“Well, kid, what will it be? Everyone in the studio audience and at home is waiting on the edges of their chairs. You and Neil got burned once going for the big prize. Are you going to play it safe tonight or try again for the $1.75 million?”
Marcy, concentrate, I told myself. Hold off the identity crisis just another few minutes. Wait until after you’ve won the $1.75 mil.
“It’s a go, Kingman,” I said, struggling to get my mind back into the game. “Fire away.”
“It’s a gusty decision, Marcy. But you’re in pretty good shape. You haven’t used up all your help options. You still have Neil standing by to be your Lifeline if you need it. Now get ready to play So You Want to Be Filthy Rich!”
There was the familiar convulsion of overhead spotlights, and all at once the only sound you could hear was the recording of a pounding heartbeat. I felt my tension level rise accordingly. And there was my hand again, tugging painfully at my hair.
“Marcy, this is a big one,” Kingman said, an oasis of calm. “Take your time. And here’s the question: On the old Bob Newhart Show, which ran from 1972 through 1978, Bob played a Chicago psychologist who shared an office suite with a dentist. For $1.75 million, give us the name of that dentist.”
The choices were:
a. George Stoody
b. Jerry Robinson
c. Howard Bordon
d. Dick Loudon
I had to hand it to Kingman and his people, coming up with a final question artfully designed to mix my classic-comedy expertise and early interest in psychology with Neil’s obsession with everything dental. As I saw it, Kingman and Co. had intentionally manipulated things to reunite us—as once and future lovers, and as contestant and Lifeline, working in tandem to win the Big Prize. It occurred to me that the inspiration to make the apologetic phone call to Larry King asking to be my Lifeline might not have been Neil’s alone. I couldn’t help but wonder if Kingman, my newfound ferry friend, had put Neil up to it to enhance his almighty ratings.
“I don’t want to screw up like last time,” I said. “Before answering, I want to bring Neil in on this.”
“That would be Neil Postit, of course, Marcy’s Lifeline tonight—a total role reversal from their spat here three weeks ago. There’s Neil in our audience. He’s an orthodontist for adults, practicing in Manhattan, and he says he’s hoping a win tonight will help him and Marcy get back together. Marcy, you and Neil have thirty seconds. Good luck.”
What came out of my mouth next surprised everyone, especially me. It was as if a dam had broken, and all of Norma’s rants about Neil came flooding forth with my own suppressed litany of hurts and disappointments in one succinct and timely summary.
“Neil,” I said, “I can’t believe you had the nerve to ask to be my Lifeline after completely humiliating me and insulting my mother’s cooking on national television. You only want me back because of the money, and because you want a piece of my celebrity. Well, you can’t have it. I’m going to win tonight, but without owing you anything. Bob Newhart is classic comedy, and I know the answer.” I paused for breath as Neil sank lower in his chair. “I don’t need you as my Lifeline, and I don’t need you in my life.”
“Marcy, I’m afraid your time is up,” said Kingman, acting as if nothing unusual had happened.
“I’m almost done, Kingman,” I said. “Just three more words: So long, Neil.”
“Way to go, Marcy,” I heard Norma yell from somewhere in the audience, igniting a thunderous round of applause that drowned out the show’s annoying heartbeat tape.
“Folks, this is what I call a ‘reality show,’” said Kingman, obviously pleased by Neil’s demise and the prospect that it would generate positive buzz for his show. “You never know what’s going to happen.” The audience laughed.
“Now that you’ve gotten that off your chest, Marcy, let’s go back to the game,” Kingman resumed. “For $1.75 million, we’re looking for the name of the dentist on the old Bob Newhart Show. You say you know the answer.”
“Yes,” I said with determination.
“Okay, kid, let’s hear it,” said Kingman.
“I used to watch the show all the time on Nick at Night,” I said. “Neil used to tell me he hated the show because everyone laughed at the dentist. I’ll say letter d, Dick Loudon.”
“Absolute answer?” said Kingman.
“Absolute answer.”
I have rarely felt as confident of anything in my life. That is, until that awful buzzer noise sounded, signaling that I had blown the money yet again.
A loud collective moan rang out from the audience.
“Sorry, Marcy,” said Kingman, seeming authentically pained by the outcome. “We were all rooting for you. But, unfortunately, letter d, Dick Loudon, was the name of the how-to book writer Bob Newhart played on his next successful sitcom, Newhart, starting in 1982. The dentist in the old show was Jerry Robinson, letter b. It’s too bad you lost, but…”
Kingman couldn’t have been more gracious. But I was in no mood to stay and listen. By this time I had left the hot seat, center stage, and was bolting out the nearest door with a red exit sign, somehow navigating the studio’s stairs and wires in my Armani gown and high-heeled Jimmy Choos without tripping.
Chaos momentarily reigned in the studio and on screen as Cliff Jenzten spun around his camera while abandoning his assigned perch to run after me, taking a shortcut known only to the crew.
When I emerged into the evening air, I was surprised to find Cliff waiting for me. He was sitting behind the steering wheel of his old Toyota, which he somehow had the foresight to illegally park right outside the studio’s back exit for just this eventuality. Its passenger door was open, and Cliff was waving me inside. “We’d better scram if you’re serious about getting out of here. I’m sure there’s a posse out by now.”
The car began moving as soon as I slid into the front seat.
“Hungry?” he said.
“Sure I’m hungry,” I said. “Losing $1.75 million always leaves me famished. But no dinner plans until you answer me: Why didn’t you call? And don’t tell me you broke your dialing finger.”
“I did try to call, right after our date, but you weren’t picking up your phone, and your answering machine was so full it just kept beeping without taking any messages. By the next night, it was too late. You were booked on Filthy Rich! and romantic involvement between a guest and staff member is a giant no-no. You seemed to want tonight’s shot, and I wasn’t going to spoil it for you.”
His answer—a pretty good one, I thought—was a conversation stopper. “Oh,” I said. “I guess you have a point.”
What I was thinking was that my doorman Frank is a pretty good judge of people. He had Cliff pegged right from the start: He’s a pretty decent sort.
“I know a place that has great lobster,” he said. “Up for it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Anything but your Chinese food outpost with the inquiring photographer.”
In fact, I haven’t eaten a lobster since Mary Tyler Moore’s protests made me feel sorry for the little critters. But I thought I’d save that dietary tidbit for a later conversation.
I was just happy to be on the road again with Cliff.
* * *
Which celebrity’s tenure as host of their own late-night talk show was shortest?
a. Pat Sajak
b. Joey Bishop
c. Joan Rivers
d. Chevy Chase
See correct answer on back….
* * *
* * *
ANSWER
d. Chevy Chase
* * *
Seventeen
The great lobster place Cliff had in mind was the state of Maine. We took 95 all the way up there that night, talking the whole time about matters big and small. At the risk of sounding sappy, it was the best eight hours I’d ever spent with a guy who wasn’t gay. Around dawn, we stopped for breakfast at a small dive in Portland, and then drove a little farther, finally landing in a tiny town on Lake
Sebago, where we rented the cozy waterfront cottage we’ve called home for the past month as I’ve been furiously typing away to get this story down.
It’s been a wonderful hiatus. In addition to cementing my relationship with Cliff, I also found the perfect spot for that country macramé store my client Dolores Smithers always dreamed about. With some coaching by phone, she’s finally ready to make the move. Stop by if you’re ever in the neighborhood.
When I’ve finished writing, which should be any minute now, Cliff and I will be heading back to our exciting new life together in New York City. In a move that surprised me probably as much as it surprised you, Kingman Fenimore has just tapped me to be the co-host of his morning talk show, replacing his recently departed morning sidekick, the much-beloved Tracy Ellen. Starting tomorrow, it will be Gabbing! With Kingman and Marcy Lee. As part of my deal, I’ve arranged for Norma and Lois to sit in with me whenever Kingman goes on vacation. My mother will appear occasionally to enlighten viewers with her classic Jewish recipes and helpful shopping tips. I hope you tune in. It should be a lot of fun. Tomorrow, by the way, I also start private acting and singing lessons. To survive in this business over the long haul, Kingman advises me, a girl needs to be versatile.
The other great news is that Cliff has been hired to be the show’s head cameraman. We plan to commute to the studio together each morning in a chauffeured Lincoln Town Car—just like Kingman’s. I’m also pleased to report that Frank has resigned his doorman duties to become our driver, which should leave him more time to pursue his passion for rearranging furniture. My former bodyguards, Abdoul and Waldo, who were unfairly dismissed by their security firm when I bolted from Filthy Rich! will be sharing Frank’s old shift. To supplement their pay, they’ve arranged to work part-time at the Gap.
As for my ex, Neil, I read recently in a “Page Six” item that since getting bawled out by me on Filthy Rich! he’s moved out to the Hamptons, expanding his adult orthodontic practice to include tooth-whitening services in hopes of attracting celebrity patients. My former client Jane McDee has moved herself and her many bandannas out there, too. I wish them both well. There were some rough patches, but it seems it all turned out for the best. We’re even now.
Given a choice, I’d still prefer to be famous for something more uplifting—negotiating a Middle East peace, say, or concocting a diet cola drink that surpasses Diet Coke. Saving an endangered species would be nice. But as I said at the very beginning, life is full of funny twists and turns. Overall, I think I’ve been pretty lucky.
Finally, here it is: your own revised and updated pocket-size copy of Marcy’s Magnificent Seven, my personal rules for a healthy, happy life. Clip it to keep in your wallet or tape to your bathroom mirror. Refer to it often. It helps. Really. Look where it got me.
About the Author
DOROTHY SAMUELS is a longtime member of the New York Times editorial board. She lives in New York City. This is her first novel.
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PRAISE FOR Filthy Rich
“Filthy Rich is a sweet, funny meringue.”
—New York Times Style section
“A delightful first novel…as timely as can be.”
—Tampa Tribune
“Devastatingly funny.”
—Newark Star Ledger
“Filthy Rich is a page-turner of a novel, and a guilty pleasure.”
—Pasadena, California, Star News
“Filthy Rich is (a) funny, (b) really funny, (c) very funny, (d) all of the above. You don’t have to poll the audience to know that the final answer is letter d.”
—Joel Siegel, Good Morning America
“Did Dorothy Samuels write this book yesterday? This is the most up-to-the-minute reflection on fame in America I have read, and it’s funny, too.”
—Lisa Birnbach, author of The Preppie Handbook and contributor to The Early Show
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
FILTHY RICH. Copyright © 2007 by Dorothy Samuels. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition June 2007 ISBN 9780061743580
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