Power Play (25 page)

Jason paused. “True.” He shrugged. “Well, we're twin jerks.” He clapped Eric on the back. “You can do this, Bro. She's the one.”

EIGHTEEN

“Hello, everyone. As you know, my name is Christian Larkin, and I'm the new executive producer of
W and F
. You can all just call me Christ for short. Just kidding.”

Monica and Gloria exchanged wary glances. The entire cast and crew were gathered on the set. Rumors had been swirling for months that Michael,
W and F
's long-suffering producer, had decided to leave, the pressure of the job combined with his wife leaving him being too much to handle.

Larkin's reputation preceded him. He was a renowned egomaniac who had executive produced three other soaps over the course of a fifteen-year career. One of the shows had tanked under his leadership; the other two had flourished. Monica heard he'd been lured away from
W and F
's rival,
Shadows and Horizons
, with a big, fat pay increase and the promise of complete control over everything from salaries to set design.

“Now.” Larkin clapped his hands together, the eager elementary school teacher addressing his new class. “This is going to be an exciting time for all of us. I've decided to bring in a new writing team to freshen things up, that's the first thing. The second is, I want you all to begin thinking of
us
as a team, one that wants to win. And for that to happen, we need to really know one another, trust one another. For that reason, the entire cast and crew will be going on a weekend cruise up the Hudson River. The goal is for us to relax and let our hair down, form even stronger bonds that will translate into superior work on every level.”

Jimmy, perhaps infected by the schoolteacher vibe, raised his hand. “What if you can't go?”

“You
will
go. Everyone will go. It's mandatory.”

Resentment rippled across the room. Monica knew most present had families, as well as one or two coworkers they couldn't stand the thought of spending time with in a space where it could be hard to escape. In her case, it was Chesty and Royce. She pictured Royce with a captain's hat on, asking her to be his “first mate.”
God help me,
thought Monica.
This is going to be hell on the high seas.

“I've brought a list of trust exercises we might spend some time doing,” Christian continued authoritatively. “My assistant will be handing them out tomorrow. I'm looking forward to getting to know all of you, and to all of us working to make the show the best it can be when we return.”

The cast and crew broke up slowly. Everyone looked slightly shell-shocked—even Royce, who was always up for a good time, especially if he wasn't paying for it.

“This is the most asinine thing I've ever heard of,” Gloria railed. “The show
is
the best it can be! We win the Daytime Drama for Best Show year after year!”

“I know,” said Monica.

“Is the man an idiot?” Gloria continued, practically foaming at the mouth. “What kind of fool books a cruise in February, for Jupiter's sake? I'm not going,” Gloria harrumphed.

“You have to go,” said Monica. “You can't make me face this all alone.”

Gloria sighed, but the look of defiance remained. “All right, my dear, I'll do it for you. But that man is going to regret the day he ever forced me into this. Not only am I going to speak French to everyone but you, but I plan on being drunk as a skunk the whole time.”

“I'm sure you won't be alone.” Monica gave Gloria a hug. “I have to go get ready for my next scene.”

A broken heart, a bone-stupid costar gunning for her, an enforced cruise . . .
Yeah, life's just great these days,
thought Monica as she headed over to makeup. Gloria always said bad things happened in threes. Perhaps this was her time for a run of bad luck. It couldn't last forever, right?

 

“You have got to be kidding me.”

After a semitorturous day at work that had dragged on until 9:30 p.m., Monica, exhausted, starving, and punchy, slipped out of the back of her town car to find Eric milling anxiously on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. The sight sparked her sluggish senses immediately, putting her on high alert. Whatever he'd come for, she sure as hell didn't want to hear about it.

Spotting her, Eric rushed toward her. “Monica, I need to talk to you.” He sounded desperate.

“Why? Leave some CDs or clothes in my apartment? Just wait here; I'll open the window and throw them down to you.”

“Two minutes,” Eric continued in an uncharacteristically pleading voice. “That's all I ask.”

Monica pulled up her coat sleeve and looked at her watch. “And . . . go.”

“C'mon, Monica.” He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Have some heart. I've been standing here for three hours.”

“That's not my problem.”

“I really need to talk to you.”

“And I really don't want to talk to
you
.” Monica glanced inside at the lobby. Gene, the doorman, was watching them closely. Monica waved a hand at him to indicate that all was well, and Gene nodded his understanding, and went back to watching the multiple closed-circuit TV screens fixed on the lobby, the elevators, and the stairwells.

“Two minutes,”
Eric repeated.

“Fine,” Monica said in exasperation.

Not bothering to wait for him, she pushed open the door to the lobby. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was asking for trouble letting him in, somewhat akin to inviting the devil into her home. They rode the elevator in silence.

“Well?” Monica asked as they entered her apartment. “What do you want?”

“Can I at least take my coat off?”

“What's the point?” Monica asked, shedding her own jacket and putting it away in the closet. “You're only going to be here two minutes.”

Stomach grumbling, she strode over to her couch and sat down, frantically trying to erase the memories of the last time they'd been here together: wonderful sex, ordering in Japanese food, watching
The Godfather
marathon on TV. It had felt so natural, so right.
Jackass,
she thought angrily, though she wasn't sure if she was addressing herself or him. Eric moved to join her on the couch, but Monica held up a hand to stay him.

“You're standing.”

“I'll do you one better: I'll kneel.”

Monica blinked confusedly as Eric knelt down on her Persian carpet and held his arms out to her. “Monica, I love you.”

Monica stared down at him, then burst out laughing.

“I'm not joking,” Eric continued, undeterred. “Last night, a bimbo came on to me—”

“Chesty?”

Eric looked surprised. “Yeah.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Figures.” The little whore never ceased to amaze.

“Anyway, she came on to me, and I turned her down. You know why? Because I figured something out about myself: I don't want to chase tail anymore. And the reason is because I'm in love with you. I've been a jerk, Monica. I know that. But if you'll just give me a chance, I think I can prove to you that my love for you is real, not an act.”

“Yeah, right,” said Monica, frowning. She snatched her remote from the nearest end table and clicked on the TV. “You and I both know what this is really about,” she said, not looking at him.

“What?” Eric sounded puzzled.

“I saw on ESPN that the Blades lost to Jersey the other night. That guy with the mullet haircut said the team's on a losing streak, and you're in a slump. You just want me back because you think I'm a good luck charm,” Monica accused.

Eric lowered his arms so they hung listlessly at his sides. “You really think I'm that shallow?”

“Well, you're totally wrong on this one.” Eric began inching forward on his knees like some sad penitent, but Monica glared at him, and he halted.

“Can I ask you a question?” said Eric.

“No.”

He asked anyway. “Since when do you watch Barry Melrose on ESPN? You're following the team because you still care.”

“Don't flatter yourself. They had
SportsCenter
on at the place Gloria and I went to dinner last night.”

Eric's face fell. “Oh.”

She was lying, of course. Though she hated herself for doing it, she had been tuning in to see how the Blades were doing and was happy when she saw they lost. Maybe she
was
his good luck charm.

“I love you, Monica,” Eric repeated, holding out his arms to her once again.

“Stop saying that,” Monica snapped, rubbing her temples. “And lower your arms and get up off the rug. You look like a fool.”

“I don't care,” Eric maintained fiercely. “If I have to make a fool of myself to win you back, I will. I'll do whatever it takes.”

Monica narrowed her eyes suspiciously. He seemed serious. Still, no self-respecting woman would take back a man who'd done what he'd done to her, no matter what feelings she still had for him.

“Listen to me. And get up.”

Eric reluctantly rose, grimacing. “My knees are sore.”

Good,
thought Monica.

“Here's the thing,” said Monica with studied nonchalance as she glanced back and forth between Eric and the TV. “I don't trust you. How do I know you don't have some ulterior motive for hooking up with me again? Actually, that doesn't matter. You can't win me back, okay? Because I don't want you.”

“I don't believe you.”

“What you believe or feel is completely irrelevant to me.”

“You're acting.”

Monica jerked her head to look at him, teeth gritted. “I am
not
acting, you out-of-control egomaniac. It was fun while it lasted, whatever you want to define ‘it' as. But now it's over. Time to move on. You cannot win me over.”

“That's where you're wrong.” Eric no longer looked or sounded imploring. Now he looked determined. “Maybe you haven't figured this out about me yet, but I'm one tenacious bastard. I get knocked down, and I get right back up again. I've won a Stanley Cup, Monica. If I have what it takes to win the Cup, then I have what it takes to woo you, and I have what it takes to win you. So get ready.”

Monica stood, stretching her arms high above her head while letting out a long, tired yawn. “Knock yourself out,” she said. She pointed to the front door. “You know your way out. Good night.”

NINETEEN

“I would rather have my legs plucked hair by hair than ever go through anything like that again,” Gloria told Monica. “
Quel
nightmare!”

They were stretched out on their respective beds in the small cabin they were sharing on the cruise boat,
The Washington Irving
. It was a “sanctioned” naptime, meaning Christian had graciously allowed the cast and crew—or “hostages” as they were calling themselves—an hour's respite from his lectures and exercises supposed to foster intimacy. Following a dinner of soggy vegetables and some unidentifiable meat the night before, Christian had made everyone sit in a circle in the dining room to “rap.” He asked them to share their happiest and most traumatic experience to date. What this had to do with anything mystified Monica. Still, there was no escaping.

Many of her cohorts cited the birth of their kids as their happiest experience; others talked about the joy of getting their first part. Royce said his happiest experience was working with Monica, the biggest load of hooey Monica had ever heard in her life. Gloria said her happiest experience was having sex with Orson Welles during a break at the 1959 Academy Awards, even though his vigorous thrusting had broken the couch they were lying on. The closer it got to Monica's turn, the more she panicked. Her happiest experience to date had also been her most traumatic: Eric. There was no way she was going to reveal that, so she lied: she said her happiest experience was getting the role on
W and F
; her most traumatic experience was getting mugged when she was in college. Predictably, Chesty's happiest experience was the same as Monica's, though their traumas did differ; Chesty's biggest trauma to date was not making the cheerleading squad in high school.

“I can't believe Royce said working with me made him happiest,” Monica told Gloria. She got up on her knees to look out the porthole, but since it was the size of a dessert plate, she couldn't really see anything. “He's so full of it.”

“Don't trust him,” Gloria warned. “He wants something. I bet he's scared of getting fired, and he's sucking up to you so that when the axe falls, you'll intercede on his behalf with the Antichrist.”

“You've been telling me for as long as I can remember not to trust anyone in this business,” Monica pointed out, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. “Who screwed you, Gloria?”

“You don't want to know. You'll be like Saul on the road to Damascus: you'll fall to the ground, the scales will fall from your eyes, you'll be terrified.”

The scales were already falling. It wasn't terror Monica was feeling; it was the slow dawning of comprehension. “It was Monty, wasn't it?”

“Yes,” Gloria admitted with a reluctant sigh. “I've always held my tongue because I know you adore that puckered old snake, and I didn't want to poison you against him. But the man cares only about himself. Believe me.”

“I suppose I knew, the way you always talked about him, but I guess I didn't really want to know.” Monica lightly kicked her feet against the bottom of the bed. “What happened?”