by Jordan Cooke
“Tanya,” said Max, taking her by her skinny elbow and steering her a few yards away. “These people are taking over the set. We cannot have that. This is a working environment—if you recall—and I’m trying to set up a shot.”
“That reminds me, Max,” said Tanya with her pouty face. “Trent and I decided to go to Bora-Bora for our honeymoon.” She folded her arms as if that were an entirely appropriate response to what he’d just told her.
“Wonderful,” said Max, straining to be patient. “I hope you have a lovely time,” he continued, his sarcasm slipping out.
“Hey, thanks!” She looked at a clipboard she’d been hiding behind her back. On it was a complicated, hour-by-hour chart of every minute of her time from now until the wedding. “But here’s the thing—we wanna stay for a few weeks so that means we won’t be around to film episode four.” She counted on her fingers. “Five or six, or whatever episode we happen to be on then.”
Max’s left eye started to quiver, which it had been doing a lot lately. He wondered if he needed his prescription changed. It was either that or all the rage he’d been swallowing since this Trent and Tanya marriage thing first came up.
“Are you winking at me, Max? ’Cause I’m, like, about to be a married lady.” She shook a finger at him like he was being a very bad boy.
“No, Tanya,” said Max through his teeth. “My eye is on edge. And frankly, so am I. Do I have to remind you—and your fiancé Trent Owen Michaels—that you are contractually obligated to appear in all episodes of The ’Bu? Not just one or two—but each and every one?”
“Wow,” said Tanya, looking like that was news to her. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh,” said Max as his eye flickered into spasms.
Tanya put her hand on her hip and scrunched up her face. “Well, you know, Max, this honeymoon is real, real important to me so can’t you just, I don’t know, show a rerun or something for episode four?”
The top of Max’s head felt like it was going to open up, at which point his brains would spew all over Tanya and all the workers from Joy Etc. He cast his eyes around hopelessly for Corliss, but the girl who always saved the day was still nowhere to be found. He was about to creatively visualize Tanya without a mouth when JB sauntered up.
“Max,” he droned in an uncharacteristically mopey tone, “do I have to wear this puffy, short-sleeved V-neck sweater in this scene?” He pulled at an oversized fuschia-colored sweater that hung off his still skinnyish body. “I mean, I know the Jeebster is playing Ollie, supergeek par excellence, but give a guy a break. This sweater makes me look like Lardo Retardo. And did I mention the sink in my dressing room is backed up?” he continued. “And that I was called two hours ago and so far all I’ve done is sit around playing with my Dumbledore action figure? Sheesh, boredom alert!”
“JB,” said Max, mystified by this peculiar outburst from JB, who was usually the very soul of cooperation. “What’s wrong? You never complain about anything. In fact, you’re the easiest cast member I have . . . You can’t be turning on me?”
“Sorry, Max,” said JB with downcast eyes, “I’m not feeling so super today. My head aches and everything sounds louder than usual and my stomach is all gurgly.”
Max recognized those symptoms immediately. In fact, he had felt every single one this morning after waking with a Patrón hangover. “JB,” he said in astonishment, “is it possible that you—of all people—were out somewhere last night drinking?”
JB got an extremely guilty look on his face. But before he could answer Max’s question, a piercing scream echoed throughout the soundstage. “MAAAAAAX!” The Joy Etc. gang held their notepads against their ears. Then it happened again: a scream that cut into Max like a machete. “MAAAAAAAX!” came the familiar, husky-voiced cry. Max closed his eyes against the onslaught. Then he heard huffing and puffing heading his way—accompanied by the feverish click of six-inch Guess heels. “Anushka,” he said, creaking his twitching eye open when the clicking and huffing stopped inches from him. “What seems to be the problem?”
“The problem,” said Anushka, “is that Trent Owen Michaels, my supposed costar—HA!—says you’re going to run a rerun for episode four! So he and Twizzler over here can surf and sex it up in the Bora-Bora sun. Is this for real?”
“Totally!” said Tanya. “We were just talking about that!”
Max creatively visualized a bloodstream full of Xanax and then said, “Anushka, trust me, I never consented to—”
“Episode four,” Anushka said, cutting him off, “is the episode where I get all those hair extensions and become my usual hot self again! There’s no way these two former-model types are going to screw with that!”
Tanya frowned. “I’m actually still a model, Anushka. Next week I’m on the cover of—”
“Zip it, Twizzler,” replied Anushka, “I’m having a talk with my director.”
“He’s my director, too!” cried Tanya.
“Does anyone have an Alka-Seltzer?” groaned JB.
“We’ve just demolished that tacky fireplace,” said one of the Joy Etc. people, rushing up to Max. “Where’s the nearest dumpster?”
The top of Max’s head officially catapulted open. “Where is Corliss?!” he shrieked in a voice so high only dogs could hear it. “I need Corliss!!!!”
Then Anushka, Tanya, and JB watched in amazement as Max ran from the soundstage, careening through the vast space making unearthly sounds, knocking Joy Etc. workers to the ground as he went.
Max’s Office at the UBC Network—A Few Moments Later
“Corliss?” Max said, approaching a soggy ball of teenager curled up in a fetal position on his eggplant-colored leather sofa. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” came a sniffling voice that did sound like Corliss’s. “What’s left of me . . .” She pulled herself up and hugged her knees. Her eyes were puffy, the color of bubble gum. Wads of Kleenex fell from her lap and rolled off the sofa to the rug. She picked up the Kleenex closest to her and blew her nose with it. The sound that emerged sounded like a six-car pileup on the 101 freeway.
Max’s gag reflex kicked in. He hated anything to do with sinuses. But he could tell Corliss was obviously in distress. He’d never seen her this way—and he didn’t know what to do. People rarely showed real emotion in his presence, and when they did it confused him. Still, he did feel something stir in the remote corners of his heart, and he knew he had to somehow comfort her. “Corliss, what’s wrong? Why are you recycling Kleenex?”
Corliss wiped her eyes and sat up straight. “Oh, it’s nothing, Max,” she said evasively. “I just had a kind of sleepless night, that’s all.” She smiled a reassuring smile through her puffiness—and then burst into big, heaving sobs. “Ugh! I’m so sorry, Max! This is so embarrassing!”
“Um,” he said, trying not to retch as Corliss grabbed the balls of Kleenex from the floor and smashed them all over her face in an effort to staunch her blubbering. “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
“No!” she wailed as she leaped to her feet and ran from the room. “I just want my life as I know it to be over!”
Max thought this was an overly dramatic response to one night of bad sleep. Could it be that something else was bothering Corliss? Something more important than eight solid hours of Zs? And what would he do now that his number-one assistant was in some kind of emotional freefall? As he pondered all this, his phone rang. After a moment or two of trying to remember how to answer it, he finally connected the call.
“Hello,” came a familiar Russian-accented voice. “This is Nanny Olga.”
“Olga!” Max cried out, immediately comforted by the sound of her voice. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything a-okay, Max,” she said in her reassuring voice. “One question. Can I take Saturday off? My sister Varniska is visit from Siberia. Wants to hit Tahoe. Can you spare Olga?”
“Of course, you’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty, Olga. Take the day off.”
“Thanks
, Max. I go now. A little tired. Today I teach Legend to ride bike. He very good. Only hit one tree.”
“Olga, you are a miracle worker! Legend couldn’t even cut his own French toast two weeks ago and now he’s riding a bike . . . Everything you put your mind to, you succeed. Can I trouble you to discuss my professional problems again? You were so helpful with advice last time.”
“Tell Olga professional problems. I got ten minutes. Legend is taking nap.”
“Well, it’s this wedding between two of my stars. I consented to having it on the set and it’s totally disrupting the filming of our third episode!”
“Answer to problem simple,” she replied in her distinctive syntax. “You tell these two young people they have wedding in catering hall. Like normal people. Set is place for TV. Also,” she continued, “you should look at hair in mirror. Olga see you look at hair in mirror and when you do it make you strong like bull. Now I go. Need to watching my stories on TV.” The line disconnected.
Max looked at his phone as if it were an instrument of enlightenment. It connected him to Olga, perhaps the wisest woman he’d ever met. He did as she told him: He turned to look at his hair in the mirror over his desk. To his astonishment, after all he’d been through that morning—not to mention the shots he’d done with those six Nigerian models the night before—he saw that his hair looked delectably good: chopped and glistening, pointing this way and that, like a spiky desert cactus after a rainfall.
He took a deep breath, restored. Olga had once again saved the day. He was going to march back to the set and tell Trent and Tanya that all the Joy had to go—from the set of The ’Bu, anyway. He pulled himself together and reminded himself of the mantra that had carried him through the madness of the first two episodes of filming: The Awesomeness of The ’Bu! He chanted this very phrase to himself as he headed back to the set, recharged and ready to take care of business. He knew that anyone in Hollywood with hair such as his had the power to move mountains. And he had Olga to thank for reminding him of this.
The Set—1.37 Seconds Later
“Out!” Max said, casting his arms this way and that, banishing Joy Etc. workers as he went, not raising his voice in the least, yet somehow managing to exude an unmistakable authority. His assistants followed behind in a perfect V-formation, casting their arms wide just like Max. They were a Missoni-clad army and they were winning the battle.
“But, Max . . .” Tanya whined as her wedding designers fled like geese after a shotgun blast.
“Yeah, Max . . . ?” said Trent, who was now on set, high up on a ladder, helping one of the Joy Etc. workers hang twenty yards of apricot tulle over the demolished fireplace.
“Tanya and Trent,” Max responded as he came closer, swatting Joy Etc. workers away with a wave of his hands, “the time has come for me to offer an edict. Do you know what an edict is?”
“An edict,” said Rocco, looking up from a heavily notated copy of Madame Bovary, “is when someone in authority—”
“Rocco,” snapped Max, “I asked Trent and Tanya. Tanya? Trent? An edict?”
Tanya and Trent’s faces reflected a blankness usually seen on Xerox paper. Tanya finally brightened and raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “Is it a penis?”
“No, Tanya,” said Max, wondering how on earth Tanya managed to turn off her alarm clock in the morning, let alone have a career that involved walking and talking. “An edict is a rule. And my edict is that your wedding cannot take place on this soundstage.” Tanya and Trent started to protest, but before they could, Max continued. “This is a place of business, not matrimony. We are here to make a television show—one of the highest-rated on TV at this time. Which also means you must return from your honeymoon in time to shoot the fourth episode. There is absolutely no wiggle room on this.”
Max folded his arms. His assistants folded theirs in solidarity. Tanya and Trent both opened their mouths to begin arguing again, but before they could, Max continued. “I don’t care if you’re flying all the way back from Bora-Bora, Tora-Bora, or Bali-High. You will be back in time, dressed in your barely-there costumes, and ready to work.”
Anushka applauded and whistled. Rocco rapped his knuckles repeatedly against his book. JB giggled. “Tanya thought edict meant penis!” Max shot a look at the three of them. They pulled it together.
“Phew,” said Trent after a moment, looking relieved. At what, Max wasn’t entirely sure.
“What does phew mean?” asked Tanya, whipping in the direction of her mouth-breathing fiancé.
Trent shut his mouth. Everyone held their breath. Rocco raised an eyebrow at JB. Anushka bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Tanya’s lower lip quivered. Even Max held his tongue, waiting for Trent to say his piece. Finally, Trent spoke: “Um, well, like, it means, like, phew. Because, like, two whole weeks in Bora-Bora? Bora-Boring if you ask me. But you didn’t,” he said, looking away. “You just, like, booked the flight. Which is totally fine, whatever—but what are were going to do there for two total weeks? There’s not even supposed to be any good surfing there . . .”
“Trent!” said Tanya, looking stricken. “I will be there! This,” she said, gesturing to her long, lean, constantly photographed body, “will be there! Aren’t those two things enough for you?”
“Um . . .” replied Trent thoughtfully, before pausing for a long time. Way too long.
“OHMYGOD!” said Tanya as her eyes bugged out of her gorgeous face with what looked to be a painful realization. “You’re totally getting cold feet!”
Trent looked down at his feet as if to check their temperature, and then shook his head. “No, Tans. It’s just I’ve been a little rocked since I saw the baby Jesus in your salad. I think it was some kind of sign. Like when you get a sign, like, whoa.”
Tanya’s fingers splayed wide as a scarecrow’s. Then she blew. “OHMYGOD, TRENT, THAT WAS A GOOD BABY JESUS SIGN! IT MEANT THE BABY JESUS WAS, LIKE, ALL ‘GO, TRENT AND TANYA!’”
Max stepped between them. “Tanya, Trent, please take this discussion to your dressing rooms,” he said firmly.
“No, Max!” said Tanya with a look of horror on her face. “I will not take this discussion to my dressing room, because there’s no more discussion! THE WEDDING IS OFF!”
And so was Tanya, clattering across the soundstage, a blur of white silk and despair.
Nine
Anushka’s Trailer—Malibu Beach—1:47 P.M., Two Days Later
Rocco was plunked down on one of the built-in Eames leather sofas that outlined the living area of Anushka’s trailer. Anushka had asked him to rehearse with her, but for the last couple of minutes all he was doing was staring at the floor, combing through his inky black hair with his thick, dark fingers. He’d been like this for some moments and Anushka was doing her best not to lose her legendary temper.
“What’s the prob, Rocs?” growled Anushka, not able to hide her impatience. She was standing in the middle of her trailer in full costume—stretch box-cut BCBG shorts, a pumpkin-colored halter, and Jimmy Choos. She was also in her bald cap—once again somehow managing to look bald yet beautiful. “Look,” she finally said, “if you don’t want to rehearse, just say so. But you know that Max isn’t going to give us any help with the scene—that’s why we’re reshooting the entire thing.” She looked toward the sky as if asking for a witness. “Three episodes into this show and that wannabe still doesn’t know what he’s doing . . .”
“It’s not that I don’t want to rehearse, Anushka,” said Rocco vaguely. “It’s that I’m somehow challenged by the intricacies of the scene . . .”
“Oh, puh-lease,” sighed Anushka, throwing her hands in the air. “We’re not exactly performing Antony and Cleopatra! Just say the lines, give ’em your signature tortured Italian-stallion look, and make sure your hair looks pretty. Now, come on—stand up.” Rocco did as he was told. “Now feed me your first line.”
“Um,” Rocco stammered uncharacteristically, rotating his big biceps forward and back as if loos
ening up his body might help jump-start the scene. Anushka gave him a look that said, “Are you going to start or what?” Finally he opened his mouth, speaking in the slow, deep cadences of his dreamy character Ramone. “Even shorn of your beautiful locks, Alecia,” Rocco said slowly and deeply, bending over Anushka/ Alecia and taking her in his arms, “you still manage to—to—” And then he stopped. Anushka held her breath. When she saw he couldn’t figure out the word that came next, she mouthed captivate. “Captivate!” he spit out, looking relieved.
Anushka rolled her eyes and then pulled Rocco/ Ramone’s grip around her tighter. Out of habit, she tossed her bald head back. She still wasn’t used to not having hair to toss. “Where I’m going, looks don’t matter.”
Rocco stared at her blankly—as if there was no one home. She couldn’t believe it. He was simply not about to say his next line. “Rocs, what gives? You totally knew these lines the first time we shot the freakin’ scene.”
“Mea culpa,” said Rocco, releasing his grip, which caused Anushka to slide to the floor.
“Excuse me? On the floor here?” she protested, but Rocco just stared into space, his eyes narrowing, his fists clenching. Anushka got to her feet and brushed herself off. “What’s with you, dude? This scene is totally simple and you’re the smartest person I know. I say, ‘Where I’m going looks don’t matter’ and you say, ‘I see someone’s in a dramatic mood.’ How hard is that? Not very!” She put his arm around her waist again and leaned far back, waiting for him to say the line she’d just fed him.
Rocco erupted. “Can’t you see how this is tearing at my soul????” He dropped Anushka to the floor again.
Anushka bared her teeth. “That is so not the line.” She scrambled to her feet. There was fire in her eyes as she felt a bruise rising on her million-dollar tuchus. But the fire in her eyes was nothing compared to the fire in Rocco’s eyes. He looked like a man possessed. The thick veins in his massive arms were bulging as if lava were flowing through them. Anushka took a step back.