HDU #2: Dirt

by India Lee

  “Shit. No one told the new girl that dress code is business casual-meets-laundry day,” the middle-aged one in the stained, hole-ridden Yankees jersey said while expertly spinning a pen between his fingers.

  “Meets homeless guy on Eighth Ave if we count you, Skip,” the long-necked guy next to him said dryly.

  “Har har. Blow me, Bird.”

  Amanda blinked as she stood idly at the door, staring at the room full of men in their twenties to fifties, all of them wearing simple jeans or khakis with their ratty sports gear and plain T-shirts, many of which were stained with what she assumed was Thai food considering the takeout boxes littering the rectangular table they sat around. The most “dressy” of the writers was the youngest guy — a square-jawed twenty-something in a flannel button up that was undone to bare the logo of his Brown University T-shirt.

  Shit. This is bad.

  As Amanda nervously looked around, someone let out a belch. A round of snickers followed her startled flutter of the eyes. Flustered, she desperately scanned the room for Tom but found that he was nowhere in sight. Amanda swallowed, feeling suddenly more embarrassed by his absence. He was her only ally, the person who had somehow seen in her the right fit to join his writers room of smirking, sneering and burping men who appeared wholly disinterested in her presence.

  “Yeah, I hate to crush your fantasy about what it’s like to work in TV, but the writers room isn’t exactly a place to wear stilettos,” said the flannel-wearing one while staring at his computer screen and clicking around with boredom.

  “Right,” Amanda swallowed. “I, um — ”

  “Yo, Fish,” the one in the Yankees jersey interrupted her, leaning back to flick a crumpled piece of paper at the bored, flannel-clad Brown alum, whose name was apparently Fish. So, so far, there’s a Skip, a Bird and a Fish, Amanda noted. “You’re buying me lunch today, asshole. I told you Rangers by two runs. Hernandez always goddamned chokes on the mound if he’s not pitching at home.”

  “Shit, I know. Thank Christ Ono’s starting tonight. Fuckin’ one-point-eight-six ERA? Jesus.”

  Crap. Baseball terminology, Amanda swallowed, feeling as if Fish had just begun spouting a foreign language. Nervously, she realized that she’d spent all her time in the past few months getting to know the characters of the Leadoff script more so than the game that they played, which did play a decent factor in the show considering it centered around a star New York Yankee.

  “So, new girl.”

  Amanda blinked, realizing she was being summoned by Fish.

  “How do you feel about Vegas setting Ono’s over-under at sixteen wins this season?” he asked with a smirk which twitched with the need to break into a full blown laugh as Amanda stared like a deer in headlights.

  “His — his what?” she stammered quietly. She was fairly certain that she had never heard a more perplexing sentence in her life. But just as Fish opened his mouth to repeat his question — or say something sardonic, she wasn’t sure which it’d be — a deep voice interrupted him from out the room and down the hall.

  “Hey, Amanda!”

  Oh, thank God. Her eyes lighting up like a puppy, Amanda spun around to see Tom approaching in a casual oatmeal colored henley and jeans. He raised his eyebrows at her outfit while guiding her into the writers room, taking his rimless glasses off of his head and placing them onto the bridge of his nose.

  “Wow, look at you!” he said brightly. Amanda blushed.

  “Oh. I, um, wasn’t sure what was acceptable office wear and I guess I came… overdressed.”

  “No, hey! Makes me wish the rest of these guys gave enough shits to dress like functioning members of society before coming to work,” he laughed, giving her back a reassuring pat. “Maybe they’ll take a lesson from this and start washing their clothes once every few weeks. Right, guys?”

  “Yeah,” came the collectively half-hearted response. Tom looked from them to Amanda, giving a breezy wave of his hand.

  “You’ll get used to them,” he said under his breath before going to sit down.

  Amanda managed a smile, already feeling a bit better. At least I have Tom, she thought, taking a quick peek around the room at the writers again. She had heard the one in the Yankees jersey snorting and caught the flannel-shirted one rolling his eyes quite visibly. The lanky one between them looked up at her with bored eyes before returning his gaze to his iPad. God, do I have my work cut out for me here, Amanda thought, though she forced herself to remain positive. Just stay confident. Show them you can do exactly what they do. Tom Vogel believes in you. You should believe in you too.

  Standing straight, Amanda forced herself to smile. As Tom took the last empty seat at the head of the table, she took the initiative to pull over the folding chair resting against the back wall. But just as she set it at the table, nearly taking a seat, Tom stopped her.

  “Ah! Amanda. Don’t take a seat just yet, I need you to do something for me first.”

  “Oh, of course.” She stood at attention. “What can I do for you?”

  Tom looked around the table. “Usual?” he asked, scribbling some notes onto a piece of paper when they all nodded. Once finished, he handed it to Amanda. “If you could just take this piece of paper and run it down to Starbucks. We all take our coffees pretty much the same, so it should be easy. Don’t forget to order something for yourself, too.”

  ~

  Perfect.

  Amanda stood at the end of the counter at Starbucks, two cardboard trays in her hands and about the entire cafe’s eyes on her. She glanced outside while waiting on the baristas for her drinks. She might not have been so stare-worthy to the rest of the customers were it not for the trio of Pop Dinner paparazzi planted outside the windows, snapping pictures of her on a coffee run while wearing high heels and her completely inappropriate Thierry Marc pantsuit.

  And I’m still holding this insanely fancy suitcase that I have absolutely no business holding, Amanda realized incredulously. It really made her look all the more ridiculous and she couldn’t have hated herself more in that moment for forgetting to put it down.

  “Alrighty, three grande iced coffees, two lattes — one venti, one grande — and three tall dark roasts for Amanda!”

  God.

  Stalking forward with the eyes of the room on her, Amanda pushed each of the drinks into the cardboard tray, moving aside as the busy baristas began setting down another set of orders.

  “Alrighty, four venti lattes, two tall iced coffees and a caramel macchiato for Jake!”

  Ah, Jake. My fellow office bitch, Amanda mused, looking over at the pair of anxious hands next to hers as they placed their set of orders onto a tray. She looked up to see who the poor hands belonged to, cocking her head at the boy who wore a suit slightly too big for his slim, six foot frame. Amanda squinted at him. His eyes, skin and hair were impossibly light and he looked several years younger than her. And there was something about his face that looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place him. When he looked up and offered a nervous, twitching smile, the sense of familiarity she’d detected quickly vanished. Never mind then.

  “I feel ya,” she mouthed, trying to give this Jake something of a reassuring grin. A couple seconds ago, she had felt as if she’d had it the worst of anyone in Midtown but just looking at Jake’s incredibly tense and brittle gait made her feel a little better about her own situation. He could hardly seem to stand straight. At least I’m not as much of a wreck as this poor guy, she reasoned with herself, noting that as much as it didn’t feel that way, she didn’t have it so bad considering how much potential drama there was lingering in her life — potential drama that was thankfully remaining just a dormant volcano.

  If a coffee run is the worst thing going on for me right now, I should definitely consider myself incredibly lucky.

  AMANDA NATHAN: CASEY MULREED SHOULD BE IN REHAB!

  Pop Dinner

  July 7th

  We’ve got leaks from Amanda Nathan’s interview with Fleur Magaz
ine and boy is the girl a hypocrite! But how, you ask, how is sweet little Amanda a hypocrite? Well, have a look-see here at her interview with Fleur’s own Madeline Riker:

  “When asked about Casey, Amanda flashes a bright smile. ‘Yes, Casey and I are still very good friends — we just don’t see each other as often anymore because we’re both so, so busy,’ she explains breezily before sipping on her elderberry lemonade. ‘But she’ll always be one of the most important people in my life because she was the one who introduced me to all of my career opportunities. I owe her absolutely everything,’ she insists, looking me in the eye as if to drive home the point.

  So, mystery solved — the girls are friends with the absolute best of relationships.

  Or are they? It seems that for all the love Amanda has for Casey, she is perhaps keeping a few feelings from her, which come out when I ask her about her other good friend, the notorious Ian Marsh.

  ‘I’d rather not talk about Ian,’ she says, getting quiet and tucking a lock of her straightened hair behind her ear. After further prodding, the young writer still refuses to speak of her rehab-graduated friend. But finally, I promise to let the subject go if she answers me one question — did Ian make the right decision by going to rehab for his addiction?

  ‘Yes. Rehab was the obvious answer for his situation and I’m proud of him for going through with it.’

  Fair enough. So, should all addicts seek professional help or go to rehab?

  Amanda is now twiddling a vine of wisteria, her mind appearing to be elsewhere as she answers me. ‘Of course,’ she mumbles. ‘Addiction is an illness that needs to be taken seriously. You can’t just ignore it.’

  Hm. She certainly has a point about that. But has Amanda unknowingly just inferred something about her own friend Casey? Not that we haven’t all been wondering the same thing:

  Why hasn’t Casey Mulreed gone to rehab?

  Why is she working harder than ever on a painful, biographical drama about her own addiction? All the while surrounded by the industry and TV writers who notoriously possess some of the worst, most addictive vices in Hollywood? Are we letting a young and bright star risk her life and wellness just to put on a show for us? And most importantly, is TV really what Casey should be doing at this crucial point in her life of addiction?

  Want this longtime Hollywood journalist’s take on the matter?

  The answer is a resounding ‘no.’ Get Casey Mulreed into rehab STAT — before we lose her forever.”

  For those of you who couldn’t tell, that was a total act on Miss Nathan’s part. Pretending to be so lost in thought that she slips up and reminds the world that Casey is still a raging alcoholic and substance addict who needs professional help? We don’t think so. The girl is trying to get her competition locked up at Crossroads and she’ll act as innocent as she can till Casey’s brainwashed into doing nothing but yoga for the rest of her life.

  Really. Don’t be fooled by America’s Sweetheart. You might think it’s a bit extreme to call Amanda Nathan a slithery, slimy, bottom-feeding snake but at the very least you can admit the bitch is one hell of a bad friend.

  Chapter 6

  Really, doll?

  Amanda’s eyes were unblinking, her stomach twisting much more than it should for someone reading a mere two-word text message. But to her credit, the text was from Casey and contact from Casey these days was essentially equal to a threat of some sort, no matter what what she said in how many words. A hand on her midsection, Amanda tried to convince herself that her sudden nausea was thanks to going over the bridge in the backseat of Liam’s Mercedes. But in reality, she knew it had more to do with Casey.

  And stupid Fleur Magazine.

  They had completely screwed her with their angle on Casey’s lack of rehabilitation. If she remembered correctly, her interviewer had claimed she would keep any further quotes about Ian off the record for his sake, including the completely harmless things she had said about rehab — the things that ended up being spun into some judgmental angle about Casey and her own addiction.

  “Come on. Let go of that thing.” Liam reached for her phone, letting go of a sigh when Amanda held it away. “Casey’s been around long enough to know that magazines spin stories too. Just relax and ignore her. She can’t do anything to you.”

  Except she can, Amanda swallowed hard. And I wish I could tell you what. She had considered it for a second — spilling about Casey’s hack into her inbox, about her knowledge of their entire contract. But she’d kept the secret from Liam for far too long already and even if it was faulty logic, Amanda reasoned that it was best not to reveal such incredibly stressful news when the whole situation could still very well be saved. Somehow. Perhaps it would take some shameless groveling.

  casey. not only was i off the record, fleur twisted my words completely. trust me when i say that i have no interest in trying to take you away from your job. the only tv show i’m concerned with is Leadoff. if you want, i’ll release a statement to clear things up. i can say that i know you’re being completely responsible by seeking help privately. if I do that, will you please let this go?

  “Shit,” she heard Liam mutter, tapping around on his on phone as she hit ‘Send.’ “Terrence wants me to meet him on Eighty-Fourth Street to see if I can run six miles in forty minutes.”

  Amanda’s eyes darted up at him. “Excuse me?” Liam only grimaced in response. “Are you serious?”

  “No. I just wanted get your attention away from Casey.” He broke into a laugh when Amanda simply blinked at him. “Amanda. You have enough to think about with Vogel and the guys from work and Leadoff. You don’t have to entertain Casey’s middle school drama. Just pretend she doesn’t exist. Like you never even met her.”

  “I can’t just pretend she doesn’t exist,” Amanda sputtered incredulously. “Even if she didn’t — ” She stopped herself, realizing that she’d been on her way to slipping about the hack into her inbox. Amanda paused, looking out the window as she gathered herself and organized her thoughts. She squinted at the sign reading “Willis Avenue Bridge,” wondering where Liam was even taking her for dinner, though she didn’t linger on the thought for too long. Taking in a deep but quiet breath, she started over. “Casey ruined Ian’s whole life and his whole future. I’m not going to just forget that she exists.”

  “She didn’t ruin his life.”

  Amanda turned to Liam, cocking her head. “She triggered his addiction again by convincing the entire world to hate him for something she told him to do. That’s not easy to move past when no one forgets anything anymore. Everything’s online forever. You can’t even Google his name without seeing pictures of him drunk or high or in rehab.”

  Liam shrugged, checking ESPN on his phone. “Tell him to do something with himself. Once he has a job people will start paying attention to that.”

  Amanda stared at him, her brows knitting at his lack of sensitivity. “No one in the industry is going to give him the opportunity to work for them at this point. Even if they didn’t care about all the things that happened, they’d probably be too afraid to piss off the Mulreed family.”

  “They’re powerful.”

  “Yes, I know. Thanks.”

  Liam smirked up at her. “Why are you getting so worked up over this?”

  “Because.”

  “Well in that case.”

  “Because I still feel guilty about him. Ian. He was the one who got me here. He helped make my life here and I helped destroy his by bringing Casey into it — even when you warned me about her.” Amanda winced, amazed at how clueless and incredibly foolish she’d been just months ago. “I was dumb and naive and entirely too trusting and there ended up being consequences for it.” Ones that are still haunting me. Amanda swallowed hard. “I screwed so so many things by being just… stupid.”

  “You weren’t stupid, Amanda, you were normal. And good and caring. It’s everyone else who isn’t. Don’t beat yourself up over being one of the only people in the industry who didn
’t completely screw someone over at some point just to get to where they are.”

  Amanda stared down at her wringing hands. “I screwed Ian over.”

  “Ian’s not your problem anymore.”

  Amanda made a face at him. “He was never my problem, he was my friend. Like a big brother — or a younger brother, maybe. I don’t know. But for someone who grew up without siblings, he was the closest thing I had to one and you’re the one who said how important it is to have family when you’re in this business. They remind you of who you are and how you started.”

  “Well don’t remind Ian that he was a screw up before he even met you.”

  She glared. “I always meant to ask you this but why have you always hated him so much?”

  Liam laughed as he rolled his window down, glancing out. “I never hated Ian, I could just tell who he was from the second I met him.”

  “And who was that?” Amanda challenged. Liam replied with ease.

  “Someone too eager. The type of guy who gets eaten up alive because he gets so easily excited, riled up. Makes stupid decisions because he gets ahead of himself and fantasizes about the outcome of things before they even start. And all that blinds him to the fact that he’s being screwed over. Which is how Casey got him.”

  Amanda blinked. Her eyebrows had gradually risen higher and higher throughout Liam’s evaluation. It was surprisingly on point.

  “I never hated him,” Liam clarified. “I just knew he’d end up someone’s burden, probably yours. It’s either predator or prey and he was the latter.”

  “Let me guess — you’re a predator.”

  He smirked. “I was.”

  Amanda snorted. “So, what am I? The prey?” she asked, trying not to look as curious as she was about his response. But since she was still waiting for a reply from Casey, Amanda couldn’t help putting more weight on Liam’s answer than she knew was rational. Please don’t let me be the prey, she hoped silently. But just as Liam opened his mouth to answer, her phone vibrated. Oh God. Knowing well who it was from, Amanda noted the timing and peeked down at the text message with dread squeezing at the pit of her stomach.