She's been running on three-to-four hours for most of the last week, and she'd decided it was a godsend when she was informed, along with about a dozen other, all her sets were up and they were headed home a day early. The plane ride wasn't the best, continually waking her back up, making the dream of her own bed, and her own pillows, stronger each time.
(As well as the urge to get up and punch the pilot for obviously being shit at his job.)
What had not been a godsend was the post-it waiting on the front of her bedroom door when she got home that read: Call Production Now with the last word underlined four times. At least that's what the note had said. Which was, also, wrong. But determination and fifteen minutes more focus finally got her on with one of the producers who'd call for her.
Who said they'd been loving all her work, and were already sweet-talking the network into shifting in another lead role for her starting in the next season, and could she come to this 'probably boring museum opening' in six hours, where the bigwig she needed to meet as soon as possible, would be overseeing the crew doing the news coverage on it for the station.
It wasn't something you said no to, but Allison was definitely considering putting all of their names next on the death list. The one where she was allowed to just tell them all their head's popped off like champagne corks.
Fine. It probably was still a godsend, too, just not the one she was hoping for with crisp, cold sheets and soft pillows, and getting lost in them until at least tomorrow night. Only escaping that perfect cocoon for the bathroom and water and food. But she'd kill herself before taking any other option, too. She says yes, of course, she'd love to, she has nothing, forcing the smile she can't feel into her voice, with gratitudes and platitudes.
She pulls out the best dress she has. The one she had not paid for. Hangs it in on her bedroom door, and sets three alarms, before letting herself have three more hours of sleep. Then, it's up again. Showering, taking her time with her hair, and then her makeup, before sliding into the dress. Simple, shining, silky, single-colored, and skin tight.
One did not pull punches with a chance like this. They didn't come around often, if ever.
Which was how Allison found herself in the middle of a crowd of hundreds, bright-eyed and smile-ready, being scintillatingly responsive and laughing at an opening question thrown her way while shaking a hand. Later, she'll reason it might have been something deeper trained than impulse, or distraction. Something about familiarity drilled in for decades.
But there's a sharp move right over the shoulder of the executive in question, and her eyes snapped to it, just in time for her expression to freeze. Then, shift to shock so stiff it was silencing, before her hand, still in his, was touched again, a hand closing over the back of hers, while he leaned, and she had to look back at the man, utterly at a loss for what he'd started to say about some last in-production-episode sent his way. As Allison tried, if not to figure out what he meant through the sudden crackle of white noise, at least not to look away from his face again. Definitely, not immediately. Any further than the edge of her vision looking forward at him. Where she still couldn't miss it.
Where it's impossible. It's impossible. But Luther is standing. Over there.
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She's been running on three-to-four hours for most of the last week, and she'd decided it was a godsend when she was informed, along with about a dozen other, all her sets were up and they were headed home a day early. The plane ride wasn't the best, continually waking her back up, making the dream of her own bed, and her own pillows, stronger each time.
(As well as the urge to get up and punch the pilot for obviously being shit at his job.)
What had not been a godsend was the post-it waiting on the front of her bedroom door when she got home that read: Call Production Now with the last word underlined four times. At least that's what the note had said. Which was, also, wrong. But determination and fifteen minutes more focus finally got her on with one of the producers who'd call for her.
Who said they'd been loving all her work, and were already sweet-talking the network into shifting in another lead role for her starting in the next season, and could she come to this 'probably boring museum opening' in six hours, where the bigwig she needed to meet as soon as possible, would be overseeing the crew doing the news coverage on it for the station.
It wasn't something you said no to, but Allison was definitely considering putting all of their names next on the death list. The one where she was allowed to just tell them all their head's popped off like champagne corks.
Fine. It probably was still a godsend, too, just not the one she was hoping for with crisp, cold sheets and soft pillows, and getting lost in them until at least tomorrow night. Only escaping that perfect cocoon for the bathroom and water and food. But she'd kill herself before taking any other option, too. She says yes, of course, she'd love to, she has nothing, forcing the smile she can't feel into her voice, with gratitudes and platitudes.
She pulls out the best dress she has. The one she had not paid for. Hangs it in on her bedroom door, and sets three alarms, before letting herself have three more hours of sleep. Then, it's up again. Showering, taking her time with her hair, and then her makeup, before sliding into the dress. Simple, shining, silky, single-colored, and skin tight.
One did not pull punches with a chance like this. They didn't come around often, if ever.
Which was how Allison found herself in the middle of a crowd of hundreds, bright-eyed and smile-ready, being scintillatingly responsive and laughing at an opening question thrown her way while shaking a hand. Later, she'll reason it might have been something deeper trained than impulse, or distraction. Something about familiarity drilled in for decades.
But there's a sharp move right over the shoulder of the executive in question, and her eyes snapped to it, just in time for her expression to freeze. Then, shift to shock so stiff it was silencing, before her hand, still in his, was touched again, a hand closing over the back of hers, while he leaned, and she had to look back at the man, utterly at a loss for what he'd started to say about some last in-production-episode sent his way. As Allison tried, if not to figure out what he meant through the sudden crackle of white noise, at least not to look away from his face again. Definitely, not immediately. Any further than the edge of her vision looking forward at him. Where she still couldn't miss it.
Where it's impossible. It's impossible.
But Luther is standing. Over there.
Staring at her.