Dinner at Eight – A La Femme Nikita Fic – Chapters 1 - 4
DINNER AT EIGHT
Thursday morning began like any other for Nikita Wirth. The bedside alarm clock erupted shrilly at 6:30 a.m. She silenced it with the palm of her hand and slipped quietly from the queen-sized bed. On the other half of the bed, Max lay on his left side. As usual, he gave no indication that he was even alive. Nikita shook her head, amazed at his ability to sleep through anything short of a nuclear blast.
She flung off her Université du Montréal tee shirt and pulled on her running clothes. As she straightened up from tying her shoes she said, "See you later, lazy butt," and headed for the front door.
Once outside the tiny apartment, she braced against the wrought-iron banister to do some warm-up stretches. While she was thus bending and contorting, a skinny kid rode by on a bicycle and tossed the morning paper toward the steps.
"Merci, Kyle," she called out. But Kyle was more tuned in to his music and only bobbed his head as he pedaled away.
After a few minutes, Nikita felt limber enough to start her daily run. She sprinted down the curving staircase and ran along rue Étienne for several blocks. When she passed Sal's Pizza, she turned right and headed for the track of the local high school. At this time of day there would probably be only one or two other runners there. Or perhaps the elderly Japanese couple in their matching green warm-ups who preferred to walk the circuit.
When she reached the oval, she saw the Japanese couple talking with one of the usual runners, a middle-aged woman. They were looking toward the far end of the track and gesturing. Nikita approached and greeted them, "Bonjour. What's going on?"
The Japanese man answered, "Those men said we cannot walk here today. They are filming a movie. Something about spies . . . probably the sort of thing my granddaughter and her friends would watch." He snorted with disapproval.
"Yes, it's an action-adventure film and that divine Michael Samuelle is the star!" added the middle-aged woman enthusiastically. "He's SO handsome and incredibly sexy!" She fanned herself as if the mere mention of his name brought on a hot flash.
"Yes, very nice man and very strong." This was the first time the Japanese woman had spoken. She gave a little smile even as her husband looked at her in surprise.
"I see," replied Nikita. Michael Samuelle . . . where have I heard that name? she wondered. The confusion must have shown on her face because the first woman quickly added, "Oh you know, he was in "Emilie"and "La Femme Madeline"and "The Last Chapter."
"And 'Machine-Gun Molly.' Now I remember," said Nikita. "I don't watch much TV, but I love the cinema." A couple of scenes in particular replayed themselves now in her mind. Very strong man, indeed!
"I was hoping to get a glimpse of him, or at least his nicely-shaped backside," cackled the middle-aged woman. "My poor Artie has no bum at all!"
The Japanese man cleared his throat, perhaps conscious now of his own flat posterior. "Hopefully, tomorrow they will be finished with this nonsense and we can resume our routine. For now, Yoko and I will continue our walk in the park." He bowed his head slightly toward the women and said, "Good day, ladies."
The little smirk on Yoko's face told Nikita that she was also a fan of this Michael Samuelle, whether her husband liked it or not. "Goodbye," Nikita called to them as they crossed the street to enter the park.
"Well, I really need to run." The woman patted her ample belly. "But I'd hate to miss a Michael-sighting."
"We could run along the sidewalk there and see what happens," suggested Nikita. She was unable to rid herself of the images of the movie love scenes. "Do you suppose it's all makeup and lighting? I mean, he couldn't possibly look as good in person as he did on the big screen."
The other woman looked at her with a conspiratorial grin. "There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"
CHAPTER 2
Michael Samuelle, critically acclaimed and wildly popular Québécois actor, sat morosely behind the make-up trailer. He stared into the distance even as the wind blew the pages of the revised script that lay open on his knees. He had already thumbed through it and mentally noted the changes in his character's big action sequence that would be shot tomorrow. Now in addition to leaping from a bridge onto a moving train carrying nuclear waste, he was required to engage in hand-to-hand combat on top of the train with the "scum of the week."
"That should be a 'piece of cake,' eh Michael?" joked his assistant as he collected the script. "By the way, you're up in ten minutes and Paul said not to be late." The assistant shook his head. "He's really in a mood this morning. Let's hope this next take goes smoother."
"Yeah, 'piece of cake,'" mumbled Michael. That sounded like something Camille, his American girlfriend, would say. On second thought, make that ex-American girlfriend. After a huge fight three weeks ago, Camille removed her stuff from his farmhouse south of town screaming that she was sick of him, sick of Québec's snow and ice, and was returning to her hometown of San Diego! So there!
To add insult to injury, Michael had discovered two nights ago that an autographed first edition by his favorite author was missing from the farmhouse. A group of devoted fans – female, of course – sent it to him last year on his birthday. While he couldn't prove anything, he suspected Camille took it out of spite. She often made disparaging remarks about these fans who showed up regularly at his movie premieres and charity events.
The assistant now returned with a cell phone. "Make it quick," he mouthed as he handed it to Michael and pointed to his watch.
"Oui?" Michael answered.
"Hey amigo! What's shaking?"
"Not much, Walter. Isn't this rather early for you?" Michael's mood immediately lifted at hearing his old pal's voice.
"Damn straight it's early for this old geezer! We're finishing up the renovations and I wanted to let you know that the club will be open this weekend."
"That's great, Walter. Congratulations."
"Thanks, amigo. I sure hope you can drop by. You know, Jack Paradise and his group will be the main act."
Michael's assistant was once again hovering nearby and pointing at his watch. "Sounds great. Listen, they're calling me, but I'll certainly try to be there," replied Michael.
A lusty chuckle came through the phone. "Go on, lover boy! I'm sure the women of Québec are dying to see you shed your clothes again!"
Rolling his eyes, Michael said dryly, "Goodbye, you old pervert."
"Yeah, yeah – 'takes one to know one' I always say!" laughed Walter.
"I'm Louise DePalma, by the way," said the other woman, sticking out her hand.
"Nikita Wirth. Nice to meet you."
The two women trotted leisurely along the sidewalk toward the far end of the track. All the while they strained their eyes for any sign of that heartthrob, Michael Samuelle.
"This looks like a good spot and it's not on the track," said Louise brightly as she scanned the area. "Nobody should bother us here. Besides, I need to catch my breath."
They stood half-obscured by some azalea bushes and watched as various flunkies ran around checking one detail or another prior to the shoot. Nikita wasn't sure why she was doing this; she supposed Louise's enthusiasm had acted like a magnet, pulling her in. She thought briefly of Max, who was probably up by now and wondering why she was gone so long.
Louise craned her neck and frowned. "I don't see him yet, do you?"
"How could you tell? All the actors are wearing those black masks," said Nikita with a sigh.
"Oh honey, you'll know him by that strut! It's like he's saying 'I'm king of the jungle and don't mess with me!'"
"I see," Nikita replied, casting a sidelong glance at her new friend. She couldn't help being amused at Louise's obsession with this actor, especially since she appeared to be an average middle-aged woman.
Suddenly Louise grabbed Nikita's arm and squealed with delight. "Ooooh, there he is! Isn't he just the finest thing you've ever seen?"
Nikita looked back to the track and saw a tall man walking – perhaps stalking better described it – toward the assembled group. He was clad in a black combat outfit and also wore a black knit mask. Only his eyes and nose were visible. He paused to receive instructions from the director, a grey-haired man with a no-nonsense manner.
"I think Michael gets to run in this scene," said Louise. "I LOVE to watch that man run!"
Nikita laughed. "Bring it on."
CHAPTER 3
Finally, everything seemed to be ready. The director shouted to one of the cameramen as the actors moved toward the bleachers to get into position.
There was a moment of silence, then "ACTION!" The actors burst out and divided into groups. There was indeed a lot of running, a lot of searching under the seats for something - a bomb, perhaps? – then some shouting and pointing. A couple of bad guys were seen retreating toward the far end of the track.
Unfortunately, one of the actors tripped and fell over a rock, splattering mud on his flak jacket. This brought the grey-haired man, prominent Toronto director Paul Wolfe, out of his chair with much waving of arms and cursing.
"CUT! What the hell is wrong with you, Davenport? How hard is it to run in a straight line?" Turning to an assistant Wolfe shouted, "Will someone please move that damn rock and clean him up?"
One assistant ran to remove the offending rock while another thrust a cell phone at Wolfe. He frowned irritably. "Hello. Not now, Madeline. No, I don't know what time I'll be home for dinner." He snapped the phone shut and tossed it back to the assistant. "I've told her a hundred times NOT to call me when I'm on location!"
Michael stopped and waited for Wolfe to finish his tirade. He had worked with him a couple of times in Toronto and knew what a perfectionist the director was. From his peripheral vision, Michael now spotted some women watching from the sidelines. That was to be expected; people were often curious about film shoots.
One in particular piqued his interest and three adjectives immediately sprang to his mind: tall, blonde, athletic. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail and she was dressed in a blue jogging suit. The woman beside her was short, stubby, and otherwise unremarkable. Michael noticed her elbowing the blonde and giggling when she saw him looking their way.
"Yo, Michael! We're ready," called the assistant director and motioned for him to return.
Michael turned slightly and nodded. "Okay." However, some force compelled him to take one more look at the women. The short one was obviously excited about something, but the blonde regarded the whole scene with cool detachment.
Finally, Michael tore his eyes away and walked back to the bleachers where his team had reassembled. Davenport was wearing a clean jacket and said sheepishly, "Sorry, Michael."
With a straight face Michael replied, "I could have you 'cancelled' for that," using some of his character's dialogue.
"Yeah, right," smirked Davenport. Michael chuckled and they resumed their places.
"QUIET ON THE SET . . . and ACTION!" The scene was repeated perfectly this time. Each actor hit his mark and ended with Michael running across the track and saying, "Second team, pursue to northeast quadrant."
Director Wolfe yelled, "CUT!" and actually smiled this time. Michael peeled off his knit mask and ran the back of his hand across his forehead. He was glad to finally get out of that itchy thing.
From their position by the azalea bushes, Louise gasped and clutched her chest when Michael's face was revealed. "Oh mercy, what a gorgeous man!"
"Not bad," agreed Nikita. She couldn't quite bring herself to say this out loud, but Michael Samuelle was indeed more impressive in the flesh than on the big screen. And he had been pretty damn sizzling in his last film! Once more those love scenes popped into her head.
"Why is he just standing there?" mumbled Nikita. For that matter, why am I still standing here?
"I'd say he's checking you out!" laughed Louise. "It's certainly not old blubber-belly here that's caught his eye!" She tugged her sweatshirt down over tummy as if to emphasize her point.
"It must be part of the script," Nikita insisted, even as butterflies were doing somersaults in her stomach.
"Honey, that director guy already called 'cut.'" Louise sighed heavily as she considered the possibilities. "If only I were younger . . . and didn't have Artie, of course."
"Oh, my goodness! What time is it?" asked Nikita in a panic.
Louise checked her watch. "Almost eight o'clock."
"I'm gonna be late for class! Nice meeting you, Louise," said Nikita as she turned to leave.
"Likewise. See you in the morning," answered Louise.
A commotion by the make-up trailer distracted Michael for a split second. When he looked toward the fence again, the tall, athletic blonde had vanished, though her companion lingered. He was disappointed and decided to approach the older woman to ask her friend's name. About that time, the stunt coordinator strolled up.
"Michael, are you ready to go over that fight sequence for tomorrow?"
Nikita literally ran back to her apartment. She was breathing hard as she opened the door and tossed the newspaper on the couch. Surprisingly, that 'lazy butt' Max was still asleep.
She began buzzing around the kitchen, then stopped and counted out loud as the can opener whirred. "One, two, three, four . . ."
There was a blur of motion from the bedroom, then a pair of blue eyes looked up at her insistently. "ME-OW, ME-OW!"
"It's about time you got up," chided Nikita as she set the bowl down by the refrigerator. Max, the Siamese, pounced on his breakfast while his mistress ran her hand down his sleek back.
The whole-wheat toast popped up now as Nikita poured a glass of orange juice. She glanced at the clock as she hurriedly ate. Then she took a quick shower and dressed. As she grabbed her keys she called to Max, who was stretched languidly along the back of the couch, "Gotta go or Birkoff will make some stupid remark."
CHAPTER 4
The Métro slid to a stop at the Université du Montréal station and the doors whooshed open. A great mass of people streamed out even as another mass jockeyed to enter the train before the doors closed. Nikita hesitated briefly when she spotted Dr. Jurgen, the psychology professor, ahead of her on the platform.
There was something about the man that gave her the creeps. He seemed to pop up at the oddest moments and, unfortunately, always remembered her name. Once she literally ran into him coming out of the dry cleaners and was subjected to his beady-eyed assessment. Then there was the time in Archambault when she was searching for a particular jazz CD.
Jurgen had suddenly materialized at her side and asked if she played Go. When Nikita said that she did not, he replied cryptically, "You should. You'd be surprised what it can teach you."
"I'm not much for games," Nikita said and moved away. * (Season 2 - "Spec Ops")
Nikita now breathed a sigh of relief when he turned right out of the station and headed toward the faculty office building. She went the opposite way to join her study group in the library.
"You're late," said Seymour Birkoff in a flat tone.
Nikita glanced at her watch. "Only five minutes," she answered as she took her place at the long table. Terry, Carla, and Gail were already there, pulling out notebooks and calculators to review for the math final.
"Thought maybe you had a late night with that Formula One boyfriend of yours," Birkoff said smugly.
Nikita was rifling through her purse for a pencil. When she found one, she looked directly at the young man and sighed, "Birkoff, you need to get a life so you don't spend so much time worrying about mine."
"Touché!" laughed Carla. "Birkoff's a bit cranky because Starbucks was out of his favorite coffee."
"And for your information, Giancarlo is at the track getting ready for the Grand Prix," added Nikita.
Birkoff smiled in satisfaction. His goal was to annoy Nikita and he had succeeded. He had a huge crush on the tall blonde and was secretly jealous of the flashy Italian driver she had been dating for a few months.
Gail cleared her throat. "Uh, I think we should get started on the review. That's why we're here, isn't it?"
Birkoff nodded. "Right. Why don't we start on page 34?"
After the study session ended, Nikita went to her political science class. Afterwards, she stopped in the cafeteria for a chicken-salad sandwich. As she ate and watched other students coming and going, she thought, One more semester and I'm out of here! She had fulfilled her promise to her father to get a college education before trying her luck in the world of modeling.
She had already received some small assignments from Richelieu Models, Québec's premier agency. If she got more work, maybe Daddy would stop bugging her about joining his telecommunications company.
Suddenly, Birkoff stood before her. "Mind if I join you?" Without waiting for an answer, the young math whiz pulled up a chair and threw his backpack into another one.
"Do I have a choice?" asked Nikita.
"So, do you think I could get an interview with your father's company?"
"I don't see why not. Better you than me," Nikita said flippantly. She pulled out her cell phone and scrolled down the list of names. "Here's his secretary's number."
Birkoff scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. "Thanks, Nikita. I really appreciate it."
From across the cafeteria a guy yelled at Birkoff. "Hey, Birkey. Let's go!"
"Who's that?" asked Nikita.
Birkoff rolled his eyes. "Hillinger, my chem lab partner. What a jerk. All he wants to do is blow up stuff."
"Come on, Birkey. Tear yourself away from your girlfriend!" yelled Hillinger again. Several people turned to look at Nikita. Birkoff snickered.
"Sorry, Nikita. I better go," said Birkoff as he picked up his backpack.
"No problem. Oh, and good luck with Daddy." she said brightly.
On a whim, Nikita decided to go into Blockbuster Video before descending into the Métro station to go home. She asked about Michael Samuelle's movies and waited patiently while the frizzy-headed teenage clerk checked the computer.
"Man, that is one popular dude! Everything's out except one copy of his last movie," he said.
"Where is it?" Nikita asked. "I have to have it!"
The clerk chuckled and pointed. "Sure thing, lady. It's down at the end of this row."
Clutching the DVD, Nikita turned the corner onto her street and walked toward her apartment. She frowned when she saw the black Mercedes parked in front of the building.
Uh oh, what's he doing here?
Nikita braced herself for another chat with Daddy about the importance of education and having goals. There was nothing wrong with education and Nikita did have a goal: to become a top model.
She really hoped this wouldn't take long because she had an important DVD to watch! She turned the key and opened the door. Loud singing from the bedroom greeted her and she relaxed. It was only her younger sister, Michelle.
"What are you doing back there?" she demanded.
A slim girl with long brown hair stepped to the doorway. "Well, good afternoon to you, too. I'm looking for that black skirt you said I could borrow."
"When did I say that?" asked Nikita as she eyed the clothes in Michelle's arms.
Michelle looked put out. "At dinner last Sunday. Don't you remember?"
"Yeah, okay," sighed Nikita. Changing the subject she asked, "Why are you driving Daddy's car?"
"I had a small accident coming out of Walmart yesterday. And get this, the old lady didn't even have insurance!" said Michelle in an exasperated tone.
Nikita plopped down on the bed and rubbed Max's head. "Was the old lady hurt?" asked Nikita.
Rolling her eyes, Michelle said, "A little shook up. You didn't ask how I am."
Nikita laughed. "If you can drive over here to borrow clothes, there's nothing wrong with you. I just can't believe Daddy let you drive his Mercedes. You're like the worst driver in the whole family; you've had even more wrecks than Granny."
Michelle emerged from the closet again with a black-and-white silk blouse. "Would you shut up? Can I borrow this, too? It'll go with that skirt."
"Whatever," answered Nikita. She continued petting Max, who closed his eyes and purred happily. Changing the subject again, Nikita asked, "Hey, do you know who Michael Samuelle is?"
"Well, duh! Doesn't every woman in Québec? He's only the hottest man to ever walk the earth!" exclaimed Michelle. "Why do you ask? You never go to the cinema."
"Uh . . . I met a woman at the track this morning who was a big fan of his," stammered Nikita. Now she felt a little embarrassed because she was so out of the loop about this "hottest man." "Anyway, I stopped at Blockbuster and got his last movie. Wanna stay and watch it?" Nikita asked.
"I loved to, sis, but I have class this afternoon," said Michelle as she gathered up the clothes.
"Yeah, can you hurry up and graduate from law school and join the company so Daddy will quit pestering me?" wondered Nikita.
"Next year, sis, next year. Oh, check your messages. I think someone from that modeling agency called," said Michelle.
Nikita perked up immediately. "Really?" Then a final instruction for her sister. "Dry clean those before you bring them back."
Michelle left and Max jumped off the bed and onto his window seat to watch her drive away. "Make sure she doesn't take out any more cars down there, Max!" laughed Nikita. She pressed the answering machine button and heard a message from Myrna, senior vice president at Richelieu Models: We would like to sign you to a long-term contract. Please call me at your earliest convenience.