Unscripted (6 page)

Jaya crossed the kitchen to lean against the counter beside me. Her voice low, she said, “I need you back, Faith. The show needs you back.”

“Well, that ain’t happening, is it?”

“The finale is being savaged online; the fans are pitching a collective fit. If we don’t come back strong after the hiatus . . .”

“I know. Randy’ll cancel the show. And he’ll blame you. His hands stay clean and he can act all outraged and disappointed. Hello, scapegoat.”

“I don’t understand why he’s setting us up to fail.”

“It’s my fault. I’ve always been a pain in his ass. Now he also wants to get revenge for, uh . . .”

“You grabbing his balls?”

“Why does everybody keep
saying
that?”

We both managed a wry laugh, and Jaya leaned sideways and bumped my shoulder with hers. “I miss you, Faith. It’s just not the same without you there.”

“
Finally
somebody says it!”

Jaya hesitated, then blurted out, “I’ve got an idea to make sure we come back strong in the new season.”

“Well, let’s have it!”

“I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

“Will it help the show?”

“Yeah, but . . . this would be all on you. Nobody else can do this.”

“Er, I’m off the show, remember? I got a letter to prove it and everything.”

“But if you pull this off, I’d bet you could get reinstated.”

“Good lord, woman, what is it? Establish world peace?”

“That’d be easier.”

Now I was completely puzzled . . . and intrigued. “Lay it on me.”

She hesitated, then said gingerly, “Bring back Alex.”

“No.” The word was out of my mouth almost before my brain had even processed what Jaya was suggesting, and well before it parsed what the implications were. All I knew was that my body had a visceral reaction to that name,
Alex
—one I hadn’t heard in a while, mainly because I had forbade anybody from uttering it within a hundred yards of me, for a lot of reasons, only some of which were known to the cast and crew. The rest were locked in my own personal emotional vault.

“Faith—”

“Don’t ‘Faith’ me. I said no.”

“Just listen. Bringing back Alex would—”

I opened my mouth to snap at her for daring to say that name again, when Evie wandered into the kitchen and said, “Alex is coming back?” I think she said it eagerly, but I wasn’t sure—all the Botox treatments had neutralized her expression so completely that I was never sure what type of emotion she was feeling. “Can Ariel sleep with him?”

“No!” I repeated, even more vehemently. “Evie, your character is fine the way she is. And Alex is
not
coming back. Put it out of your heads, both of you.”

My mouth was dry and my face was hot all of a sudden. To avoid Jaya’s and Evie’s eyes, I bolted for the giant stainless steel fridge across the room, yanked open the door big enough to be the portal to a commercial meat locker, and stuck my head into the cool depths, looking for something to drink.

Behind me, Jaya kept up her campaign. “Faith, listen. I know how you feel about the whole Alex thing. I do. But try to put it in perspective. He’s been gone more than a year. If we bring him back—okay, maybe not in time for the start of the fall season, but maybe November sweeps . . . just think of the buzz.”

I grabbed a bottle of water—almost the only thing in the fridge that wasn’t a shriveled-up bit of fruit or a bottle of champagne. I toyed with the idea of appropriating a jar of maraschino cherries as well, but decided against it. I took a deep breath before I turned to face Jaya and Evie.

“When Alex left,” I said, working hard to keep my voice calm, “I told him there was no way we’d ever have him back. And I’m sticking to that. It’s non-negotiable.”

Jaya studied me. “Things change, Faith.”

“Yeah, well, not this.”

“Look, I know he hurt you—”

“The
show,
” I insisted, a touch desperately. “He hurt the
show
.”

“Okay.”

Jaya’s thinly veiled sarcasm did me in. “I’ve gotta go.” I pushed past her and Evie (who was texting again) but stopped on my way out of the kitchen. “Evie,” I said, snapping my fingers. She looked up. I’d trained her well. “Not a word about Alex to anyone. Got it?”

“Who?”

I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be clever or if she really had forgotten already, but it didn’t matter. “Good girl.” I paused. “Jaya.” My former BFF’s face lit up hopefully. “Keep an eye on Hector.” He was our props master. “Don’t let him self-medicate—he always forgets what he’s taken and what he hasn’t.” I wracked my brain for whatever else I was supposed to have taken care of. I thought of our pregnant editor, and one of our favorite grips. “Make sure that Jennifer’s maternity leave paperwork is filed—she’s going to be ready to pop in a couple of months. And don’t forget Bob’s Birthday Burrito Breakfast—right after hiatus ends. It’s on the calendar.”

I saw her swallow with difficulty before she rasped, “So that’s it, then?”

“That’s it,” I said mildly, even as a dozen emotions wrestled with one another to be the first to break the surface of my calm exterior. Screw my cast—
I
deserved an Emmy right about now. “Go get ’em, tiger. I’m pulling for you.” And I meant it.

Chapter 4

The late-afternoon temporary parking lot that was the 405 freeway made my attempt to get home so freaking futile I thought I was going to lose my mind. I sat . . . and sat . . . inched forward . . . then sat again. My stomach churned; I hadn’t eaten all day. A hunt through my glove box produced only an energy bar that, from the feel of it, had completely melted. I wasn’t that desperate. I shoved it back in and slammed the door shut, a little too hard. For a second I thought I’d broken the latch.

Yikes. Didn’t know my own strength when I got agitated about certain subjects. I still couldn’t believe that Jaya had brought up the one topic, the one person, she knew never to mention in front of me again. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of Alex for the better part of a year, and now the equilibrium I had established was all blown to hell.

Desperate for a voice of reason to help me get my head straight, I took the next exit and headed for Wilshire Boulevard. It was finally time to check in with my agent, Susan, the one person I could trust to give me a straight answer. Even at this late hour, I knew she’d still be in her office and, workaholic to workaholic, I understood and approved.

“Susan?” I pushed open the door to her office. No assistant for her—she preferred to take care of everything herself. Fiercely old-fashioned, which I loved, Susan was the opposite of all the slick, shiny, über-cool agents who populated L.A. like tribbles—open up a cupboard and a dozen fell out (all texting on their smartphones while downing green tea smoothies, of course). I could have gone with one of those, sure, but instead I actually listened to my mom’s advice for once and chose this old, craggy, wouldn’t-touch-a-yoga-mat-with-a-bargepole pit bull with a lousy haircut. I’ve never regretted it.

“Well, look at that—she lives. Get in here.”

Just being in my agent’s presence made me feel a whole lot lighter all of a sudden. Dropping into her guest chair with a sigh, I said, “In a manner of speaking. I’ve been . . . reevaluating.”

“You’ve been a goddamned idiot.”

Bless her for dispensing with the preliminaries.

“Gee, thanks. Love you too.”

“You know I’m right. What have I always told you? When this business kicks you to the curb . . .” she prompted, waiting for me to finish the lesson she’d been drumming into me for the past decade.

“. . . Kick ’em in the sidewalls before they pull away. And be sure to leave a dent.”

“Then call a cab back to town,” she added, scratching the back of her head; her short, salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at the crown. “But you
didn’t
. You stayed on the curb after Randy kicked you there. Dumbass.”

“He’s loving this, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea. The way he tells it—and tells it, and tells it—
he
was the one who humiliated
you.
”

“But I grabbed his balls!”

“Yeah, but he was the one who made you vanish. So who wins?”

Susan was right. She always was. “What do I do now?”

She hesitated, and I felt an icy claw clutch my heart. Susan had the answer to every question, a solution for every problem—and was always happy to share her thoughts, often before you knew you wanted her advice. She. Never. Hesitated.

“. . . Suze?” I prompted, fearing her response.

“I don’t know, Faith. You made an enemy of
Randy.
That has repercussions.”

I dug down deep for whatever bravado I had left. “Yeah, yeah, powerful, domineering, influential, I’ll never work in this town again. But you can fix that. You always fix stuff like that.”

“You think I haven’t been talking you up? You hide out for a while, I respect your choice. I’m still working for you in the meantime.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, don’t appreciate it just yet. You’re locked out, kid. Randy may not have filed criminal charges on you, but he’s getting his revenge all the same. He’s said, unequivocally, you’re not welcome at EWW anymore—not now, not later, not ever. I tried calling him, repeatedly—no dice. So then I started phoning all the networks, all the studios, all the piddly production companies—get you a new gig, make Randy regret his decision. But I can’t get you hired as a maggot wrangler on a forensics procedural. Right now, you’re untouchable, and not in an MC Hammer kind of way.”

Well, that almost made me laugh. “That’ll change, right? Eventually?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Oh, that sounded confident.”

Susan sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you. Right now, everybody’s too scared of Randy to give you a shot. Oh, they know you do great work,” she added quickly. “They tell me so. But Randy . . .”

“I get it.”

She paused again. Which, again, was freaky. “Does your mom know?”

“No!”
At least, I desperately hoped not. Good God, that was the last thing I needed. “Why?”

Susan shrugged. “Maybe she could—”

“Absolutely not,” I snapped. “I have
never
asked her for help with my career, and I’m not about to ask now.” Not even if my mother, Mona Urquhart, legendary movie producer and director, had the ear of every last big wheel in this town.

“Okay, okay. I was just wondering how bad you want back in.”

“Not that bad. I’ll do this myself.”

My agent studied me for a moment, and I knew she was thinking I was all full of self-destructive pride. She could see it that way, but I didn’t. I considered it adherence to my long-standing vow of independence. I never rode my mother’s coattails. Ever.

“You know what, kid? Take a vacation. Relax for a while. You want me to tell everybody you’re in rehab?”

“No, Suze.”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

“I do want to work. If it can’t be on
Modern Women
. . .” I swallowed hard. What a thought. “Then . . . something. Anything. I’m getting itchy.”

“I know. I’ll find you something.”

“Not on a shopping channel, though.”

“Right. No . . . shopping . . . channel,” she muttered, pretending to write it down.

I smiled again. “Love you, Suze.”

“Don’t love me till I find you something. Then you can buy me two dozen gourmet cake pops and one of those nasty rat-dogs that fits in a purse.” She paused. “Are you sure you can live without me?”

Oh. I was so wrapped up in my own drama, I’d forgotten her plans. “How can you possibly leave for four
months?
Doesn’t that violate the unwritten agent code or something?”

Susan was easing up on her workload—she was nearing retirement and divesting herself of most of her clients. I was one of a handful she still represented, most likely just as a favor—but to take that long a vacation and leave the few of us she still repped twisting in the wind? Unheard of for an agent.

“Four and a half. Candy and I decided that if we were going to do an old-fashioned tour of Europe, we were going to do it right. I thought I had everything settled with my clients and I could travel in peace. But now . . . I’m worried about you, kid.”

I really,
really
wanted Susan around, but she and her wife had been planning this trip for more than a year. Who was I to ask her to cancel? I couldn’t be a baby about it. “Go, Suze. I’ll be fine. Just . . . one more thing.” Suddenly I found the sculpture on a table by the window completely fascinating. I couldn’t look at her when I said this. “Have you heard what Alex McNulty’s up to these days?”