“Welcome to St Palma.”

Farris's ever-bright voice rang through my phone early that morning, telling me to get over to his office. He was not, as he’d requested, my first call on my new phone – that title belonged to Jennifer the day I’d arrived. But he could claim the title of first incoming call.

“If you’re wondering where the seasons went,” he rattled off, “we don’t have any. But something tells me you hate snow. Just a hunch.”

Raf picked me up, we got breakfast, and I scoffed it down before we showed up at Farris’s agency, Talent Corp. It was situated in a pristine, reflective office complex, with no sign advertising the purpose of the building, just a big chrome number 80 (the lot number), as reflective as the windows.

We entered the building, the receptionist barely looked up and so did not notice me, cupped in Raf’s large hand, gripping his thumb for stability. Farris’s office suite was up some mezzanine stairs surveying rows of IT-laden desks, shielded behind a glass wall that was so reflective it effectively screened out the other side by the dazzling glare from the intruding golden sun. I was beginning to notice an almost constant St Palma murky vanilla sky. Or it was smog.

The rocking gait of Raf’s footsteps softened as he stepped over the furry patterned carpet, stopping across from Farris, who sat at his desk fielding a phone call, and barely looking up, gestured for Raf (and I) to take a seat facing the desk. The wall behind Farris’s desk was wholly glass, viewing another opaque windowed, multi-storey complex. The window was tinted blue, as if to paper over the vanilla sky with a deceptive blue shade.

Raf dropped into the black leather chair, bringing me down to desk height, and bringing the rapidly yammering Farris into frame against the tinted window backdrop. We waited patiently for him to finish.

"JERRY,” he said, plonking the phone down and spinning his chair to face us. “GAMELANDIA. IT'S PITCHED AS 'JUMANJI MEETS LORD OF THE RINGS.' KIDS GET SUCKED INTO A SWORD AND SORCERY BOARD GAME.”

"Anything in there for someone like me?" I asked, perking up at ‘Lord of the Rings.’ Sounded like blockbuster material already.

"PRODUCTION IS STRUGGLING TO RETAIN ACTORS; THERE’D HAVE TO BE SOMETHING IN THERE FOR YOU. MAYBE A FAIRY, PIXIE.” He waved a hand in a vague way.

I leaned back, staring at him for a moment. Then brought my hands together and squeezed them.

“Great!”

He stared at his hands, steepled on the desk while one side of his mouth turned up somewhat distastefully.

"HONEST OPINION? THIS THING IS A DEAD DOG; I WOULDN’T TOUCH IT WITH A POLE. IT’S BEEN DOING LAPS OF DEVELOPMENT HELL SINCE MILLENIA GONE BY, RE-WRITES, HAND-BALLED BACK AND FORTH BY MULTIPLE DIRECTORS, BUDGET BLOW-OUTS, ON SET SPATS. IN SHORT, A HOT MESS. MY ADVICE: PUT YOUR ENERGY IN BANKABLE PROPERTIES.”

“Ah…sure.” I folded my arms, and bowed my head, trying to seem shrewd – like him – and not emotionally involved. “Makes sense.”

“ON THE BRIGHTER SIDE,” he went on, “BEEN LOOKING AT GETTING YOU A LEAD ROLE IN A FILM CALLED ALPHA. FINANCE IS LOCKED DOWN AND IT’S ALREADY ATTRACTED SOME TALENT.”

“Really?” I leaned forward in Raf’s hand. ”What’s it about?”

“WHY DON’T I LET THE EXECUTIVE PRODUCER TELL YOU HIMSELF?”

“Huh—?”

“LUNCH DATE AT ONE TOMORROW. YOU, ME, MR. EXECUTIVE PRODUCER. AND MR. SIMON, OF COURSE,” he added, nodding at Raf. “WHATEVER YOU’VE GOT LINED UP, CANCEL IT.”

“Of course. I’ll be there.”

He gave me a fist bump over the desk.

“STELLAR. JUST RELAX AND BE YOU.” He turned away, busy with his phone. “AND I’VE GOT TO TAKE THIS—”

*

It was a green, uptown part of the larger city, the streets a fusion of white stucco modern and Victorian style fixtures, old black lantern posts lining the streets. Along a street shaded by identical café canopies, the restaurant had a pagoda roof, dark wood lattice front with white neon lettering that said Bunka Bocho.

Farris sat in one seat, with me sitting close by on the table in front of him. No Raf today; Farris insisted he take me, not wanting too many people in the restaurant distracting from the point of our meeting.

It turned out not to be Mr. ‘Executive Producer’ sitting opposite us, but Mr. ‘Associate Producer’s assistant’, Stanley Shuster, sitting opposite us, a black goatee, glasses, and wearing a casual t-shirt and black suit jacket. Still, he grinned a lot and I immediately felt at ease, able to imagine him wandering around at a comic con or other fan convention.

Food was spread out over the long pale sushi table: a variety of tiny, multi-colored edibles, dips and sauces served in an array of miniature bowls. Stan and Farris operated their chopsticks deftly, while I worked into my food – less deftly – with a pair of toothpicks.

"CLASSY PLACE, STAN,” Farris remarked, and gesturing to the tiny delicacies: “ALWAYS TRUST THE JAPANESE TO MAKE THINGS COMPACT AND CUTE.”

“AH, YEAH,” Stan said, as if it had only just occurred to him that I was tiny. He leaned back, smiling down at me: “YOU COULD FIT INSIDE ONE OF THESE!” he laughed in surprise, lifting a small, ornate tea cup. It was true: it could have seated me like a tea cup amusement ride vehicle, and I was inwardly relieved he didn’t ask for a demonstration, or photo. Putting the cup down, he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head a little as a he sighed with amusement. “ONE LOOK AT YOU AND MY WIFE WOULD JUST LOSE HER MIND.”

“SHE’S NOT THE ONLY ONE,” said Farris, launching into his energetic patter. “THINK OF THE BROAD DEMOGRAPHIC DRAGGING THEIR BOYFRIENDS INTO THEATERS TO SEE LITTLE JERRY ON THE BIG SCREEN. BUT, NOW, THE BOYFRIENDS ARE MORE LIKELY TO TAG ALONG BECAUSE JERRY ISN’T AS THREATENING AS A REGULAR SIZE MALE LEAD, SEE…?”

Stan clapped his hands together and his voice became frank, all business:

“SO, WE’RE TALKING ABOUT THE RYAN KAINT CHARACTER? IT’S THE DOG. THE MALE ROMANTIC LEAD IS TAD – DIFFERENT CHARACTER.”

"TAD IS THE HUMAN," Farris said slowly, "RYAN KAINT IS THE DOG."

Stan gave curt nod.

"EXACTLY."

Undaunted, Farris went on:

“CLEARLY WE’RE NOT TALKING ‘TOM CRUISE’ SMALL. JERRY IS A LEVEL OF SMALL YOU WANT TO SHOW UP ON FILM. THAT’S HIS MARKETING ANGLE: HE’S CUTE. PLUS, HE’S GOT THE RIGHT BOYISH HEARTTHOB LOOK THAT THE GIRLS WILL GO CRAZY FOR. BUT HE’S GOT THAT EXTRA LEVEL OF CUTENESS NO OTHER MALE TALENT CAN COMPETE WITH.”

Farris swirled his miso soup with an undersize, even kitsch, soup spoon, but his eyes remained on Stan.

“PLACE HIM STRATEGICALLY,” he emphasized to the producer’s assistant, “AND GIRLS WILL – WHAT DID YOU SAY EARLIER? – LOSE THEIR MINDS.”

Stan ran his hand over the table in thought, as if compelled to draw up an invisible diagram:

“SO, THE MALE ROMANTIC LEAD IS TAD, HE’S BEING PLAYED BY ANOTHER ACTOR.”

"I SEE,” said Farris. “BUT THE DOG STILL PLAYS A PART—?”

“A BIG PART. HE’S RIGHT THERE IN VIRTUALLY EVERY SCENE WITH THE FEMALE LEAD, LACEY. WE’VE GOT NICOLE BROOKES SIGNED ON TO PLAY HER.”

Nicole Brookes was an up and coming young actress, and I’d heard of her, though I couldn’t remember any films I’d seen her in, but then I wasn’t a movie buff. But recognizing the name, I perked up, showing more interest in my prospective character.

“Why does the dog have two names?” I said, in earnest, thinking there must have been some deep psychology going on.

Stan stared at me.

“WELL,” he said, fiddling with his chopsticks, “YOU KNOW, NO ONE HAS EVER ASKED THAT BEFORE.” Then he quickly composed his answer on the spot: “THE DOG GOES BY BOTH NAMES IN EVERY SCENE THROUGHOUT THE ENTIRE SCREENPLAY. IT’S A COMEDY,” he added, looking at me plainly, as if this explained everything. I nodded obediently, as if it made perfect sense.

“WHAT JERRY IS TRYING TO UNDERSTAND,” Farris pushed ahead, leaning over the table, “IS WHETHER HE’D BE PLAYING AN ANIMAL OR A PERSON-AS-ANIMAL.”

“IN THE SOURCE NOVEL,” Stan explained, “RYAN IS ACTUALLY A MAN WHO IS TURNED INTO A DOG-MAN, CALLED KAINT, WHO IS THEN ADOPTED BY LACEY. BUT IN THE SCREENPLAY, IT’S JUST ‘RYAN KAINT’ AND HE’S ALWAYS BEEN A WALKING, TALKING DOG.”

This got my attention.

“I’d have lines?” I piped up, then quickly correcting myself, “—I mean, the character has lines?”

“SURE," Stan grinned, "ERGO, THE TALKING PART OF THE EQUATION. BUT ONLY TO LACEY. SHE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN HEAR RYAN KAINT TALK.”

I was about to ask why – more deep psychology? Or just the law of comedy? – and then decided not to. Stan filled the silence:

“THIS HAS BEEN IN DISCUSSION SINCE EARLY DAYS. OUR SCREENWRITER VISUALIZED RYAN KAINT WITH YOU IN MIND, JERRY,” Stan was appealing directly down to me now, “A LIVE ACTION PERFORMER. IF YOU’RE UNABLE, THEN I DON’T KNOW…WE’RE BACK IN DEVELOPMENT: THE SCREENPLAY’S GOING TO NEED REWORKING AND WE NEED VFX TO GIVE US SOME CGI TEST FOOTAGE…SHOOTING MIGHT NOT START FOR ANOTHER COUPLE OF YEARS, AND BY THEN WE MIGHT HAVE TO RE-CAST.” 

He squared his shoulders, looking down at the table, letting the information sink in.

It sounded like the whole film now teetered on whether I signed on or not. It wasn’t clear if Stan was deliberately trying to stroke my ego or just stating the facts, but if the former, it was working.

“I think I like it,” I said. Well, the role, anyway. I had no idea what the story was.

Stan brightened.

“I’LL SEND YOU THE CURRENT SCRIPT.” Looking between Farris and I, he went on, with an almost indiscernible wince: “AND ON THAT NOTE: IF YOU SAW AN EARLY VERSION WHICH REFERS TO WOMEN’S TA-TA’S AS ‘TOMMYKNOCKERS’ AND OTHER – AH, OH DEAR – INDELICACIES,” his lip curled down bashfully, “DON’T BE DISCOURAGED: THE NEWEST WRITE HAS BEEN TIGHTENED UP, WITH A LOT OF THE COLLEGE HUMOR REMOVED.”

Farris said to me after we’d left the restaurant:

“HE’S NOT GOING TO BUDGE ON THE LEAD, BUT I DON’T THINK THAT COULD’VE GONE ANY BETTER,” he sounded untroubled, as if he’d already forgotten about the role mix-up. “YOU’VE GOT SCREEN TIME TO PLAY WITH. BUT I’M GOING TO BE BLUNT, YOUR ROLE MIGHT SUCK. IT ALL DEPENDS ON THE COSTUME. AN INTENSIVE COSTUME CAN MAKE SHOOTING HELL.”

“What do you think," I said, as the street bobbed up and down in step with his brisk gait, while I was captured in his hand. "Should I take the role?”

“NORMALLY I’D SAY TAKE IT OR SOMEONE ELSE WILL. BUT BECAUSE IT’S YOU, IT’S DIFFERENT. NO ONE ELSE CAN DO THE ROLE; AS STAN SAID: IF YOU DON’T, THEY’LL ANIMATE THE CHARACTER…OR SUSPEND PRODUCTION. IT’S UP TO YOU.”

This was not what I wanted to hear. I wanted his unequivocal insistence that this role was perfect for me and that I would be an idiot if I didn’t take it.

…but if I don’t take it, I thought to myself, then do what? – go back home with nothing to show for myself but the admittance to Jennifer that I didn’t cut it in the big, bad world, and I was destined to forever be a tiny, dutiful house husband, at the ready to rub her feet when she walked through the door home from work. What disturbed me most about that possibility was that I suspected she had not been joking about that proposition, and would be all too eager to see it materialize, and massage me into the role. Literally.

“I’ll do it.”

*

It was dark and late, but the full moon and the forest of street lighting made it seem like daytime. Further down the valley, the city light spread out, from this high up, everything was small, pinpoint focused, and bright. I sat out on the deck, on the patio table with a view of the land below, imagining what people were doing down there so late at night, bright as noon. There was a tiny thermos in a backpack next to me, which I intermittently took sips from. Raf got it for me after he saw me trying to rope-winch a cup up onto my bed one morning.

My phone was lying in front of me, with a copy of the screenplay open. After running through a couple of scenes, I called Jen to tell her the news. There was a whoop on the other end of the phone.

“What do we do now?" she said. "Celebrate?”

“Hold on,” I said. “I haven’t even started.”

“Well, the nice wine is out, and I will pour you an honorary shot.”

I told her a little about the role, though there was no way of avoiding the plain fact that I was playing a dog, talking, walking, or not. It didn’t seem to faze her.

“It’s what you wanted,” she said, “so I support you, one hundred and ten percent. Whatever happens. If it works out, or if it doesn’t. Whatever.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

Over the phone I heard her take a sip of drink, and then she said:

“You’re missing out on this.”

We talked a little about what was going on at her end. She was catching up with Christine and Katie, work, the usual. Then she said:

“The vet called me; she wanted your new number. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“She hasn’t called you yet, then.”

“Guess not.”

“If she calls, keep me posted.”

I hesitated. Then piped up:

“Medical confidentiality and stuff?”

“You’re the patient," she answered smoothly, "but I’m your guardian.”

“Okay,” I said, resigned. “Sure.”

“Oh, and, I'm just going to toss it at you: who are you thinking about RSVP’ing?”

“For the wedding? There’s heaps of time,” I replied.

“Well, kinda, no,” she said abruptly. “There isn’t.”

“Only if you want to get married yesterday.”

She gave a small sigh.

“If I leave everything up to you, I know it’s not going to happen.”

I made a small grunt.

“Fine. Scott. Tasha.”

“And who else?”

“There is no one else,” I said quietly.

She considered for a moment.

“What about Stuart? You guys had a thing.”

“He’s your ex.”

“But he’s your friend.” She paused, and then carried on in a rapid mutter: “But then if he’s there, the girl is there, so—”

“Is there a problem? Because—”

“No. Even if she’s not on the list, he’s probably just going to sneak her in anyway, just like he snuck her in—”

“There’s a problem,” I sighed.

“Making a note of Stuart and Stuart’s guests,” she spoke slowly, emphasising every syllable, “on the ‘maybe’ pile.”

“I do have someone else, actually,” I murmured, and for no reason feeling my heart speeding up, as if I was about to propose something incredibly stupid. What came tumbling out of my mouth next was impelled by pure, raw impulse:

“Natalie. Just a friend.”

“Who's this? From work?” she inquired casually, then interrupted herself: “Wait, wait, is this Natalie Sommers…?”

My jaw dropped open and I began to stammer through a very dry mouth:

“How did you – Where did you hear that?”

It turned out, while I’d been kidnapped, she’d found Natalie’s number on the call log on her phone, and a P.I. had a skip tracer identify the owner. I thought Jen should have forgotten that now, except that she had an unfortunate tendency for this kind of inconvenient recall.

“So,” I began, “you still have her number in your call log?”

She replied under her breath:

“I might and I might not, darling…”

I was pretty sure that was ‘yes’.

“You can have this girl’s number,” she relented. “And you can do something for me. And then we’re both happy.”

“What?”

“I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry.”

“Sure,” I said, feeling too restless to stay on the phone. “Anyway, I have to go. I need to learn this script.”

She interrupted me:

“You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you: the way your voice sounds through the phone. I've never heard it before. It’s ‘pre-tiny’.” She laughed. “Kind of like a bad dream, actually. Not a fan.” She made a smooching sound. “Mwah. Love you. Bye.”

Googling ‘Natalie Sommers’ on my phone led me to a number of social media accounts listed under her name, and clicked the first. A gut reaction even before I’d properly recognized her in the profile photo: a girl on a tennis court with a racquet, her fair hair pushed back by an athletic headband. Then I saw what it said under location: St Palma. She must have moved here.

There was a bang outside the window like someone kicking a dumpster, as glass crashed and broke. Youthful spluttering laughter, some of it vaguely flirtatious. Then distant sirens.

Once the sounds settled, it was just the soft roar of blended urban noise again, and above it all, my still thudding heart. I took a deep breath as I looked back at the phone screen. Now I’d seen her, I’d sated my curiosity, hopefully I could switch the webpage onto something else. Only problem was, looking her up – re-opening that chapter in my life – was like peeking inside Pandora’s box. I just had to go back and keep pulling at it, determined to open the whole thing up, even if it brought only pain.

And seeing that she was in St Palma and I was in St Palma…

It was kind of…

…providential.

No, wrong word.

A coincidence.