Plus One (36 page)

A
lex had been holed up in the pantry of the new Top Dog training facility for six hours straight, eyes fixed on a bank of monitors. His butt hurt and the muscles in his lower back were knotted up. They were behind schedule on what was supposed to be the final day of shooting, and Clive had been AWOL since just after ten. “You got this,” Clive had said on his way out to a progress meeting with an exec at the Nature Channel. He'd promised to bring back a deal memo; Alex had begun to worry a little about their supposedly rock solid commitment and looked forward to seeing some actual documentation. “Let Nancy deal with crew,” Clive had told him. “You stay on story. Any problems, hit me on my Blackberry.”

So far, Alex hadn't needed to call. He was handling it. That's what everyone kept saying—Nancy, a gum-snapping Aussie with a tight perm, couldn't stop raving about what a “natural” he was in the dynamics of “occu-soap,” industry parlance for this particular
genre of true-life workplace soap opera. It didn't seem that complicated to him; it was all about making sure the camera was pointed wherever interesting stuff was going on. Story sense, Nancy called it. This morning in the grooming parlor, for instance, as the dogs were being prepped for a competition that would serve as a climax of the pilot, he had to physically escort the second camera guy away from Maria, the Botoxed, bejeweled owner of a bichon frise. No, Alex said, steering the cameras back toward Al and Gina. Al, the heavy-browed, ox-like guy who technically owned the operation, had a way of clamming up when the cameras rolled. Alex had spent much of the morning jogging onto the set between takes to feed him encouragement. But there was something in his big, baleful eyes—a reluctance to play along with the big charade that made you love him. This morning he'd been fussing with a lumpy, lumbering shar-pei named Blossom, fitting her collar with a fat purple bow and muttering into her ear to calm her nerves. Gina was pacing behind him, her heels tapping percussively on the concrete floor.

“Dad, we can't enter Blossom. She's not ready. No way will she hold still during judging. And she looks like a hippo.”

Al squeezed the dog's wrinkly neck and shrugged. “She's spunky,” he said. “And I think she looks great.”

“I know
you
like her, Pop, but this is America. People in this country don't want spunky—they want beautiful.”

Al grimaced and took his daughter's face in his hands. “My gut is good, little dove,” he said. “My gut says Blossom wins.”

Gina made an exasperated huff and wriggled away. “We've only got one entry. If we go with Blossom, we lose. I'm getting the bichon ready.”

Back in the pantry production booth, Nancy turned and high-fived Alex. “Gold!” she trumpeted. “We got stakes! Clive's gonna love this.”

Alex half-smiled, half-shrugged, unsure whether he really
did have a natural talent for orchestrating reality TV or whether the bar for judging reality TV was as low as it seemed.

He was on his way outside to catch a little fresh air when his phone buzzed. He checked the caller ID: FIGGY CELL. His eyes narrowed. She'd been out of town for close to a month now, extending her trip after a production overrun and then barely talking with him when Rosa took the kids out for a long weekend. Since then their conversations had been brief, terse and mostly focused on the comings and goings of the kids. A conversation here would be tricky—he'd decided to put off telling her about the show until they got a firm air date—but since he'd already ignored two of her messages today, he ducked outside and took the call.

“Hey,” she said. “Where've you been?”

“Here at the house.”

“I called twice last night and three times this morning.”

“Sorry,” Alex said. “It's crazy here.”

The line went silent. Alex closed his eyes and gripped his forehead. It physically hurt, lying like this. He wanted to tell her the truth, come clean about the show, his investment, all of it. But until they got the official pickup, she would just write it off as another one of her stepdad's crazy pipe dreams, this one made worse by his involvement. He needed to prove her wrong before she had a chance to object. By the time she got home he'd be a producer with a firm commitment from an actual network (and a suntan).

“We agreed you'd let me Skype with the kids before bedtime,” she said. “That's why I called last night—to speak to my children.”

My
children?

The back door swung open and one of the PAs leaned out. “They're all set for the next scene. Clive's looking for you.”

Alex put a hand over the mouthpiece and flashed a thumbs up.

“Clive?” Figgy asked. “What are you doing with
Clive
?”

“Nothing. I'm just here in the kitchen. That was just Rosa—she wants to know who's doing pickup at school today.”

“You are, right?” she said, quickly changing gears. “They need their emergency kits—did you see that email from the principal? The one to ‘delinquent parents'? About the bag of clothes and the family picture and some kind of recording? You were supposed to turn it in last Friday.”

Alex sighed. “The bags are in the car. I'll swing them by the school later. I've just been really busy—”

“Oh, I know,” she said drily. “It's not like you have swollen wrists and morning sickness and a director who takes two full days to finish a single goddamn scene.”

Alex choked back a response. She was the one who'd gotten knocked up, left town, and then extended her trip by a week. She had no right to complain; her standing in the court of misery had been revoked.

“You still nauseous? What does the doctor say?” He knew from their online calendar that she'd had an appointment with an OB-GYN at Johns Hopkins.

“Green tea and wristbands,” she said. “Utter bullshit. I've gotta scoot—talk later.”

And that, apparently, was that. He'd wanted to ask about the sonogram. Had she found out the gender? It would be a boy, no doubt—she'd probably already chosen a name. Abraham—that's what she wanted to call Sam. Alex had nixed it because it was too Jewy. Back when he could nix things. Back before
my body, my choice
.

“Alex? Alex?” He was standing in the alley behind the gym, the phone dead at his side. The PA poked his shoulder. “Clive just showed up—you should get in here.”

• • •

Alex walked into the gym to find Clive stationed against a back wall, keeping watch as Al and Gina lined up four dogs in a row for a pre-competition review. Gina was in a tizzy, the veins on her neck pulsing as she wagged an accusing finger at Al.

“They're gonna laugh us out of the show,” she pleaded. “That dog is not competition ready. Never will be!”

“Let's just see,” he said. Beside him, the shar-pei Blossom lowered herself to the floor and tucked her head down, jowls spilling over her paws. “She's different—the judges
like
different.”

“No, Dad—they like beautiful. Why can't you get that through your skull!”

“Hold it!” The audio guy waved his arm back and forth over his head. “Sorry guys. Street sound. Truck went by—reset. Go again.”

“For godsakes!” Gina threw up her hands and made a beeline to the makeup girl for a touch-up.

Alex went over to Clive and lifted his palms in a gesture of “what can you do?” Clive pulled a pocket square from his blazer and mopped his cheeks.

“It's like a Bikram class in here,” he said. “We're gonna need to swap these incandescents with some LEDs. Less heat. Definitely worth it for the long haul. We'll get that in the budget for round two.”

“Sounds good,” Alex said.

“So—looking good? We making the day?”

Alex straightened up. “Sure. You're gonna love the Al-Gina stuff.”

“Looks great.” Clive put his arm around Alex's shoulder and pulled him in. “Having fun? Looking dynamite—color on your face, like a young George Hamilton over here. I knew you'd be great at this. We're all set for round two.”

“Sorry?” Alex stiffened. “Round two?”

“Next round of financing. Get us through post, overages,
reshoots. It's all in the prospectus. Can't be more than another sixty thou—”

Alex pulled back. “What? I thought once we shot the presentation, the Nature Channel was stepping in—”

“About that.” Clive mopped his brow with his hankie. “Talked that over at lunch today. They've made some changes over there. Big shakeup. New guy's frozen the whole development slate, says he wants to develop fresh properties. He's got some housekeeping deal with Magical Elves, and they're doing a doggie weight-loss show—as if anyone wants to see
that
.”

Alex took a second to process. What Clive was saying—it couldn't be what it sounded like. “But the new guy—he'll come around, right? We've got a commitment, right?”

Clive shrugged. “We
had
a commitment,” he said. “But our guy is out. And you know how it goes with these executive shuffles—the new regime won't touch the old guard's stuff. Politics.”

Alex felt the air go out of his chest. “You said this was a done deal. You told me this was pre-sold.”

Clive pulled him back into a half-embrace. “Did I say that? No—pretty sure I didn't say
that
. Anyhow, it's just a speed bump! We'll take it back out to market. Nat Geo and ABC Family passed, but I can take it to Nit-com in Cannes, or Reelz in D.C.—I can do like twenty meetings in a day over there, do the whole dog-and-pony show, lock down international rights.”

Alex rubbed a knuckle against his temple. “So you're telling me we've just spent—that
I've
just spent—two hundred thirty thousand dollars on a show that has… no network, no home, no interest at all? We're all on our own? And now you want another sixty thousand?”

Clive straightened up and tugged at his beard. “It's gonna be fine, Alex. You'll see. We just can't lose our focus. You make your day here, then tomorrow you'll call Jess, maybe get us in touch with some people who can help. You and Jess are tight, right? I
mean, thinking logistically here, if you talk to Jess, he's not gonna turn around and run to Figgy, would he? Because we don't need to loop her in until we're on firm footing, right? Anyhow, you just go back and cut us a check and we'll get started on round two….”

A bead of sweat slid down the bridge of Alex's nose and dripped into his eye. A siren rang out from the street outside, and the dogs began howling, their voices mingling into a single high-pitched wail. Clive was still talking, still pitching, still clapping Alex's shoulder and telling him it was all going to be fine. But of course it wasn't.

• • •

He stumbled out onto the sidewalk in a daze, blinking hard in the afternoon glare, dried sweat itching his neck. The crew was setting up for another shot inside. He needed to lie down. He needed a drink. He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked up and down at the neighboring storefronts, narrow boutiques and specialty shops crammed against the warehouse-size space with the new Top Dog sign above the door. Forget the show—a deluxe doggie gym in the middle of Hollywood was ridiculous enough. Even more ridiculous was that Alex's name was on the lease—Clive was still incorporating the production when Alex signed the papers. How was this
not
going to fail? What had he been thinking?

He got into the minivan and pulled into traffic. Automatically, he headed south to Koreatown. Miranda lived in a courtyard apartment south of Wilshire that had been graceful and desirable fifty years ago but was now occupied by sketchy old-timers, huge immigrant families, and the occasional slumming hipster. He followed an elderly lady through the front gate and went up the back stairs, squeezing past a man carrying a bouquet of inflatable toys.

Alex paused at her front door and ran a hand through his
hair. He flashed back to Miranda on the street, hand on his neck, voice in his ear:
Whatever I can do that doesn't complicate your life… I'm available.

He pressed the button on her door, the dull clang like the bell on a kid's bicycle.

From inside came the intoxicating thump of bare feet on hardwood floors. Miranda swung open the door. “Sher?” Her blonde eyelashes cast pinkish shadows down her cheeks. She was in a tufty robe with a beige towel turbaned around her head. “What are you—?”

Alex moved past her. He took in her apartment. It was a one-room studio, with a little kitchenette in the corner and an unmade bed under the window. The walls were off-white and bare except for a pair of spidery line drawings. The whole space was tiny and bright and clean—like the inside of an egg. He reached the center of the room, and not seeing anywhere else to sit, plopped down on the bed.

“Aren't you shooting today? Is everything okay?”

He held his stomach and closed his eyes. “Sure—everything's fine.” He looked up at her, his eyes wide and pleading, flashing for a second on Blossom the shar-pei crouched down beside Al.

“So—you're wrapped? All done?”