by Laura Levine
Apparently news of the Vanessa/Quinn boinkfest had reached the security department.
“I heard they had to send the bedspread out to be cleaned.”
“I’d better get back to the office,” I said, afraid that any minute now one of his shirt buttons would pop off and poke my eye out.
“Need a ride?” He patted the seat next to him and shot me a lascivious grin, no doubt hoping that all the women on the Muffy set were as promiscuous as its star.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and took off down the road.
I waited till he was out of sight, then started back to the Writers’ Building. I hadn’t gone very far when I saw some trailers lined up behind the Muffy ’n Me soundstage. As I got closer I could see these were the actors’ trailers, their names printed on the doors.
I couldn’t help noticing that Vanessa’s trailer was right next to Quinn’s. If they were going to have sex, I wondered, why couldn’t they just stay in their trailers? Why did they have to risk exposure by doing it on the soundstage? Clearly, they must have been turned on by the thrill of making love in a public place.
Suddenly I heard a woman’s voice coming from Quinn’s trailer.
“How could you, Quinn? I thought we meant something to each other.”
It sounded like Audrey, but I couldn’t be sure.
And then I did something foolish, almost as foolish as making love in a public place. I tiptoed up the steps of the trailer and listened at the door.
“Lighten up, Audrey,” Quinn was saying. “You know as well as I do that our affair wasn’t going anywhere. You’re a married woman, and I’m a married man. What did you think—that I was going to leave my wife and run off with you?”
Audrey’s voice was thick with emotion when she said, “Yes, Quinn, I did.”
Quinn laughed.
“And wind up a lapdog like Stan? Forget it, sweetie. Besides, you’re not really my type. I like ’em younger and wilder.”
Although I couldn’t see Audrey, I could picture her, her thin lips clamped shut, her blue eyes icy with rage.
“You’re off the show, Quinn. You’re history. I’m going to have you fired.”
“Oh, really?” Quinn said. “Just try. The network loves me. They’ll never let me go.”
“I’ll get you off this show,” Audrey hissed, “if it’s the last thing I do.”
And then I heard her coming toward the door. I leaped off the steps and ducked around the side of the trailer just as the door flew open. I crouched down, praying Audrey wouldn’t see me as she passed by. My heart pounding, I squeezed my eyes shut, too terrified to face her if she should discover me. I stayed that way for a minute or two. When I finally forced myself to open my eyes, Audrey was nowhere in sight.
That was the good news. The bad news was that I was not alone. For the first time I realized there was someone else crouched down behind me. I turned and looked at my companion.
It was Stan.
All the color had drained from his face. Obviously, he’d heard everything. I waited for him to say something, to read me the riot act, to fire me.
But all he did was reach for his Evian bottle.
Chapter Eight
“How delightful to see you again, my dear,” Wells Dumont said, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips for a moist kiss.
It was four o’clock, and we were down on stage waiting for what’s known as the “run-through” of “Cinderella Muffy” to begin. On most sitcoms, the actors run through the script at the end of the day, so the writers can see what’s working, and what needs to be fixed.
Of course, what with all the real-life drama in the air that day, everyone had pretty much forgotten about my script.
Everyone except Wells.
“What a charming script,” he said. “As I was saying the other day, it brings to mind a production of Love’s Labours Lost I once starred in, back in England. That was right after my successful run as Macbeth in London’s West End. And right before I came to America to play the Scottish thane on Broadway.”
How pathetic, I thought. From Macbeth to Muffy. Talk about your downhill career slides.
“Perhaps some day you’ll allow me to show you my scrapbook.”
“That sounds great,” I said, smiling wanly.
What was it with me and older guys, anyway? First Mr. Goldman, and now Wells. For some strange reason, old coots seemed to find me wildly attractive.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I think I’ll go get some coffee.”
Tongues were wagging at full speed as I made my way across the stage to the buffet table. The production staff stood in gossipy clumps, shooting covert glances at Vanessa and Quinn.
The happy couple were sitting side by side on the sofa in the living room set, Vanessa pushing back her cuticles and Quinn whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Every once in a while, Quinn would glance over at Audrey, as if defying her to stop him. Once again, Audrey had reverted to Ice Queen mode. Whatever emotions were roiling inside her were invisible to the naked eye.
Not so for Zach Levy-Taylor, who could barely contain his rage at the sight of Quinn sitting thigh to thigh with his beloved Vanessa. Zach stood at the edge of the set, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists.
I poured myself some coffee, then eyed the buffet table, hoping to find some sticky buns left over from the actors’ breakfast. Alas, there were none. All that had survived from breakfast was a bowl of dusty apples. Which was a blessing, actually. I’d have a nice healthy apple, only a hundred calories, with nary a fat globule.
I was just about to reach for one when I saw Danny, the production assistant, walk by with a chocolate chip cookie as big as a frisbee.
“Hey, Danny,” I said. “Where’d you get the cookie?”
“Vending machine,” he said. “Backstage.”
I could practically read the thought bubble over his head: Whoa, Tubby. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.
I smiled lamely. “It’s for Kandi.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, nodding as if he actually believed me.
Danny’s thought bubble was right, of course. The last thing I needed was a chocolate chip cookie as big as a frisbee. Absolutely the last thing. For once, I’d show a little restraint. I’d have a lo-cal apple, and that would be that.
Yeah, right. The minute Danny was gone, I sprinted backstage, tripping over cables, looking for the damn vending machine. I finally found it tucked in a dark corner. And there, in slot number C6, were the frisbee-esque chocolate chip cookies.
I fed a dollar bill into the machine and it spat out my cookie. I was just reaching down to retrieve it when I heard, “Those are my favorite.”
I looked up and saw Stan, smiling shyly. He put in his dollar and pressed C6.
There we were, two fellow noshers, sneaking backstage for our sugar fixes. For the second time that day, Stan and I had bumped into each other in places we were ashamed to be seen.
“Really, Stan. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Of course I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. It was Stan who did the talking.
“I don’t know how much you overheard outside Quinn’s trailer today,” he said. “But if I were you, I’d forget I ever heard it.”
He was still smiling, but it was a hard-around-the-edges smile that made me slightly uneasy. Was it my imagination, or was mild-mannered Stan Miller actually threatening me?
Then, as quickly as it had come, his menacing air disappeared. Stan was back in doofus mode. He ripped off the cellophane from his cookie and gobbled it eagerly.
“Know what’s also good?” he said. “D4. Grandma’s Brownies.”
And with that, he went waddling back on stage, wiping cookie crumbs from his lips.
Back at the buffet table, Kandi was pouring herself some coffee.
“God, this is excruciating,” she sighed, watching Quinn run his finger along Vanessa’s downy cheekbone. “I don’t
know how I could have ever been in love with him.”
“Want a bite of my cookie?” I asked, holding out my chocolate chip frisbee.
Kandi shook her head and waved it away.
“If I ever fall in love again,” she said, “shoot me.”
“No problem.”
I thought about telling her what I’d overheard outside Quinn’s trailer, but decided against it. The last thing Kandi needed was incontrovertible evidence that Quinn had been cheating on her with Audrey as well as Vanessa.
We spent the next few minutes at the buffet table, Kandi unable to keep her eyes off Quinn and me wondering just how long it would take the chocolate chip cookie to take up permanent residence in my thighs.
Then suddenly we heard Dale Burton’s voice behind us, raised in anger. We turned and saw him at the stage door, shouting into his cell phone. “Just tell Bernie to call me back!” For once, he seemed to be on a legitimate call. “This is the third time I’ve called today. Where the hell is he?” He slammed the phone shut and then realized that we’d been watching him. “Agents,” he shrugged, with a forced laugh. “They’re impossible, huh?”
So his agent wasn’t returning his calls. Not a good sign.
He smiled feebly and headed back to join the other actors on stage.
“Okay, everybody,” Audrey called out. “Let’s get started.”
At last, the run-through was about to begin.
Vanessa put the bubble gum she was chewing under the coffee table, and the show got under way. I stood with Stan, Audrey, and Kandi, each of us making notes in our script, checking off the jokes that worked, and making X’s where the jokes died. Later, we’d return to the Writers’ Building and think up new jokes for the failed X’s.
Everything was going smoothly until the scene where Zach comes to pick up Muffy for the prom.
I guess it was an unfortunate choice of words, given the circumstances.
In the script, Quinn hands Vanessa over to Zach and tells him: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
It wouldn’t have been so bad, if he hadn’t said it with a suggestive leer that reminded everybody of exactly what he had done with Vanessa on the pink chenille bedspread. It was all too much for poor, lovestruck Zach.
“I’ll kill you!” he said, lunging at Quinn.
I don’t know how Zach built up his rather impressive set of muscles, but this much I do know: it wasn’t from boxing. He must have thrown five punches at Quinn, all of which Quinn easily deflected.
“Calm down, kid,” Quinn said, grabbing Zach’s arms and pinning them behind his back. Zach struggled in vain to get free. But Quinn held on tightly, laughing, which just infuriated Zach all the more.
“I really would like to kill you, you slimebag!” he shouted, his face red with rage.
“You’ll have to get in line for that,” Quinn said.
Truer words were never spoken.
Somehow the actors managed to stumble through the rest of the run-through. But by now the script was the last thing on anybody’s mind. Which, Kandi insisted, was a good thing.
“It means they’ll leave your jokes alone,” she said.
And she was right. We barely made any changes to the script that night. Audrey, looking uncharacteristically harried, sent us home early. I asked Kandi if she wanted to come over for dinner, but she was headed off to an emergency session with her shrink, Dr. Ira Mellman. Kandi has been seeing Dr. Mellman once a week for as long as I can remember. By now, she’s probably paid off his mortgage and put his kids through college.
Sometimes I think seeing a therapist might be nice, but I know what Dr. Mellman charges, and all I can afford from him is a get-well card. Besides, I figure whatever problems I’ve got, I can solve with Dear Abby and a nice hot soak in the tub.
So Kandi and I said good-bye, and I drove home, stopping off for my own emergency therapy—a Koo Koo Roo chicken take-out dinner, with extra mashed potatoes.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I called out to Prozac as I walked in the front door. I found her napping on my brand-new Ann Taylor silk sweater. She opened her eyes and glared at me balefully, then began kneading my sweater with her claws.
“Prozac,” I wailed, “what are you doing?”
Of course, I knew exactly what she was doing. Getting even with me for leaving her alone all day.
I issued her a stern warning. “That kind of behavior simply won’t be tolerated, young lady.”
Okay, so I didn’t issue any stern warnings. What I said was, “Look what I brought for dinner, lovebug! Roast chicken and mashed potatoes and brownies for dessert!”
She sniffed at the take-out bag, then shot me a look that said, “Great. And what will you be having?”
She wasn’t kidding. I’m lucky I got to eat my half.
I know, I know. I shouldn’t feed her people food. I shouldn’t cave in to her emotional blackmail. I should be strong and firm and blah blah blah. What can I say? I’m a pillar of tapioca. If they gave free mileage for guilt trips, I’d never pay air fare again.
Prozac and I were stretched out on the sofa, Prozac alternately licking her mashed potatoes and her privates. I was gnawing on a chicken wing and going through my mail, when I came across a manila envelope. I opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers. It was Lance’s sitcom idea.
“If The Shoe Fits”
A Treatment for a Half-Hour Pilot
By Lance Venable
Welcome to the wacky world of shoes, where bunions are funny and laughter’s just an instep away…
Ouch. This was going to be painful.
If The Shoe Fits turned out to be an ensemble comedy set in the shoe department of a high-end department store, starring a handsome yet hilarious shoe salesman by the name of Vance, an overbearing manager, a daffy ingenue salesgirl, and Vance’s pet parrot, Manolo Blahnik. The gimmick behind Lance’s show was that every week there’d be a famous guest customer. Or as Lance put it, “It’s Love Boat with arch supports!”
I won’t bore you with the excruciating details. Let just say that If The Shoe Fits made Muffy ’n Me look like something by Eugene O’Neill.
“Oh, jeez,” I moaned to Prozac, “what am I going to tell Lance when he asks me how I liked it?”
We were both about to find out, because just then there was a knock on the door.
“Jaine! It’s me, Lance.”
I thought of pretending I wasn’t home, but surely he knew I was there. With his x-ray hearing, he’d have heard me rattling around the apartment. I thought of pretending I was in the tub, but if I’d been in the tub, he would have heard the water running. I thought of making a break for it and sneaking out the back door, which seemed like a pretty good plan, until I remembered I didn’t have a back door.
Oh, well. There was no getting out of it.
“I’m coming,” I called out.
I opened the door, a brittle smile plastered on my face.
“Hi,” I managed to squeak. “Come on in.”
“So?” Lance asked. “Did you read it?”
That’s it! I’d tell him I hadn’t read it!
“Looks like you did read it,” he said, pointing to the pages scattered on my coffee table.
Damn. Why did I leave them out like that?
“Uh…yes,” I admitted. “I read it.”
“And? What did you think?”
This wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to tell him the truth. I’d just tell him, in a gentle yet honest way, that it stunk worse than a month-old pair of Odor-Eaters, and that it had about as much chance of selling as one of Prozac’s poops.
“Well, Lance, actually, I…”
“Yes?” he said, eager as a puppy waiting to be adopted at the pound.
“I loved it.”
Oh, God. Did those words actually come out of my mouth?
“I knew you would!” he grinned. “So, what should I do with it now?”
Put it in a shredder, then burn the remains and bury them. At least six feet u
nder.
“Can you show it to the head writers on your show?” he asked. “Maybe they can do something with it.”
Are you crazy? I want to work for these people. I can’t hand them this piece of caca.
“Sure. I’ll be happy to.”
Obviously a demented doppelgänger had gotten hold of my powers of speech.
“Thanks, Jaine. You’re an angel.”
He gripped me in a viselike hug, then floated back to his apartment on a cloud of unrealistic expectations.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked Prozac when he was gone.
She shot me a look that said, Don’t get me started.
And then I realized: There was an easy way out. I’d simply hold on to the treatment for a few weeks and pretend that Audrey had read it and turned it down. This way I’d let Audrey be the bad guy. A role I suspected she was eminently suited for.
I tossed the skeletal remains of our chicken dinner into the trash, then headed for the bathtub, where I soaked for a good forty-five minutes. There’s nothing quite so relaxing as a hot soak, especially if it’s accompanied by a cool chardonnay.
And I needed all the relaxation I could get. Tomorrow was Friday, tape day, the day my script would be recorded for posterity. Who knew? Maybe Muffy ’n Me would run long enough to go into syndication. Maybe decades (even centuries!) from now, generations of slack-jawed insomniacs would be watching my show in re-runs on Nick at Nite. This could be my ticket to immortality.
I only hoped we could make it through the taping without a fistfight.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
TO: Shoptillyoudrop
FROM: Jausten
SUBJECT: Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
TO: Jausten
FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
SUBJECT: Flipped Out
All right, dear. You’ve made your point. I won’t give your number to Ernie Lindstrom, even though Edna has been positively begging me to.