Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (7 page)

“Uh…hi, guys,” she said, trying to pretend she hadn’t been listening to our conversation. “I brought you the revised scripts.”

Then, as quick as Freddy the ferret, she tossed us our scripts and scurried away, armed with fresh fodder for the gossip mill.

We spent the morning with Audrey and Stan, writing the teacher-in-the-sink scene. Audrey had totally regained her Ice Queen composure. Looking at her, you’d never guess that less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d been oozing fury. In fact, she was so cool and collected, I was beginning to wonder if maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe she hadn’t been having an affair with Quinn. Maybe her anger yesterday was simply the anger of a head writer whose actors have been behaving badly.

But then I looked down and saw how tightly she was clutching her pencil, so tightly that the veins in her hand were standing up like mountain ranges on a relief map. And I figured maybe I hadn’t been wrong after all.

And was it my imagination, or was Stan gulping down his Evian/gin even faster than usual? If Audrey had been having an affair with Quinn, did Stan know about it? Did he care? Or did they have one of those Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell relationships?

I could have gone on like that for hours, musing on the nature of their relationship, but there was a Malibu beach house at stake, so I forced myself to concentrate on the job at hand and think up some jokes for a teacher-cum-goldfish.

At noon we broke for lunch, and Kandi and I headed back to our office.

“Want to go to the commissary?” I asked.

“I can’t face the commissary.” Kandi sighed, stretching out on the filthy plaid sofa in our office. “I don’t want to risk running into Quinn.”

“Kandi!” I said, eyeing the sofa. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to cover it with a towel? What if you get a yeast infection?”

“Oh, who cares? I’m never going to have sex again anyway, so what does it matter?”

“You want me to get us some sandwiches?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“C’mon, you’ve got to eat something.”

“Okay, bring me a sandwich.”

“Brown or white?”

“You choose.”

I left her lying on the germ-infested sofa and made my way to the commissary.

Kandi needn’t have worried; Quinn was nowhere to be seen. The commissary was practically deserted. The only people there were some extras in cop uniforms from
PMS Squad
, sitting at a table in the middle of the room. As I walked past their table, I heard one of them say, “…and she wrote
Screw You
on his windshield with her lipstick.”

Wow. When it came to news dissemination, this place was faster than CNN.

I got two brown sandwiches from Helga the Sandwich Nazi and headed out into the sunshine.

It was such a nice day, I decided to take a little walk. I wandered down to the end of the lot, to the Haunted House set, where Miracle’s blockbuster movie
Biker Vixens From Hell
was shot. Like the Miracle roller coaster, the Haunted House looked as if it had been made from old popsicle sticks. The only thing that kept it from falling apart, I suspected, were termites holding hands.

I wandered up to the front porch and peered in the windows. I knew the house was an illusion, a false front with nothing behind it. Nevertheless, as I looked inside, I half expected to see candelabras and Persian rugs and old furniture shrouded with cobwebs. Of course, I didn’t see any of that. All I saw were some scaffolds and beyond that, the hookers strutting their stuff on Santa Monica Boulevard.

I sat down in a rusted glider and tried to pretend I was on the porch of a Malibu beach house, gazing out at the ocean, the sea breezes whipping through my hair. Which wasn’t all that easy to do, considering I was looking out at a row of metal Porta Potties.

I was swinging back and forth on the glider, listening to the rhythmic creaking of the old springs, when I remembered my mother’s offer to fix me up with Ernie Lindstrom, the guy who was either a fireman or recently fired. Gad. The last thing I needed was a fix-up from my mom.

My mother means well, but she has this uncanny knack for digging up the world’s most inappropriate men. Like that guy from her chat room who turned out to be a prisoner. And the engineering student from Laos who, when I asked him what he thought of Prozac, said, “She’d be delicious in a stew.”

Besides, I was a grown woman; I could get my own dates. Well, actually I couldn’t, but that was beside the point. I simply didn’t want to go out with another one of Mom’s walking disaster areas. I’d have to write her a very stern e-mail telling her so.

I sat on the glider a few minutes more, watching the sun shine on the Porta Potties. Then suddenly a squirrel came skittering across the porch with a bagel in his mouth. A humungous sesame bagel. Almost as big as he was. And from where I sat, it looked pretty darn good. A lot better than my brown mystery-meat sandwich.

“Hey, little fella,” I said. “Want to trade lunches?”

The squirrel froze in his tracks and stood perfectly still, hoping that he and his bagel would blend in with the scenery.

“You give me your bagel,” I said, “and I’ll give you this lovely brown sandwich.”

With that, he blinked twice and shot up the drain-pipe. Obviously this was a squirrel with a discerning palate.

“Hey, you!”

I looked up and saw a security guard out in the roadway, perched on a golf cart, the main means of transportation on most studio lots. He was a beefy guy who looked like he was poured into his uniform and forgot to say “when.” One deep breath, and the buttons on his shirt were history.

“No sitting on studio sets!” he shouted.

I picked up my sandwiches and got down off the porch.

“You’re not supposed to leave the tour,” he said as I approached the cart.

“I’m not a tourist,” I bristled. “I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?” His eyes squinted in disbelief. “What show?”

“Muffy ’n Me
.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “You mean
Blazing Mattresses
. That’s what we call it down at the guard house.”

Apparently news of the Vanessa/Quinn boinkfest had reached the security department.

“I heard they had to send the bedspread out to be cleaned.”

“I’d better get back to the office,” I said, afraid that any minute now one of his shirt buttons would pop off and poke my eye out.

“Need a ride?” He patted the seat next to him and shot me a lascivious grin, no doubt hoping that all the women on the
Muffy
set were as promiscuous as its star.

“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and took off down the road.

I waited till he was out of sight, then started back to the Writers’ Building. I hadn’t gone very far when I saw some trailers lined up behind the
Muffy ’n Me
soundstage. As I got closer I could see these were the actors’ trailers, their names printed on the doors.

I couldn’t help noticing that Vanessa’s trailer was right next to Quinn’s. If they were going to have sex, I wondered, why couldn’t they just stay in their trailers? Why did they have to risk exposure by doing it on the soundstage? Clearly, they must have been turned on by the thrill of making love in a public place.

Suddenly I heard a woman’s voice coming from Quinn’s trailer.

“How could you, Quinn? I thought we meant something to each other.”

It sounded like Audrey, but I couldn’t be sure.

And then I did something foolish, almost as foolish as making love in a public place. I tiptoed up the steps of the trailer and listened at the door.

“Lighten up, Audrey,” Quinn was saying. “You know as well as I do that our affair wasn’t going anywhere. You’re a married woman, and I’m a married man. What did you think—that I was going to leave my wife and run off with you?”

Audrey’s voice was thick with emotion when she said, “Yes, Quinn, I did.”

Quinn laughed.

“And wind up a lapdog like Stan? Forget it, sweetie. Besides, you’re not really my type. I like ’em younger and wilder.”

Although I couldn’t see Audrey, I could picture her, her thin lips clamped shut, her blue eyes icy with rage.

“You’re off the show, Quinn. You’re history. I’m going to have you fired.”

“Oh, really?” Quinn said. “Just try. The network loves me. They’ll never let me go.”

“I’ll get you off this show,” Audrey hissed, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

And then I heard her coming toward the door. I leaped off the steps and ducked around the side of the trailer just as the door flew open. I crouched down, praying Audrey wouldn’t see me as she passed by. My heart pounding, I squeezed my eyes shut, too terrified to face her if she should discover me. I stayed that way for a minute or two. When I finally forced myself to open my eyes, Audrey was nowhere in sight.

That was the good news. The bad news was that I was not alone. For the first time I realized there was someone else crouched down behind me. I turned and looked at my companion.

It was Stan.

All the color had drained from his face. Obviously, he’d heard everything. I waited for him to say something, to read me the riot act, to fire me.

But all he did was reach for his Evian bottle.

Chapter Eight

“H
ow delightful to see you again, my dear,” Wells Dumont said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips for a moist kiss.

It was four o’clock, and we were down on stage waiting for what’s known as the “run-through” of “Cinderella Muffy” to begin. On most sitcoms, the actors run through the script at the end of the day, so the writers can see what’s working, and what needs to be fixed.

Of course, what with all the real-life drama in the air that day, everyone had pretty much forgotten about my script.

Everyone except Wells.

“What a charming script,” he said. “As I was saying the other day, it brings to mind a production of
Love’s Labours Lost
I once starred in, back in England. That was right after my successful run as
Macbeth
in London’s West End. And right before I came to America to play the Scottish thane on Broadway.”

How pathetic, I thought. From
Macbeth
to
Muffy
. Talk about your downhill career slides.

“Perhaps some day you’ll allow me to show you my scrapbook.”

“That sounds great,” I said, smiling wanly.

What was it with me and older guys, anyway? First Mr. Goldman, and now Wells. For some strange reason, old coots seemed to find me wildly attractive.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll go get some coffee.”

Tongues were wagging at full speed as I made my way across the stage to the buffet table. The production staff stood in gossipy clumps, shooting covert glances at Vanessa and Quinn.

The happy couple were sitting side by side on the sofa in the living room set, Vanessa pushing back her cuticles and Quinn whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Every once in a while, Quinn would glance over at Audrey, as if defying her to stop him. Once again, Audrey had reverted to Ice Queen mode. Whatever emotions were roiling inside her were invisible to the naked eye.

Not so for Zach Levy-Taylor, who could barely contain his rage at the sight of Quinn sitting thigh to thigh with his beloved Vanessa. Zach stood at the edge of the set, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists.

I poured myself some coffee, then eyed the buffet table, hoping to find some sticky buns left over from the actors’ breakfast. Alas, there were none. All that had survived from breakfast was a bowl of dusty apples. Which was a blessing, actually. I’d have a nice healthy apple, only a hundred calories, with nary a fat globule.

I was just about to reach for one when I saw Danny, the production assistant, walk by with a chocolate chip cookie as big as a frisbee.

“Hey, Danny,” I said. “Where’d you get the cookie?”

“Vending machine,” he said. “Backstage.”

I could practically read the thought bubble over his head:
Whoa, Tubby. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

I smiled lamely. “It’s for Kandi.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding as if he actually believed me.

Danny’s thought bubble was right, of course. The last thing I needed was a chocolate chip cookie as big as a frisbee. Absolutely the last thing. For once, I’d show a little restraint. I’d have a lo-cal apple, and that would be that.

Yeah, right. The minute Danny was gone, I sprinted backstage, tripping over cables, looking for the damn vending machine. I finally found it tucked in a dark corner. And there, in slot number C6, were the frisbee-esque chocolate chip cookies.

I fed a dollar bill into the machine and it spat out my cookie. I was just reaching down to retrieve it when I heard, “Those are my favorite.”

I looked up and saw Stan, smiling shyly. He put in his dollar and pressed C6.

There we were, two fellow noshers, sneaking backstage for our sugar fixes. For the second time that day, Stan and I had bumped into each other in places we were ashamed to be seen.

“Really, Stan. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Of course I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. It was Stan who did the talking.

“I don’t know how much you overheard outside Quinn’s trailer today,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d forget I ever heard it.”

He was still smiling, but it was a hard-around-the-edges smile that made me slightly uneasy. Was it my imagination, or was mild-mannered Stan Miller actually threatening me?

Then, as quickly as it had come, his menacing air disappeared. Stan was back in doofus mode. He ripped off the cellophane from his cookie and gobbled it eagerly.

“Know what’s also good?” he said. “D4. Grandma’s Brownies.”

And with that, he went waddling back on stage, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips.

Back at the buffet table, Kandi was pouring herself some coffee.

“God, this is excruciating,” she sighed, watching Quinn run his finger along Vanessa’s downy cheekbone. “I don’t know how I could have ever been in love with him.”

“Want a bite of my cookie?” I asked, holding out my chocolate chip frisbee.