“Jesus, are you okay?”
“I’ve got my gator pad on, so I’m good. But it’s just annoying you know? Hopefully the director will grow a set and tell him that the stuntman is doing the scene.”
“Quiet on the set,” I hear someone shouting from a distance. “Quiet, quiet on the set,” two other people belt out.
“Gotta go.” Zoë jumps off the chair. “You can see it much better if you watch me on the monitor.” She waves her hand as she walks back onto the set.
Five minutes later I watch as the big actor guy grabs little Zoë and throws her onto the floor. Unfortunately, I don’t see any air action going on. Just a small, bumpy tumble that looks incredibly painful. She’s also nowhere near her mark.
“Cut,” cries a short man in a red-and-yellow USC baseball cap, who I’m assuming is the director. I watch as he approaches Zoë and the actor. They do a sort of huddle, but I have no idea what they’re saying.
“She’s a trouper,” says Max.
“It sounds like it.”
“Poor kid has been tossed to the ground like a sack of potatoes about twenty times.”
“Twenty times?” I ask.
“Mmm, hmm. Guy can’t stand someone else doing his stunts. Real complex this one has.”
“Rolling!” someone shouts behind me.
Once again, Zoë is thrown to the ground, but this time slides on her ass off set. She pops back up, brushes herself off and gives the actor a look that would make Hitler cry.
Within moments, I hear shouts erupting, but all I can see on the monitors are a pair of muscled arms waving about in an extremely effeminate manner. Seconds later, the large, tough-looking actor storms past me, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I can’t work like this,” he cries.
Max turns in his chair to watch the actor push his way through the soundstage door. “Jesus H. Christ! What a fucking pussy,” grunts Zoë’s sweet, ole, funny sound guy. “Piece of shit needs to find another line of work. Cocksucking perhaps?” He turns to me and chuckles.
“Uh, yeah. Ha ha,” I fake laugh. Yeesh! He’s the scariest “teddy bear” I’ve ever met.
Next thing I know, a new guy onstage is tossing Zoë across the room. She flies through the air, hits her mark and whacks her head on the side of the bar.
The director cries, “Print, that’s a wrap,” and immediately everyone starts cleaning up. I can’t believe nobody is celebrating. Not so much as a high five, a clap or a cheer. No camaraderie whatsoever. Everyone onstage looks positively wretched as they drag their weary bodies off the set.
Well, so much for the whole Hollywood glamour theory. They look just as miserable as reality people.
“I think I’m going to have it done again,” says Dana, one of Zoë’s high school friends, as she self-consciously rubs the bridge of her nose. “It just looks different. I don’t like it anymore.”
“You’ve had your nose done twice since you were fifteen. Let it go. You’re gonna look like La Toya Jackson,” Zoë replies as she slides into one of Lush’s dark, mahogany booths.
I’m fairly impressed with the old Hollywood décor of the place. Especially since the restaurant has only been around for a few months. Chandeliers with miniature lampshades dangle from the oak-beamed ceiling, bathing the entire space in soft amber tones. The walls are wood-paneled, the cushions on the booths are lipstick-red, and the table linens are crisp and white. It’s the kind of place you can imagine Dean Martin knocking back a vodka on the rocks with Sammy Davis Jr.
“I’ve heard really good things about this restaurant,” says Marcie, another old school friend of Zoë’s. “It’s been written up everywhere and they just did a segment about it on Entertainment Tonight.”
“I hope it’s not one of those places that gives you two scallops, a sprig of parsley and calls it nouveau cuisine. I actually like food in my food.” Everyone laughs, but I wasn’t making a joke. Somehow, both of Zoë’s friends have managed to remain stick-thin even with four children between them. It’s either good genes, Pilates six times a week or they simply don’t eat. I’m putting my money on the last two.
“So, Lenny and I found a house,” says Marcie. “The girls need more space, you know?” She takes the knife off the table, holds it up to her mouth and checks to make sure there’s no lipstick on her teeth before continuing. “It’s gorgeous. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, Spanish style, Studio City, south of the boulevard. We’ve just put in our offer. It’s 1.9 but our agent thinks we’ll get at least 1.4 for our place now.”
I take a huge gulp of my water while stealing a glance at Zoë. I know this kind of talk kills her. This is exactly where she thought she’d be by now. Not working. Lunching every day with her other rich, stay-at-home mommy friends and raising babies with the help of a nanny.
“Well, that’s exactly the reason Gil and I moved. Four bedrooms just wasn’t cutting it.” Dana sighs. “Plus, Gil needed a lot more space to hang all of his artwork. I swear we could open up our own gallery at this point. I think he even hides some of it from me so that I don’t know how much he’s actually bought.” Dana’s brow furrows, but no wrinkles appear. Clearly, rhinoplasty isn’t the only thing Dana dabbles in.
“So how have you been, Abby?” asks Marcie.
“Oh, I’ve been okay.”
“Are you still on that crazy dating show?” chimes in Dana.
“No, I’m working on a clip show now.”
“Abby’s been interviewing all sorts of celebs. Casey Moore, Sebastian Lucas, oh and she interviewed Bill Loudon. Isn’t that cool?” asks Zoë.
“His granddaughter Ashley goes to Madison’s school,” says Marcie, who always finds a way to direct the conversation toward her kids. “And between us, she’s not very bright. Maddie takes Japanese, violin and fencing three days a week after school, and Ashley doesn’t do anything. I even heard she has to have a tutor for history. I mean, who has a tutor for history?” She shakes her head.
“Did I tell you that Josh and his debate team just won the nationals?” adds Dana, referring to her child prodigy. “They won a trip to London. He really is an exceptional child.” She smiles proudly.
Oh no. Not the kid talk. I like Zoë’s friends, but before we can get to the fun, I always have to suffer through the same sanctimonious conversation. It’s like they’re compelled to brag about how talented, beautiful and intelligent their children are before they finally relax.
“Hey, so how’s the movie going?” asks Marcie as she turns to face Zoë.
“It’s fine, you know. Same old.” Zoë shrugs her shoulders, looking bored. “The director is a wimp, the cast are a bunch of prima donnas, and I’m ready for a vacation.”
“Ooh, speaking of movies,” Dana interjects, “have any of you guys seen that new movie, It’s Not Me, It’s You?”
A cold chill blankets my body as I nervously wipe off the condensation on my water glass. How the hell did we get on the topic of movies? Weren’t we just talking about their kids? Okay, what’s the best way to steer the conversation back to the debate team?
“I was thinking maybe we could all go see it this weekend or something,” Dana adds.
Before I can open my mouth, Zoë grabs my knee under the table and gives it a quick squeeze. “Why would you want to go see that piece of shit?” Zoë asks.
“Because I heard it was cute.”
“Not even,” Zoë chides. “It got like a 71% on Rotten Tomatoes. It sounds so stupid.”
“71% isn’t bad,” Dana says, shaking her head.
“Yeah, it’s not bad, it sucks.” Zoë squeezes my knee again.
We both know 71% is pretty damn decent. We even have a rule that anything over 50% we’ll go see unless it’s a race ’em chase ’em, and then the rating has to be at least a 60.
“That’s too bad. I thought it looked really funny.”
“You couldn’t pay me to go and see it. Awful. How does crap like that even get made?” Zoë looks at me through the corner of her eye
and twitches her lips into a mini smile, signaling the end of the discussion. I squeeze her knee back as a silent thank you.
“Hello, ladies, how are we all doing tonight?” asks a man who’s just approached our table. He looks to be in his late fifties, tanned to a crisp, and his stubby gray ponytail and little gold hoop are decades out of style. “You all look beautiful tonight,” he continues, but looks directly at Zoë. “Is this a special occasion or just a little get-together?”
“Just a little get-together,” Zoë answers, flipping her hair a bit.
“Well, since you all look so gorgeous—” still staring at Zoë, “—would it be all right if you were the first to try a new wine I just acquired? It’s truly superb and the vineyard only produced one hundred cases in 2005.”
Zoë leans over the table and smiles a little too flirtatiously. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”
“I’ll be back shortly,” the Silver Fox says as he walks away.
“That’s the owner,” whispers Marcie out of the side of her mouth. “He was on that ET segment I was just telling you about. He’s loaded. He’s got another restaurant in Santa Monica, two in New York and one in London.”
“And he was checking you out,” Dana adds, turning to Zoë.
“No he wasn’t. He was complimenting everybody,” Zoë says coyly.
“But he was staring at you, Zoë. Looks like Jeff has some competition,” I joke.
“By the way, how are things going with you and Jeff?” Marcie asks.
Zoë turns to me and gives me a knowing look. We haven’t talked much about the verbal boxing matches that have been going on at home, but I’m currently her only friend in the loop.
“You know how he took that AE job?” Zoë asks both girls. They nod. “Well, I didn’t tell you that he had to take a major pay cut and he didn’t even bother to consult me about the decision. And he couldn’t care less about planning our wedding. I’m doing everything by myself. It’s been really terrible.”
I pat her hand under the table.
“This isn’t what I bargained for,” Zoë adds.
“Well, how much is he making now?” blurts out Dana.
It always amazes me how L.A. people talk about money like it’s the only thing that matters. In my family money talk is very rarely broached, and if it is, it’s discussed in hushed tones, under strict confidences. Here, it’s like can you pass the salt, oh and what were your total earnings last year before taxes?
“$1,500 a week,” Zoë says, dipping her eyes down to the table.
“What?” the girls gasp simultaneously. “That’s awful!” Marcie says, mouth agape. “How are you going to buy a house on that?”
Before Zoë can reply, the Silver Fox returns to the table, with waiter and wine in tow.
“Hello again, ladies. Now, this is an exceptional Malbec from the Mendoza region,” he says, pointing to the bottle that is being uncorked by the waiter. “I believe the wine is as spectacular as the setting from which it’s drawn.”
I seriously love this guy. It’s like watching a real-time sketch comedy show right here at our table.
The waiter pours a taster and hands the glass to the Silver Fox, who in turn, hands it to Zoë. She closes her eyes, and takes a long, slow sip. “This is delicious,” Zoë purrs. “Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I’m Douglas by the way.”
“I’m Zoë, and these are my girlfriends Abby, Marcie and Dana.” We all reach over the table to shake Douglas’s charred hand.
“Enchanté.”
He did not just say that. Check please!
“You look so familiar,” he says, leering at Zoë. “Are you an actress?”
She giggles. “Not really. I do stunt work.”
Christ, she giggled?
“I’m impressed.” He rubs his jaw line, looking intrigued. “Well, ladies, I need to get back to work, but I’m going to send over some appetizers for you to enjoy along with some more wine. On the house. And if there is anything you need, just give me a call.” He hands his card to Zoë. “Anything at all. Bon appetit, mes belles filles,” he says with a bow.
“Champagne wishes and caviar dreams right back at ya,” I say as he strolls away.
Dana lets out a big “Ha!”
“He was totally picking up on you, Zoë,” Marcie adds.
Zoë shrugs her shoulders and looks uninterested. “I’m engaged, so it really doesn’t matter.”
“Well, he didn’t see any ring. And where is your ring by the way?” asks Dana.
“Jeff can’t afford one right now,” Zoë says with disdain.
There is a collective “Ohhh” from the table.
“Maybe your dad can loan him some money?” Dana suggests.
“Jeff would never take money from my dad,” Zoë replies, almost resentfully.
“Well, he should be shaking in his boots, with men like that flirting with you,” says Marcie. “That’s a major compliment considering who he is.”
“It’s a compliment, but it’s kind of creepy too, don’t you think?” I turn to Zoë. “I mean he’s old enough to be your dad. Do you think anyone falls for his line?”
Zoë smiles, touches the card thoughtfully and then slides it to the middle of the table. “No idea,” she says quietly.
Chapter Twelve
“Waaaa!” moans Christine.
“Ruh roh, what’s the matter, little one?” I ask.
“We only have two weeks left on this show and I still haven’t found a job yet. I’m totally freaking out.”
And the reality show scramble begins.
“Don’t worry. Before you know it, you’ll be moving into a new edit bay with no windows and a socially inept editor.”
Christine squints her big doe eyes at me. “Thanks a lot.” She laughs. “It’s just that I’m starting to hate this freelance thing. You never know where your next job is coming from, and if it’s going to be hellish or not.”
“Listen, I don’t have anything set up either. But I’m not really worried. Everything will work itself out.” All right, so I’m fibbing. Of course I’m worried, but I’ve been so wrapped up with the whole Matt’s-a-big-time-success-while-I’m-stuck-here thing that I haven’t had a minute to think about finding another job. I can only handle one neurotic thought at a time. Maybe now would be a good time to direct my energy elsewhere and start obsessing over where my next paycheck will be coming from.
“Well, if you hear of something, will you let me know?”
“Of course,” I say encouragingly.
Five minutes later my phone rings. God, don’t let it be Knit Cap. I’m far too busy constructing the “I might be starving and homeless in two weeks’ time. Please help me find a job” email.
“Hello, Abby, it’s Will. Could you come into my office for a minute?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m on my way.”
Hmm, why does he want to see me now? Granted, I haven’t made an appearance in any of the edit bays this morning, or yesterday for that matter, but can I help it if I have a case of senioritis? The shows are to time, all of the network notes have been addressed, and we’re about to send out our final cuts to online. Nobody really needs me anymore.
As I head over to Will’s office, Knit Cap ambushes me.
“Hey, Abs. I haven’t seen you around lately,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“I miss you.”
“Oh, well.” (gag) “But since you’re basically done with your show I really don’t need to check in on you that much.”
He glances down at his feet sullenly. “I think you’re avoiding me ’cause you can’t stand the heat. You know you’re my favorite producer, what am I going to do without you?”
What have I possibly done to encourage this kind of behavior? I’ve never been anything but professional with this guy. “I’m sure you’ll do fine without me on your next show,” I say, but what I really want to say is I hope for your wife’s sake you’re stuck with a male producer, you disgusting
pig.
He sighs heavily. “I’ll be floating aimlessly on my surfboard, alone, lost at sea without you,” he says, grinning like an asshole.
I look at him impatiently. “Tom, does your wife know what a flirt you are?”
He laughs. “Of course. She says I can check out the other items on the menu, but I’m not allowed to taste,” and with that, he unconsciously (or bleh, consciously?) licks his lips.
Gross.
“Abby?” I turn around to see Will peeking his head out of his office. “You ready?”
“I was just on my way in,” I say, scurrying away from Knit Cap. He may not be able to eat off the menu, but he sure as hell looked as though he wanted a nibble off the appetizer plate.
“Bye, gorgeous,” Tom calls out as I quicken my pace, eager to put as much distance between us as possible.
Closing the door behind me, I take a seat in front of Will’s desk. “So what’s up?”
“I’m starting a new show in a couple of weeks and I wanted to see if you wanted to come on as a producer.”
Did he just ask me to come and work with him again? He’s not exactly Mr. Praise, so in Will-speak, he basically just said, you are the best producer in the world. Okay, maybe that’s a bit over the top, but I’m going with it. Just because I can’t write a screenplay doesn’t mean that I’m not an essential part of a creative process. “That sounds great,” I blurt out. “Are you supervising?”
“No, I’m the co-ep.”
“Wow, you’re executive producing? That’s amazing. Congratulations on the promotion.”
He cracks a smile. “Thanks. So, anyway, the show is called Second Time Around, it’s a midseason filler so they’re only ordering six episodes. But it’s the network’s first dating show, so fieldwork might get a little crazy. You know, long hours, maybe some weekends. You could work in post, which might be a little less stressful, but that won’t even start for another few months or so.”
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