Give Me Grace(12)

Now I was just the sister who was never there.

“Early lunch break!” John shouted, snapping me out of the past and making my stomach rumble painfully.

He murmured something to his assistant, who then disappeared from my field of vision. I hoped he wasn’t getting fast food. If I had to stand there for another hour while breathing in the smell of fried fish and hot chips, I was going to smash John’s camera against the wall.

“Hold that glare,” he ordered swiftly.

I froze.

“Yap! Yap!”

A white streak of fluff blurred across the floor behind John. The rapid dash ripped a cord from the wall and all eyes went wide with horror as one of the lighting stands began to topple in slow motion.

“Mitsy! Godammit, Grace!” Jemima yelled and I winced. Her bright purple hair fell in her eyes as she made a grab for it, catching the expensive equipment before it smashed to the floor. John’s second assistant rushed over to help and together they both righted the stand while Mitsy made his great escape.

Click. Click. Click.

John continued working, ignoring the chaos around him while I stood there praying for a swift end to a lousy day.

“Oh gross.”

My eyes flicked left at the comment. Mitsy was now humping the shagpile cushion on John’s studio couch. His doggy hips pumped like an aerobics instructor on crack. I cringed, seeing his little unneutered balls slapping madly as he made the cushion his bitch.

John paused, before muttering, “Oh for fuck’s sake.” He made a sound of disgust, calling to one of his team to burn the molested cushion. It was dragged from underneath Mitsy with a thumb and forefinger and taken away. Jemima rushed forward and clicked a leash on Mitsy’s collar. He resisted, snapping and snarling as my beleaguered assistant dragged him away.

John sighed heavily and refocused his camera. “Why are you looking after the douchebag’s dog, Grace?”

“You’re too old to use the word douchebag anymore, John. It reflects poorly on your growth as a decent human being,” I replied.

“My growth? Your birthday dinner last month. You paid for his food and drinks, and by drinks, I mean he cleaned out the bar,” he reminded me in the stern, patient tone my father used to use.

I hated that tone. It reminded me of when I used to be a pain in the ass as a child. It made me wish I’d made my mother’s life easier. I’d done my best to lose the attitude before she died, but it was a case of too little, too late. Now the thought of letting down someone I loved made me want to puke.

“He forgot his wallet.”

“That’s because he’s a penniless douchebag,” John retorted. “If he wasn’t such a dick on set, people would hire him.”

My eyes narrowed sharply. “Who told you that?”

John gave me his back, putting down one camera and picking up another that to me, looked exactly the same. If I hadn’t been watching him carefully, I would’ve missed the casual shrug. “You hear things in this industry. You know that.”

Why did it feel like I was missing something?

I opened my mouth, but the cockney twang of Lily Allen singing Fuck You interrupted me.

John put his camera down and turned around. “Answer your phone, Grace. It’s a wrap here anyway.”

With a shrug, I strode off set and towards Jemima who had Mitsy by the leash in one hand, and my phone in the other. “It’s your brother.”

My brows flew up in surprise as I took the phone. I put it to my ear as I entered the dressing room. “Henry?”

“Grace? I’m so glad I caught you.”

My heart leaped to my throat at his panicked tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Hang on.” I heard the sound of a muffled argument. Sitting down in front of the mirror, I grabbed a makeup wipe, ready to strip off the layer of must have cosmetics on my face when he came back on the line. I paused to listen. “You probably don’t know, but we’re playing a song at the annual Australian TV Awards tonight.” I knew, but he kept talking, so I didn’t interrupt him. I had a date planned with my television and a less than exciting bowl of fruit tonight so I could watch them play. “The thing is, our bass guitarist, Frog, was in a car accident this morning. He’s okay, but his left arm is broken. We need a replacement fast. Someone we can trust. You remember when we were young and you used to play bass to my lead guitar? You were so damn good at it. You—”

Panic fluttered in my chest at where the conversation was leading. I cut him off. “I haven’t picked up a guitar since you moved to Sydney years ago, Henry. I don’t know how to play your songs. I’ll fuck it up. Don’t ask me to fuck this up for you!”