Page 47 of How To Plot a Payback

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Chapter 8

Lavender

Tuesday, Table Read, Writers Room

Finn Masters is a curious man.

And it’s a quarter to nine.

Table readings, where we sit around the writers room and read through the new week’s script, are on Tuesdays. Wednesdays we run through the show for the first time. Thursdays and Fridays we run through it with props and makeup just like the real thing. And shoots are on Mondays, when the entire day is spent filming what we worked on all through the previous week.

It’s an antiquated way to do things, given most shows dropped live audiences years ago. But Goodwin is an old-fashioned man, and his ways, for better or worse, do gravitate toward success. Personally, I like it. Canned laughter can only go so far. The show’s energy thrives on the adrenaline of real people in the audience.

And yes, it is funny to shoot on Mondays instead of Fridays. But that started years ago due to scheduling conflicts when the show was just a baby. It stayed that way due in part to Mr. Goodwin, who assumes we’re all just as obsessed with the show as he is. In his mind, of course the cast will be honing their lines to perfection over the weekend.

It’s been ten years. To my knowledge, nobody has done that.

Sonya spends the weekends dragging me to one event or another, when she’s not cycling somewhere mental, like to the desert and back. Kye up till recently spent his weekends with his girlfriend. And before that, his other girlfriend. And before that, the other one.

I’ve done my fair share of dating on the weekends, but my last boyfriend was a mess, and the one before that, well, we broke off amicably.

Now that I think of it, I haven’t checked in since I set him up with that set designer a month ago—but from the way she seems to float everywhere as she arranges fake oranges in bowls and adds new magnets to the set fridge, I wager it’s going well.

Matchmaking is actually a bit of a talent of mine. Some people do things like build buildings and remove brain tumors. Me? I have an unusual ability to connect soulmates. In fact, I’ve been given the credit in no fewer than three wedding rehearsal speeches. It just seems that there is something I can see in people that they can’t immediately see themselves. Like a strand of color.

There they go, walking around with a soul that’s a very light, light purple, and one day I walk by and recall immediately that other lovely light, light purple soul I met the other day. And of course, given that we all, at our deepest level, just want so much to love and be loved, I can think of no other option but to set them on the right path. Together.

All that to say: Tom, my former flame, was a vibrant orange. And Samantha, one of the set designers, was a vibrant orange too. Now they are vibrant orange together.

It’s a wonderful, colorful hobby.

The sun tickles the skin on my legs as I stand at the base of a palm tree beside my parking spot, watching Finn walk down to the first level of the parking lot across the way while Bernie sniffs at my feet. The air is thick with the scent of fresh asphalt. A California scrub jay swoops overhead, calling with a loud kuk that lifts Bernie’s head. Visitors wearing matching tourist lanyards are seated on passing trolleys, while their drivers spout details over a speaker about the history of Wagner Studios.

It’s another beautiful day.

If Finn had a color, it would be a cool gray.

I watch Finn’s pursed lips as he grips the cat crate and leads Miles, obviously throwing a silent little conniption over being late to work (to be fair, Mr. Goodwin can be quite scary). A breeze sweeps over Finn’s hair and pulls it into an even bigger curlicue on top of those round black glasses of his. He looks so much like his dog. Both so big and thoughtful and calm.

Well, of course, not calm at this moment.

And yet, still, his winsome eyes remind me of home.

It’s the accent, of course. Must be. Nobody can know someone for twenty-four hours and already feel they’re home.

Put simply, we’re two Brits in a very American city.

That, and the way he pushes up his glasses when he’s concentrating. And the way he looks so serious as he stares at scripts or throws around a cat crate, or even has my back in a veterinarian’s office. Quiet and unassuming, and you can just tell, something about him is wise. He reminds me a lot of my father and two younger brothers back home. He makes me want to call them just for a hello. Just to hear their voices.

Maybe that’s why I find myself drawn to him.

He, symbolically at least, makes me feel like I’m right back at the breakfast table at 418 Westbrooke Road, listening to Mum accuse Dad of pinching out the tomato shoots when she’s not home, while my brothers elbow each other beneath the table. They’re twenty-five now. One married off and beginning a family of his own, the other living in central London, taking the train home to Welling on Sundays for church and potluck lunch. I hear Charlie’s three-year-old is going to start playing football in the spring. Wouldn’t that be fun to see? Not through a video. Really see.

I take a breath, forcing myself to think of lighter things.

Here comes Finn down the crosswalk from the parking garage, cat kennel in one hand, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. His larger-than-life dog walks obediently by his side, trotting so daintily I squint.