by Jill Winters
As they circled back around, Lila stopped in front of another office. An administrative assistant was working outside of it; her desk was streaked with white sunlight from the window behind her. "Hi, Nell. Is Abe in?" Lila asked pleasantly.
The sixtyish woman, Nell, stopped typing only long enough to say no, that Abe was on a conference call.
"Abe Santasierra is Susanna's producer. You'll be working with him a lot," Lila explained as she and Gretchen headed toward the main elevators, near the reception area. "The third and fourth floors, more offices. On the fifth floor is Terra Cottage, the food court. The actual shows are filmed on the sixth, eighth, ninth, tenth, and twelfth floors." Gretchen nodded with concentration, adding more details to the burgeoning cache in her mind. "Now I'll take you up to meet Susanna."
The elevator careened up to the eighth floor; they emerged into a narrow, butter-yellow corridor with no end in sight—because it wrapped around in what seemed to be a circle. And as they followed its curve, Lila said, "Here we are," stopping suddenly in front of a black door marked STAGE C. She shoved hard on it, but it was so heavy that it opened only a few inches before it started hissing closed. So Gretchen leaned her weight on it, too, and both she and Lila entered. "This is where we tape Susanna's Kitchen."
It was a huge open room with a closed-off stage in the center. They crossed the floor to the stage and climbed the two steps up to get onto the actual set. Until today, Gretchen had only seen this kitchen on television; she had trouble accepting that she was really standing inside the set now. It was like stepping into a life-size diorama—a warm, homey kitchen that existed only within this finite and contrived space. Oak counters with ceramic tiles, cabinets with decorative glass doors, lacy curtains on the two square-shaped windows—and a fake brick and ivy backdrop, visible through them.
Opposite the kitchen set was a scattered mess of cameras and spotlights. Two of the cameras were massive, standing bulkily at around eight feet tall. There were mikes hanging from the ceiling and monitors set high up, at different corners of the stage.
"You'll be spending most of your time here, of course. And in the supply kitchen, which is through those doors back there." A key aspect of Gretchen's job was making sure that the right ingredients for each show were available, fresh, prepared in whatever way necessary before taping. If substitutions had to be made, it was up to her to make them, which was where her culinary background was important. "You can get to it by Susanna's dressing room, too," Lila said, then beamed a smile at Gretchen. "Now let's go say hi to Susanna and get you two acquainted."
Behind the stage, at the far end of the room was a doorway; then down three steps to a black door with a shiny gold star painted on it. "Here we are," Lila whispered and knocked.
"Yes? Come in," Susanna called from inside.
Suddenly Gretchen felt nervous again.
Gingerly, Lila opened the door, revealing a spacious room ornately decorated in Laura Ashley, fragrant with the tangy—sweet smell of flowers. There were three vases on Susanna's vanity alone. Right now Susanna was sitting on the pale pink floral settee along the wall, talking with another woman, and she glanced over and said hello.
She appeared a bit slimmer in person—though not nearly as skinny as the sharply dressed, pin-thin woman talking to her; that one had inky black hair arranged in artful, oversized curls and barely spared Gretchen a glance. If anything, she seemed impatient with the interruption and stood. "Listen, I should run," she told Susanna. "I'll call you."
Susanna came to her feet, as well.
"I hope we're not interrupting you," Lila said, then gave Gretchen a light, supportive pat on the back. Or was that a nudge forward? Gretchen stepped inside a little farther as Susanna rose from her seat and came closer.
In person, Susanna Tate was also shorter than she appeared on television—even shorter than Gretchen, who hit about 5'3" without heels. Susanna was cloaked in one of her trademark long, drapey outfits—a maroon, blue, and black paisley number, with wide, flowing pants and a matching over jacket that extended past her knees. Her thick, honey-colored hair appeared smooth and fell just a few inches below her shoulders.
After Lila made the introductions, Gretchen reached out to shake Susanna's hand. "Hi!" she said brightly. "I'm very excited to meet you and to get started!"
Susanna smiled; with her free hand, she covered their handshake and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you. We're delighted to have you. Has Lila given you the tour?"
"Yes," Gretchen said, smiling. A moment passed before she realized she was still nodding.
Meanwhile Lila excused herself rather hastily. In fact, she'd seemed pretty eager to leave. "Oh, Gretchen, please meet my agent, Misty Allbright," Susanna said. "Misty, this is Gretchen, my new assist—ah, my new set supervisor."
When Gretchen crossed over to her, Misty failed to shake her hand. In fact, it was bizarre. She just looked at her. There was something chilly and unreceptive in her gaze. Two details struck Gretchen about Misty Allbright: her violet eyes (contacts, obviously), and her insanely high heels, which were at least four inches high and as brittle looking as a wishbone. Once she'd reiterated her goodbyes, and the door shut behind her, Susanna smiled wider and linked her arm through Gretchen's elbow. "Gretchen, sweetie, I am so glad you're here. We desperately need someone who actually knows what they're doing. You don't know how difficult it's been for me!" she added emphatically, looking momentarily helpless, with wide, searching eyes. "I've had to fire six people this year!"
The statement instantly worried her.
"It's really been quite exhausting," Susanna added with a shake of her head, and led them out of her dressing room.
As Susanna walked Gretchen around, introducing her to various people, she went over what she would need from Gretchen on a daily basis. She also offered Gretchen full use of her vacant office on the first floor.
Gretchen thanked her—almost absently, because she was preoccupied, noticing how people at TCN seemed to react to Susanna. Like they wanted to keep her happy, like they were on their best behavior. Either that or they scurried away as soon as they saw her coming, before she saw them. She recalled how promptly Lila Mendal had made her exit. And Gretchen's mind kept replaying the words "I've had to fire six people this year." It was only January, for pete's sake—what exactly had Susanna meant by this year anyway?
Was Susanna Tate less likable and pleasant than she appeared on her show?
There was something else Gretchen noticed. Nobody was wearing a dress besides her. In fact, once past the fourth floor, gone were the skirts, heels, ties, and jackets. Gone, too, were the carpeting and the serene sea-green and silver surroundings of the offices.
Up here, the pace was frenetic and the dress was casual. Everyone working on or around the sets wore jeans, sweatshirts, untucked T-shirts. Some people had headpieces dangling around their necks; many had clipboards in their hands. It was hard for Gretchen not to feel overdressed, especially with each echoing click of her heels as she walked. But it was a good thing, really. Now that she knew how relaxed the dress code was, she could swap the pantyhose for jeans, plus a comfortable sweater, her Nikes—
"I love your dress, by the way," Susanna said now, and then as if preempting her intentions, added, "I must tell you, Gretchen, it's such a relief to see someone around here who takes pride in their appearance, especially when working on my show." She flattened her palm against her chest with feeling, casting Gretchen a dramatic look that said Is it just me? Then she patted Gretchen's hand and added, "I have a feeling you and I are going to get along great."
Okay, so much for jeans and sneakers. "Oh, there's Brett," Susanna said, squinting ahead and tugging a little harder on Gretchen's elbow to lead her forward.
"Romeo Ramero" was all the way on the far curve of the hallway. He was walking with a gray-haired man who wore a disheveled looking blazer and baggy pants. Even though Gretchen didn't share Dana's crush on him, seeing Romeo Ramero in person was surreal for a moment, beca
use crush or not, he was still a celebrity.
As they got closer, Gretchen noticed that, while Romeo—or Brett—was larger than life on TV, he was only about 5'8" in person. And then she saw he was smiling at her. He had pretty blue eyes, a chiseled but still masculine face, extremely white teeth, and a flawless complexion. Up close, his hair appeared shiny and stiff with gel. His black ribbed sweater left little to the imagination in terms of muscle development.
They said hello as Susanna made the introductions, and Brett gave Gretchen a friendly wink. "Welcome. Great to meet you. Gretchen, this is my producer, Joel Green." The gray-haired, disheveled Joel had a brusque, dismissive air about him, which made it apparent that he preferred to resume whatever conversation he'd been having with Brett before Susanna and Gretchen had approached.
"It's so wonderful to meet you," Gretchen offered. "I'm a big fan of your show." Not quite the truth, but close enough. "I'm sure you hear that all the time, though."
"Hey, I do, but believe me, I never get tired of hearing it. Especially when it comes from a pretty girl," he added with a grin and another wink.
Just then Joel Green gruffly interjected, "Listen, Brett, we've really gotta go over these details for the Hawaiian show. Let's go talk in my office."
"Sure, sure," Brett said, seeming nonplussed by the apparent urgency of the Hawaiian show. He flashed another winning smile at both women. "Bye, ladies. Look forward to seeing you later." As he sauntered off, and his frumpy producer trailed beside him, Gretchen noted that short or not—and despite the ribbed sweater and gel-head—there was just something charming about him.
* * *
Rick buzzed apartment 5B again. Still no answer. Damn, it was freezing, and he was probably stupid to come back in the first place, but for some reason, the way he'd left things with Gretchen Darrow was still bothering him. He figured the least he could do for acting like such an ass the night before was bring her a portable fire extinguisher. She obviously needed one, and hey, maybe she'd even find it charming.
And there was another reason why he'd come back: This was the first day of his vacation and already he was bored as hell. Tomorrow he was heading up to his dad's place in Maine—no, his place. He had to keep reminding himself that it wasn't his dad's anymore. Some days it was so quiet up there, you could stand outside and hear the wind, maybe, but nothing else. It was no wonder that his brother didn't care as much about the place. Brett had no patience for quiet.
Rick was about to buzz a final time, but then thought better of it. It was only ten to five; Gretchen was obviously still at work. Assuming she worked, of course, and wasn't just living in that big apartment on her parents' dime... or maybe she even had a sugar daddy, for all he knew.
He started to turn away, then stopped when he heard someone coming to the door, A guy pushed it open, jerking his head back as soon as the cold air hit his face. "Hey, excuse me," Rick said to him. "Do you know Gretchen?"
"Who?"
"Cute girl on the fifth floor," Rick explained.
"Oh, the redhead?"
"No, she has long dark hair."
The guy looked blankly at him. "No, doesn't sound familiar." He continued down the front steps, and Rick moved past him, catching the door in his hand before it closed all the way. He took the steps to the fifth floor and simply left the fire extinguisher outside apartment 5B, wondering if Gretchen would realize he was the one who'd left it, or even how to use the damn thing. But what the hell?
On his way back down the stairs, he admitted to himself that he was disappointed. He hadn't realized how much he'd like to see her again until just now. Maybe to see what she looked like again, to see if she was as sexy as he recalled or if his whole perception from last night had been skewed, like his mood.
When he reached the sidewalk, his phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. "Hello?"
"Brody."
"Hey, Brett," Rick said. His brother was the only person who called him that. "What's up, man?"
"Shit, Brody, where have you been? I've been calling you." Brett's voice sounded threaded, concerned.
"Yeah, sorry. I was gonna call you later," Rick said, recalling the message his brother had left him earlier. It hadn't sounded urgent.
He and Brett weren't that close, and ever since getting his own show on The Culinary Network, Rick's brother had become particularly unbearable.
"Something bad is going on," Brett muttered. "Brody, I'm scared."
"Of what?" Rick said, now becoming concerned.
"Jesus, I don't want to believe it," Brett said, his voice low. "I mean, maybe it's nothing, but... I don't know what the hell to think at this point..."
"Just tell me what it is."
"I've been getting threats," Brett said.
"From who?"
"I don't know—that's the freaky part. I have no fucking clue who it is, or why."
"Whoa, just back up," Rick said, concentrating. "Tell me what happened."
According to Brett, there had been several phone calls, which he'd dismissed as cranks. Then, today, he'd gotten an e-mail at work that had him worried. When Rick pressed him for more details, Brett told him, "I can't get into it right now."
"Well, is it a fan or something?" Rick asked, trying to get some clarification.
"No. I mean... I don't see how it could be..." Brett replied evasively.
"Where are you right now?" Rick demanded.
"In my dressing room. That's why I can't really talk. But can you come over later? I'll tell you more about it."
"Brett, c'mon. What the hell is going on? I mean, give me something here."
Brett exhaled a slow, shaky breath before whispering into the phone, "Death threats. Well, the phone calls were."
Instinctively, Rick's gut tightened. He reminded himself that whoever was harassing Brett could be a harmless, obsessive fan, but he needed more information. "What do the calls say?" he asked.
"It's like a muffled voice saying, 'You will die,' that kind of thing."
"The calls are to your cell?"
"No, my penthouse."
"How many calls?" Rick asked, gripping his phone to his ear so he could hear over the street noise, while he stepped back to clear room for some woman with shopping bags.
"Three altogether, I think. I got the first one a few days ago. But I just ignored them. Especially because the only people who know my home number—well, I just figured it was some girl I pissed off."
"Oh, Jesus, have you been banging married women again?" Rick said with a sigh.
"No," Brett said defensively, then added, "not lately..."
An irate husband was a possibility, Rick knew, and it wouldn't be the first time.
"Then I thought maybe it was someone bigger, you know? Someone intimidated by my success—like Emeril, or something."
"Huh?"
"You know, Emeril Lagasse?"
"Yeah..."
"We both have live shows, but I'm younger and a lot better looking." Rolling his eyes, Rick mentally crossed Emeril off the list. Then he asked, "So what does the caller say, just that you'll die? Anything else?"
"Just that I'll die?" Brett echoed, his voice cracking. "Isn't that enough?"
"You know what I mean. Do they want something specific from you? Is it the same muffled voice every time?"
"Yeah... I think so. The last one was on Sunday and I haven't gotten any calls since then." Today was Tuesday; give it a few more days without a word, and the chances of it being just a bad joke were excellent. "But then I got that e-mail today. Shit, Brody, I don't know what to do..."
"What e-mail?" Rick pressed. "What did it say?"
"I can't get into it right now!" Brett whispered. He sounded petulant, like a frightened teenager lashing out. Then he sighed and said, "Please, just come over tonight so we can talk. I don't know who might be listening right now."
"Wait, are you saying you think it might be someone at the studio?"
"I gotta go," Brett said quickly. "Just come to pentho
use tonight, okay? I'll explain more."
"Well, are you gonna be all right?" Rick asked, concerned.
"Yeah, I've got to get on the set soon. But come over around nine."
Rick agreed.
"And Brody? Thanks."
Chapter 5
When Gretchen came home she found a fire extinguisher with a bow on it waiting for her in the foyer. "Dana?" she called out over the whirring sound of the vacuum. The whirring dissolved into a hiss and then silence, and soon Dana emerged from her bedroom.
"Hey!" she said brightly, then motioned toward the fire extinguisher. "I see you got my peace offering. That's to say I'm sorry. About the whole almost-killing-you-in-a-raging-inferno bit."
Gretchen smiled and set her purse down. "Thanks—that's sweet." She slipped off her wet heels and shook out of her heavy, velvety coat, then crossed to the living room to flop on the couch. It didn't take long to curl like an inchworm into the fetal position and let out a tired sigh.
"Tough day?" Dana asked, standing over her. She had her hair tied up in a sheer scarf; from this angle, the words Spoiled Rotten, which were emblazoned in white across her shirt, appeared upside down. Gretchen's eyes slid closed for just a moment as she savored the softness of the sofa.
"Mmm-hmm," she murmured. "What time is it anyway?"
"Eight," Dana said, then corrected herself "No, closer to eight thirty, actually."
"Oh, God..." Gretchen moaned softly and dug her head deeper into the warm red cushion. Her feet were killing her, her body was tired, her mind was flooded with new information. Then she remembered and opened her eyes again. "How was the casting call?"
"Good," Dana replied breezily. "The casting director said he'd be in touch—which could mean he'll be in touch, or it could mean 'give up, loser.' I'll find out in a few days. And I should tell you... the fire extinguisher's not really from me. I mean, I would've gotten you one if this one wasn't already here."
"Gotten us one, you mean," Gretchen said, slowly climbing up to a sitting position.
"Right, us—and if I'd thought of it."