Riot on the Set

She’d been watching him for weeks now. There was no way around it; he was like a magnet. She watched him now.

His arms were around a slender brunette, his face scant inches from hers. They seemed oblivious to the world around them.

She could hear them breathing, it was almost labored with their passion.

“I can’t imagine my life without you, Scott. You make my life… you make my life… uh… you make my life…” the brunette began.

“CUT!” yelled the director. The edge in his voice cut through Ginger like a knife. She shivered, almost dropping the plate of canapés she was carrying.

As Ginger moved behind the table of snacks that she’d been arranging throughout the day as food items disappeared, she watched the scene unfolding around her. Grips and techs of all kinds dodged cables, monitors, and various other people as they scrambled to reset everything to re-shoot the scene. The cinematographer began consulting with the key grip about the lighting, and the assistant director scurried toward the director to try and calm him.

The flurry of activity in the dark, dirty warehouse they were shooting in was a sharp contrast to the beautiful bedroom set up before the cameras. The king sized mahogany bed was covered in silky looking linens, the bedside lamps glowing ever so slightly. The thick plush carpet beneath the bed made Ginger want to roll around naked on it. However, the scene in the bedroom was not so mild at this point.

“Serena, darling,” began the director in a tone that fell somewhere between hysteria and placating, “I know this is all very stressful for you, but I really need to finish this scene. We’re almost through here, sweetie. Please… just try!” He reeled toward the actor who’d been embracing Serena. He was standing apart from Serena, an amused look on his face. “And you, Luke, it would help if you were a little more supportive.”

Luke never flinched. “You, know, Roy… I’m doing my job. I didn’t know that on top of acting for this role, I’d have to coddle your lead actress and hold her hand through her simple lines. I mean, ‘you make my life complete?’ It’s not rocket science.”

Ginger watched as Serena threw her hands over her eyes and gave out a half-shriek, half-sob.

“Oh, God. Now we won’t be finished until tomorrow.” Luke intoned.

Ginger knew it was true. Because of Serena’s hysterics, shooting had been delayed for three weeks. She was looking forward to leaving the drama filled set. Luke St. John and Serena James were married. When the shoot for Butterfly Room had begun, the couple had been happy, borderline sugar shock.

Ginger had looked forward to joining the crew as their caterer and had signed her catering company on quickly, opting out of the new Mark Leight flick. Though the pay might have been a little more because the shoot would have been longer, he was notoriously difficult and demanding of his crew. Roy Brunell was easygoing, friendly, and talented. He was also known for shoots that started late in the morning and ran to all hours of the night, which was fine by Ginger.

However, about six weeks before shooting was to wrap, Luke had discovered his darling wife in the arms of a young production assistant in her dressing room. The same production assistant who’d been their pool boy. All hell had broken loose. Not only had things been tense between the principle actors, the set had been plagued with little disasters like props breaking, orders coming in late, and people falling ill.

Ginger sighed. She began to arrange the canapés. She and her staff were usually some of the last crew members to leave because Ginger demanded that the rest of the crew stay fed while they packed up. It was going to be an early night, thanks to Serena, but that meant it would probably be an early morning tomorrow.

“What’s with the sigh?” came a gruff voice, laden with a Scottish brogue. Ginger knew who it was, but was afraid to look. She followed the speaker’s hand as he plucked up an apple from a tray. She watched him polish it on his soft-looking shirt. She followed the shiny, red fruit to his mouth. It was Luke’s mouth.

His face looked strange up close. The make up caked in his face was sweating off a little near his hairline. His dark eyes seemed black and far away. He chewed the apple, a half smile on his oddly bronzed face. His accent didn’t suit him when he was in make up. He dropped his real voice and adopted a generic All-American accent for film work.

“Just a little tired, I guess.” Ginger managed. She wasn’t star-struck, exactly. She’d been around hundreds of famous actors and actresses in the four years she’d been catering movie sets. She was just surprised. She’d noticed that Luke often disappeared after his scenes recently. He also usually took a private meal in his trailer, or went out to some low-key, high-priced Los Angeles restaurant.

“Yeah, tell me about it. But, I’m a night owl, so I won’t be asleep until two in the morning anyway.”

Ginger must’ve made a face, because Luke chuckled then. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Ginger?”

She recovered, quickly, with a professional smile. “No, sir. I was just thinking about how hot it is on this set. Most sets are air conditioner.”

“Say that again, if you would.” he asked.

“Air conditioner?” Ginger asked.

“No… sir.”

“Sir?” Ginger repeated. Luke smiled, and then laughed as Ginger made another face.

“Please, don’t be mad. You just don’t seem like they type of girl who would say sir.”

The laughter in his eyes softened his assumptions. That and the fact that Ginger was used to them. She’d grown up in small-town Middle America. She’s always bought into the GAP style, ADIDAS shoes, and long, blonde hair and blue eyes on top of a cheerleader outfit. She’d been a model high school student, participating in cheerleading, French Club, National Honor Society, and Young Democrats. Her parents had assumed she’d go to some preppy college, get a boring BA and live in their old house when they were gone. She’d shocked everyone when she showed them her acceptance letter to a top rated culinary arts school in California.

After the initial uproar, she moved and the rest was history. She cropped her hair to pixie style that suited her tiny, 5’0” frame. It’d been any number of colors since she’d made a name for herself in the catering business in LA. Right now, it was jet black. Her cute, upturned nose was pierced, and she sported a tiny diamond stud in it, a gift from a rich, Porsche driving jerk of an ex-boyfriend. She was wearing an ultra short black mini skirt, black and white striped stockings, and a pair of super shiny Mary Janes. She had a bright pink ribbed Juicy Couture tank top that sported a red skull and cross bones and a black and white ADIDAS wrist band on her left arm. Her bright orange bra straps peeked past the tank straps.

Because of her occasionally outrageous attire, she was used to dealing with negative opinions from people who didn’t know her. However, she was used to morphing depending on the occasion. She wore a gold Gucci dress to the Academy Awards on the arm of a wealthy TV producer. She had a closet-full of Dolce and Gabbana suits for interviews. And usually, it didn’t matter what she wore, because her menu spoke for itself.

Ginger smiled up at him. “No, of course I’m not mad. I’m just not the kind of girl who would assume to call anyone by their first name unless invited.” She cleared her throat. “How was it that you know my first name, anyway?”

“Oh,” Luke ducked his head, “I suppose I just asked around.”

Ginger cocked her head to one side and looked up at him, the curiosity obvious in her eyes when Luke met them once more.

“Yea, well, you hardly go unnoticed. And I mean that in the nicest of ways, I promise.”

Ginger laughed then.

“Ginger!” Her name sharply called broke the spell that had held Ginger and Luke in there own world over the white cloth-covered table. A delightfully round redhead named Maricel rushed over to Ginger. Maricel was the sweetest girl Ginger had ever met and she was the finest, most patient pastry chef that Ginger had ever worked with. Right now, however, her baby-face was twisted from its usual smile to something that resembled annoyance mixed with anguish. Ginger was alarmed.

She turned from Luke and clasped Maricel’s chubby hands in her own. “Mari, what is it, honey?” she asked.

Mari took a deep breath before she let her words spill forth in an angry rush that told the story her half-Latin roots. “It’s Ross. He’s on the office phone in the trailer. He refuses to let us alone until he speaks to you. I don’t know what I can do, Ginger, doll. I’m sorry.”

She reassured Maricel with a pat to her hands and a nod. Ginger’s face didn’t change; it was still a mask of irritation. She turned back to Luke apologetically. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.” She moved to follow Maricel.

Luke reached out and grasped her elbow. “Ginger… wait. I… um… if it’s not to strange, I’d like to take you to dinner tonight. I mean, if that’s okay.”

Ginger again cocked her head up at him, this time in shock. Yes, she’d been out with actors in the past, but never someone who’d appeared on the cover of Entertainment Weekly magazine. Now, she was star-struck. But, she wasn’t stupid.

“Well, sure, Mr. St. John. I’d love to. But, can I ask why you’d like to take me out?” Ginger asked.

“Why not? You’re absolutely intriguing. Just now, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you… and I couldn’t stop a million questions I wanted to ask. I’d just like a chance to look a little longer… and perhaps ask a few of those questions.” he replied, with a sheepish grin.

Ginger had never met another person as shy as Luke seemed to be, let alone a famous actor who had acted like a jerk only moments ago on the set. “Oh, okay. My trailer at around nine?”

“Sounds marvelous. I’ll be there.” Ginger turned to leave on that note.

“Oh, and Ginger?” Luke began.

She turned back toward him, a questioning look in her eyes. “Yes?”

“Call me Luke.”

***

“Good Lord, Ross. You’re being such a freak about this. I told you that working together would be a bad idea. If you can’t order the salmon, then order the scrod.” Ginger paused in her annoyed tirade to listen to the man on the other end of the line. His reply made her start.

“You’re an incurable asshole, Ross. And I’m glad you dumped me, too. I’ve never felt quite so… I don’t know… free of disease. So, just order the damn scrod and I’ll deal with you tomorrow. Oh, and Ross, DO NOT call and harass my staff ever again. If you want me, call my cell.” She slammed the cordless phone onto its cradle and glanced at the clock on her desk in the tiny trailer. It was 8:15. She’d been talking to Ross for almost an hour about the fish order for an upcoming press junket that she was catering. Thankfully, she had a shower and some fresh clothes in the trailer. Some directors helped by going the extra mile to make long days on the set more bearable.

As she slid out of the hot shower ten minutes later, her legs freshly shaven and her hair washed, she smiled at the thought of her upcoming date. She was going to be on the arm of a hot Scottish man who also happens to be one of People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People. Ginger felt a rush of giddy excitement shudder through her.

She dropped her towel and the luxurious Egyptian cotton mass puddle on the floor around her ankles. She looked into the full length mirror on the bathroom door. She’d always thought her small frame was cute if not abundantly curvaceous. It suited her personality: energetic, busy, and in constant motion. She pressed play on the portable CD player in one corner of the tiny living room. Instantly, the room swelled with a pulsating, dance beat from one of her favorite guilty pleasures: Def Leppard. As the lead singer, Joe Elliot, begged her to pour some sugar on him, Ginger danced around the tight space and began drying her hair.

She watched her dancing frame in the mirror. Her small B-bites shook slightly, their pert nipples still pebbled from when she’d taken off her towel. Her flat tummy sloped down into a little thatch of brunette curls. She kept them cropped into a neat little patch, and their darkness stood out from the whiteness of her skin. Her navel ring (another tiny diamond) glittered in the dim lamplight and she swayed her slender hips from side to side. Once she’d and styled dried her short hair, she slid into an itty-bitty fuchsia thong and a black silk Diane von Furstenberg slip-dress. The sheerness of the fabric didn’t allow for a bra, so Ginger just had to hope for the best. She stepped into a pair of silver strappy sandals that added four inches to her miniature height. Her final touch was a simple black ribbon choker.

She put some light make up on her face, just enough to make her look fresh, bright, and a little glamorous. As she put the final touches on her berry lip gloss, there came a knock at the door. She snapped the CD player off and opened the door.

Luke stood at the bottom of the trailer’s stairs in a black pullover and black slacks. His dark hair was damp. His complexion no longer had the strange orange cast to it; rather he looked a little ruddy, and sported an odd smattering of freckles across his nose and forehead. He smelled slightly of aftershave… and something more. Something that stirred something in Ginger’s belly. He handed her a daisy and grinned up at her. “May I say that you look stunning?”

Ginger accepted the flower with a smile and stepped back to allow him to come in. “You may. And I’d return the complement… but gallant seems more appropriate.” She smelled the daisy. “I’d say that you’re a mind reader, as well. Daisies are my favorite.” She dropped the daisy into a glass of water on the tiny utility sink.

“Somehow, I guessed that. You’re a complex woman… so, it seems natural that you’d favor the simplest flower.” Luke again looked at the carpet. Ginger was fascinated with how bold he seemed onscreen, and in his interactions with Serena and Roy, but acted like a nervous high school boy around her.

She shook off the idea and gestured about the cramped, but cozy trailer. “Welcome. This has pretty much been my home for the past seven months. Just let me collect my purse, and we can go.”

Luke held her arm and led her out to the parking lot of the warehouse. There were only a few cars remaining. Ginger was surprised that he led her to an unassuming black Ford F-150. He again smiled his sheepish smile. “I’m sorry if you’re not impressed. I didn’t really prefer the flashy sports car that…” he looked up at Ginger’s door lock and opened it for her. He handed her up into the high cab. She completed the sentence in her mind. She’d seen the low-slung fire engine red Lamborghini that he and Serena had showed up to the set in before the drama began. Apparently, he’d allowed Serena to take it in the quickie divorce proceedings that they were rumored to be embroiled in. As her thoughts drifted, she hadn’t realized that she was still holding Luke’s hand. His gaze was level with her exposed cleavage, but he still looked her right in the eye. She was startled. She ended the silence, “So, where are we going, anyway?”

He dropped her hand with a bright grin. “You’ll see,” he proclaimed easing her door closed and trotting around the extended cab and bed and opened up the door and hopped up into the cab. “It’s a surprise.”

He pushed his key into the ignition and the truck roared to life. Almost immediately the Joe Elliot was asking Ginger to pour some sugar on him again. Ginger glanced at Luke, who flushed a bright red and turned the CD played off. “Sorry about that. I… I… it’s just an old CD…”

Ginger burst out laughing, much to Luke’s chagrin. It was several moments before she could regain her composure. “No, Luke… it’s just that… I was listening to the same song before you came over. It just surprised me!”

He smiled, visibly easing. “Well, as long as the last image you have of me isn’t of me with big hair, dancing around in tights, begging for you to pour some sugar on me, then I guess I can live with this mild humiliation.”

Ginger laughed again at the mental image, “Well, now that you mention it…”

Luke cast a sidelong glance at her, his eyes belied his amusement, but the set of his jaw tried for admonishing. Ginger just started laughing all over again. The continued their easy banter all the way to the restaurant.

They exited the busy freeway, and drove to a quiet neighborhood. They proceeded down a tree-lined street with quaint shops, cafes and strolling neighbors still window-shopping. It was a refreshing little community amidst the insanity of the city. They parked along the street and got out in front of a dark little restaurant with shaded windows and potted plants outside the door that read “Spice Island.”

Luke smiled at Ginger as he opened the door. The entered the narrow restaurant that seemed to occupy a space no bigger than her old ranch style home in Illinois. The waiting area held four green wicker chairs and a battered sofa. There was a chalkboard listing the specials leaning on one wall, and a rack of pegs to hang jackets on the opposite wall. The tables beyond were clustered and pushed together to accommodate some of the larger parties. There were several tables for two lining the walls. The chairs seemed to be a mismatched collection from thrift stores all over LA. Each table was lit by a votive candle in a generic holder. The rest of the ambient light came from mismatched sconces and floor lamps lining the walls. Though almost each table was occupied, the restaurant was quiet. The music floated around, rather than sounding forced from a speaker somewhere. Ginger was in love.

An old Asian man, dressed in retro attire and Buddy Holly glasses greeted them with a small smile. He nodded at Luke and offered his arm to Ginger. She looked at Luke before giving herself over. He smiled again at her and led them towards the back of the restaurant. There was a table for two set, already prepared with an appetizer and bottles of water.

Their host pulled out Ginger’s chair and she sat, smiling at everyone around her. He then disappeared. No one paid them any mind, and for that she was relieved. She saw that several diners were wearing jeans, and several more were wearing suits and dresses. She felt at ease.

“Do you like it?” Luke asked, the burr in his voice heavier than usual. Ginger looked back at him. His face was almost comical; his eyes were as wide as a child’s seeking approval.

Ginger smiled broadly and grasped his arm. “Oh, Luke, it’s wonderful! You really are a mind reader!”

He smiled, satisfied. “This is The Spice Island Tea House. They have a huge selection of teas from all over the world… as well as some of the best Thai food ever. I really hope you like it. I couldn’t tell if you were a vegetarian or not, so I figured Thai would be good in either case. And I figured that if I tried to impress you with some fancy five-star restaurant, I’d only fall flat on my face because you can cook better than those chefs anyway. I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

Ginger smiled, her face rosy from the compliment. She watched as Luke tried to recover from his speech. It was probably the longest he’d ever kept up a single run of words that weren’t scripted.

Their waitress showed up at that moment, saving Luke from his perceived embarrassment. She was a petite Asian woman. She was a beauty, her ebony hair shining in the candlelight, her ivory skin glowing ethereally. She wore a red and black corset style dress and fishnet hose. The boning of the corset made her look like a sleekly curved dominatrix; the fishnets were reminiscent of a French brothel. Ginger smiled at her own appraisal, mentally noting the look for her next shopping excursion.

Soon after their first teas arrived, Ginger placed her chin in her hands, and planted her elbows on the table. “So, I heard you had some questions about me?”