did your taxes for free, you know. I think I’ll send you the bill now that we’re no longer together.”

  “Which I will shred along with your phone number.”

  “So dramatic. You’re obviously in the right line of work. And I don’t have to take this abuse.” The line went dead.

  Alex dropped her phone back on the table and scowled. Quickly she ran through her options. She didn’t own much, so there was nothing to sell. It made no sense to accumulate things given her nomadic lifestyle, shooting all over the world. Her apartment was a rental. Her bank accounts weren’t bulging, either, because while her small production company’s movies broke even these days, any profits were reinvested into her next project. Her Londoner parents were retirees who made do on the pension, not that she’d ask them or anyone she knew for money.

  So her options had just narrowed into one. She’d do a movie so far beneath her that her tattered dignity might never recover. Christ.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d come to Hollywood with dreams to make movies that meant something. What was Shezan’s message? How to devalue near-naked women via interpretive dance? How to keep a straight face while saying lines that boiled down to, “Hark, Forest Mistress, beware the white man’s fire stick”? Or was it actually some fiendishly clever metaphor about powerful, white, entitled men always winning, so don’t even bother fighting the system?