Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“Nae bother. I’ll get it to you myself. I’m sure I’ll see you around the set.”
My heart lifts in my chest, but I don’t allow the feeling to reach my lips. I won’t smile. Won’t act like some stupid…fan. “Sure. Okay.”
Smiling, Laurence proffers his hand.
I take it. My belly aches.
“Thanks again, William. It was great meeting you.”
“And you,” I say, my voice on the cusp of cracking as he drops my hand.
“See you around.”
I nod. Wave. Watch him leave. See the door close behind him. Stare at the closed door. Wonder if I’m going in-fucking-sane.
And then breathe a sigh of relief so long and heavy that my body folds over. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, hands on my knees, grateful that Laurence has gone.
My insides feel like they’ve been fed through a meat grinder.
What the hell was that?
It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced the new-kid-at-school feeling. I like to think the twists in my stomach aren’t appearing on my face when I’m introduced to the gaffer and the rest of the team. Everyone seems nice enough so far, and I can already tell it’s the kind of environment where you need to work at a rapid pace. There’ll be no sitting idle with a brew while waiting for the next job here. Everyone I’ve met has been hard at it while talking to me.
Apparently, the temporary power lines are laid in all departments except craft services which, according to my Google research into the film and TV industry over the last week, is the department that provides snacks and refreshments to the set. We’ll be here in the studio for five weeks before going on location, something Andrew didn’t specify during that first meeting at my dining table. Location, as it turns out, will be in Scotland and then Paris. Fucking Paris!
“Morris wants to see you,” Nate, the gaffer, tells me in his thick cockney accent. Cruz Morris is the Director of Photography, I learned when I first arrived. “He’ll talk you through his vision, let you know what he wants. Then you can start taking a walkthrough, make a plan to check the cables, tweak any lights to Morris’s specification etcetera. Oh, and check the power to the monitors.”
I nod slowly, taking it all in.
Nate goes on to hand me a clipboard. “Here’s a list of the rigging electrics and the on-sets, till you get to know everyone.” Once I’ve taken the board from him, he runs his finger down the list. “Might wanna get all those phone numbers in your phone ASAP. You got your radio, too, to put out general calls ‘n’ all that.”
I pat the radio that’s clipped to my belt. I think I’m good to go. Honestly, I want to get on with it now. Explore. See what I’m up against. “Yep. Cheers, mate.”
A swift nod is all I get before Nate scurries off, already giving orders to someone else over his radio. I take a minute to go over the map of the studio that’s been folded in my back pocket, before taking myself on a mini tour. Just a quick peek before I find the DP. It’s my first time on a set. The curiosity is practically chewing through my brain. I can’t focus until I’ve familiarised myself with the surroundings.
I soon realise there’s no such thing as mini tour and I’m not going to be able to have a quick look around and see ‘the set’ in under five minutes. ‘The set’ is, in fact, multiple sets. Practically an entire village of sets. The first one I enter is a replica of the front of house of a police station and, for a moment, it steals my breath. If I shield the top of my eyes, erase the dangling wires and vacant space where the ceilings should be, the attention to detail is nothing short of exquisite. My fingers stray of their own accord towards the closest wall, shattering the illusion. I give it a knock. A solid foam of some sort? Suddenly, I’m acutely conscious of the unfinished floor, of the exposed tracks and wires. One trip, and I could tear this place down.
“Walker. DP’s calling you to the Johnny Mickleson floor. Office three.”
My radio grabs my attention, reminding me I don’t have time for pitstops anymore.
“Repeat: Walker to Jonny Mickleson floor, office three.”
I unclip it from my belt, hold the button. “Walker here. On my way.”
Once I get stuck in, the day blows by in a blur. Somehow, it’s nine PM and I’m only just making my way back to the hotel. I haven’t had lunch because I literally forgot. After talking through my brief with Cruz Morris, my mind wouldn’t stop racing. Wilson, the head of electrics, put me in charge of this week’s rota, throwing me straight into the proverbial deep end. Who can I put where? Which order is most efficient? What if? Should this? Maybe that… I’ve never taken speed, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ve had a taster of its effects.