Behind the Scenes(21)

Obviously, I was just pushed off the tracks. Turning back to the fridge, I do the job I came to do and set the bottles of water in on their sides.

What… an… asshole.

“You’re living behind the times, Simon,” Mr. Murakami says.

I smirk to myself while I close the fridge door, thinking of how Mr. Murakami insists on having scripts hand delivered but then has the audacity to suggest someone else is old fashioned. Not that I dislike the man for his predilections. On the contrary, I find them charming. I also like the man a hell of a lot more than the person sitting across from him.

“Don’t you even suggest I’m sexist,” Mr. Mulroney says.

I straighten back up and turn around. One step and Mr. Murakami looks at me.

“Sydney is a woman. Let’s ask her.”

I freeze. “Uh, sorry. What?”

“She’s barely eighteen,” Mr. Mulroney says.

“I’m twenty-two,” I correct him. And you propositioned me for sex while you thought I was “barely eighteen.”

“Her age doesn’t matter,” Mr. Murakami says. “Surely she goes to see movies.” He looks back at me.

“He’s right,” I slowly answer. “I see a lot of movies.”

Mr. Murakami leans forward in his seat with his forearms on his knees. “John thinks we need to change the gender of the lead in my script.”

I glance at Mr. Mulroney. His face is stony and unreadable.

“Why is that?” I ask.

“He thinks people won’t come see a film with a female lead in it.”

“It’s statistics,” Mr. Mulroney quickly answers. “The numbers do the speaking. Obviously, I have nothing against films with female leads, but women usually go to see films about women. Both women and men go to see films about men.”

I can think of five films off the bat with female leads that grossed record high numbers.

“That’s only because that’s the way we’ve been trained to approach films,” I say. “We’re taught men’s stories can be related to by both genders, but we’re told only women can relate to stories about women. It’s the same with a lot of things. Like clothes. Men and women can both wear pants, but God forbid a man put on a dress and walk around in public.”

Mr. Mulroney stares at me like I’ve suddenly sprouted horns.

I clamp my mouth shut, afraid I’ve said too much.

“I agree,” Mr. Mulroney says, taking me by surprise. He continues to keep his eyes locked on mine. A little shiver goes down my back.

So that’s one thing we agree on.

Mr. Mulroney continues, turning back to Mr. Murakami. “That doesn’t change the fact that this business is about making money, just like every other business. The percentage of female leads is dismally low. I know that. But we can’t change the whole system in one year. And your films do too well. They’re not the ones we can afford to take risks with.”

I put my hand on my hip. “If you’re speaking of percentages, over half of the moviegoers in America are women.”

Both men turn their heads back to me, and I go on, no longer really caring whether they want my opinion or not. I’ve got something to say and holding it back seems nearly impossible.

“It’s not that much more,” I continue. “But it’s something. Last year it was about fifty-three percent.”

A long silence follows my statement and I clench my teeth together. Damn. I may have done it again. Was that last comment too out of line?

Mr. Murakami bursts into laughter and claps his hands together. “Sydney is right, Simon. We just need to give the audience a chance.”

Relieved, I smile.

The edge of Mr. Mulroney’s mouth ticks. Is that a smile playing there, or a grimace?

“Maybe you should hire her instead of me,” Mr. Murakami says.

My stomach flutters at the compliment. “Thank you, sir.” My boss still doesn’t say anything. I’ve definitely overstayed my welcome. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Nailing my gaze to the floor, I quickly leave the office.

Daniel is on Facebook when I haul ass through the door. He snaps the laptop closed and turns in his chair with an expectant look on his face. When he sees it’s just me, he turns back around and opens his computer back up.

Chuck and Dana are both lost in their own busywork. No one pays me any attention. I go and sit down across from Dana, my mind on a joy ride.

Supposing I did just tick off the man who signs my paycheck, at least I impressed John Murakami. Maybe if the day ever does come where I get fired from Mulroney pictures, Mr. Murakami will hire me on as his personal assistant.

Heck, I’d be his dog walker if that’s what he needed.