Assuming you disregarded the fact that he had Graeme-the-warden driving him everywhere. Dev’s suggestion he drive himself to set from now on was not warmly received. If Dev had access to the keys he never would’ve asked at all.
That would’ve made Veronica happy. About as happy as she’d been in her email this morning, and her many missed calls on his phone.
Turned out Graeme had passed on his trip to the pub.
Security—my arse.
‘My current car is too...’ he paused, as if in deep contemplation ‘...feminine.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Too feminine,’ he repeated.
The line remained silent. Was Ruby smiling? Frowning?
‘I see,’ she said, after a while. ‘I’m sorry you find your black four-wheel drive so unsuitable. Can you explain to me what it is that you dislike about the car?’
There was nothing overtly discourteous in her tone—quite the opposite, in fact. Yet Dev heard the subtlest of subtle bites. He liked it.
‘It’s the upholstery,’ he said. ‘It has pink thread in it.’
‘Ah,’ she said, as if this were actually a valid complaint. ‘Fair enough. Don’t worry, I’ll have a new car to you by tonight.’
‘At the latest,’ he said, just like one of the many delusionally self-important actors he knew who made these types of requests.
‘Not a problem, Mr Cooper.’
‘Appreciated, Ms Bell.’
Then he hung up with a smile on his face.
Ruby sat alone in her office, the Top 40 show on the radio her only company. It was late—really late, and she’d sent everyone else home fifteen minutes earlier.
But she had to get everything done—well, an hour ago, really—but Dev had really screwed up her day.
Losing Rohan for an hour to fix Dev’s wireless had meant she’d had to run the call sheet alone; and unfortunately the runner she’d assigned to sort out the new hire car was young, and new, and seemed to ask Ruby a question every five minutes. Then, of course, there’d been Dev’s email, asking for directions to every amenity in Lucyville. After she’d gritted her teeth and carefully replied to it—and therefore losing another thirty minutes—he’d blithely replied with one word: Thanks.
Thanks!
She’d silently screamed.
She’d had no idea Dev was like this—normally talent of the high-maintenance variety came with clear advance warning via the industry grapevine. Put two people who worked in film together, and guaranteed that stuff like ‘Dev-Cooper-thought-his-car-was-too-girly’ got talked about.
But—until the last twenty-four hours—she’d never heard a negative word about Devlin Cooper.
Oohing and ahhing about how he was just as gorgeous in real life—which she now knew to be true—yes, she’d heard that. But unreasonable, prima-donna carryings-on? Not a whisper.
Her phone rang, vibrating against the pile of sides—the scenes being filmed the next day—it rested upon.
Of course it was Dev, and reluctantly Ruby swiped her finger across the screen to answer the call.
‘Mr Cooper,’ Ruby said, setting the phone to loudspeaker so she could continue to work on the latest updates to a transport schedule. She was not going to let Dev distract her. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I was wondering,’ he said, not sounding at all apologetic for calling so late, ‘if you could recommend anywhere good to eat in Sydney.’
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