Music for Wartime Read Online Free PDF Page B

postcard of the Santa Monica beach, I hung it on the bathroom wall.
    When Beth asked about it, I told her I was just nesting. “You’re
producing
,” she said.

    Ines is mad that she can’t flirt with Leo now. “He was the only cute guy here,” she says. She means out of everyone—the crew, the producers, the cast, and the entire population of Strathersburg, Pennsylvania.
    Kenneth tells us they have footage of Leo and Astrid giggling in a hallway, choosing adjacent seats at the big dinner table in the formal dining room, taking an early morning jog. “My genius Cupids!” he calls us, and we know he says this more to encourage our future work than to tell us our job is done.
    By the next round of interviews, we’re able to say, “So you and Astrid are spending a lot of time together. Is there anything you want to tell us?”
    On nice days, Craft Services sets up picnic tables out on the grounds. Today, people keep stopping me in the buffet line. “Heard you made Kenneth very happy,” they say, and “Those two gotta name their first kid after you.” I smile and feel not nearly as good as I thought I would. I’ve done sleazier things every day for the past five years, but for some reason this one is starting to feel wrong. Beth is getting to me, maybe. Or maybe I’m growing up. Or maybe it’s something about being outside L.A., here in the real world, where the normal rules of behavior should somehow apply.
    Kenneth comes up and slaps me on the shoulder. “We’re changing the next prompt to Love. This is great stuff, Christine.”

    When I get home early, a little after midnight, Beth is stirring risotto and watching
The Godfather
. I say, “What if we buy a house when we get back home?”
    She says, “Do what you feel.”
    “No, I think we, plural, should buy a house.”
    She slowly pours more chicken stock into the pot and then says, “Sometimes I feel like you’re crushing my head.”
    I decide to ignore this. I sit on the couch and spend a few minutes watching Vito Corleone make people offers they can’t refuse. I say, “What’s wrong with it if we help two people find love?” She doesn’t even get what I’m talking about, so I have to remind her about the whole Astrid and Leo thing. I don’t know what I’m hoping for—a friendly debate, maybe. I’m hoping for us to stay up, talking and eating on the couch. My body doesn’t need sleep anymore.
    But she just stares at me. “Because you can’t tell people how to feel,” she finally says. “Those aren’t their real emotions.”
    “Right,” I say, “but we’re
not
telling them what to do. We’re just playing Cupid.”
    “You’re playing God.”
    I do sense that she’s talking about more than just the show, but I’m too tired to work it all out. When the risotto is done cooking, she puts it in the refrigerator without eating any and heads to bed.
    Vito Corleone dies with an orange peel in his mouth, and I call to Beth that she’s missing the best part.

    Astrid sits down in the interview chair and asks if we can turn the cameras off. “Sure,” we say, and give Blake, the camera guy, the signal to cover the red light but keep taping.
    She leans forward and says, “I know what you guys are trying to do. With your questions about Leo. I get that you’re supposed to create drama and everything, but frankly this is insulting.”
    I look at Ines, hoping she can lie better than I can. “All we’re doing,” she says, “our role, is just to speed along what would happen in the real world if we had a lot more time. Let’s say in real life you know a guy, and maybe after six months, something starts to happen. Okay, so here we don’t have six months. We have two more weeks, and that’s
if
you stay to the finale. We’re not making you date him, Astrid. We’re just stirring the pot.”
    “Well, I want you to stop.”
    “Okay,” I say, “sure,” although Ines is looking at me strangely. “Turn the camera back on, Blake.