If the Daves’ offices looked like a playroom designed by a ten-year-old boy with an unlimited budget, Little Dave’s house looked like something out of one of the decorating magazines I’d buy at the airport to keep me entertained and envious until I landed. There was an actual Andy Warhol hanging in the entry-way, and a painting I didn’t recognize, a six-by-nine-foot panel of undulating blues and greens in swirls and waves, that dominated the wall between the front door and the living room. The Francis Bacon book I’d given him was displayed on a leather-topped coffee table in the living room, which had, on its hardwood floor, the most beautiful rug I’d ever seen, an intricately patterned design of flowers and sunbursts rendered in shimmering green and gold and turquoise. Waist-high built-in bookcases ran along three of the walls, filled with novels and books about art and photography, collections of screenplays and biographies of famous actors. The fourth wall was floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out at the backyard and the pool. Paintings and framed photographs hung on the walls, and everything was arranged by someone who clearly had an eye for balance and proportion and texture: a heavy wool blanket on a smooth leather chair, a rough sisal rug on a smooth wooden floor, a cushy cotton dog bed and a basket of bones and rubber chew toys next to Pocket’s bed. Everywhere I looked, something invited my inspection or my touch—heavy peach-colored marble sculptures shaped like pears and used as bookends; a stuffed leather pig that sat on the mantel over the fireplace, its snout turned up at an insouciant angle; an orchid, thick with violet-and-cream-colored flowers, on an end table, next to a stack of those “Made on a Mac” books of photographs that I had to keep myself from picking up and reading.
Instead, I made myself walk through the white-on-white kitchen, with low marble counters and wide passageways. Like the entire house, it had clearly been designed for someone in a wheelchair and, judging from the way things gleamed, was more to be admired than to be used. Either that or Dave had a housekeeper, someone whose job it was to keep the floors and sinks and countertops immaculate. The back of the kitchen, like the living room, was a wall of glass, with views of a koi pond and a landscaped yard, with brick paths and wooden benches, lush grass and flowering vines. Beyond that was the pool, a narrow rectangle twenty-five yards long, lined with dark-blue tiles and a hot tub at one end, with chaise longues and white canvas umbrellas, a drinks cart and a table for four and a small pool house, a miniature of the main house, behind it.
I walked out back to continue my inspection. At one end of the pool house there was a gym, with weight machines and a hand-pedal recumbent exercise bike. At the other end was a screening room, with half a dozen theater-style chairs and a full-size screen. The bathroom was enormous, with creamy marble tile covering the floor, a ceiling fan spinning slowly overhead, and a giant walk-in—or wheel-in—shower with two overhead spouts the size of dinner plates and a handheld attachment and nozzles bristling from the walls. Beside it were wooden cubbies, built-in dressers, and padded benches covered in green-and-blue-striped fabric. There were wicker baskets of flip-flops by the door, and stacks of blue-and-white towels.
I walked around, letting my fingertips sample the surfaces and fabrics, looking at everything, before sliding open one of the dresser drawers. Inside, I found stacks of women’s swimsuits, in all different colors and styles, everything from white string bikinis so skimpy they’d barely fit a toddler to a modest black tank suit in a size sixteen. Some looked as if they’d been worn; others still had tags attached. I wondered who they belonged to, who they’d been bought for. Girlfriends? Female friends? One woman whose weight fluctuated wildly? They definitely didn’t all belong to his current love. I’d Googled Shazia somewhat obsessively, and in every picture I’d seen she was the same, tall and slim and elegant.
I picked up the stack of suits, feeling the slippery nylon and Lycra in my hands. I knew the basics of Dave’s history: the bits that Big Dave had told me, what I’d been able to glean from gossip, and the profile that the Hollywood Reporter had done three years ago. I knew that Dave had been paralyzed in a boating accident right after he’d graduated from college, when his sailboat had been T-boned by a drunk guy in a powerboat near Province-town on Cape Cod Bay. I knew about how he’d deferred his admission to Yale Law School and decided to give Hollywood a try. He’d sold his first show three weeks before his self-imposed one-year deadline, and now went back east only for birthdays, his parents’ anniversary, and one Red Sox game each season.
I replaced the pile of swimsuits, reached into my bag, and pulled on the one I’d brought from home. Then I stood in front of the mirror, in the flattering light of the lamps, imagining how Dave might see me. The doctors had spent most of their time and attention on my face, reasoning, correctly, that clothing would cover the worst of the damage most of the time. My right arm and shoulder were puckered and pitted with scars that made it look as if something had been chewing on me. You look fine, Gary would say—he wasn’t one for compliments, and I tried not to do the needy-girl thing of asking for them. Now I considered myself, my legs tan and smooth with muscle from the swimming and hiking and yoga, my hair falling in thick profusion over my shoulders. I would never have one of those va-va-voom Hollywood bodies that balanced a tiny waist with improbably big breasts, but I had, as Grandma was constantly telling me, “a cute figure,” decently proportioned and shown off nicely in the V-neck swimsuit I’d selected on the chance that Dave might come home when I was in the water.
Outside, by the pool, I sat on one of the lounge chairs, wrapped in the thick terry towel, feeling the sun warm my face and my feet, listening to the birds and the wind in the trees. If someone had handed me this piece of land and several million dollars to do whatever I wanted, to build whatever kind of house and garden would please me best, this was probably close to what I would have come up with. In its specifics, it was different from the little home where I’d grown up, but in its feel, the way it welcomed you, with its play of patterns and texture and color, it felt like the way a home should be. I could see myself cooking in the kitchen, serving meals to Grandma and Maurice and the Daves at the dining-room table, swimming in the pool first thing in the morning, and curling up on the couch as a fire burned late at night.
I wondered again what the deal was with Shazia, and how much time she spent here. I’d tried to keep from poking around too much, but from what I could tell, there didn’t seem to be anyone else’s stuff in the rooms I’d surveyed—no women’s coats hanging in the closet by the front door (I’d broken down and peeked), no yogurt or cottage cheese or diet drinks or pomegranate juice in the refrigerator (I’d looked there, too).
So maybe Dave and Shazia weren’t serious. Or maybe, for all I knew, he’d moved into her place, and they were currently not in Vegas at all, but back there, in bed together, doing things to each other that mere mortals would have to pay to see on cable. I pulled on my cap and goggles and eased myself into the water, which was not too cold and not too hot, and held me up like a lover’s hands. Like the rest of the house, like every piece of furniture, like the rugs and the cabinets and the color of the walls, it was not too hot and not too cold . . . it was just right.
NINE
The actress stood onstage, in a circle of light, facing an audience I knew she couldn’t see. Dressed in a fitted blue skirt, a frilly white blouse, and high heels, she breathed deeply, making her breasts swell against the shirt’s buttons. Her nerves were palpable. In the hot stage lights, I could see the fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Finally she began.
“I think we can find a way to make this work,” she said. I leaned forward in my seat, surrounded by executives, my hands pressed tightly together, knowing every word she’d say, because I’d written them and rewritten them and read them out loud dozens, maybe hundreds of times. The setting was an upscale restaurant in Boston; the woman, Daphne, was a waitress, a regular-looking girl who wore her heart on her sleeve and had big dreams of someday owning a restaurant of her own. In this scene, the first in the show, s
he was appealing to her boss to let her switch from the front of the house to the kitchen and work with the chefs. The best pilots are the simplest, the Daves had instructed me. It’s all about getting the audience to fall in love with your characters, so you tell as basic a story as you can.
I had listened, and the pilot for The Next Best Thing was as stripped down and clean lined as I could make it. Act One: Nana’s and Daphne’s lives in Boston fall apart, with Nana losing her boyfriend and Daphne losing her job. Act Two: They move to Miami. Act Three: Nana goes on a date and realizes, at the age of seventy-two, that she needs to rely on herself before she can be in another relationship, with another man to support her. Daphne gets turned down for her dream job but then goes back and fights for it and gets the chef to take her on as an unpaid assistant for a week, with the promise to hire her if she can show him she’s got the right stuff. Back at home, in the tag, the mini-scene that would run before the next show began, the ladies sit on the couch and review their progress. We’re all right for now, Daphne says, the words that, in my mind, would end every show. And: fin.
Onstage Daphne was pleading with the Boston restaurant manager. “I know I don’t have a ton of experience, but if you give me a chance . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said her would-be boss, played on this night by Lanny Drew, the head of casting, the one who would give, or withhold, the studio’s approval of our choices.
“I’m a good cook.” She paused, and in that pause, I could hear her gathering strength to say what she was ashamed to say but knew to be true. She wiped her cheek and blundered on. “Maybe I’m not the prettiest girl in the world, but you’ve got to have someone who can manage the inventory and deal with the vendors and tell the homeless guys to get lost when they start scaring the customers.”
“I’m sorry, Daphne,” Lanny said. “I think you’re a nice kid. But this isn’t the place for you.”
The girl on the stage lifted her chin. For a moment, she stood perfectly silent, poised in the light. “Then where is?” she asked . . . and you knew she wasn’t asking just about that restaurant, just about that job. This was my question, the one I’d asked every day in the hospital, and in school, after Sarah had abandoned me, and then in college, when I’d thought my looks wouldn’t matter and learned, to my sorrow, how much they did and always would. “Where is my place?”
Lanny-as-manager didn’t respond. The actress paused and then turned and walked off stage left, putting an extra roll in her hips, letting him know that the war wasn’t over and that she intended to win.
There was a moment of silence. I looked sideways at Dave. I’d never been to a network casting session before, and I wasn’t clear on the etiquette. Then I decided, To hell with the etiquette, and started to clap. Dave joined me, and eventually, so did Lisa and Tariq from the studio, and Maya, the casting director for Bunk Eight, who was helping me find the actors for my pilot, and Joan and Lloyd from the network (Lanny, I noticed, had gotten very busy with his BlackBerry). I sank back into my upholstered theater seat, breathless and enthralled. As good as the actress had been in person and on tape, she’d been even better in front of real, live people. “She was amazing!” I whispered to Dave.
He nodded back, his face unreadable, his hands resting on his thighs. “We’ll see” was all he said.
The girl’s name was Allison Pierce. The previous June, she’d graduated from NYU . . . and, if I got my wish, she’d pack up her apartment, fly back to Los Angeles, and start preparing for a starring role in the pilot. Unless Polly, our next contestant, did a better job . . . but never mind that now.
“Can you give us a few minutes?” Joan called to Dave and me, from her spot a few rows behind us. The network held its auditions in an actual theater, with a stage and lights and auditorium seating and fringed velvet curtains—all of it designed, I suspected, to produce maximum anxiety in the would-be stars. I hurried up the tilted aisle, through the doors, and into the lobby, where our second girl was pacing, talking silently to herself. I found Allison in the ladies’ room, standing in front of the sinks, crying.
“Oh my God,” I said, hurrying to her side. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe it’s over!” She sniffled and wiped her eyes. Allison was African American, tall and busty, with warm brown eyes and dimpled cheeks. I hadn’t imagined Daphne as a black girl. In my head, she’d been white, like me . . . but when I’d seen Allison’s audition, I’d decided that I’d be willing to make whatever adjustments were necessary if the network picked her. She was the total package, pretty but relatable, a girl who could handle jokes and drama with equal skill. Best of all, she was a fresh face, a complete unknown, and that, I knew, would help. “Casting people love their shiny new things,” Big Dave said. “They’re like raccoons. Also, they really like to be the ones to find the hidden treasure and take credit for it.”
In the bathroom, I put my hand on Allison’s shoulder. “You were amazing.”
She wiped the skin underneath her eyes delicately, with her index fingertip. “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m here!”
“You and me both, sister,” I said, and instantly wondered about the propriety of a white woman saying that to a black one. But Allison laughed and gave me a hug.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much!”
“No, thank you,” I said, and walked her to the lobby, and told her to enjoy the rest of her time in Los Angeles. Maya had been so impressed with Allison that she’d arranged for her to meet with people at a few other networks and production companies for the remaining twelve hours she’d be in town. “I don’t know if this is the show for her,” she said, “but that girl’s going to make it somewhere.”
Dave opened the theater door. “Ruth?” he called. I tried to ignore the thrill that went through me when he said my name. “They’re ready for us.”
I hurried back down the aisle, waving at Joan as I walked past. Joan, the head of comedy for the network, defied every stereotype I’d ever heard about women in Hollywood. Instead of being an ageless, aerobicized hardbody who wore designer suits and high heels and could be anywhere between thirty-five and sixty but would never, under penalty of death, look a day older than forty, Joan was unapologetically fifty-seven years old, with wrinkles bracketing her mouth, fleshy upper arms, and a body as slack and soft as a stack of pillows. She wore her white hair in a bun, had mild blue eyes behind glasses on a beaded chain, and never wore makeup other than tinted lip gloss. Joan dressed like a small-town librarian, in sweater vests and elastic-waisted skirts and clogs. I’d never seen her upset, never heard her curse or even raise her voice. But there must have been steel in there somewhere, because she had been on top of the network’s comedy department for the unimaginable span of sixteen years, outlasting a half-dozen different bosses and regimes and more shows than I cared to consider.
Finding this handful of potential Daphnes had been an ordeal, a two-week-long slog through hundreds of hopefuls, who had read for us in the windowless room in the back of Maya’s Larchmont studio. There were girls who could do jokes but not the poignant stuff, girls who could do drama but not comedy, girls who could do both but didn’t have the right look—too old, too young, too skinny, or just, for some inexplicable reason, not what I’d had in mind. It hadn’t helped that I was what Maya called, with a mixture of exasperation and affection, “tenderhearted.” I wanted to cast every girl who came through the door. I wanted to give them all hot tea and butter cookies and bracing speeches about self-esteem; I wanted to offer them tips and advice and coaching, and bring every girl who evinced even a hint of a possibility that she could be “it” back for another try.
That attitude had lasted for the first two days, and the first forty auditions. After that, I’d gotten increasingly ruthless, inking black lines through girls’ names before they’d finished their first speech, tossing their head shots into the recycling bin without a second thought. There wer
e just so many of them, lined up in Maya’s waiting room, hanging over the railings on her porch, standing on the sidewalk, chatting, smoking, texting, an inexhaustible supply of young women of all races or ethnicities who were, as we’d requested, at least a size twelve (even though I was pretty sure I’d seen some tens and eights with strategic padding) and who could play twenty-five or younger.
Every day Maya and I would watch a few dozen auditions, with Maya’s assistant, Deborah, standing quietly in the corner behind a camera, putting each girl on tape. While we were sorting through possibilities in Los Angeles, Maya’s New York City–based associate, Val, was doing the same thing with actresses on the East Coast, and girls from Toronto and Denver and Minnesota were also putting themselves on tape for our consideration. At five or six every night, Maya and I would pick our favorites, and Val would email hers. We’d review the tapes and narrow our choices, arguing and rewatching and bringing in the Daves and sometimes my grandma for a consultation before we’d settled on our four finalists.
We’d brought those four girls in to read for the studio. The executives there, led by Lisa and Tariq, had approved three of them to continue on to the network, cutting the girl we guessed they’d cut, an actress named Susannah Reynolds, who could manage the comedy and the drama but wasn’t a standout in either realm. Then Maya and I had spent hours debating the order in which we’d present the girls to the network. Allison, our New York City find, had gone first. Next up was Polly Calcott, who’d been working steadily for the past five years, landing a bit part here, a three-episode arc there, spending each summer touring with Hairspray, where she’d played the starring role of Tracy Turnblad. Her experience, especially with multi-camera sitcoms and onstage, would serve her well, I thought, but her body would work against her. When Daphne became a bigger girl in my imagination, I’d thought that she would have an hourglass figure, with plenty of sand on top and on the bottom. Polly was short and square-shaped, cute . . . but if she was good enough, we’d find a way to make it work.
The Next Best Thing Page 12