Power Play (11 page)

“Hi, Roddy,” she said. “How are you?”

“Great,” Roddy replied.

Monica turned to Eric. “Roddy's been with
Soap World
three years now. He takes great pictures.”

“That's good to know.” Eric held out his hand. “Eric Mitchell.”

“Nice to meet you. You're a lucky man.”

“Don't I know it.”

At Roddy's command, Eric posed with Monica. He was starting to like posing with her. It was fun.

“When is this going to run?” Monica asked Carolyn.

“Next week, hopefully. We might want a longer feature at some point in the future—
if
you two manage to go the distance.”

Eric and Monica chuckled in unison, as if Carolyn's inference that their relationship might be a short-term thing was absurd. It did make Eric think back to their earlier conversation about who should eventually dump whom. He was of the mind now that it should be mutual. That way they'd both save face.

“Thanks for your time,” Carolyn sniffed.

“Anytime,” said Monica.

Eric and she watched her make her way up to the control booth, mild-mannered Roddy in tow.

“What a bitch,” Eric murmured under his breath. He wasn't surprised when Monica looked pleased that he said that.

 

Back in her dressing room with Eric after the shooting of her scenes were postponed by the delay of Wallace Mendelson, the actor who played Grayson's father, Monica parsed the interview in her mind. The way Carolyn had commented on what a
“good actor”
Eric was—obviously she thought their whole relationship was bull. Perhaps she even suspected Monica of trying to counteract Carolyn's obvious championing of Chesty. Monica decided she'd wait and see how Carolyn's piece about her and Eric turned out. If it was snotty and full of insinuation that they weren't the real thing, more drastic action might need to be taken.

“How did I do?” Eric asked, settling down on the couch.

“Okay,” Monica said flatly.

“Just okay?”

“What was that ‘she's teaching me a lot' comment? It made me sound like Henry Higgins.”

“Who?”

“Henry Higgins?
Pygmalion
?”

Eric shrugged. “Don't know it.”

“You don't know
Pygmalion
?”

Eric looked annoyed. “Should I?”

Should he? Probably not. He was a jock, not a culture vulture. Though if Chim Chim had starred as Eliza Doolittle, it might be different. Even so, Monica again found herself admiring his lack of pretense. A lot of guys might have said, “Oh, yeah, right.
Pygmalion
, great play, Henry Higgins, ha-ha-ha.” Not Eric. He seemed perfectly comfortable with who he was.

“I thought I did pretty well,” Eric continued.

“Not to nitpick, but I also could have done without the comment you made about my costar's acting, too. Carolyn probably thinks it's a line I fed you.”

“She can think what she wants,” said Eric. “That new girl blows.”

“I agree.” Monica sighed. “Sorry if I seem pissy. I just find Carolyn really, really annoying.”

“She doesn't seem to like you very much.”

“I know, and I don't know why! I've never been anything but gracious to her!”

“Jealousy,” Eric declared.

“That's very sweet of you.”

A knock sounded at the door. Gloria, no doubt, come to feast her eyes on Eric. She'd been badgering Monica about him since the dinner at the Temple of Dendur. Had they made the “beast with two backs” yet? Was he wining her, dining her, letting her run her hands up and down his rippling six-pack abs? Monica told her it was a faux relationship, figuring that if anyone would understand, it was Gloria, who'd supposedly once staged her own kidnapping back in her glory days. Gloria didn't seem to care. As long as Monica was getting some “satisfaction” from the Adonis on skates, that was all that mattered.

“Come in,” Monica called.

The door swung open. “Hiiiii.”

Chesty, not Gloria. “Can I come in?” Chessy asked demurely.

Monica wondered what would happen if she said “No.”

“Of course,” said Monica.

Chessy floated inside like a fairy princess entering an enchanted garden. “Oh,” she said breathlessly.

Oh yourself, you brain-dead twit,
thought Monica. “Chessy, this is my boyfriend, Eric.”

“That's why I'm he-ere,” Chessy sang. “I wanted to meet my favorite hockey player
ever
.”

Monica glanced around, looking for a garbage pail she could throw up into. Eric started to rise from the couch, but Chessy waved him back down. “Oh, don't get up,” Chessy said. “There's no need.”

Eric sat back down as Chessy came slinking over to him. From Cinderella to vamp in three seconds flat. Maybe she could act after all.

“I'm Chessy,” she said breathily, leaning so far over him that her boobs were practically touching Eric's face.

“Uh . . .” Eric appeared too stunned to speak. When Chessy stood back up, Monica caught the gleam of lust in Eric's eyes. She was certain that if he parted his lips, he might drool on himself. Pissed, she turned to Chesty.

“Shouldn't you be on the set?” Monica asked sharply.

“In two,” said Chessy. “But I wanted to make sure I met Eric in case he was leaving soon.” She glanced back and forth between Monica and Eric. “We should all go out sometime. It would be fun.”

Oh, yeah,
thought Monica.
As enjoyable as an enema.
“Would you mind leaving Eric and me alone now?” she murmured, perching on the arm of the couch so she could run her fingers through Eric's hair. “We have some things we need to talk about, if you know what I mean.”

Chessy flashed a terse smile. “Of course.” Her eyes moved to Eric. “It was so great to meet you,” she said in a low, kittenish voice. “I'm sure we'll cross paths again sometime.”

“Sure,” said Eric, sounding slightly dazed.

“Au revoir,” said Chessy, blowing a kiss.

Monica forced a smile and waited for the door to close.

 

“Ow! What the hell are you pulling my hair for?!”

Eric looked upset as Monica released the hank of his hair she'd twisted around her knuckles. The second Monica estimated Chesty was out of hearing range, she'd given Eric's locks a good yank, since her hand was in his hair anyway.

“How stupid are you?” Monica hissed.

“What?” Eric asked confusedly.

“We're supposed to be a
couple
, remember? But there you were, ogling the silicone twins.”

“I was not ogling. I was appreciating.”

“You're my boyfriend! You shouldn't be appreciating anything but me!”

“But I'm not really your boyfriend!” Eric protested.

“But you're supposed to act like you are!”

“Well, even guys who are part of a couple sometimes
look
,” Eric insisted.

“Not when they're with me,” Monica said with a glare. She made a beeline for the bathrobe she kept hanging on the back of the door, digging out the one pack of cigarettes she kept stashed in one of the pockets. She knew it was bad, but she'd started smoking again—not a lot, just one or two a day to get her through. Eric looked horrified as she lit up.

“Don't say it, because I don't want to hear it,” she warned him.

Eric was silent.

“If people are going to believe we're together, you can't stare at other women's boobs!”

“She shoved them in my face!”

“No kidding.” Monica snorted. “I half expected her to offer to nurse you.”

“That is totally gross.” Eric coughed. “I can't breathe.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” said Monica, snuffing out her cigarette. “Better?”

“Much.” Eric paused. He smiled slyly. “It really bothered you, didn't it?”

“What really bothered me?”

“My finding Chessy attractive.”

“Don't be an
ass
.”

“It's okay, you can admit it. In fact, it would be highly unusual if you hadn't developed a little crush on me by now.” He leaned toward her. “Don't worry. I won't tell anyone.”

Monica had never slugged anyone in her life, which is why, when she took aim at Eric, she wound up landing a blow to the side of his head and not his face, the way she intended. Eric recoiled, staring at her like she was nuts.

“
Jesus Christ!
What is wrong with you?! Do you beat up all your boyfriends this way?”

“Only the smug egomaniacs.” Monica couldn't believe how irate she was. Beneath the lab coat, her chest was heaving. “Let's get something straight: I am not bothered in the least that you find that top-heavy little spider attractive. In fact, I find it a little sad. But it does bother me when you say or do something that plants even the smallest seed of doubt in someone's mind that what we have isn't real. So do me a favor: the next time Chesty or some other mewling little imbecile throws herself at you when you're with me, keep your eyes in your head, your tongue from hanging out of your mouth, and”—her eyes flicked to his crotch—“Little Eric in place. Got it?”

“Chesty?” Eric hooted. “You call her Chesty?”

“Shit,” Monica muttered.

“I have to tell the guys that.”

“You do, and you die.”

“I'll pretend I made it up myself.”

Remorse swept over her as Eric rubbed the side of his head. Maybe she was crazy. She put an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry I took a swing at you.”

“It's okay. I kind of liked it.” His smile was tentative. Was he flirting? She contemplated fishing the barely smoked cigarette out of the ashtray and lighting it up. Her mind was turning into one big maze of confusion.

Monica stood. “C'mon. I should probably get down to the set.”

“Can I just stand on the sidelines and watch?”

“As long as you don't get in the way of the technicians, that should be okay. And if Carolyn corners you in between scenes with any questions about us, just tell her you're not comfortable talking about it any further, okay?”

“Gotcha.” He rubbed the side of his head. “Not bad for a girl.”

Monica smiled.

EIGHT

 

Wallace Mendelson, who'd been playing Tucker Lamont for three decades, opened his eyes wide in surprise. A millisecond later, he closed them as his head lolled to his left side.

“Cut!”

Jimmy the director came flying out of the control booth. “Jesus H, Wallace! You do that
after
Monica gives you the shot! You've still got five more lines! What the hell is wrong with you?” Wallace didn't move. Jimmy thrust his head forward. “Wallace?”

Alarmed, Monica gently patted Wallace's cheeks. No response. She jostled his arm. No response. She glanced up at her director uneasily. “Um . . .”

Jimmy clutched the sides of his head, squeezing his forehead so hard it began wrinkling like a shar-pei's. “Oh, no. Oh, Wallace. You bastard. Do not do this to me, man!” He looked around wildly. “Does anyone here know CPR?”

“I do,” Eric volunteered, hustling toward the bed. “Call the paramedics. I'll start working on him.”

“Call 911!” Jimmy yelled to no one in particular.

Monica stood frozen as Eric tore open the old actor's hospital gown, pried open his mouth, and began administering CPR.

“He's dead,” Jimmy moaned to himself. “I know it. In the middle of a scene. I can't believe this. He's always been difficult to work with. Always. I can't—”

“Now isn't the time, Jimmy!” Monica yelled. “Go take some aspirin!”

A tense hush fell over the studio as Eric switched back and forth between puffing breath into Wallace's mouth and giving his chest thirty short pumps at a time with the heel of his hand. Watching him, Monica felt an odd surge of pride that she knew she wasn't entitled to. He wasn't her boyfriend, after all. But there was something about the fact that Eric didn't even hesitate to leap into action for someone he didn't even know that made her proud to know him.

Eric glanced up at Monica briefly, shaking his head no almost imperceptibly. Wallace was dead. Monica's eyes began welling up. Eric kept working on him until the paramedics arrived. Wallace was pronounced dead on the scene. He'd had a massive coronary.

Neither cast nor crew seemed to know what to do once Wallace's body was wheeled away. Some sobbed outright; others huddled in groups, talking in low voices laced with disbelief. Some actors trudged like sleepwalkers back to their dressing rooms.

Looking exhausted, Eric came to Monica's side. One by one, the cast and crew remaining on the studio floor came over to thank him, including the executive producer, who declared the show “dark” for the rest of the day. The only one still present who didn't come to thank Eric was Jimmy, who was holed up in the control booth, sobbing.