respect when she acts like a professional,” Betsy shouted back.
Cookie put her fists on her hips. “Jimbo, I can handle this.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Cookie. She has no right to abuse you.”
“Abuse?” Betsy shrieked. “I’m the one being abused. All these people are being abused. You’re wasting our time.” Betsy smacked the rolled-up script on her leg, then aimed it at Jimbo. “You tell her to learn her lines, the way they’re written. This isn’t amateur hour. I’ll be waiting.” She stomped off the set and threw herself into a chair, crossing her arms and her legs.
Cookie pushed a fuming Jimbo to the far side of her set, away from Betsy.
The man behind the camera that was aimed in her direction waved at Cookie. “Mrs. Bedford, no one will be seeing the label that says champagne-cilantro dressing, I promise you. It’s just a nice-shape bottle. You can come over here and look through the lens if you want.”
“But Ah don’t like to have something that would never be in mah kitchen on this here counter,” Cookie said, pounding her fist for emphasis.
“Props!” called a man in a canvas chair sitting in front of a monitor. “Eighty-six the bottle.” He ran a hand over his shaved head.
Another man took the bottle from Cookie’s hand and put a jar of molasses in its place on the counter.
“Now, that there’s much better,” Cookie said, smiling.
Betsy’s eyes rose to the ceiling and she flapped her arms in irritation. “That there’s much better,” she mimicked in a Southern accent.
“Howerstein, you tell her to watch her tongue or this shootin’ party is over.” Jimbo’s face was very red. “We’re not taking any more cheap shots like that.”
Cookie stamped her foot. “Jimbo! Cut it out.”
Dan Howerstein stepped forward and spoke to the man with the shaved head. “Can we take five, please, Adam?”
“That’s Akmanian,” Grady whispered to me, indicating the man in the chair.
I nodded. “The director.”
“And that one”—Grady pointed to a man wearing earphones and standing next to the director—“is the first assistant director, or AD.”
The first AD raised his voice. “All right, folks,” he said. “Take five, but no one go very far, please.”
Howerstein guided a furious Betsy around the corner and out of sight, but not out of earshot. We could hear her complaining loudly as she walked away.
“Would you please keep your voice down,” he said.
“Don’t touch me!” she growled.
“I’m not touching you,” was Howerstein’s irritated reply.
Jimbo walked back onto the set and threw Cookie’s script on the counter. “I told you, you needed to learn them lines. Even so, I’m not lettin’ her talk that way to you.”
“Now, you just calm down. I can learn them lines easy,” Cookie said. “I just don’t like that one word, Jimbo. I don’t wanna hafta say something I never would.”
“You shoulda raised that flag earlier, Cookie. It’s too late now.”
“Ah know it’s late. But if my viewers hear me talkin’ about ‘coozine,’ they’ll think I’ve gone all fancy-pants on them. You go talk to her, but you talk nice, now, ya hear. I know you can do that. No yelling.”
Jimbo stalked away.
“You tell her we’re a down-home show,” Cookie called after him, then muttered “and I’m not changin’ who I am for that little . . . little stuck-up witch.”
“You don’t have to, Mrs. Bedford. We’ll change the line.” The speaker was Kevin Prendergast. I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd until he spoke up.
Antonio Tedeschi was at his side. “Yes, yes, of course,” Antonio said. “Our Betsy, she is a very passionate woman. It is good. But you can say the line how you like, just so you say how wonderful is my Permezzo.”
“Antonio!” Cookie said, her eyes lighting up. “I didn’t see you there. Just wait till you set your eyes on what I got with the card you gave me.” She patted her pockets. “Now, where’d I put
Cookie put her fists on her hips. “Jimbo, I can handle this.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Cookie. She has no right to abuse you.”
“Abuse?” Betsy shrieked. “I’m the one being abused. All these people are being abused. You’re wasting our time.” Betsy smacked the rolled-up script on her leg, then aimed it at Jimbo. “You tell her to learn her lines, the way they’re written. This isn’t amateur hour. I’ll be waiting.” She stomped off the set and threw herself into a chair, crossing her arms and her legs.
Cookie pushed a fuming Jimbo to the far side of her set, away from Betsy.
The man behind the camera that was aimed in her direction waved at Cookie. “Mrs. Bedford, no one will be seeing the label that says champagne-cilantro dressing, I promise you. It’s just a nice-shape bottle. You can come over here and look through the lens if you want.”
“But Ah don’t like to have something that would never be in mah kitchen on this here counter,” Cookie said, pounding her fist for emphasis.
“Props!” called a man in a canvas chair sitting in front of a monitor. “Eighty-six the bottle.” He ran a hand over his shaved head.
Another man took the bottle from Cookie’s hand and put a jar of molasses in its place on the counter.
“Now, that there’s much better,” Cookie said, smiling.
Betsy’s eyes rose to the ceiling and she flapped her arms in irritation. “That there’s much better,” she mimicked in a Southern accent.
“Howerstein, you tell her to watch her tongue or this shootin’ party is over.” Jimbo’s face was very red. “We’re not taking any more cheap shots like that.”
Cookie stamped her foot. “Jimbo! Cut it out.”
Dan Howerstein stepped forward and spoke to the man with the shaved head. “Can we take five, please, Adam?”
“That’s Akmanian,” Grady whispered to me, indicating the man in the chair.
I nodded. “The director.”
“And that one”—Grady pointed to a man wearing earphones and standing next to the director—“is the first assistant director, or AD.”
The first AD raised his voice. “All right, folks,” he said. “Take five, but no one go very far, please.”
Howerstein guided a furious Betsy around the corner and out of sight, but not out of earshot. We could hear her complaining loudly as she walked away.
“Would you please keep your voice down,” he said.
“Don’t touch me!” she growled.
“I’m not touching you,” was Howerstein’s irritated reply.
Jimbo walked back onto the set and threw Cookie’s script on the counter. “I told you, you needed to learn them lines. Even so, I’m not lettin’ her talk that way to you.”
“Now, you just calm down. I can learn them lines easy,” Cookie said. “I just don’t like that one word, Jimbo. I don’t wanna hafta say something I never would.”
“You shoulda raised that flag earlier, Cookie. It’s too late now.”
“Ah know it’s late. But if my viewers hear me talkin’ about ‘coozine,’ they’ll think I’ve gone all fancy-pants on them. You go talk to her, but you talk nice, now, ya hear. I know you can do that. No yelling.”
Jimbo stalked away.
“You tell her we’re a down-home show,” Cookie called after him, then muttered “and I’m not changin’ who I am for that little . . . little stuck-up witch.”
“You don’t have to, Mrs. Bedford. We’ll change the line.” The speaker was Kevin Prendergast. I hadn’t noticed him in the crowd until he spoke up.
Antonio Tedeschi was at his side. “Yes, yes, of course,” Antonio said. “Our Betsy, she is a very passionate woman. It is good. But you can say the line how you like, just so you say how wonderful is my Permezzo.”
“Antonio!” Cookie said, her eyes lighting up. “I didn’t see you there. Just wait till you set your eyes on what I got with the card you gave me.” She patted her pockets. “Now, where’d I put
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