Bliss

by Shay Mitchell

“John Dory,” he said.

  “Your name isn’t John.” Or was it?

  “It’s Aiden. Aiden Bushwhacker.”

  Demi snorted. “You are so full of shit.”

  “Aiden Archer,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ve told you that three times already, Ms. Demi Elizabeth Michaels.”

  They talked more about food, and the dishes they’d tried tonight. Demi could have eaten a bucket of the oysters in shallot vinaigrette. So fresh, they tasted like the sea. “If I had to order one thing again, it’d be the calamari. Great batter. You can tell they use seltzer instead of beer, which works for this crowd. Even when they eat fried food, it’s gotta be healthy.”

  “Good tip,” he said. “I’ll have to tell my chef when I get to hiring one. I’m opening a John Dory in LA in a month.”

  “Not with that name,” she said.

  “No?”

  “John Dory sounds like some cheap seafood place where the waiters dress up like pirates and serve fried shit on a plate. So unless you want people to think you’re serving fried shit, you have to change the name. Call it Dory. Lose the John.”

  “Finding Nemo flashback,” he said, shaking his head.

  “So? This is Hollywood. People live and breathe movies here, and Finding Nemo was a massive hit. They’ll have warm, fuzzy feelings associated with the name. It says ‘fish.’ It says ‘fun on the beach.’ Or, you could go in another direction, and call the place Jaws.”

  He rewarded her with a hearty laugh, big as the outback. “Okay, okay. I’m sold. Dory it is.”

  “You know, back in Canada, I worked for a marketing company that launched restaurants. That was all I did, every day, for three years. There’re a lot more golden nuggets where that came from.” Huh? Her booze-addled brain might not be making complete sense.

  “Are your nuggets for free?” he asked.

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “I value myself and my skills. So if you want my help, you’re going to have to pay through the nose for it.” Could she have made that speech if she weren’t drunk? Doubtful. Alcohol was an excellent negotiating tool. She should drink before every job interview.

  “Through the nose? That’s disgusting.”

  “You don’t say that in Australia?” she asked. “It means I ain’t cheap.”

  “I knew that already,” he said. “I just spent three hundred dollars feeding you and your friends.”

  “So? How ’bout it? I’ve got five other offers on the table.”

  He looked a little too intently into her eyes. Demi’s stomach flopped with nerves and excitement. Before it got awkward, Aiden picked up her iPhone, and input his contact info.

  “If you can remember my name in the morning,” he said, “you’re hired.”

  demi’s new york sour

  SERVES 1

  ingredients

  2 ozs bourbon or rye

  1 oz fresh lemon juice

  ¾ oz simple syrup

  1 egg white (optional)

  ½ oz red wine

  instructions

  1. Add all the ingredients except the wine to a cocktail shaker and fill with ice.

  2. Shake, then strain into an Old-Fashioned glass filled with fresh ice.

  3. Slowly pour the wine over the back of a spoon so that it floats on top of the drink.

  17

  when the wheel of fortune turns, it rolls right over you

  Hipsters had gone through a downtime transformation. It began its gestation as a half-hour single-camera Brooklyn-set comedy about relationships. The network overlords concluded that Hipsters wasn’t as witty and raw as Girls nor as broad and vulgar as 2 Broke Girls. Would the audience tolerate another show about this demographic in the same location? The decision was “no.” But the network brass were gaga for the sexy young cast—a multiethnic brunette, a redheaded Latina, and a WASPy blonde—and decided that they could be the Charlie’s Angels for the millennial generation. So the premise and format were changed. Now it was an hour-long three-camera Los Angeles–set drama about relationships … and murder … called The Den.

  David predicted the murder bit weeks ago. He gloated when Sophia told him. He also pitied the writers who had to scrap ten finished scripts and start from scratch in an entirely new genre. He told her this kind of do-over wasn’t unheard of, although it was unusual. Any writer worth his or her salt should be able to make this one-eighty-degree turn on a dime. “That’s what we get paid for,” he said.

  Sophia’s character was still named Valerie. However, she was no longer an aspiring novelist. She and her costars’ characters were bloggers for a hard-hitting news site called The Den. They chased down ripped-from-the-headlines stories about sexism and violence against women, while going on dates and trying to square the men they investigated—dirtbags and assholes—with the men they hooked up with romantically. Naturally, there would be some crossover.

  At the meeting at M. King Studios to discuss the changes, Paula, the redhead Latina, said, “If you make us go undercover as models to expose sexual harassment in the fashion world, I fucking quit.”

  Cassie said, “Roofie rape on college campuses is relevant. Let’s do that.”

  Sophia added, “We could do bottle-service girls getting molested in the VIP section at nightclubs.”

  The writers and show runners weren’t enthusiastic about Sophia’s idea, finding it “too narrow.” She didn’t need to relive the experience anyway. Although it was a bit harrowing to hear that the show was in jeopardy, only to be snatched out of the jaws of disaster, she welcomed the change. Her biggest success on stage in school had been in dramatic roles. She’d still get to deliver wisecracks, but she would not have to act endearingly klutzy, or get a cupcake in the face, or mug through an aw-shucks “I love you guys!” group hug. Not that there was anything wrong with group hugs. She welcomed them in her real life. But on TV, it always read as emotionally manipulative. Always.

  So. Every aspect of the show—except the talent—had to be overhauled, including the shooting schedule, the scripts, wardrobe and makeup, locations, publicity stills, marketing, and network positioning. Variety and Hollywood Reporter chronicled the evolution, and predicted too much change could mean one thing: The Den would suck.

  For weeks, the cast and crew were crazy busy doing the thousands of things required to create a TV drama before shooting a single frame. If The Den were to get a fall debut, it would be late in the season, and only if the network canceled another debut show. Their success depended on the failure of others, or as David put it, “That’s entertainment!”

  Episode 101’s premise: a revenge porn plot about a high school girl, her jilted boyfriend, and a soulless troll. Sophia’s character had two juicy scenes: In Act One, she comforted the suicidal girl whose naked pics were posted all over the Internet. In Act Three, she confronted the revenge porn site’s creator in his basement lair and trashed his computer setup in a fury. She rehearsed her scenes with Demi and David every night until the first day of shooting in mid-September.

  The night before, Sophia and Demi sat on their couch eating ice cream. Sophia could never decide on a flavor so they ended up getting three: Neopolitan (Sophia’s fave), chocolate chip mint (Demi ate around the mints), and cookie dough. They were watching the reality show The Harem, mocking it. Demi said, “Ohh, she’s crying again!” of one of the harem contestants. “Listen for it, she’s going to say, ‘My heart hurts.’” On screen, sure enough, the girl said, “I feel betrayed! I really fell in love with the Sultan, but he gave the orchid to Shasanna. My heart hurts.”

  They howled, and threw pillows at the TV. Sophia said, “Good thing she’s not ‘there to make friends.’ Or she’d be totally fucked.” Then she put her foot on Demi’s thighs, and started rolling her ankles. She’d been doing it to Demi or anyone in close proximity since she was a kid. All the little pops and crunches loosened in her bones and joints, and she relaxed.

  “So Leandra’s in London now,” said Sophia. “Burning her way across
Asia and Europe.”

  “Let’s hope she stays there.”

  “Just tell me! Why do you hate her? What did she ever do to you?”

  Demi took a huge bite of ice cream and mumbled, “I can’t talk. My mouth is full.”

  A text popped up on Sophia’s phone, from, of all people, Renee. “Renee? Last time I saw her, she called me a no-talent princess on the verge of losing my looks,” she said.

  Demi said, “Did she change her mind?”

  “It says, ‘Heard about @theden! Congrats!! Would love to buy you a drink to celebrate.’”

  “I bet she would!” said Demi.

  Sophia said, “I’m texting ‘Thanks. Busy now, but I’ll be in touch.’”

  Renee replied, “The truth is, I need your help/advice. The party line ad didn’t happen. Skyy scrapped my shoot. Could you introduce me to your agent?”

  “When the wheel of fortune turns, it rolls right over you,” said Demi.

  “I have to help her,” said Sophia. “If I don’t, the wheel of fortune will turn and roll over me.”

  “You can’t possibly believe that,” said Demi.

  Sophia wasn’t generally superstitious. But with the show’s upheaval, she left nothing to chance, especially her good karma. “I did push her into a swimming pool by-accident-on-purpose. I owe her. What if I invite her to the First Night party?” she said, referring to the planned celebration after the first shoot day wrapped. “You’ll be working at Dory. David is on deadline. I can do one lap around the room with her, log the good deed, and then I can wipe my hands clean of her.”

  “I wouldn’t cross the street to spit at her,” said Demi. “Waste of my precious saliva. But I applaud your kindness to the bitch.”

  Sophia sent the text with mixed feelings. It was going to be a long day, and then, with Renee at her side, a longer night.

  * * *

  The first day of shooting was a thrill. She loved it all, the makeup, cameras, soundstage. She even loved the waiting around, and made good use of the time making a video of every inch of her dressing room to send to Demi and Leandra, and taking random shots around the set of her costars, the makeup tables, the wardrobe closets.

  For the party that night, Sophia wore a slinky black cocktail dress from BCBG and jeweled sandals from Zara. She knew she’d overdressed as soon as she walked into the Supperclub on Hollywood Boulevard. Despite the swank location, the other Denizens (as everyone on the show called themselves) were dressed down, casual.

  “I should have told you,” said Paula, the veteran. “First off, you get why we party the first night? In most of our contracts, you don’t get the big check until after the first day of shooting. That’s done, so now we all get paid. Yay, let’s drink. But, because we’re all exhausted from everything that got us here, the tradition is to dress casually, and make it an early night. The crew guys will stay until closing. I’m out of here in an hour.”

  “I might as well be wearing a sign that says ‘Virgin.’”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just have a drink and relax. It’s a party, remember?”

  Renee arrived soon after Sophia. She was dressed up, too, and seemed happy to stand out. “Hey,” she said, kissing Sophia on the cheek. “Thanks for leaving my name at the door.”

  “No problem.”

  Silence. Renee broke it by being honest. “We don’t have to hash over recent history. By my count, you owe me one. Put me in front of the right people tonight, and we’re even.”

  Just get it out of the way, she thought. “Come on.” Sophia brought her over to the power cluster of the showrunner, two of the writers, and one of the directors. They were having an intense conversation in a booth with serious drinks (scotches, neat) in front of them.

  “It’s our star,” said Julie Chapman, the runner, aka the most important person on the show. Her husband, Henry, was the director. They’d done a few hit shows together over the years, a bona fide dynamic duo. Along with the cast, the Chapmans were the show’s backbone, and the real reason the network had faith in The Den. “Great scene today, Sophia.”

  “Thanks,” she said, genuinely grateful to hear it. Now, on to her karmic labors. “I wanted to introduce you guys to a friend of mine from Toronto. This is Renee Quint. She’s an actor, too, and has done a bunch of commercials.”

  The Chapmans smiled and then returned to their conversation. Cue to leave, now. Sophia got the message loud and clear. Logrolling would not be tolerated. Another rookie mistake Sophia would never make again. Her nerves jangling, she backed away from the booth, pulling Renee along with her.

  Renee shook her off. “Wait a minute. I didn’t get to talk to them.”

  “You did see their reaction, right?” said Sophia. “They couldn’t have been less into it.”

  “You could have pushed it.”

  “I have to work with these people. I’m not going out of my way to piss them off on Day One. Even you must understand that.”

  “Even me?” Renee asked.

  Even a mean, selfish bitch like you. “Time and place,” said Sophia. “This isn’t it. I’m sorry, I thought it would be, but it’s not.”

  “Well, I’m here and I’m dressed, so I’m staying.”

  By now, the Supperclub bar area was crowded with people who worked on the show, their friends, and others who knew about the party and came to hook up or be seen. The idea that a civilian couldn’t gain access to a private Hollywood party turned out to be a myth. If you were a friend of a friend, or a friend of the bartender, or a friend of the bouncer, you could get in anywhere. The non-Denizens looked a lot like the roving packs of models and actors who turned up all over LA, in every bar, lounge, and club, every night of the week and twice on Saturday.

  “Flashback to CRUSH,” said Renee.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Sophia.

  They shared a companionable cringe. Renee smiled warmly at her, and said, “I’ll buy you a drink.” They pushed through three-deep hotties to get to the bar. Renee ordered, and then handed Sophia a glass of red wine. “No hard feelings.”

  Sophia accepted it. In a few minutes, the tension dissolved, and they shifted back in time to their Toronto dynamic, just two girls with high hopes and low-cut outfits. Renee brought up a few classic Vinnie moments, and Sophia found herself laughing at the memories and warming to her old friend. Sophia wasn’t one to hold a grudge. There was no point in clinging to the negativity. Renee was Renee. Right now she was being pretty cool. They took a couple selfies together and then started talking to a few guys at the bar. Sophia recognized one of them from some TV show, but she wasn’t sure which. She let him buy her a shot. Paola came over to kiss her good-bye. Cassie left soon after with her parents in tow. Before long, most of the other Denizens filed out. Someone put another drink into Sophia’s hand. Renee kissed a model boy. Farther down the bar, a girl stood up on a chair, and started singing off-key. Her lips were bright red, lipstick smeared.

  That was the last thing Sophia remembered, the smear.

  * * *

  Cold feet. A sour taste in her mouth. Sore shoulders. Sensations registered in Sophia’s body, but her mind lagged behind. She came to consciousness gradually, and then all of the sudden, like swimming upward in slow motion, and then breaking through the surface. She opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry.

  She rolled to her left for the glass of water on her night table, but it wasn’t her night table. An abstract color-block painting hung on the wall where her vision board should be. Someone else’s art. Someone else’s bedroom.

  She bolted upright, making her head throb so painfully that she had to lie back down. The sheet slipped off her body, and she realized she was naked. Next to her, a man lay on his stomach, his bare legs and back visible on top of the sheet. The pillow obscured his face. She could see only a beard and curly brown hair.

  He didn’t seem to be breathing.

  Sophia scrambled off the bed, in a panic about where she was, who he was, what they’d done. Her movement d
ragged the sheet off the rest of his nude body. He flinched suddenly, making her scream. He wasn’t dead. But relief was quickly replaced with rising fury. He wasn’t dead, but he should be.

  He turned over, exposing his junk to harsh morning light. She gagged and looked around frantically for a bathroom. She ran for an open door, and found the toilet. After unloading into it, she saw a mound of puke on the white-tiled floor near her dress. She put it on quickly. It was torn and damp. Her hair felt stringy and damp, too. She looked behind the shower curtain. Her underwear and bra were soaking wet on the tub floor.

  When she came out of the bathroom, the man was sitting in bed, cross-legged, the sheet gathered around his waist. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Where am I?”

  “My place.”

  “Who are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Who the fuck are you? What happened last night?”

  He looked at her like she’d woken up crazy. “We had a great time, that’s what happened.”

  She dug into her memory but found only a hole. A sob seeped from her lips. Did I have sex with him? Vague images surfaced from the Supperclub. Paula saying good-bye. Model boys at the bar. Renee laughing, making out with an actor she sort of recognized. This guy was a friend of his? She could not remember meeting him or talking to him.

  The saddest part was that Sophia had always been so careful to the point of paranoia. Her mom had trained her since junior high to buy her own drinks, cover her glass with her hand, and never leave a beverage on the bar unattended. How did this happen? She’d kept her palm over her wine. That actor handed her a shot. Had that been it? She should never have taken it.

  Sophia had been going to bars, and worked at bars, for years. One slip, and she woke up into a nightmare.

  Run. Run. Run. Panic and adrenaline raced through her blood. She had to get out of there. “Where’s my stuff?” she screamed, frantic to find what belonged to her, to remove any trace of her from this place. She stumbled around the room, but couldn’t find her bag, her phone, her shoes.

  He said, “Chill out. Come back to bed.”