Outside In

by Courtney Thorne-Smith

  He was under time pressure, too. Kate was in serious danger of being fired. He needed something to distract Sapphire from the incredibly narcissistic pain of working with the woman whose husband she had stolen. If he didn’t feel such an affinity for animals, he would consider getting her a tiny dog. That might distract her, but he would have to surrender his membership to the ASPCA immediately. However, if he could remember the name of that little animal—was it a ferret?—that had taken a chunk out of Paris Hilton, he would overlook his reservations and buy one for Sapphire right now. Was it too much to hope for a rabid one?

  What Sapphire really wanted, of course, was a role in a movie. Michael was convinced that it wasn’t working with Kate that really bothered her—it was working on a television show. She was just projecting her displeasure and misery on everyone around her. If she was going to be dissatisfied, so was everyone else. So, it followed that if he wanted to make everyone else (Kate) happy, he would have to bite the bullet and make Sapphire happy, which meant getting her what she wanted.

  He needed to go into this meeting with all of his ducks in a row. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any ducks. He didn’t even have a screenplay. He racked his brain for a talented writer he could wrangle at the last minute to accompany him to his meeting with Bob. He needed someone he could trust to keep his or her mouth shut, both during the meeting and afterward. Michael really thought he was on to something with this idea and he didn’t want anyone stealing in and running with it. The last thing he wanted was the competition of another Vivien Leigh movie in production at the same time, god forbid with an actual movie star. He didn’t need Sapphire Rose going up against Charlize Theron at the Golden Globes. His fame-obsessed client would be sent back to the TV seats so fast, her head would be spinning. No doubt green vomit would also be shooting out of her mouth, which would make a win for best actress a long shot.

  So, he needed to move fast and he needed a writer. His fingers tapped lightly on his computer keyboard as he thought. A writer…a writer…a writer—his fingers froze over the keys. A writer.

  No, that was crazy. He couldn’t write a screenplay. He was an agent, for god’s sake, who dabbled in thinly veiled autobiographical short stories. Who was he to write the story of a manic-depressive woman?

  Only the son of a manic-depressive woman.

  His heart beat faster in his chest. He tried to step back from his own intense fantasies to look at his idea objectively. Objectively, he liked it.

  He felt the agent in him come to life. Wouldn’t the pitch to Bob Steinman have more impact if he showed up with a script in hand, or at least an outline? He couldn’t come right out and tell him that he wanted to write it himself. Between that and pitching Sapphire as the lead, it would start to sound too much like the vanity project it actually was. He would need to create a nom de plume and pitch the hell out of his alter ego. Why couldn’t, say, Mark Green write a treatment for a feature about the great Vivien Leigh? For that matter, why couldn’t he write it with Sapphire Rose in mind for the lead? He could. Not only that, he would.

  Michael checked his watch: 8:15. He had a good hour before he had to head into his office. He had only about fifty hours before his meeting with Bob, though, and a treatment for a movie to write. He would call his secretary and tell her he was sick. He would spend two days doing nothing but immersing himself in the life of Vivien Leigh. He would read biographies and watch her movies and hope to be struck by a lightning bolt of inspiration—or at least hammer out an outline. He started packing up his laptop and gathering his things when he heard a familiar voice say, “Hello.”

  He looked up to see Kate smiling shyly down at him. Adorable. “Hello,” he said back.

  She gestured to the gear he had been gathering together for his exit. “Are you leaving?”

  “What?” he asked, stalling for time. “Oh, no, I wasn’t leaving.” He quickly dropped his briefcase and made a show of positioning his computer on the table in front of him. “I just got here.”

  Kate looked around at the empty coffee cups and crumpled napkins that littered his workstation. “I see. Wow, whoever sat here before you was a real slob.”

  “True,” said Michael, pulling out a chair for her. “But he is working on it.”

  “Good to know,” she said with a heart-melting grin.

  Remembering his manners, Michael offered to get her a drink.

  “My friend is getting it for me.” She gestured to the long line and Michael recognized the woman he had seen holding open the makeup trailer door for Kate at the Generations set. “Oh good,” he said, but he thought, Oh great—another person I need to hide from during my weekly six a.m. torture sessions. “You girls don’t have to work today?”

  “I don’t. She does.”

  “Oh, that’s nice.” Michael racked his brain for something—anything—to say. There was so much he really did need to talk to her about: her job, her breakup, his client who had caused her breakup. But since he wasn’t supposed to know about any of it, he couldn’t. How could he make “How are you?” sound sincere when he really wanted to say, “I’m so sorry about what is happening to you, and I need to warn you about danger ahead”? So he settled on the very clever “Would you and your friend like to join me?”

  “Oh,” said Kate, “I don’t know. I’ll have to check with her—”

  “Hi, Michael,” said Paige, appearing with three cups balanced precariously in her hands. “I brought you a latte. I figured it’s still too early for a mocha caramel candy frappuccino.”

  Michael looked at Kate, who immediately dropped her eyes, embarrassed. Her friend knows my name. Kate told her my name. Was it just him or was the world suddenly glowing with brilliant white light?

  He took two of the cups from Paige before all three came tumbling down. “I couldn’t agree with you more,” he said. “My hard and fast rule is no milk shakes before nine a.m.”

  “Good to know you are a man of principle,” she said, sitting in the chair he offered.

  “That’s my only one, but I feel it is more than enough to hang my hat on.”

  “In Hollywood, I believe even one solid principle qualifies you for the priesthood.”

  Michael laughed. “I will remember that if I’m ever looking for a career change that entails converting to Catholicism and embracing celibacy.”

  Kate finally pulled herself together enough to speak. “If you two are done, I would love to introduce you. Michael, this is Paige. Paige, meet Michael.”

  “Oh dear,” said Paige, realizing her faux pas. “I already said your name, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did,” hissed Kate.

  “It’s all right,” said Michael. “I just assumed it was a lucky guess. It’s a pretty common name.”

  Kate smiled at him, grateful for his attempt to alleviate her embarrassment. “So…fancy meeting you here.”

  “Yeah,” he said shyly, holding her gaze. “What are the odds?”

  “Pretty good when you drive all the way across town,” said Paige. Kate looked at her with a horrified expression. “What?”

  Kate slid down low in her chair, her freckles disappearing in the bright red of her cheeks.

  “So, Paige,” said Michael, turning his attention toward her in order to allow Kate some time to regain her composure. “You work with Kate?”

  “I do. And you’re a writer?”

  “Oh god,” whimpered Kate, sinking lower.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Paige, grimacing at her second faux pas. “What I meant to say was, ‘What do you do…guy I’ve never heard of?’”

  Michael laughed again. Even Kate managed a small chuckle in spite of her mortification. “Well, I guess you could say I’m a writer, but mostly I just sit here with my computer hoping that your friend comes in.”

  Still not quite ready to raise her eyes, Kate smiled into her chest.

  “Is there a lot of money in that?”

  “The writing or the waiting?”

  Paige laughed. �
�Either.”

  “So far, no,” said Michael, wondering at how much easier it was to talk to Paige than to Kate. Why did attraction turn his verbal skills to mush? “The problem with both career options is that they are very dependent on other people.”

  “Well, speaking of dependent, I have to go to work and Kate here is depending on me for a ride home. Unless…” She looked pointedly at Michael.

  “Paige,” groaned Kate, now little more than a puddle on the floor.

  “Well, I can’t just leave you here,” she said innocently.

  “No, you can’t,” agreed Michael. “I would be honored to drive Kate home…after breakfast.”

  “Is that breakfast today or tomorrow?”

  Now it was Michael’s turn to say, “Paige.”

  Paige raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just making sure.”

  Finally, Kate looked up. “You know, I am a little hungry.”

  As Michael feared, all of his conversational skills left with Paige. He and Kate sat staring at their individual cups, pretending to be fascinated with the list of coffee possibilities written on the side.

  “So,” Michael finally managed, “do you like Café Vita?”

  “I do,” said Kate.

  “Do you want to go there?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you think that once we get there you will say more than ‘I do’?”

  Kate grinned. “I really, really hope so.”

  Michael laughed and started gathering his computer, phone, and BlackBerry, each item reminding him of how much he had to get done today. He should be on his way into his office to start getting ready to pitch Bob Steinman on a script that he should have written already, but somehow he just didn’t care. He remembered reading somewhere that if you had what you needed, suddenly you needed a lot less of what you wanted. Right now, he needed to get to know Kate.

  They walked the half a block to the restaurant in silence, jolts of electricity shooting through Michael’s body every time Kate’s shoulder accidentally bumped his. They settled into a corner table and looked at each other shyly.

  “So…are you still staying at your mother’s?”

  “No!” said Kate with so much enthusiasm that Michael actually flinched. “Sorry,” laughed Kate. “Obviously, I am quite excited about moving out.”

  “Obviously. What happened?”

  “I’m staying with Paige.”

  “That’s good,” he said, cursing himself for not offering up his own place when he’d had the chance.

  “It really is,” Kate said. Then…nothing.

  They busied themselves with pretending to read their menus, but soon the waiter came over to take their orders and, to both of their great dismay, took the menus with him when he left.

  “She made me an auction item,” blurted Kate.

  “She what?” asked Michael, completely lost.

  “My mother. She made me an auction item. For her condo association.” Michael still looked confused. “That’s why I left.”

  “I’m sorry, I still have no idea what you are talking about,” said Michael with a kind, albeit baffled, smile.

  “No,” sighed Kate. “I’m sorry. I tend to blurt things out when I’m nervous.”

  “You what?”

  “I blurt. Usually it’s inappropriate, deeply personal things.”

  “Like your mother trying to sell you into slavery?”

  “Oh no,” laughed Kate. “Is that what you got from what I said?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Oh, man, now you see why I don’t like to do interviews.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I get nervous there is no telling what will come out of my mouth, and once it’s out, it’s out. I mean, what if you were a reporter—you’re not, are you?”

  Michael laughed. “No, I’m not.”

  “Good. Anyway, if you were a reporter and I tried to tell you about how my mother donated a dinner with me to an auction—”

  “Oh, a dinner with you.”

  “—but it came out all wrong and you thought I had said that she had tried to sell me into slavery—well, you can see how that might be an issue.”

  “Well, if I were that reporter, I would be quite excited.”

  “Sure.” Kate laughed again. “It would be a very good story.”

  “In fact,” said Michael earnestly, “you might want to leak that story. It has everything: human interest, danger, intrigue—”

  “Crazy mother.”

  “Exactly. Everyone thinks their mother is crazy. Of course, in my case it is actually true.”

  Kate stopped laughing. “Are you serious?”

  Michael realized he may have just done his own blurting of inappropriately personal information. “Actually, I am. She was institutionalized for much of my childhood.”

  “Wow,” said Kate quietly. “That must be tough.”

  “It was. She’s gone now. She died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kate looked around the restaurant—at the other diners, out the front door, anywhere but at Michael.

  He asked, “Did that freak you out?”

  “What?”

  “What I told you about my mother?”

  “Oh no,” said Kate definitively. “I…I’m just embarrassed that I was complaining about my mother when, well, you obviously had real problems.”

  “Look, I did have a hard time with my mother, but I lucked out in the dad department, so it all balances out. Besides, it’s all relative, you know? Just because my situation with my mother was so serious doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt when your mother tries to use you in order to look important in front of her friends.”

  Kate flinched. “Ouch.”

  “Exactly. It would have been very difficult for my mother to organize a dinner from inside an institution, so really, I won out.”

  “I promise you, my mother would have found a way.”

  Michael laughed. “Did she have to cancel the party when you left?”

  “Oh, I sincerely doubt it.” Kate moved her water glass to make room for the waiter to place her basil and feta omelet in front of her. “I’m sure she just told everyone I was in the bathroom with intestinal distress and then proceeded to charm everyone to distraction. I would bet anything that after three minutes no one even noticed that the guest of honor was missing and that the evening turned out to be a great success. She had always been the true star of every party anyway.”

  “It sounds like she should have been the actress.”

  “Yeah, I have thought that many times,” said Kate, taking a big bite of her breakfast.

  “Do you like what you do?”

  “Sometimes. Do you?”

  Michael took a long time to spoon strawberry jam onto his toast and spread it carefully across the bread, stalling. This is the time to come clean, he thought. “Sometimes.” Tell her.

  “Why sometimes?”

  “Well, the truth is…” Tell her.

  “What?” asked Kate, with genuine interest. It had been so long since an attractive woman had looked at Michael with genuine anything that he was momentarily taken aback.

  Now. Tell her now. “The thing is, um…well, I’m not really a writer.”

  “Damn it,” said Kate, dropping her fork onto the table and shaking her head.

  Oh shit. “Listen, I’m sorry I—”

  “No, no, I’m not upset with you. I just get so mad at the attitude of this town,” she said passionately. “I mean, of course you are a writer. You are a writer because you write.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You know, before I was on a successful TV show, people would ask me what I did, and when I told them that I was an actress, they would say, ‘Oh, yeah? What restaurant do you work at?’ As if I couldn’t claim to be an actor unless I was being paid to do something they could see me in. I think it’s so admirable that you write every day. In fact, I think i
t is all the more admirable that you do it without being paid.” She paused her zealous diatribe and then asked, “Do you get paid for your writing?”

  Michael was thrilled to have a question he could answer honestly. “No, no one pays me to write.”

  “I think that’s great,” Kate declared.

  “Well, I don’t know if it’s great that no one wants to pay me.”

  Kate laughed. “No, I know that. Of course it is better to earn your living doing what you love, but there is something so pure, so admirable, about the fact that you are doing your art for its own sake.”

  Pure? Admirable? Those are words an agent rarely hears. “Well, I can honestly say that writing is something I do for myself.”

  “And I think that is so much better than if you were selling your soul for some stupid paycheck, you know? You see that so often, especially in Los Angeles. Too many people give up their dreams for a fancy car and a condo in Malibu. It is just sad.”

  “That is sad,” Michael said, wondering how soon he could sell his condo.

  “But look at you,” Kate said brightly. “You are living the true dream.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” Michael managed a weak smile. His desire to tell her the truth was no match for her admiration. He just wasn’t ready to risk losing it quite yet. “Living the dream.”

  Well, living the illusion, at least.

  27

  When Paige tried to open her front door at six o’clock that night, she felt it hit something soft.