Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (3 page)

“I’ve got a wonderful idea. Why don’t I take you someplace where we can discuss our love of the bard over chilled martinis?”

Good heavens! The guy was old enough to be my really old father. Was he actually asking me out on a date?

“I know a charming French restaurant that serves the most wonderful
pommes frites.”

Sure sounded like a date to me.

“Well?” He smiled hopefully.

“Gee, I’d love to, but…”

But what? What was I going to tell him?

“But she’s engaged to be married.”

I turned to see Kandi back at my side. I shot her a grateful smile.

“Her fiance Duane is a great guy,” Kandi said, “but terribly jealous.”

“Lucky man,” Wells said. He took my hand and kissed it. “A pleasure meeting you, my dear.”

Then, undoubtedly brokenhearted, he headed over to the pastry tray to seek solace in a prune danish.

“Duane?” I whispered to Kandi. “My fiance’s name is Duane?”

“You don’t like it? Invent your own lovers.”

By now, Audrey and Stan had wandered over to the conference table.

“Okay, everybody,” Audrey called out, “let’s get started.”

Kandi and I took our seats at the table.

It was interesting to note that Audrey, not Stan, sat at the head of the table. Stan sat at her right hand, puffy and pasty-faced, taking occasional sips from an Evian water bottle.

Dale was still on the phone with his imaginary celebrity. “Gotta run, Antonio,” he said, loud enough for everybody to hear. “Give my best to Melanie.”

Kandi kicked me under the table and rolled her eyes.

“Before we start reading,” Audrey said, “I’d like you all to meet the author of this week’s script, Jaine Austen.”

Quickly, before anyone could say, “Love your books,” I added, “No relation.”

Zach, the teenage adonis, looked up from where he was marking his script with a highlighter.

“No relation to who?”

Uh-oh. Not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed
.

“Jeez,” Vanessa sighed. “Don’t you know anything? Jane Austen is a famous writer.”

Zach’s eager smile faded. “Oh.”

“She wrote the movie
Clueless.
”

I waited for someone to point out that Jane had been dead for almost two centuries, but obviously no one was willing to ruffle the star’s feathers.

Audrey glanced over at the director. He took his cue.

“Here we go, folks,” he said. “Act One. Fade In: Muffy’s Bedroom—Day….”

As Kandi predicted, the reading went well. People were actually laughing. Mostly at Quinn Kirkland’s lines. Even the lines that weren’t so funny got laughs when Quinn said them.

Vanessa didn’t seem to mind that Quinn was getting all the laughs. I guess she’d quite wisely figured out that her talent lay not in her comedic abilities but in her amazing bustline. Dale, on the other hand, clenched his jaw at every laugh Quinn got. Clearly, the
Me
of
Muffy ’n Me
was feeling a tad threatened.

But that was his problem, not mine.

I was just happy nobody farted.

Chapter Three

N
ever Get Attached to Your Jokes. That’s the first thing you learn when you’re a sitcom writer. Because, chances are, they’re going to be rewritten.

The rewrite process, I was about to discover, was a ruthless affair. No joke was sacred. If it didn’t work in rehearsal, it was gone. Even if it worked in rehearsal, but someone thought of something funnier in the rewrite session, it was gone. So if you ever decide to become a sitcom writer, remember to grow a very thick skin.

Luckily, a couple of my jokes had scored well in the read-through. So the process wasn’t too excruciating. Besides, I was happy just to be there.

Kandi and I spent the rest of the day working on the script with Audrey and Stan. As I had observed earlier, Audrey was the undisputed captain of the
S.S. Muffy
. Who would have thought that a woman with Audrey’s icy good looks could be funny?

Sitting across from her, I marveled at how thin she was. Everything about her was thin. Her legs, her waist, her hips—even her nostrils. The only thing that wasn’t thin was her thick head of perfectly coifed blond hair. I could tell it was going to be a struggle not to hate her.

Audrey and Kandi were the ones coming up with the strongest jokes. I managed to get in a few gags here and there. As for Stan, he sat with his feet up on his desk, sipping from his Evian bottle, and reading
Variety
—the Pillsbury Doughboy gone Hollywood. Every once in a while, he’d toss out an idea, which Audrey would promptly ignore.

At about one o’clock, we sent out for lunch from a trendy bistro. Audrey ordered a Chinese chicken salad, Kandi ordered a tuna on whole wheat, and Stan—clearly not worried about his burgeoning waistline—ordered the steak with shoestring fries.

“And what will you have, Jaine?” Audrey asked, looking up at me over the rims of her five-hundred-dollar designer glasses. I scanned the menu, looking for something lo-cal. It was a toss-up between the nicoise salad and the fruit plate.

“I’ll have the meatloaf platter.”

What did I tell you? No willpower whatsoever. It’s disgraceful,
n’est-ce pas?

Stan looked at me with newfound interest.
Aha
, he seemed to be saying.
A fellow nosher.

“Help yourself to something to drink from the refrigerator,” Audrey said, as she phoned in our lunch order.

And that’s where I made my big mistake. I got up and headed for the small refrigerator in the corner of the room.

“No!” Stan shouted.

Huh? Hadn’t Audrey just told me to ‘help myself’?

Stan smiled apologetically. “Not that refrigerator. Use the one in the kitchen.”

Kandi jumped up.

“I’ll show her where it is,” she said, steering me out of the room.

“What was that all about?” I asked when we were in the hall. “What’s he keep in that refrigerator, anyway? Cocaine?”

“Close,” she said. “All those bottles of Evian you see him drinking?”

“Yeah?”

“They’re not Evian. They’re gin.”

“But he was drinking that stuff at ten in the morning.”

“I know. He’s amazing, isn’t he? I’m surprised his liver is still functioning. He usually manages to stay awake until about three. Then he starts nodding off. By five, he’s snoring like a buzzsaw.”

We got some real Evian water from the designated refrigerator and headed back to the office. I snarfed my lunch down in mere minutes. Almost as quickly as Stan polished his off. He offered me some of his fries, which I had every intention of refusing. I wish I had. They were much too salty.

When Audrey had managed to force down a few mouthfuls of her Chinese chicken salad, we went back to work. Sure enough, by three o’clock, Stan was dozing. By five, I got a bird’s-eye view of his tonsils as he snored. Audrey finally swatted him with a rolled-up script.

“Wake up, Stan. We can’t concentrate with all that racket.”

“Sorry.” He smiled sheepishly. “Guess I must’ve dozed off.”

We worked until six, then sent the script off to be retyped and distributed to the actors, so they could have a fresh batch of lines to complain about.

“Well, kiddo,” Kandi said as we walked to our cars. “You survived the first day. It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

And I had to admit, it wasn’t.

“You want to grab a bite to eat?” I asked.

“I can’t.” Kandi’s eyes danced with excitement. “I’ve got a date.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were seeing anybody.”

“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to jinx it.” She put her bag down on the trunk of her car and hugged me. “Oh, God, Jaine. This one is Mr. Right.”

Kandi says that about every guy she dates. For a girl who grew up on the mean streets of New York, Kandi can be incredibly naïve when it comes to men. But she looked so darn happy, I didn’t want to bust her bubble.

“So?” I asked, faking enthusiasm. “What’s he like?”

“Wonderful!” she gushed, a fountain of hope springing eternal. “I’ll tell you all about him tomorrow. I promise!”

And with that, she gave me a quick hug and got into her car.

I watched her drive away, hoping that this time Kandi’s Mr. Right wouldn’t turn out to be another Mr. Mistake. Then I stepped over a banana peel that had fallen from the commissary dumpster and opened the door to my Corolla. The studio was quiet. The roller coaster had long since shut down for the day. The terrified tourists whose screams had pierced the air were now safely ensconced in their hotel rooms, vowing never again to trust their travel agents.

It had been a rough day for all of us. And we all survived. But unlike the tourists, I had to do it all over again tomorrow.

The first thing I did when I got home that night was reach for my Prozac. No, I’m not on antidepressants (not yet, anyway). Prozac is my cat, a twelve-pound furball with the appetite of a longshoreman.

I found her in the bedroom, curled up on my best cashmere sweater.

“Where the hell have you been?” she said, glaring at me balefully. (Okay, so she didn’t actually say that, but I knew that’s what she was thinking.) Prozac was used to having me home all day, at her beck and call, feeding her snacks and rubbing her belly on demand. I’d explained to her that this show biz thing was my big break, that soon she’d be eating Bumblebee tuna in the Malibu sun, but I guess she’d been too busy licking her privates to pay any attention.

“Prozac, honey,” I said, scooping her up in my arms. “Forgive me for leaving ooo home alone! Pweese? Pwetty pweese?”

She shot me a look that undoubtedly meant, “Will you stop that inane baby talk? I’m a cat. Not an infant. Now where’s my dinner?”

I hustled into the kitchen and opened a can of Gourmet Fish Innards, which she inhaled in record time.

Then, to celebrate my first day on the job, I poured myself a tiny glass of chardonnay. Oh, who am I kidding? It was a jelly glass, and I filled it practically to the brim.

I brought my chardonnay into the living room, along with a Jumbo Jack I’d picked up on the way home, and settled down on my sofa to enjoy the view. Of course, the only view outside my living room window is the neighbor’s azalea bush. But I don’t mind. I like azaleas. I’d much rather watch them than the evening news.

I live in a one-bedroom apartment in the slums of Beverly Hills. Well, technically it’s not a slum. Technically it’s a pleasant, middle-class street dotted with duplexes and jacaranda trees and small yapping dogs who drive Prozac crazy. But compared to the mega-mansions north of Sunset Boulevard, it’s a slum. Trust me on that one.

My apartment is the back unit of a 1940’s duplex. It’s got the original hardwood floors, the original tile-work—and the original plumbing. Which is why I’m on a first-name basis with the guys at Toiletmasters.

As I sat sipping my chardonnay and watching the azaleas, Prozac ambled over. Still hungry after her fishgut dinner, she leaped up on the coffee table and started nosing around my Jumbo Jack. I crumbled a few pieces of the burger and put them on a napkin for her. She sucked them up in a single gulp and wailed for more.

“That’s it,” I said. “No more. Absolutely not. You’ve had enough.”

She looked up at me with huge green eyes, doing her best to look adorable.

“Forget it,” I said. “I’m not changing my mind.” Defiantly, I grabbed the burger and took a bite.

She meowed piteously.

“Besides,” I said, over her howls, “I’m hungry. All I had for lunch today was a tiny nicoise salad.”

She shot me a look that said,
Yeah, right, and I climbed Mount Everest
.

It went on that way for a minute or two, Prozac staring at me and me trying to ignore her meows. You’d have thought she hadn’t eaten in days.

I caved in, of course. I always do. I gave her some more burger and took what remained of the Jumbo Jack into the bathroom, where I sat on the edge of the tub and ate it in peace.

I was just licking the last of the ketchup from my fingers when I heard someone knocking at the front door.

It was my neighbor, Lance Venable.

Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he looks the part: tall and slim, with narrow feet and a headful of tight blond curls. We’ve never actually spoken about it, but I’ve always assumed that he’s gay, an assumption I made one night when I saw him kissing another guy on his front steps.

The trouble with Lance is he’s got x-ray hearing. I’m not kidding. A dog barks in Pomona, and Lance hears it. Needless to say, he hears everything that goes on in my apartment. I listen to
Jeopardy,
and Lance shouts out the answers. I peel an onion, and he cries. I gargle, and he spits. All of which leaves a lot to be desired in the privacy department. But on the plus side, he’s a really nice guy who’s been there for me when I need him.

“So?” he grinned. “How was your first day on the job?”

“Come on in, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

I poured him some wine, and we sat facing each other at opposite ends of the sofa, taking turns rubbing Prozac’s belly while I gave him the highlights of my day.

“Vanessa Duffy wears falsies on her tush?” he said when I was through.

“It’s only a rumor.”

“Can I spread it?”

“Be my guest.” I felt absolutely no loyalty to V.D. after what she’d said about my script.

Lance put down his wine and grinned, excited. “Guess what?” he said. “I’ve got a really terrific idea for a sitcom.”

Uh-oh. Kandi warned me stuff like this would happen. Everyone in Los Angeles has an idea for a movie/sitcom/game/talk show. Once people know you’re in show business, they want to pitch it to you.

“Oh?” I said warily.

“About a bunch of people working in the shoe department of a high-end department store. Called
If the Shoe Fits.”
He beamed proudly. “Either that, or
There’s No Business Like Shoe Business.”

“Sounds great,” I lied.

“I’m so glad you like it. Because I thought maybe we could work on it together.”