Unscripted (9 page)

“You’re supposed to be taking care of
me!
How are we ever going to buy a house? We can’t live off of my parents you know.”

“What’s the last beer you said?” I raise my voice slightly to get the waiter’s attention.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Pilsner.”

Zoë makes a loud, over-the-top-sounding sigh. “You know what? You’re fucking selfish.”

Jeff shakes his head in disgust. “And you’re a snob.”

“I’ll just have the last one,” I say with a tight smile to the waiter. “Thanks.”

Christ,
this movie better be funny. Or short. Or funny and short.

So much for my good mood.

When I arrived at work this morning I immediately handed the Loudon tape off to the post department. The coordinator let me know that Will had asked for a DVD of the interview and while I tried to act indifferent to the news, I felt a stab of panic. What if he didn’t like the shot? What if he was annoyed by the way I handled Loudon? The feeling of accomplishment I felt yesterday instantly vanished, and was replaced by a gnawing anticipation of getting in trouble with Will.

I’ve waited anxiously all morning for feedback from him but I haven’t heard a word. Will certainly isn’t the sort who hands out gold stars, nor does he seem the type to sit on a bad review, so maybe no news is good news. My best moments with Will are no moments at all, so I should be glad for the silence.

And besides, today is the happiest day of the week as far as I’m concerned. It’s Burrito Mama’s food truck day. And everyone knows the best way to alleviate your fear and insecurity is to stuff yourself with colossal amounts of Mexican food.

“It’s 12:15, we have to go now or there’ll be a line,” I say to Christine as I grab my wallet.

“Pass. I got sick last time I ate off that truck.”

“How dare you. That is impossible. I’m warning you right now, I’m starving so you aren’t getting any of my chips.”

“Your chips are safe from me, believe me,” she calls out as I walk swiftly to the door.

By the time I get outside, the line is twelve-people deep.
Boo.
I decide to call Zoë and check in on her. She answers on the first ring.

“Hey, I was just about to call you,” she says.

“Perfect timing. I wanted to see how you are today. How did the rest of the night go?”

“It was tense, we just dropped it. But I hope he gets it, only an idiot would take a pay cut now.”

“Well, I know it would hurt in the short term, but think of the big picture. He really wants this, Zo,” I say as I step over some mysterious blue goo on the sidewalk.

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll have a million opportunities like this…after the wedding. We need to save every penny right now. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She has an agenda.
This can’t be good.

“My mom is being a total lunatic about the wedding. She has already called a thousand of her friends and they’ve decided that they want to throw her a Mother-of-the-Bride party, so I need you there to get me through that nightmare.”

“A mother-of-the-what party?”

“I know it’s ridiculous. It’s some tradition they hatched up a few years ago when all of their kids started getting married. It’s just a way for them to get some of the attention I guess. Who knows? Will you please come and shield me?”

“But it sounds so very terrible,” I whine. I crane my neck to check on the status of the line.

“When is it?”

“Two weeks. Come on, you’re the maid-of-honor. You have to sit through all of this crap. If anything, it will be educational for you.”

“Sort of like an anthropological observation of the social interactions between a bunch of rich, snobby, Valley women?”

“Sounds about right.”

“All right, but you owe me big time. Hey, I have to order my lunch now, I’ll see you tonight.” I put my phone in my pocket and lean on the counter. “Hey, Joe. Can I get a Big Daddy
burrito with steak, sour cream, guacamole and extra cheese, please? And don’t skimp on the cheese like you did last time.”

“Okay, okay.” He laughs. “Chips and salsa?”

“Sure.”

“We have empanadas today…”

Oh so delicious.
“You’re killing me. I’ll do it,” I agree, knowing I will regret it later.

“Drink?”

Why even bother with the diet soda pretense? At this point it’s in for a penny, in for a pound. Or three. “Large
horchata,
please.” As I pull out a twenty and wait for Ruthless Joe to give me the total, I hear a male voice from behind say my name. A male voice I recognize.
Will.

Ugh.
Why does he have to be the one to witness my gorge-fest? I turn around; he’s standing so close that I practically bump into him. I instinctively recoil, jamming my back into the counter.

How long has he been there?
Thank God Zoë hijacked that phone call or I would have been bitching about Will
in front of
his back.

“Hey, there, Will. How are you today?”

“Good. You?”

“Good as well, just getting a little lunch, here. I over order so I can have leftovers for dinner. Or for lunch tomorrow. Either way… I like the Mexican food.”

He’s eyeing me as if I’m some feral cat, like he’s not sure if I’m going to flee or attack.

“$17.50,” Ruthless Joe barks out as he gives me my drink.

“Keep it,” I say as I hand him my twenty. I move aside to wait for my food and make room for Will to order.

“I’ll just have a Junior burrito with chicken and a small water, please.”

Of course. Will eats like a dainty flower.

“What is that?” Will asks, pointing to my drink.

“It’s a
horchata.
I have no idea what’s in it besides rice, sugar and goodness. Sip?” I extend the drink out, misjudging the distance between us, and almost hit him in the face.

Brilliant.

He deftly dodges the hit with a grimace. “Uh, no thanks. So I wanted to talk to you earlier about Loudon, but I’ve been swamped.”

My palms start to sweat.

“I checked out the interview frame, it looks pretty good, though I would have preferred an indoor shot.”

“I tried, but they wouldn’t let us inside.” Am I helping or hurting myself with this explanation? He just nods and I get the feeling he thinks he could have convinced them otherwise.

Ruthless Joe hands Will his food, while I am still waiting for mine. Apparently my gargantuan order takes all the manpower they can muster. Will reaches across me to grab a napkin and I can’t help but notice the way he smells. It’s surprisingly appealing, like fabric softener and cologne.

“So I talked to Peter this morning and he’s just not ready to come back to work. I don’t have the time to do the interviews myself…so I’ve been thinking…I might have you take over for the foreseeable future.”

Really!? Does he think I did a good job? Am I getting a pay bump?

“I think with a strong crew you’ll do a fine job, and we can use the extra money from Peter’s salary for post…”

Guess not.

“…I can vet all of the interview questions in advance, so that should be fine…”

Wait, is he talking himself into this in front of me?

“…so I think this is the best option for now. It should be fine.”

That’s a lotta
fines
there, Will. Glad I inspire such confidence.

“Great.” I don’t know what else to say.

Will turns to leave. “We have a lot of interviews scheduled for next week. Can you send me the questions when you’re finished with lunch?”

“Will do. Thanks for this.” I want to assure Will that I’ll do a good job, but he’s already walking away.

A few seconds later Joe hands me my truckload of food. I stall a bit before heading inside, I don’t want to be stuck walking side by side with Will.

Jeff took the assistant editor job. Zoë was enraged. Let’s just say there was a lot of screaming coming from different rooms throughout the duplex and I might have even heard something crash against a wall at one point. But it seems like things have settled down a bit.

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve conducted fifteen interviews for the show. Even though the days have been long and stressful, it’s been sort of fun. Thankfully, no one has quite reached Loudon’s level of asshole-ness. And I guess I must be doing a “fine” job because I haven’t heard a word otherwise from Will. And that man certainly isn’t going to talk to me unless there’s a problem.

My office phone rings. “This is Abby.”

“Hi, this is Michelle Lewis from Rowles and Basset Relations, I have Sasha Leeds for you.”

I swallow hard. “Hey, Sasha.”

“I just talked to the line producer on
Four Deuces.
Did you interview Casey last week?”

Ooh. She’s pissed. I actually did Casey Moore’s interview last Friday and she was really sweet. Not at all what you would expect from a major star on the hottest sitcom on TV. I have to say I haven’t even given John Taye, or his she-devil publicist, one thought since then.

“Yes, uh, it went well.”

“Then we need to set up an interview with John.”

I take a sip of my coffee to calm me down. “Well actually, we’re pretty much done with the interviews now.” Okay, huge lie. We aren’t done yet. We have five shoot days left but they are completely filled and I refuse to give in to this woman. Plus, as Will said last month, with the creators of the show and the three other leads, we don’t really have room for John Taye anymore.

“That is unacceptable,” she snaps. “If
everyone
did the interview, then John has to do it. The show is called
Four Deuces,
not three. It’ll look bad if he doesn’t.”

“Not really, we don’t have the entire cast from
Triage,
just a few people representing the show.” Yeah, she’s totally right, it will look bad. How in the hell can I get off this call?

“I don’t give a shit about
Triage.
John can do the interview next Tuesday at 2:00. You will get ten minutes. Call the line producer to set it up.”

I start to nervously play with the thumbtacks pressed into the bulletin board next to my head. Several sheets of paper flutter down to my desk. “Um, Sasha, we are in the field that day doing other interviews, and as I said, we are almost done so there is no way…”

“Listen to me. I told you weeks ago that John wanted to do this interview so you are going to make it happen, or it will be your ass.”

What? You lying bitch.
I wrap the phone cord around my finger and watch it turn white from the lack of circulation. “That’s not how I remember it, but regardless, we don’t have any more shoot days so…”

“Are you fucking stupid?” Her voice reaches an octave that must be sending all the dogs in the neighborhood ducking for cover. “I am in a fucking limousine right now outside the Four-fucking-Seasons for a fucking press junket and I don’t have time to be fucking around with a fucking little bitch like you! Have your boss call me within three minutes or I will go straight to the network and you will not be able to get a job at Starbucks in this town. You useless little piece of…”

She hangs up on me.

I’m shaking. No one has ever talked to me that way in my entire life. I’m torn between hysterical laughter and well, crying like a baby. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and walk to Will’s office. My face is bright red.

“Hey, Will,” I say to the tufts of salt-and-pepper hair poking up from behind his computer screen.

He lifts his head up, looking straight at me. “What’s up?”

I take two steps in and place both hands on the chair in front of his desk to steady myself. “Remember the John Taye situation? You know, how his publicist didn’t want him to do the interview, and after we booked Casey Moore, we decided not to approach his people again?”

Will nods. “Yeah?”

“Well, I just told his publicist that we don’t have any more shoot days and now she’s having a complete meltdown. She said if you don’t call her within three minutes she’s going to call ABT.” I do my best to keep my voice from shaking, but now that I’m retelling the events, I’m closer to crying than laughing.

“Okay. Is there anything I need to know before calling her?”

“She’s a horrible bitch?” His face is expressionless. I don’t think that’s what he meant. “She’s claiming she told me he wanted to do the interview.” I move my hands from the chair. They’re sweaty. This is really bad. I could take the fall for this one.

“Of course that’s what she’s
claiming.
”

“Do you want me to leave while you call her?” I ask, searching for the nearest rock to crawl under.

“No, stay. Just close the door.”

I take a seat while Will calls Sasha’s assistant. As she puts him on hold to connect the call, he hits the speaker button and raises his finger to his lips with a smile.

“Who’s this?” Sasha’s voice screeches through the speaker. Will flinches and turns down the volume.

“Will Harper. I’m the supervising producer on
ABT’s 50 Years of Entertainment.
”

“Thank you for calling me back so quickly,” Sasha says sweetly. “I’m on my way to a press junket and I need to get this settled before I go in.”

I try to catch Will’s eye to see if he’s falling for her act, but he’s checking his email.

“This has just been a complete debacle. I told that girl weeks ago that John wanted to do the interview and she never got back to us. Now she’s saying John can’t do the interview.”

I’m squirming in my seat, trying not to scream at her. Will looks over at me, but he’s got that annoying unreadable expression of his.

“I have to say, I have never been treated so unprofessionally. I would think twice about letting that girl continue on your show. But anyway, I’m so glad we can remedy this. John can do the interview this week, so if you call the line producer over at
Four Deuces
he’ll arrange it for you.”

“Unfortunately, the information that
Abby
gave you was correct. We are almost done with interviews and we just don’t have another day in the budget.”

I practically jump up out of my chair with glee. I can’t believe he just said that. He looks over at me, his usually serious face lit with a slight, almost—dare I say it—cute smile.

“Excuse me? Are you telling me that you are not going to clean up the mess that
your
employee made?”

“I am aware of every conversation you and Abby have had. If there’s a mess here, it’s not from my camp.”

I can practically hear her blood pressure pounding across the line. “John is the star of
Four Deuces.
I will not allow him to be treated this way,” Sasha says, all traces of fake charm now
gone. “If you don’t do this interview, you can forget about using any clips of John in your little clip show. Explain that to ABT.”

“I understand. It will make our show less entertaining, but we’ll just have to use scenes from
Four Deuces
that don’t include him.” Will’s calmness is almost unnerving.

“Okay, you fucking idiot. I’m calling ABT. Enjoy unemployment.”

“It was nice talking to you.” Will turns the speakerphone off.

I’m shaking my head. “I can’t believe you just did that! You don’t think she can actually get you fired?”

“Nah. But we’re going to have to do the interview. There’s no way around it. I just couldn’t give in to her then.”

“Well, at least we made her head explode.”

“That was a bonus. Look, I don’t want you to have to deal with this so I’ll do the interview.”

I slump back into the chair and exhale softly. “Oh, thank God. You know she’ll be there to gloat.”

“Can’t wait. I’ll tell you this much. The shot is going to look like shit and John Taye will only appear in the show once.”

I laugh. Will Harper’s kind of funny.

“Thanks for backing me up with her,” I say, my face softening for the first time in ten minutes.

“No problem. Thanks for taking on the extra workload here. I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with all that,” he says, smiling a cute crooked smile.

Perhaps it’s finally time I clear the air between us. I’m relaxed. He’s relaxed. We just had this bonding moment…“Well, if you ever need anything copied, you know where to find me.” I laugh like a dork.

“Copied?” he asks, looking confused.

“Yeah, like the book. From before…”
Oh my God.
He really has no freaking idea what I’m talking about. Why didn’t I just leave when it was all warm and glowy?

“You’ve stumped me with this one.” Will’s head is cocked to one side.

It’s too late to run.

“Clearly you don’t remember this, but uh, when I worked on
Musicians
I thought you were my PA and I asked you to copy a book. And uh, it was, a long time ago…”

Will blinks and studies my face for a second, as if he’s noticing me for the first time. Then he doubles over with laughter. “That was you? Oh man, I’d forgotten all about that.”

Nice going, Abby. You complete moron.

“I thought you looked familiar. This is too funny. I remember you now, you always ran from me after that.”

Damn that Nancy and her wounded-pride theory. “Yeah. Good times. So, I’m going to go poke out my eyes now,” I say, making a dash for the door.

“Okay.” He laughs again. “See ya later, Copy Girl.”

“No way. Don’t you dare give me a nickname.” I point my finger at him, trying not to smile.

“I’ll be sure to come straight to you if I need any toner.”

“Laugh it up,” I say as I walk out. Yeah, I have no comeback. My face is still bright red but this time, I’m smiling.

I’m driving on Laurel Canyon, heading over to Zoë’s parents’ house in Sherman Oaks for the Mother-of-the-Bride party. I can’t stop gritting my teeth because let’s face it, it’s a Friday night, I’ve had the word
fuck
hurled at me over twenty times by the antichrist and I’m tired.

As I pull up to the four-bedroom colonial, I see Zoë’s dad leaving the house. Even in his loose fitting cable-knit sweater, I can see his sharply defined muscles traced underneath a thin layer of cashmere. Being a stunt man for thirty years has most certainly paid off.

“Hi, Sidney,” I say, trotting up to him and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hi, sweetheart. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I know.” I look down and notice the Mercedes key dangling in his hand. “Have you been banished?”

“Yeah, I’m going to watch the game with a few of the other husbands.”

“Can I come?”

“Ha. Nice try.” He walks over to the driver’s side of his car and gives me a brief wave. “Have fun.”

I grimace and turn back toward the house.
Fun my ass.
I clunk up the brick stairs and ring the bell.

The door opens. “Hello, darling,” says a woman about the age of sixty-five, but through the magic of surgery, could pass for forty. “You must be Zoë’s friend, Abby. Come on in.”

I walk into the living room and immediately realize Zoë’s mom must have redecorated…again. The large couch and side chairs have all been reupholstered and are now what you would call shabby chic. Bleached-out floral patterns and chenille pillows give the room a distinctly feminine touch. My guess is Sidney had no say in the design.

The ladies are gathered around a distressed white dining room table picking at platters of sushi, fruit and cheese. These women, who quite possibly could be senior citizens, are not at all afraid to show off their surgically enhanced cleavages. And though most of them are smiling, their brows are baby-smooth. If it weren’t for the presents piled up in the corner, and the absence of latex gloves and syringes, I would swear this was a Botox party.

“Thank God you’re here,” Zoë whispers as she sidles up next to me and hands me a glass of wine. “Everyone keeps grabbing my hand wanting to know where my engagement ring is.”

“What did you tell them?” I ask, taking a very long sip of my chilled Chardonnay.

“I lied, of course. I couldn’t exactly say that Jeff can’t afford a ring right now. My mom would flip. So I said we just haven’t had time to pick one out.”

“What does it even matter? Why is it anyone’s business?”

“Please! These women are the biggest yentas. Any sniff of controversy and it’ll keep them gossiping for weeks.” Zoë starts playing with her hair unconsciously. “Plus, I don’t even know half of them. A bunch of them are from my mom’s mahjong group.”

“Stop fussing with your hair, Zoë,” calls a voice from behind us. I turn around to see Zoë’s mom. As usual, her style is impeccable. Wearing a tailored black pants suit and a gold silk camisole, she looks like she’s just stepped off the page of a Neiman Marcus catalogue. Her glossy auburn hair falls in perfect waves down to her shoulders, and she’s sparkling from the vast amount of diamonds that adorn her ears, neck and hands.

“Hello, Abby, sweetie. How are you?” Zoë’s mom puts an arm around me and gives me an air kiss. “I’m glad you could come.”

“Thanks, Lynn.”

“I’m so excited for my girl. Aren’t you? And it’s about time. I kept telling her that Jeff just needed to shit or get off the pot.”

I can’t help but flinch slightly at the word
shit
tumbling seamlessly out of Zoë’s mom’s mouth. I always find it unnerving when I hear other people’s parents swear.

“Roberta, come and meet Zoë’s best friend, Abby,” Lynn says to one of the top-heavy women next to me. “Abby is Zoë’s maid-of-honor.”

“Nice to meet you, dear,” replies Roberta through painted red lips the size of sausages.

“I was just saying to the girls that it was about time Jeff proposed.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re not getting any younger, Zoë.” Roberta smiles.

I know I need to stop staring at her lips but it’s impossible. What the hell did her doctor do to get them to look like that? It’s as if she’s had some sort of horrific anaphylactic reaction to shellfish and it’s totally freaking me out.