the cast and crew on their return to work was short-lived from the moment Sedra Stone’s hired stretch limo rolled into the parking lot and the diva emerged.
Behind dark sunglasses, and dressed in a suit of black, Sedra’s couture business attire seemed to broadcast her grim aura as she walked with an air of superiority toward the school’s gymnasium. As she reached for the door handle, however, Duane, the chubby, red cheeked and cheerful uniformed security guard, dutifully intercepted her and politely asked if he could be of service. A big mistake.
“You know how it is, ma’am,” Duane tried to joke. “Although I’ll bet that you’re probably a big, important, famous rich person, ’cause you sure look and act like it, if your name’s not on the list you’d have to prove to be the Virgin Mary before I could allow you onto a Dana Pointer film set.” He chuckled good-naturedly. His harmless form of levity usually disarmed even the most arrogant personal publicist or film producer. “It takes divine intervention from the omnipotent one herself to reach her inner sanctum.” He rolled his eyes as if to say, “Get her!”
Sedra removed her sunglasses and with a steely gaze instantly transformed Duane into a wiggly mold of Jell-O. “Sedra Stone hasn’t been a virgin since age ten,” she said with a tongue that had decapitated more heads than the French guillotine. “And the only Mary I see is you .”
Duane’s eyes watered and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of cherry. He had “issues” when it came to women—especially women who emasculated what little was left in his nearly depleted Y chromosome pool. Duane swiftly made a call to the production assistant. “Someone named Sedra Stone’s not on the list,” he panicked. After another ego-shredding attack from the PA, he added Sedra’s name to a column on his clipboard then groveled an exaggerated apology for not knowing who she was. He chased his servility with a silent wish that Sedra would be sucked into a black hole—along with the PA, his mother, his landlady, and every girl who never sat with him in the cafeteria in high school.
Sedra dismissed Duane without further acknowledgment of the fat boy’s existence, and entered the building.
Most people mask their insecurities when they begin a new job, and only reveal their true natures incrementally over time. Sedra, however, made it clear from the start that she didn’t give a damn whether anybody liked her or not. As far as she was concerned she was a star, and that meant behaving like royalty. With a bearing of entitlement, she stood just inside the gymnasium doorway expecting to be retrieved. And she was. Almost instantly another production assistant arrived and escorted her to a luxury dressing room trailer.
En route, Sedra reeled off a list of food items she wanted delivered to her, pronto: A case of Cristal, a platter of foie gras, and a box of Twinings peppermint teabags. “And a proper nameplate, for Pete’s sake,” Sedra said when they arrived at her Star Waggon and she ripped from the door a strip of masking tape with her name printed in black Sharpie.
“The production wraps in five days, Miss Stone,” the unflappable and impossible to impress PA said. “You won’t be around long enough to enjoy the engraving.” The PA opened the door to Sedra’s trailer and stepped aside, allowing the star to enter first. She handed Sedra a folio containing the cell phone contact numbers for each of the cast and filmmakers. “In case you need to reach anyone,” the PA explained. “Someone will be along shortly to take you over to wardrobe. Oh, and there’s the laptop you requested,” she said, pointing to the latest model iMac notebook sitting on the coffee table. Then the PA left the trailer with a curt, “Ciao.”
Sedra removed her black suit jacket and laid it on the back of a chair. She settled in. Feeling quite satisfied with her life at the moment, she examined her
Behind dark sunglasses, and dressed in a suit of black, Sedra’s couture business attire seemed to broadcast her grim aura as she walked with an air of superiority toward the school’s gymnasium. As she reached for the door handle, however, Duane, the chubby, red cheeked and cheerful uniformed security guard, dutifully intercepted her and politely asked if he could be of service. A big mistake.
“You know how it is, ma’am,” Duane tried to joke. “Although I’ll bet that you’re probably a big, important, famous rich person, ’cause you sure look and act like it, if your name’s not on the list you’d have to prove to be the Virgin Mary before I could allow you onto a Dana Pointer film set.” He chuckled good-naturedly. His harmless form of levity usually disarmed even the most arrogant personal publicist or film producer. “It takes divine intervention from the omnipotent one herself to reach her inner sanctum.” He rolled his eyes as if to say, “Get her!”
Sedra removed her sunglasses and with a steely gaze instantly transformed Duane into a wiggly mold of Jell-O. “Sedra Stone hasn’t been a virgin since age ten,” she said with a tongue that had decapitated more heads than the French guillotine. “And the only Mary I see is you .”
Duane’s eyes watered and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of cherry. He had “issues” when it came to women—especially women who emasculated what little was left in his nearly depleted Y chromosome pool. Duane swiftly made a call to the production assistant. “Someone named Sedra Stone’s not on the list,” he panicked. After another ego-shredding attack from the PA, he added Sedra’s name to a column on his clipboard then groveled an exaggerated apology for not knowing who she was. He chased his servility with a silent wish that Sedra would be sucked into a black hole—along with the PA, his mother, his landlady, and every girl who never sat with him in the cafeteria in high school.
Sedra dismissed Duane without further acknowledgment of the fat boy’s existence, and entered the building.
Most people mask their insecurities when they begin a new job, and only reveal their true natures incrementally over time. Sedra, however, made it clear from the start that she didn’t give a damn whether anybody liked her or not. As far as she was concerned she was a star, and that meant behaving like royalty. With a bearing of entitlement, she stood just inside the gymnasium doorway expecting to be retrieved. And she was. Almost instantly another production assistant arrived and escorted her to a luxury dressing room trailer.
En route, Sedra reeled off a list of food items she wanted delivered to her, pronto: A case of Cristal, a platter of foie gras, and a box of Twinings peppermint teabags. “And a proper nameplate, for Pete’s sake,” Sedra said when they arrived at her Star Waggon and she ripped from the door a strip of masking tape with her name printed in black Sharpie.
“The production wraps in five days, Miss Stone,” the unflappable and impossible to impress PA said. “You won’t be around long enough to enjoy the engraving.” The PA opened the door to Sedra’s trailer and stepped aside, allowing the star to enter first. She handed Sedra a folio containing the cell phone contact numbers for each of the cast and filmmakers. “In case you need to reach anyone,” the PA explained. “Someone will be along shortly to take you over to wardrobe. Oh, and there’s the laptop you requested,” she said, pointing to the latest model iMac notebook sitting on the coffee table. Then the PA left the trailer with a curt, “Ciao.”
Sedra removed her black suit jacket and laid it on the back of a chair. She settled in. Feeling quite satisfied with her life at the moment, she examined her
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