Chapter Text
Bette Porter slammed the whisky tumbler down harder than she intended to on her bedside table. She was not one to often take booze to bed, resisting the pull of the cliché that had made so many former peers and colleagues raging alcoholics, but her day had called for it. The orange liquid swirled and settled amongst the ice cubes. Bette moved to open the large wardrobe to the far left of her immaculate bedroom, all clean lines and right angles. To the average onlooker, it was any old wardrobe. Inside, however, was nestled another wardrobe, this one made of steel. She punched in the safe code and heard the satisfying click of the mechanism unlocking, the thick door swinging open slowly on its hinge. Carefully she lifted the Glock pistol out of the leather holster wrapped around toned shoulders. In smooth, well-rehearsed movements, she unloaded the cartridge, locked the chamber slide, and replaced the gun and ammo to their home within the safe.
After relocking the safe, she took another long gulp of scotch, which burned exquisitely in her throat. Releasing her grip on the glass, Bette began to undo each button of her white shirt, which had started crisp and clean earlier that day and was now faintly spattered with blood. The wall mirror in front of her reflected a very tired woman indeed. The bags were noticeable beneath slightly bloodshot eyes. She threw the shirt into the laundry hamper before dressing into a white tank top and loose shorts, pulling herself into bed.
Rest would not come easily tonight. Bette had been doing this job for many years, largely without incident, but that fact was small comfort when she was called into action. Across town, Peggy Peabody would be sleeping with difficulty too, but at least she had a family to go home to and people to support her through the ordeal. Bette's apartment felt big and empty. No one to speak to, no one to unwind with after a difficult work day, and no warm body to pull close. As she closed her eyes, all she could see was the dead man lying in a pool of his own blood, downed by a single bullet to the chest from Porter's gun. He had lunged for Ms Peabody, screaming something about millionaires, his hand reaching for something concealed inside his jacket pocket. The reaction was instinctive – Bette pushed Peggy to the ground, threw herself on top, and in one swift action had grabbed the gun and squeezed the trigger. He dropped like a fly.
Bette was roused from this replay by the sound of her cell, which she grabbed and answered.
“Bette Porter.”
“Porter, it's John Callaghan.”
Silence ensued, Bette too tired to recall the man she had met numerous times in the last few weeks while she'd been assigned to protect Ms Peabody.
“I'm Peggy's head of security.”
“John, hi. Sorry. Long day.”
“It really has been and I'm sorry to call you at this late hour. I just wanted to pass on my personal thanks for what you did today.”
“It's what I'm paid for, but I appreciate the sentiment. How is Ms Peabody?”
“Peggy's shaken, understandably, but she's been checked over by a doctor and is sleeping now. Well, best as she can under the circumstances.”
“I would like to do the same,” thought Bette privately. She could sense John eager to get to the point of this late call. Gratitude was a nice to have in this line of work, but it wasn't a prerequisite. John would understand that, Bette assumed.
“I know your contract has finished now and it was quite the last day for you, I'm sure, but I was impressed with how you handled it. Well, we all were, especially Peggy, and we would really like to keep you on a more permanent basis.”
Bette paused. John waited.
“Bette? Are you still there?”
“John, please pass on my thanks to Ms Peabody, but I no longer undertake permanent assignments.”
“I appreciate that and you were clear about this at the start, but we would pay you very handsomely and there is a full benefits packa--”
“Let me stop you there. It's not about the money, grateful though I am for what I presume would be a more than generous offer.”
“Bette--”
“John. Thank you again. Please pass on my regards to Ms Peabody. I hope today hasn't shaken her too much. Goodnight.”
Bette ended the call and replaced her phone on the bedside table. She gulped down the last of the scotch before turning out the lamp and lying back onto the bed. No, sleep would not come easily tonight.
*
The air was hazy with smoke and it smelt like burning plastic. Not entirely unusual for a movie set, except this was not part of some elaborate special effects sequence. The fire department had arrived quickly and, thankfully, no one had been hurt, except for some shock and minor smoke inhalation. The cast and crew had been sent home for the day whilst the production team, now huddled in a boardroom, debating how they might proceed with filming and if they should even try at all. There was little consensus on the way forward.
Alice Pieszecki was pissed. “This is fucking ludicrous. We can't allow ourselves to be bullied into closing down production by whoever this asshole is. It would give them exactly what they want.”
“I think we're past that point now, Alice. They got us to shut down the set for a whole day so they already got what they wanted today. You arranged security. This happened on your watch.” Helena Peabody glared accusingly at the small blonde sat across the table.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Helena? So this is my fault?”
She shrugged in response. “Maybe if you weren't hiding all the hate mail from her, we wouldn't be in this position. We should have nipped this in the bud weeks ago.”
Alice rose up like a coiled snake. “I'm keeping it from her to protect her. I can handle this. What's the point in freaking her out more than she already is?”
“You've done a bloody great job so f--”
Helena was suddenly interrupted by an unexpected voice.
“Alright, alright, let's all just simmer down a moment.”
Helena, Alice, and the rest of the team swivelled around at the voice. Dressed head to toe in a black, pinstripe business suit, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels, Tina Kennard cut a commanding figure as she strode into the boardroom, her assistant Adele trailing behind her carrying two coffee cups. The blonde sat herself at the head of the table in a large, leather office chair, and took a breath.
“Just calm down, for fuck's sake. It's crazy enough out there on the set, I don't need us losing our heads too.”
“How can you be so calm?” Helena implored.
“How does this” - Tina motioned between Alice and Helena - “help? Our nerves are frayed enough right now. We need to take some time and think carefully about our next steps.”
Everyone in the boardroom took a moment to regather themselves. Tina let a few minutes pass before taking a sip of coffee and speaking.
“It's not like this hasn't happened before on a set. It comes with the territory, guys, Hollywood is crawling with creeps who think they're destined to be with the lead actress or whatever. It's really nothing new. If you closed production down every time something like this happened then nothing would ever get made.”
Helena leaned her head forward, incredulous. “Tina, this isn't some small-time nutjob sniffing underwear. Whoever it is put a bomb on your film set. A bomb.”
“Bomb's a little dramatic, don't you think?” queried Alice, laughing. “They tinkered with some electrics and, poof, the rigs went bam. We don't even know if this was deliberate.”
Helena's response dripped with sarcasm. “Not deliberate? So this is just a coincidence, you think? The nasty letters and now a bomb on set?”
Tina suddenly shot Alice a questioning look. “Is that still happening? The hate mail?”
Alice held her hands up, her tone attempting reassurance. “It's all in hand, boss.”
Tina eyed her for a few moments and then softened. “Okay. I hear you, Helena, I do, but I'm choosing to trust Alice here to sort this out. Right, Al?”
Helena shook her head in disbelief. “So we're carrying on with Lez Girls?”
“Yes, Helena, we are. I'm not letting this get in the way of a what is going to be a very important movie for Shaolin. Plus, I don't think we need to look far for a culprit anyway, considering the way we booted Schecter off the job.”
Tina stood to leave, Adele following her lead. “We keep shooting, restarting tomorrow.”
As Adele closed the door, Helena exhaled and leant back in her chair. “You need to be honest with her about these letters, Alice.”
“How could it possibly help for her to know? She knows she's mentioned in the letters. Isn't that enough? Let me handle it.”
Helena dropped her voice to a whisper. “Whatever is going on here is about Tina and Tina alone. The letter yesterday was pretty pointed. This goes beyond the film.”
Alice closed her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. “I know, I know. I just need a bit more time to figure this out.”
Helena reached a hand across the table to Alice. “Alice, we don't have time. I know you want to fix this--”
“Well, duh, it's my job to--”
“I know.” Helena grasped Alice's hand. “But let me help you. I might know someone.”
“Who?”
“She used to work for my mother. She's good. Very good. Ex-US Secret Service, formerly attached to the White House.”
“Ex Secret Service seems pretty extreme, Hel. So basically a bodyguard?”
“If you want to think of it that way, but she's, erm, freelance shall we say. Personal protection agent. If you don't want to worry the boss any more than you need to, let's just sell it as a precautionary measure.”
Alice sighed in resignation. “Fine, but you can make the call.”
“I'll do better than that.” Helena smiled a little before eyeing the blonde opposite her. “Do I sense a bruised ego in that little head of yours?”
Alice looked down, her face serious. “It's my job to ensure this set is secure, which includes the exec producer. I failed at my job today and it's a miracle no one was seriously hurt, so of course my ego is bruised.”
“Don't think of it that way, Al. You arrange security for Shaolin, not for Tina Kennard. Let me handle this.”
*
An echo reverberated around the lobby as Tina closed the heavy front door of her mansion house. She hung up her coat in the closet and headed for the kitchen, her high heels clicking on the marble floor. Placing her briefcase onto a counter top, she suddenly slumped her head forward into her hands, allowing herself to feel the frustration and tiredness of this difficult day.
Tina's feathers rarely got ruffled. She had a long and illustrious track-record in the movie industry, and had worked with some of the most difficult actors and directors on the planet. She'd watched grown men throw tantrums in dressing rooms and some of the world's most decorated directors hurl insults – and sometimes objects - towards runners. No, Tina was rarely, if ever, fazed.
And yet, something about the goings-on on the Lez Girls set had started to make her nervous. It was not unusual for weirdos to become a nuisance towards certain stars, but this rarely transferred to the production staff. This time, however, Tina had been directly named in the hate mail that had been discovered on the set and in the production offices. A chill snaked its way up her spine as she thought back to the small explosion that had happened earlier this morning, shutting down filming. Something about this felt odd. Something about this felt different.
As she poured a glass of Chardonnay, her ears felt remarkably attuned to the sound of the liquid hitting the glass. How big this kitchen was. How quiet it could be in the evenings. How small she suddenly felt in its vastness. “Don't go there, Kennard,” thought the blonde to herself, shaking her head and hopefully any more thoughts on what had transpired today. Instead, she decided to distract herself with work - “as per usual, huh, Tina?” - and produced a manila folder of mail from her briefcase. Fingering through the usual papers and documents, her eye was drawn to an envelope she did not immediately recognise, addressed simply to “TK”. Opening it, her breath was sucked from her body. There, letters of different shapes, sizes, and colours spelt out a simple message: “I'm going to get you.”