Bliss (25 page)

Two months of biking and sunshine had lightened her hair and darkened her skin, so she looked almost like a native. Having swept out the last remaining cobwebs in her psyche, she could assess her life with clear eyes. The move was so obviously right, her parents didn't object. Her family all cried and said they would miss her, though deep down she didn't think they would as much as she'd miss them. As the black sheep, she often felt isolated in a family where
alone
was impossible. Her dad asked for two-weeks' notice, which she gave. During off hours, Demi completed her community service hours by scanning old books to digitize them for the main branch of the Vancouver Library. While meeting her obligations to her family and the city, she sold the Audi and her furniture to collect funds. Then she packed what meager possessions she had left, and jetted to LAX.

To celebrate Demi's arrival, she and Sophia went out in West Hollywood. At the suggestion of Sophia's friend David, they went to Bar Marmont at the Chateau Marmont, a hotel Demi had seen in movies and read about but never thought she'd ever hang out in.

“So what's the deal with you and David?” she asked Sophia. She met the writer this afternoon and liked him, but found his chumminess with Sophia confusing.

Sophia said, “Just friends. So far.”

“He's not your usual type.”

“I don't have a type! I haven't had a real boyfriend since Jesse.”

Demi bit her lip. She hated talking about Jesse. The guilt! It was awful, even after all these years.

Sophia said, “I semi-stalk Jesse on Instagram. He's getting married. I hope he and his horrible wife will be very happy.”

“Is she really horrible?”

“No,” said Sophia. “She looks nothing like me so I guess Jesse doesn't have a type either. Whatever. Water under the bridge.”

“To old love, and new ones,” said Demi, trying to keep the conversation in the present.

“To living the dream!” said Sophia, only half ironically.

The tragically hip bartender placed two fresh drinks in front of them. He pointed to a group of guys in LA-casual blazers and open shirts at the other end of the bar. “On them,” he said.

“Really?” asked Demi. “I mean, look at us. And look at
them
. No offense, Soph, but in this room, even you look average.”

By “them,” Demi was referring to the throngs of stunning young women in various stages of undressed or overdressed. On one side of the room, a few women were in formal gowns. On the other side, a few were in sheer body stockings. Others wore leather pants and camisoles with lots of makeup and tortured hair. Still others went for the starlet-on-meds style—beanie, sunglasses, matted hair, billowy blouse, and boyfriend jeans. Every few minutes, another crew of beautiful people pushed into the bar. Demi and Sophia were seated directly under hanging red fringe lanterns. They cast a flattering pink glow on their faces and outfits. Sophia was wearing her usual leather pants with a black Louboutin silk blouse she got on sale, and accessorized with cool chunky jewelry. Demi wore black Paige jeans, Topshop wedges, a cotton tank, and a silk Tibi blazer that looked like Joseph's Technicolor dreamcoat.

Sophia eyed the donated drinks. “We're pacing ourselves, right?”

“Of course,” said Demi.

The plan was dashed quickly. By the time they'd finished the first round, three cocktails were lined up and waiting for them, care of the open-shirt dudes and a pair of lesbians. They invited the lesbians—Stacy and Paulina—to join them, and the four girls managed to polish off their stockpile of beverages.

From that point on, the night got a bit blurry for Demi.

David showed up at one point. Sophia was pretty gone by then, too, and she threw her arms about him and said, “You're here!” Before the writer had any idea what was happening, Sophia planted her wet lips on his mouth. When Sophia broke for air, David made a show of tasting his lips. “Okay, now I'm drunk,” he said, which made them all laugh. Any joke, however lame, would have been hilarious.

Demi clinked her new friends' glasses, and said, “Ah, sweet elixir of life.”

“Love is the elixir of life,” said Sophia, who reliably went all Buddha.

They cheered and drank.

“I can't believe I'm fucking here!” said Demi.

They seized any excuse to laugh, throw their arms around each other, sing, shout, make out. The night had a magical tint, shimmering around the edges.

“Isn't life amazing?” she slurred to Sophia. “Everything was going wrong, wrong, wrong. And then, overnight, things just started to go right. How does that even happen?”

“You have to knock wood, right now.”

“To knocking wood!” said David.

*   *   *

Demi had no idea when or how she started talking to the Aussie. He just became part of their party within a party at some point. She wasn't complaining. He was big and burly, bearded, a proper grown-ass adult man.

He'd told them his name, but they just called him Aussie, and he was okay with it. Around two
A.M.
, he asked, “Who's hungry?” and proceeded to order one of everything on the bar menu, including oxtail bruschetta, crab and corn fritters, Taleggio mac 'n' cheese, and two-dozen oysters. Sophia, Demi, David, Stacy, and Paulina fell on the food like flies on shit. She noticed that the Aussie took his time chewing, savoring the flavor of each dish.

Around three, Sophia and David were making out in a dark corner of the bar. The lesbians went home. Demi and the Aussie sat in a booth together, talking. His accent got thicker as the hour got smaller. Demi missed about thirty percent of what he said, but she liked what she understood. Their one topic of conversation: food.

“I have two restaurants in Sydney,” he said.

“What kind?”

“I'm embarrassed to say.”

“Shrimp on the barbie?”

“We say ‘prawns,' by the way,” he said, grinning. “But yeah, we do prawns and other fish dishes. Our signature dish is fried John Dory. That's the name of the place.”

“Prawns?”

“John Dory,” he said.

“Your name isn't John.” Or was it?

“It's Aiden. Aiden Bushwhacker.”

Demi snorted. “You are so full of shit.”

“Aiden Archer,” he said, holding out his hand. “I've told you that three times already, Ms. Demi Elizabeth Michaels.”

They talked more about food, and the dishes they'd tried tonight. Demi could have eaten a bucket of the oysters in shallot vinaigrette. So fresh, they tasted like the sea. “If I had to order one thing again, it'd be the calamari. Great batter. You can tell they use seltzer instead of beer, which works for this crowd. Even when they eat fried food, it's gotta be healthy.”

“Good tip,” he said. “I'll have to tell my chef when I get to hiring one. I'm opening a John Dory in LA in a month.”

“Not with that name,” she said.

“No?”

“John Dory sounds like some cheap seafood place where the waiters dress up like pirates and serve fried shit on a plate. So unless you want people to think you're serving fried shit, you have to change the name. Call it Dory. Lose the John.”

“
Finding Nemo
flashback,” he said, shaking his head.

“So? This is Hollywood. People live and breathe movies here, and
Finding Nemo
was a massive hit. They'll have warm, fuzzy feelings associated with the name. It says ‘fish.' It says ‘fun on the beach.' Or, you could go in another direction, and call the place
Jaws
.”

He rewarded her with a hearty laugh, big as the outback. “Okay, okay. I'm sold. Dory it is.”

“You know, back in Canada, I worked for a marketing company that launched restaurants. That was all I did, every day, for three years. There're a lot more golden nuggets where that came from.” Huh? Her booze-addled brain might not be making complete sense.

“Are your nuggets for free?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I value myself and my skills. So if you want my help, you're going to have to pay through the nose for it.” Could she have made that speech if she weren't drunk? Doubtful. Alcohol was an excellent negotiating tool. She should drink before every job interview.

“Through the nose? That's disgusting.”

“You don't say that in Australia?” she asked. “It means
I ain't cheap
.”

“I knew that already,” he said. “I just spent three hundred dollars feeding you and your friends.”

“So? How 'bout it? I've got five other offers on the table.”

He looked a little too intently into her eyes. Demi's stomach flopped with nerves and excitement. Before it got awkward, Aiden picked up her iPhone, and input his contact info.

“If you can remember my name in the morning,” he said, “you're hired.”

 

demi's new york sour

SERVES 1

ingredients

2 ozs bourbon or rye

1 oz fresh lemon juice

¾ oz simple syrup

1 egg white (optional)

½ oz red wine

instructions

1. Add all the ingredients except the wine to a cocktail shaker and fill with ice.

2. Shake, then strain into an Old-Fashioned glass filled with fresh ice.

3. Slowly pour the wine over the back of a spoon so that it floats on top of the drink.

 

17

when the wheel of fortune turns, it rolls right over you

Hipsters
had gone through a downtime transformation. It began its gestation as a half-hour single-camera Brooklyn-set comedy about relationships. The network overlords concluded that
Hipsters
wasn't as witty and raw as
Girls
nor as broad and vulgar as
2 Broke Girls
. Would the audience tolerate another show about this demographic in the same location? The decision was “no.”
But
the network brass were gaga for the sexy young cast—a multiethnic brunette, a redheaded Latina, and a WASPy blonde—and decided that they could be the
Charlie's Angels
for the millennial generation. So the premise and format were changed. Now it was an hour-long three-camera Los Angeles–set drama about relationships …
and murder
 … called
The Den
.

David predicted the murder bit weeks ago. He gloated when Sophia told him. He also pitied the writers who had to scrap ten finished scripts and start from scratch in an entirely new genre. He told her this kind of do-over wasn't unheard of, although it was unusual. Any writer worth his or her salt should be able to make this one-eighty-degree turn on a dime. “That's what we get paid for,” he said.

Sophia's character was still named Valerie. However, she was no longer an aspiring novelist. She and her costars' characters were bloggers for a hard-hitting news site called
The Den
. They chased down ripped-from-the-headlines stories about sexism and violence against women, while going on dates and trying to square the men they investigated—dirtbags and assholes—with the men they hooked up with romantically. Naturally, there would be some crossover.

At the meeting at M. King Studios to discuss the changes, Paula, the redhead Latina, said, “If you make us go undercover as models to expose sexual harassment in the fashion world, I fucking quit.”

Cassie said, “Roofie rape on college campuses is relevant. Let's do that.”

Sophia added, “We could do bottle-service girls getting molested in the VIP section at nightclubs.”

The writers and show runners weren't enthusiastic about Sophia's idea, finding it “too narrow.” She didn't need to relive the experience anyway. Although it was a bit harrowing to hear that the show was in jeopardy, only to be snatched out of the jaws of disaster, she welcomed the change. Her biggest success on stage in school had been in dramatic roles. She'd still get to deliver wisecracks, but she would not have to act endearingly klutzy, or get a cupcake in the face, or mug through an aw-shucks “I love you guys!” group hug. Not that there was anything wrong with group hugs. She welcomed them in her real life. But on TV, it always read as emotionally manipulative. Always.

So. Every aspect of the show—except the talent—had to be overhauled, including the shooting schedule, the scripts, wardrobe and makeup, locations, publicity stills, marketing, and network positioning.
Variety
and
Hollywood Reporter
chronicled the evolution, and predicted too much change could mean one thing:
The Den
would suck.

For weeks, the cast and crew were crazy busy doing the thousands of things required to create a TV drama before shooting a single frame. If
The Den
were to get a fall debut, it would be late in the season, and only if the network canceled another debut show. Their success depended on the failure of others, or as David put it, “That's entertainment!”

Episode 101's premise: a revenge porn plot about a high school girl, her jilted boyfriend, and a soulless troll. Sophia's character had two juicy scenes: In Act One, she comforted the suicidal girl whose naked pics were posted all over the Internet. In Act Three, she confronted the revenge porn site's creator in his basement lair and trashed his computer setup in a fury. She rehearsed her scenes with Demi and David every night until the first day of shooting in mid-September.

The night before, Sophia and Demi sat on their couch eating ice cream. Sophia could never decide on a flavor so they ended up getting three: Neopolitan (Sophia's fave), chocolate chip mint (Demi ate around the mints), and cookie dough. They were watching the reality show
The Harem
, mocking it. Demi said, “Ohh, she's crying again!” of one of the harem contestants. “Listen for it, she's going to say, ‘My heart hurts.'” On screen, sure enough, the girl said, “I feel betrayed! I really fell in love with the Sultan, but he gave the orchid to Shasanna. My heart hurts.”