I think back to my submission — a documentary on Alaskan caribou — and try to get my head around this feedback. “Thank you,” I say diplomatically instead.
It had been an unusual competition. At the start of the year, a promotions company working on behalf of MCM Management had advertised for documentary filmmakers for a UNIQUE OPPORTUNITY. As a film school grad, I’d received the email and thought I may as well apply. The application had been over ten pages long. You even had to include a photo.
Sitting in the office now, I start to wonder if maybe I was the only one who’d bothered to complete it.
Carla looks down at the document in front of her, which I realize now must be my application. “What is it you do for work, Kat?”
“I’m a freelance wedding photographer,” I declare with more confidence than it deserves. Technically I’m a freelance wedding photographer’s assistant. Either way, I’ve seen enough white dresses and tears to write a daytime soap opera.
“That’s cool,” Carla says, writing it down. “And your degree?”
“Film and Digital Media Production at Colorado.”
I’m sure I answered all these questions extensively on my application. But given how many pages there are, I guess I don’t blame Carla for not bothering.
“So you’ve done a lot of documentary stuff?”
Documentary stuff. “Sure. I’ve brought my showreel with me, if you want to take a look. I think I sent a copy to your assistant, too—”
“No, we’re satisfied,” Mr. Merksworth says impatiently. “We’ve reviewed your information and we think you’re a good fit for our organization.”
A thrill runs through my body. I’ve never been chosen for anything before. Not a sports team, or any cool parties, or boys...
“I’d love to be a part of your project,” I breathe. Every Christmas, my dad buys the Broadway Christmas album that MCM releases each year. He claims it’s for me, but he’s the one who always listens to it in the car. My heart flutters — will it be something to do with Broadway? I honestly don’t think I could cope.
“This is a highly confidential project and, I hope you understand, you will need the utmost discretion.”
I nod. “Of course. I’m used to dealing with brides. I can be all of those things.”
Carla glances at me from beneath her long eyelashes, a smile playing on her lips. “You are available for the next two months, correct?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, leaning into the table with eagerness. I’d been having second thoughts about the wedding job, anyway — maybe this is for the best.
Mr. Merksworth steeples his fingers and says, “You may be aware that MCM is in the final stages of acquiring Cyclone.”
I don’t have a clue what Cyclone is but I nod slowly, as though this registers with me.
“We have particular interest in one of their... clients.”
I’m breathing hard. Who is it? Is it a Broadway superstar? My hands grip my knees tight beneath the table.
“What do you know of—”
This is it. Time seems to freeze.
Is it a hot solo artist?
A rock group?
“—the boy band Royal Element?”
It takes a while for my fervent brain to catch up with my ears. When it does, my face doesn’t just fall — it crashes fifteen floors down and out the damn door.
Are you kidding me?
“Kat?” It’s Carla, talking gently. I realize I’ve been asked a question and should probably answer it.
“I... have heard of them,” I say in the most polite tone I can muster. Great start. “I don’t think I’m really in the right demographic, though.”
Yeah, I’m not thirteen.
“That’s fine,” Carla says, smiling, the smile still refusing to meet her eyes. “We know their music isn’t to everyone’s tastes—”
“Actually, it’s their behavior I’ve got a problem with.” It’s out before I can stop it. My outburst hovers in the air, and I desperately wish I could scoop it back into my big mouth and lock it there forever. But Mr. Merksworth and Carla don’t seem overly surprised.
“There have been a few incidents,” Carla says in an amiable tone. Mr. Merksworth doesn’t talk much. I realize he only ever speaks when he has something to say about money. “All in the past, however.”
Sure. Tell that to their victims.
“We’re looking to do a documentary on the band.”
Band. Please. That bunch of manufactured hacks couldn’t even band together during their own trial. How are they even still a thing?
“Obviously there’s been an uptick in media scrutiny ever since... Well.” Carla pauses, flicks her hair over her shoulder and cocks her head to the side. She gives me a searching look. “All we require is backstage footage of their tour, and in return, we’d reward you handsomely.”
It takes effort not to salivate at those last three words. “I’m surprised you have money after their court case.”
Mr. Merksworth chips in, as I knew he would: “It was a Cyclone issue. It was their unscrupulous business practices. They paid up — and we took over.” There is steel in his eyes, and something about it makes me shiver.
“MCM can afford to pay you very well,” Carla adds.
I gulp. She seems to be implying something truly irresistible. “I haven’t heard figures yet,” I point out.
She smiles. “At least six.”
I stare at her, mentally calculating. “Six thousand?” That’s... okay, I guess. I’m a novice, after all. It’s not a year’s salary by any stretch, but it’s more than I’d get from doing weddings in the same time frame.
But Carla laughs, as though this is genuinely hilarious. “No, six figures!”
I freeze in my chair, thinking I haven’t heard her correctly. My brain tries to make sense of her words. Slowly, I say, “As in... one hundred thousand dollars?”
“Or $999,999.” Carla winks at me. “Somewhere between the two.”
Thoughts whirl through my head. In all my life, I never thought I’d earn that kind of money in total. To be offered it in one huge lump sum, there must be a catch...
Oh, yeah. Working alongside them.
I think of everything I could pay off. My student loan debts — and wouldn’t that be poetic, paying off film school with earnings from a film? My parents’ mortgage. Heck, I could take a year or two off and go around the world if I wanted.
But something doesn’t feel right. “Why me?” I ask, thoroughly confused. “Surely, for that price, you could get anyone. Olaf winners.”
“We’ve reviewed your information,” says Mr. Merksworth, “and believe you’re a good fit for our organization.” It’s the same canned response as before. I restrain myself from rolling my eyes.
Carla places a hand on his arm. “Dad, please.” She nods at me, as though understanding my doubts. “We’re looking for someone who can tell their story. You’re young. We feel like you’ll have the best chance of connecting with the boys without getting in their way.”
Connecting with the boys. These guys are super-rich mega-famous popstars. I couldn’t tell one of them from the other, but even I know all their names. Dread sinks into the pit of my stomach as I face the daunting prospect of being around the world’s hottest boy band. How am I, a struggling filmmaker, meant to connect with a bunch of spoiled, immature millionaires?