Page 74 of Score
“Thank you.” She blinks watery eyes, but firms her lips and goes on. “It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole career for an opportunity like this. You say we’re filling in the colors, and I keep seeing all these beautiful melanated bodies swishing and swinging and doing the Lindy hop and the snakehips.”
“Exactly,” Canon laughs. “That’s it.”
“We get to re-create the Savoy,” Richard, the production designer, jumps in. “That massive, glorious ballroom. Just the glimpses I saw in those clips have my wheels turning.”
“And the music,” Monk interjects softly. He looks up at Canon. “There is this scene where Tilda and Dessi meet Gladys Bentley, right?”
“Yeah.” Canon nods. “Verity found a diary entry where Dessi wrote about seeing her perform at the Ubangi Club.”
Monk’s eyes don’t flick to me when Canon mentions my name, but he continues. “There was a song she’s really famous for. It’s called… damn, trying to remember the title.”
“‘Worried Blues,’” I mutter.
Monk’s eyes cut to me then, and I’m surprised sparks don’t fly I feel that look so sharply. Like iron striking iron. “Yeah. ‘Worried Blues.’ I think we could add that as a number.”
“Fantastic idea,” Canon says. “Verity and I have some spots marked in the script where music makes sense to us, but I knew you’d go through and identify where we could add a few numbers, songs that will build out the score.”
“We’d need the right voice for it,” Monk says, eyes narrowed and fixed at a point over Canon’s shoulder. “Gladys was incredible. She literally sounded like a trumpet when she scatted.”
Canon’s question and offer to dream uncorks the bottle on everyone’s ideas. Lucia asks him to play one of the dance numbers again. The production designer takes out his laptop and starts a schematic for a few set pieces. Linh even asks if I can send all the material I have about fashion ofthe era, including any photos we have of Dessi throughout the years for reference as she works on designs and sourcing wardrobe.
I’ve never been part of a process like this. I knew Canon was an incredible director, of course, but tonight I learned that he is also a terrific leader. He has a reputation for being controlling, and maybe once we’re on set, he will be—a tyrant about being prompt and prepared. But here, tonight, with this team of creatives he has built so much trust and chemistry with over the years, he lets them run wild. He fosters a creative process that moves and shifts and roams, not steered by any one person, but feeding from us all.
After an hour or so of brainstorming, the group reluctantly starts to leave the theater and drift outside. We’ve been here for hours, and Graham has to practically push them all out. Lucia and I are in the kitchen laughing about how grueling the routines she’s envisioning will be for the poor dancers when Monk walks in. He stands at the counter and stares at me, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. I keep talking with Lucia, and even angle my body away so I don’t have to see him at all. Lucia’s conversation begins to falter the longer he just stands there, and her eyes flick over my shoulder to Monk every few seconds. A wry grin works its way onto her expressive face.
“I, um, think Mr. Bellamy wants a word,” Lucia says, tossing her Diet Coke can into the recycling.
I finally level a glare over my shoulder at him, but his face remains expressionless.
“Really great meeting you, Verity,” Lucia says. “Looking forward to working with you.”
She punches Monk’s shoulder playfully. “This’ll be fun. Haven’t seen you since that last project two years ago.”
“That movie turned me off musicals.” He chuckles. “Only Canon could lure me into something even close again.”
“Well, glad he did,” she says. “You’re the best. See you guys later.”
When she leaves, a thick silence descends on the kitchen. It’s suffocating, pressing against my ears and clogging my throat like fog.
“What?” I snap, brows bent into a frown.
“That’s how you talk to an old friend?” Monk asks with a straight face.
“Oh, I thought we ‘dated in college.’” I hit him with the air quotes and let my hands land on my hips. “Why would you even say that?”
“Should I have said we used to fuck?”
Something I’d like to ignore stirs low in my belly.
“Um, you could have saidwe’ve met,” I offer, frowning up at him, “or just said nothing at all.”
“Nothing?” His laugh rings harshly in the empty kitchen. “You thought I was gonna pretend we didn’t know each other? We’re adults. I don’t like to pretend or keep secrets.”
“Not putting our business out there for the whole crew to know is not keeping secrets. It’s being discreet.”
“Oh, I’ve seen your version of discreet, Verity.”
The words carry a bite so sharp it takes me back to that bathroom stall at Top Dog.
