Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (2 page)

My Malibu beach house fantasy instantly vanished, replaced by a Dickensian image of me back in my one-bedroom apartment, toiling away at a Toiletmasters brochure.

“Honey, are you okay?” Kandi ran a brush through her mane of enviably straight chestnut hair and gave her eyelashes a quick swipe with mascara.

“Oh, God,” I wailed. “What if the actors don’t like my script?”

Kandi snorted.

“Sweetie, they’re
actors
. The ones with big parts will love it. The ones with small parts will think it ‘needs work.’” She snapped her mascara wand back into its case. “Half of them don’t even read the script. They just go through it with a marker and highlight their lines. If they don’t see a lot of neon yellow on the page, they get pissy.”

Her toilette complete, she reached for her copy of my script.

“Come on. We’d better head over to the stage, or we’ll be late.”

But by now I was frozen with fear in my vermin-infested chair.

“Come on, honey,” she said, prying me up. “It won’t be bad. I promise.”

Then she led me out the door, a Hollywood lamb to the slaughter.

There are three things visitors to Los Angeles should avoid at all costs. Earthquakes. Freeways during rush hour. And the Miracle Pictures Studio Tour. A ninth-rate imitation of the Universal Studios Tour, the Miracle “tour” consisted of a ramshackle tram snaking its way past termite-ridden sets and an ancient roller coaster the Miracle bigwigs picked up cheap from a bankrupt amusement park.

As Kandi and I stepped out of the Writers’ Building into the hazy sunshine, I could see the roller coaster in the distance. The unfortunate tourists strapped on board were screaming in genuine terror. I didn’t blame them. The ride looked like it was made of popsicle sticks held together with Elmer’s glue. Any minute now, the cable would probably snap like a worn-out rubber band.

And the pathetic thing is that I wished I was on it. At that moment, I wished I was anywhere else but on my way to the read-through. By now I was certain the actors would trash my script and blackball me from show biz forever. Heck, after word of my humiliation spread, I’d be lucky to get work from Toiletmasters.

“Will you please stop looking so terrified,” Kandi said. “Everything’s going to be great.”

“Yeah, right. Just like everything was great when you booked us on that singles cruise to Cabo San Lucas.”

Kandi sighed. “Are you never going to let me forget that? I’ve already apologized a gazillion times. How was I supposed to know it was a gay cruise?”

“You could’ve read the brochure, for starters.”

“It wasn’t so bad. You got hit on by some very attractive women.”

At this point, my hysteria was interrupted by a Miracle Studios tram rattling past us. Unlike the roller coaster victims, the tram people were stifling yawns, clearly bored out of their skulls.

But when they saw Kandi and me, walking along with our scripts, they looked up with interest. It suddenly occurred to me that, to these people, we were glamorous. After all, we worked in Hollywood. They probably thought we hobnobbed with the stars, doing lunch with Julia and dinner with Brad.

By now, several of them were starting to wave. For a moment I forgot my terror and basked in their admiration. Maybe this Hollywood thing would work out after all. I smiled at their eager faces and waved back at them demurely, very Queen Elizabeth. Suddenly one of them shouted, “Hey, Vanessa! How’s it going?” And I realized that they weren’t waving at me, but at someone behind me.

I turned and saw the object of their adulation, Vanessa Dennis, the star of
Muffy ’n Me.
A startlingly lovely teenager, Vanessa had the face of an angel and the body of a Barbie doll. I strongly suspected that her breasts, like Barbie’s, were of the man-made variety.

She clomped over to us on tottering heels, her endless legs encased in tight capri pants, her breasts spilling out from a halter top cut so low, it was practically a belt.

“Damn,” Kandi muttered under her breath. “It’s V.D.”

“V.D.?”

“Vanessa Dennis. An affectionate nickname favored by all who know and loathe her.”

Vanessa tottered toward us, ignoring her adoring fans in the tram.

“Watch,” Kandi whispered. “She’s going to ask me for a cigarette. Every week, she asks me for a cigarette. Every week, I tell her I don’t smoke, and she still asks me for a cigarette.”

Vanessa’s breasts were soon at our side; seconds later, the rest of Vanessa showed up.

“Hi, Vanessa,” Kandi said. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine.”

“Whatever,” she said, not bothering to look at me. “You got a cigarette?”

“Sorry.” Kandi smiled through gritted teeth. “I don’t smoke. I may have mentioned that once or twice.”

She turned to me. “How about you?”

“Sorry.” I shrugged apologetically. “I don’t smoke either.”

With that, I ceased to exist for her.

“Christ,” she moaned to Kandi. “Did you see this week’s script? What a piece of crap. Who wrote this shit?”

I smiled weakly.

“That would be me.”

“Oh, well,” she said, not the least bit embarrassed. “Maybe they can fix it in rewrites.” And with that, she hurried off in search of a cigarette.

“Now I know why they call her V.D.”

“Don’t pay any attention to Vanessa,” Kandi said. “She hates all the scripts. Honest. She wouldn’t know something funny if it bit her on the fanny. Which, rumor has it, is at least fifty percent foam rubber.”

“She wears falsies on her tush?”

“Sure. Lots of actresses do.”

I shook my head in amazement. I couldn’t imagine someone actually wanting to increase the size of her butt, when I spent most of my waking hours wishing mine would disappear.

“Enough gossip,” Kandi said. “It’s show time.” And with that she took me by the elbow and ushered me inside my first Hollywood soundstage.

I have to admit, I was impressed. At one end of the cavernous building were the
Muffy ’n Me
sets. I saw Muffy’s cozy living room, her homey kitchen, and her Gidgetesque bedroom—complete with vanity table, lace curtains, and mountains of stuffed animals on her pink chenille bedspread. It was all just like I’d seen it on TV. Only here on the set, there were giant overhead lights, and the floor was crisscrossed with marking tape, to show the actors where to stand.

Across from the sets were the bleachers, where every week a bunch of unsuspecting tourists were herded in to witness the latest adventures of our gal Muffy. Between the two areas, where the cameras would later shoot all the action, a long metal conference table had been set up.

I gulped at the sight of it. In just minutes, I’d be seated at that table, listening to my script being read aloud for the first time.

“C’mon,” said Kandi, “let’s get some coffee.”

She led me over to a buffet table laden with coffee, bagels, danish, and fruit.

“Kandi, I’m wired to the hilt as it is. If I have any coffee, I’ll be bouncing from the ceiling.”

“Cream or sugar?” she asked.

“Both,” I sighed. “Extra sugar.”

“How about a bagel?”

“Nah. Too fattening.”

“There’s the cream cheese.”

“Thanks,” I said, heaping some onto my bagel.

That’s something you should know about me. I’m a lovely person, but a bit wanting in the willpower department.

“Okay,” Kandi said, “let me fill you in on the cast of characters. You see that little guy over there. The one who looks like a Keebler elf?”

She pointed to a short guy in jeans and a sweatshirt, a too-small baseball cap perched on his head. He did look like a Keebler elf. Either that, or one of the Rice Krispies brothers.

“That’s Alan Carlson, the director. The guy’s been directing sitcoms forever. I think he started when Lucy was pregnant with Little Ricky. He’s no Martin Scorcese, but he’s fast and he’s good.

“The big guy he’s talking to is Marco, the prop man. If he looks a little frantic, it’s because his wife is about to give birth any day now.”

“Does Marco know you swiped his stethoscope?”

“No, and don’t go blabbing.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Vanessa, of course, you’ve met.”

I looked over at where Vanessa was sitting at the conference table, fanning herself with my script. Oh, well. At least she wasn’t sitting on it.

A young bronzed surfer dude was at her side, staring at her worshipfully.

“That’s Zach Levy-Taylor.”

I recognized him. “He’s the kid who plays Muffy’s boyfriend on the show.”

“He’d like to be playing her boyfriend off the show, too,” Kandi said, “but Vanessa won’t give him a tumble.”

Indeed, Zach was trying desperately to make conversation, but Vanessa barely glanced at him, concentrating instead on pushing back her cuticles.

“And that’s Dale Burton, the actor who plays Muffy’s dad.”

She pointed to a J. Crewish-handsome man talking loudly into his cell phone.

“Dale’s nuts. I know he looks as normal as apple pie, but he’s certifiable. You know who he’s on the phone with?”

“Who?”

“Probably the recorded weather lady. Or the time-at-the-tone lady.”

“But his lips are moving. He’s talking.”

“I know. He pretends to be talking to big show biz honchos. He wants everybody to think he’s in demand.”

“You’re the greatest, Stevie Spielberg,” I heard him shout into the phone. “Give my best to your lovely wife Kate.”

“Quelle nutcase,” I said.

Then Kandi caught sight of a petite woman with spikey orange hair. “That’s Teri, the makeup lady. Hey, Teri,” she called out. “You get my mascara?”

The orange pixie nodded, holding up a shopping bag.

“I’ll be right back,” Kandi said to me.

“Where are you going?” I asked, panicked. She wasn’t going to leave me alone, was she?

“To pick up my mascara. Teri got it for me wholesale. It’s the same stuff Gwyneth Paltrow uses.”

And before I could stop her, she was sprinting across the room, leaving me stranded at the coffee urn. Everybody around me was chatting it up, oozing camaraderie, and I just stood there, stuffing my face with empty calories. It was my sophomore year in high school all over again.

And then something happened that never happened in high school. A gorgeous guy walked up to me. Tall and rangy, with thick dark hair and startling green eyes.

“Hi,” he smiled, revealing the most beautiful teeth I’d ever seen in my life. I honestly didn’t know teeth could be that white.

I recognized him, of course. He was Quinn Kirkland, the actor who played Muffy’s Uncle Biff.

Now usually in show biz, the gorgeous people aren’t funny. I mean, when was the last time you had a hearty chuckle over a Harrison Ford performance? But Quinn was a definite exception to this rule. From the episodes I’d seen, he was by far the funniest performer on
Muffy
.

“And who might you be?” he asked, still beaming his mega-watt smile.

Uh…wait. I know the answer to that. Just give me a minute.

“Jaine,” I finally managed to blurt out. “Jaine Austen.”

“Really?” he grinned. “I love your books.”

I hear that line all the time. And usually I hate it. But coming from Quinn, it suddenly seemed quite amusing.

“It’s Jaine with an ‘i,’” I explained.

“I liked your script, Jaine-with-an-i,” he said, almost blinding me with his smile.

“Thanks,” I said, blushing furiously.

Good heavens. The man was
exceedingly
attractive. I could practically smell his pheromones in the air.

Quinn was obviously the kind of guy who left a trail of lovestruck women behind him. But I wasn’t about to be one of them. No way. Dating an exceedingly attractive man is like going jogging without a sports bra. Sooner or later, you’re bound to get hurt. Besides, I try never to date anyone who lookes better in a bathing suit than I do.

So I wasn’t about to fall for a guy like Quinn Kirkland. Which is a good thing, because the next thing I knew, Quinn spotted Stan and Audrey Miller coming in the door and dropped me like a hot onion bagel.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve got to talk to some people who are more important than you.”

Okay, so he didn’t really say that.

What he really said was: “Nice talking to you.” And then he proceeded to dash across the room to suck up to the Millers.

If I had to guess, I’d say Stan and Audrey were somewhere in their forties. But I didn’t have to guess, because Kandi told me she’d looked up their ages on their W9 forms.

If ever there was a couple who didn’t looked like they belonged together, Stan and Audrey were it. Audrey was reed thin and perfectly packaged—very Armani. Stan, on the other hand, was a pasty-faced guy with a sizable gut and a fondness for baggy sweats—very Pastrami.

I was standing there, nursing my coffee (I’d long since wolfed down my bagel) and watching Quinn flash his blinding smile at Audrey, when an elderly man with a thick mane of silver hair approached.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, with a velvety English accent. “I’m Wells Dumont.”

“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Dumont. You play Muffy’s neighbor, Mr. Watkins.”

“I hear you’re the writer of this week’s delightful episode.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“It’s really quite amusing. It has a charmingly fey quality that reminds me of Shakespeare’s
Love’s Labour’s Lost.”

Wow. The man was comparing me to Shakespeare! I couldn’t wait to tell the guys at Toiletmasters about this.

“Are you familiar with the bard’s comedies?” he asked hopefully.

“Not intimately, no.”

“Oh.”

He looked so disappointed, like a Jim Carrey fan in a roomful of Hegelian philosophers.

“But I like his other stuff,” I said, trying to cheer him up.

“Really? What’s your favorite Shakespearean play?”

“Uh…
Macbeth
,” I said, pulling one out of thin air and praying he wouldn’t ask me anything about it. Like, say, the plot.

His eyes lit up.

“Really? What a coincidence. It’s my favorite, too. I’ve played the tortured thane many a time.”

Tortured thane? What the heck was a thane?
One of these days, I told myself, I really had to brush up on my Shakespeare. Just as soon as I finished my back issues of
Cosmo
.