Page 21 of The Homewreckers
As Rebecca’s eyes traveled over her, Hattie felt her cheeks burn, felt herself shrinking inside her own clothes, the designer jeans Cass had insisted on loaning her, her own blouse, carefully ironed early that morning, and stack-heeled suede booties, because they made her feel taller and more powerful.
But under the microscopic stare of the network executive, who wore an outfit that probably cost as much as her first truck, Hattie was already reevaluating her appearance. She should have worn more makeup, earrings, a nicer top. She should have gotten a manicure, a blowout, a facial. She should have been born blonder, and taller, and definitely with a flatter butt and higher cheekbones.
“Hattie,” Rebecca cooed. “Our newest star in the HPTV firmament. It’s great to meet you. Mo’s been telling me all about you!”
“Good to meet you, too,” Hattie said. She looked over at Mo, unsure of the next step.
“Let’s all sit down,” Mo said, gesturing to the dining room table. He’d placed yellow legal pads at all three chairs, and his laptop was open. “Hattie, Rebecca’s just been telling me about some, uh, modifications of our original concept forSaving Savannah.”
Rebecca cleared her throat and shot Mo a barely perceptible warning signal. “I’ve also been telling Mo that the reason I flew out here today was to expedite and accelerate this whole preproduction process. As you might have heard, we’ve had an unexpected blip in our programming lineup.”
“A blip?” Hattie repeated.
“Krystee Brandstetter is pregnant, with twins, but there are complications, and her doctor has her on strict bed rest. We were in the middle of filming her fourth season, but nowGoing Coastalis shut down for at least six, maybe seven months. Or longer.”
Hattie wracked her brain. Was she supposed to know this Krystee person?
Mo must have sensed her cluelessness. “Going Coastalis the network’s biggest hit show. Krystee and her husband, Will, restore old houses up in North Carolina. Krystee started a blog about fixing up an old farmhouse they bought near Wilmington, and it went viral. Their show is the tentpole for the Wednesday night lineup. Which is where you come in.”
“And how lucky for us that Mo found you,” Rebecca said cheerily. “Everyone at HPTV is so excited about the possibilities for this show.”
Rebecca Sanzone was all business. She opened a slim leather folder and handed Hattie a sheaf of papers and a pen. “This is our standard contract for talent, with the compensation schedule attached. You’ll see your per-episode fee here.” She pointed at a tiny yellow arrow sticker on the document.
“And here,” Rebecca went on, pointing to a neon orange sticker, “is your statement that the property you’ll be working on is owned by you, or your corporate entity, that you and your corporate entity assume all responsibility for debts incurred by your project, and that you and you alone are liable for any damages or injuries arising from this property, and that in the instance of any such damages or injuries, the network will be held harmless.”
Hattie nodded numbly, scanning the contract. The fee structure, even though Mo had already explained it earlier, still seemed like a shockingly paltry amount of money for something involving so much investment and risk on her part.
She hesitated. “Mo didn’t say anything about signing contracts today. I thought this would be more of a meet-and-greet-type situation. Shouldn’t I have a lawyer look at this?”
“That’s completely up to you,” Rebecca said. “I’m so sorry Modidn’t make the nature of this meeting clearer to you. Again, time is of the essence, but if you really feel the need to have an attorney review what’s merely a standard contract…”
Hattie glanced over at Mo, who was silently gnashing his molars, both at the indignity of being casually thrown under the bus, and at the ethical bind Rebecca had placed him in. She’d never even hinted that the network was ready to sign Hattie to a contract, and if she had, he’d have advised her to get a lawyer to review the paperwork.
Now though, it was too late to pump the brakes. He nodded at Hattie. “I think it’s okay.”
“I’m assuming you’ve already bought the house you’ll be working on for the show, correct?” Rebecca went on. “I’d love to see some photos. Exterior and interior, so I can give my boss a feel for the scope of the work.”
“No,” Hattie said, surprised. “I mean, there hasn’t been time. I only agreed to do the show, like, two days ago. The real estate market here is incredibly tight. Finding the house is going to take some time.”
“Time is a luxury we don’t have,” Rebecca said sternly. She pointed out the living room window of the town house, toward Charlton Street, with its row of elegant town houses. “This town is absolutely crawling with old houses. I saw tons of possibilities just from the window of my cab this morning. Surely there must be at least one old house you can scoop up for a song.”
“You might have seen a lot of old houses, but what you didn’t see were for-sale signs,” Hattie retorted. “No offense, but I do this for a living. Finding the right property at the right price—it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. And I’m not the only one looking. As soon as something does come on the market, invariably there are half a dozen offers from other investors—all cash, and over asking price within hours, if not minutes.”
Rebecca’s smile was patronizing. “I do this for a living too. Let me give you a tip. Savannah has a film and television commission, or something. Call those folks and let them know you’ve signed to do a network show that will potentially bring millions of dollars’worth of jobs and prestige to Savannah. I’m sure they’ll bend over backwards to help you find the right property.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hattie said. “But what happens if I can’t magically conjure up a house by—when did you say was the deadline?”
“The deadline is now,” Rebecca said. “Or no later than the end of this week. And, to be blunt, if we don’t have a house to flip, we don’t have a show. Which would be so unfortunate, because, Hattie, we really, really like you. We like the look of Savannah, the idea forThe Homewreckers.…”
Hattie blinked. “Homewreckers? I thought the show was calledSaving Savannah.”
“Change of plans,” Rebecca said. “Mo can explain.” She slid two more pieces of paper across the table to Hattie. “But in the meantime, here are the last two documents you’ll need to sign.” She tapped a neon pink arrow on one page and a neon green one on the next document. “Here, and here.”
Hattie picked up the first page and read silently until she came to what seemed like the most important sentence in a page full of eye-glazing legalese.
She read the paragraph out loud. “The network shall have the unilateral right to terminate this agreement or take punitive action against the individual named herein in the event that such other party engages in reprehensible behavior or conduct that may negatively impact his or her public image and, by association, the public image of the contracting company.” She looked over at the network executive. “Reprehensible behavior? Like, me promising not to get arrested? Or knocked up?”
“It’s a morals clause,” Rebecca said, waving aside her concerns. “Standard boilerplate to protect the network from potential embarrassment. It simply says you are who and what you represent yourself to be. Nobody likes a skeleton-in-the-closet-type surprise.”
