Max approached what appeared to be the leader of the group, a young man of no more than twenty-five, vainly attempting to hand out leaflets to passersby.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” Max queried.
“Hello, sir,” the head protester said with a Sussex accent. “We’re here speaking out against the BBC’s hiring of Max Bland to star in a new TV show that is to be filmed in this very building.”
“Max Bland, huh?” Max said. “Some kinda writer, isn’t he?”
“Less a writer and more a sinner, sir,” was the young man’s flat reply. “He is a sinner who blatantly insults the teachings of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and whose personal life is an affront to decency in this world.”
“Wow,” Max began, “Sounds dangerous.”
“Sir, Max Bland is dangerous. His books promote ideas that are subversive and even encourage the moral decay prevalent in our society: a lesbian pope, for example; gay astronauts, for another example and so on. He sells millions of these books and has a huge fan base. The BBC must not be allowed to spread his ideas further by giving him a national television audience.”
Max nodded. He said, “Yes, I see your point, comrade.”
“Then will you sign our petition?”
“Oh, absolutely.” And Max took hold of the proffered clipboard and pen, made like he was about to scribble his signature on it; but then stopped and looked up at his new friend with puzzlement.
“But I’m confused,” he stated. “All those books this Max Bland writes…aren’t they just fiction? Make-believe stories? Entertainment?”
“Sir, that only makes matters worse because by presenting his stories as so-called entertainment he is trivializing the very moral decay his books are full of. He is also saying to his readers that the word of God and Jesus Christ are but playthings. No one should be allowed to pass off as entertainment ideas which mock Holy Scripture.”
“But surely the people who buy his books can read them without taking what came from his imagination as law or fact, right?”
“But many already do, sir!” the protester proclaimed. “There are Max Bland Societies all over the world, made up of Christians who have become disenchanted with their faith and regard Mr. Bland as the figurehead for their attempts to reform Christianity so that it fits better in today’s culture.”
“And you’re against that?”
“I most certainly am, sir,” the young man insisted. “The word of God is not clay to be shaped and sculpted according to individual needs. It is much more solid than that.”
“Like granite,” Max suggested, “or a good piece of marble, perhaps?”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe a hunk of concrete.”
“Precisely.”
“Or a well-kilned brick, even.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Again Max made as if he were about to sign the petition but again he stopped as though there was just one teensy-weensy thing troubling him.
“But wait a minute,” he said, “what’s so absurd about a woman becoming pope? I fail to see the harm in that.”
The young man placed his hand over his breast and swore that he himself had no issue with women obtaining leadership roles in any religion and that what Max was referring to was a Catholic problem.
“Fortunately, I’m Methodist and my way of thinking is not limited by such precepts. However, what I object to is the idea that a lesbian, a woman who has chosen to live a life in direct opposition to God’s teachings can be given the responsibility of heading a major religion.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, it’s no surprise Max Bland has a soft spot for lesbians. He happens to live with one, sir.”
“No!”
“Yes, sir,” the protester insisted. “Max Bland has chosen to insult the very concept of family by not only living in sin with a woman he is not legally married to but by sharing that woman with a lesbian, all three of them living under the same roof!”
This reference to Danielle and Katie from a complete stranger did not surprise Max; he had gotten used to such occurrences. Being a literary celebrity in the twenty-first century had meant that his domestic arrangements had not remained private for long.
Putting his hand to his forehead Max feigned a dizzy spell.
“I-I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” he moaned.
“I speak the truth, sir.”
“I don’t doubt it, comrade. But tell me something,” Max said weakly, “what if Max Bland happens to finds the lesbian annoying because every time he uses the microwave oven she gives him a half-hour lecture on how many Ethiopians died in a sweatshop making the damn thing just so he could cook an egg roll in twenty seconds and because she leaves her shoes all around his house for him to trip over and break his neck? Couldn’t we cut him some slack then?”
The protester frowned.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
“In any case, sir, could you please give us your support by signing our petition? It’s important to show the BBC that the three-hundred thousand quid they are paying Max Bland to come here and use their television cameras to spread his doctrine of wickedness could be better spent.”
“You know,” Max said, “I heard he was giving that money to charity; like, all of it, excepting a small amount for the new Ferrari, you know, the one with the Moderna engine.”
“It matters not, sir. It will take much more than three-hundred thousand quid for Max Bland to purchase his way out of Hell.”
“You think so? Really?” Max thought a moment. “What about half a million? You think he’d have a shot with half a million?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“Are you kidding me? Max Bland shows up in Hell with a check for half a million quid and you’re saying that’s not enough to buy his way out?”
The protester shook his head.
“Well,” Max said, finally signing the petition, “Personally I think that’d do it but we can argue about it another day. Here you go, comrade.” And Max cheerily handed back the clipboard.
“Thank you so much, Mr.…” the protester checked the only name on his petition. “Mr. Eichmann. Thank you.” He eyed Max curiously then. “Funny, you don’t look German, sir.”
***
Back at the Royal Liverpool Max ordered up a Monte Cristo from room service and set about reading the remaining fifteen stories, but no sooner had he started when there was a knock on the door.
The stunning late twenties woman Max laid eyes on when he opened the door was simply breathtaking, definitely easier to look at than a Monte Cristo sandwich. She had blonde hair which practically glowed, emerald eyes and a figure straight out of Central Casting for every teenage boy’s wet dream. She was dressed casually yet smartly in slacks and a sweater and bore one of those tablet-style computers.
“Hello, Mr. Bland,” this vision said in greeting. “I’m Emily.”
“I didn’t order an Emily,” Max said. “I ordered a Monte Cristo. Do you have a Monte Cristo?”
“No sir, but if you’d like I can call down to the kitchen to see what’s keeping it?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Max told her. “I just ordered it forty-five seconds ago. Now what is it that—“
But blushing somewhat Emily interrupted. “Can I just say, Mr. Bland, I am a huge fan of your writing.”
“Coincidentally, so is my mother, but she would’ve at least brought my sandwich along with her if she was gonna interrupt my work.”
He figured this Emily was an autograph seeker, probably employed by the hotel since she knew what room he was in. He’d have to have a talk with the manager about that; this one he could forgive but before long the far less attractive personnel would be bugging him and that would just piss him off.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said, laughing at the joke he’d just made, “I should’ve explained myself. I’m Emily Murdoch. I’m your assistant.”
Max had reason to be skeptical
of this. His real assistant, Mrs. Feeney, looked nothing like Emily; Max even doubted they belonged to the same species. Evidently his face showed his confusion and so Emily provided further explanation with a heart-stopping smile.
“That is, I’m your assistant for Writers Block, sir. I work for the BBC; they brought me up from London with the rest of the crew. I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet yesterday but my train was delayed. I’m here to, well, assist you.”
“That’s all well and good but I can’t imagine I’ll need an assistant up here,” the novelist told the young woman.
“Oh.” Emily actually seemed crestfallen. “It’s just that this is pretty much standard, sir. You are the star of the show after all…”
“My role in this little production is vastly overrated—but don’t tell Diego Montrose that,” Max added quickly.
“I’m afraid I don’t know Diego Montrose, sir. But I admire his work also.”
“Yeah, Diego’s alright; he knows how to string together words pretty well. Just don’t ask him to teach you pinochle, you’ll be there all night. Now look, I was serious before when I said I wouldn’t need an assistant. Perhaps they can find someone else for you to help?”
Again the smile.
“Mrs. Gregory’s orders were to make sure you were kept very, very happy,” Emily said.
“Jesus.” Max sighed. “Alright, look, come on inside. I’m gonna call Janice now and try to get this all straightened out.”
He guided her to the suite’s living room and then took himself into the office, closing the door behind him. He called Janice.
“Jan, what the hell?” he said when she answered.
“Max, what’s wrong?” Janice replied; like any good producer she sounded genuinely worried because of the way the star of her show began this conversation.
“What’s wrong is that I’m sitting here minding my own business when suddenly Miss October knocks on my door claiming to be my assistant.”
“Emily? Oh, she comes highly recommended from Television Centre; the brass thought she’d be the best one to take care of you during the shoot. Besides, she’s a big fan of yours.”
“I don’t care if she has my name tattooed on her ass. All I know is I don’t need an assistant, alright? Send her home.”
“Max,” Janice said calmly, “I think you’re underestimating the demands which are going to be put on your time during production. Trust me; I know something about this, okay? There are technical glitches happening all the time, things have to be re-shot, there are the daily staff meetings, cutaways to shoot, voiceovers to record, redubbing, et cetera, et cetera. Plus, you’re the star, Max. Believe it or not you’ve got the most work to do: all the stories to read each day, the elimination decisions to make each day, getting to know the contestants, publicity interviews we’ve got lined up for you…it’s huge. We at the BBC are pulling out all the stops to get some great advance buzz going for this show. You are simply going to need an assistant to keep from going insane.”
“Christ,” Max muttered, wondering what he had gotten himself into. “Okay, look…you say I need an assistant, fine, but does it have to be this assistant? I’m only looking out for the poor girl’s well-being, Jan. Suppose Danielle decides to come up to visit me? If she catches sight of Malibu Barbie following me around like a puppy Emily might end up maimed.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Max,” Janice said. “I have orders from on high to keep you happy Emily is the best. Besides, you have to admit she’s quite nice to look at.”
Max chuckled.
“Jan, my dear, I am not falling into that trap. By the way, do you know about the protest of our little production?”
“Yes, security called me about that,” Janice admitted. “No bother, love. It’ll be good publicity for the show.”
“Now that you mention it I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you arranged the whole thing.”
“Now, Max,” Janice chided with a playful lilt, “do I strike you as someone who would do that?”
“You work in television, don’t you?”
Chapter 11
Monday—Liverpool
The makeup lady was really starting to get on his nerves.
It was the one thing that Max couldn’t stand about television appearances—the damn makeup ladies.
“Alrightalrightalright! Knock it off already!” Max snapped at the middle-aged woman who had never been more than three feet away from him since he’d gotten up from the makeup chair ten minutes ago, constantly swiping at his face with a tiny brush.
Emily appeared instantly.
“Okay, Celia, that’s enough. Thank you.” And Emily shooed Celia away with a firm push. “Sorry about that, Mr. Bland,” Emily said. “I should’ve realized she was bothering you a long time ago.”
“What is it with those people?” he demanded. “I mean, how much fucking makeup do I need? Fine, I get it…I’m no George Clooney, no need to rub it in.”
“I’ll make sure Celia eases up from now on,” Emily promised with a laugh. “Now, let me straighten your tie a bit…”
They were in the Prep Room, a room in the back of the BBC-commandeered Alumni Social Hall which was now the main set for Writers Block. In a few minutes Max was to walk through a door and emerge into the Elimination Room where the thirty semi-finalists were gathered awaiting his judgment on who stays and who goes. It would form the dramatic climax of the first episode of Writers Block when it aired sometime in the fall.
“You seem remarkably calm,” Emily remarked. She had finished with his tie but hadn’t moved away. She was looking up at the writer with her green eyes.
“I’m not exactly gonna be performing Hamlet out there,” Max replied. He shot a laser beam glare at Celia who was still lurking nearby obviously wanting to get at him with her tiny brush again. The woman skulked off.
“Max!” A voice happily called his name. Emily immediately stepped back to a less intimate distance while Max turned toward the summons. It was Alistair, the director. He was dressed in jeans and a white polo shirt, had headphones on and was carrying a clipboard. He walked over to his star.
“Max! You look great. Are you about ready?”
“I am; let’s get this under way.”
“Excellent. I’ve just come from next door; everything is all set there; our contestants are really chomping at the bit, so to speak.”
“So are we ready to start?” Max asked. That was another thing he hated about doing TV, the endless waiting. Besides, he was hungry and wanted another serving of that incredible shrimp fried rice Emily had miraculously found for his lunch earlier. And Max didn’t even think Chinese food existed in Liverpool.
“I will get the cameras rolling next door and make sure everything else is still in order,” Alistair said. “Clive will give you the signal.” He headed off.
Max gestured Emily to come closer. “Okay, gimme a non-bullshit answer; how do I really look?”
“You look fabulous,” was the young woman’s assuring response, brushing imaginary lint off the lapel of his suit jacket and stepping even closer. During their brief association so far Max had realized that Emily was very touchy-feely. Normally Max hated touchy-feely types but then again most touchy-feely types didn’t look like Emily so he was willing to cut her some slack.
“That idiot didn’t put too much eye liner on?” he asked, indicating with a nod the shadows of the Prep Room where Celia still lurked.
Emily stepped still closer; Max was suddenly aware of her breasts very lightly touching his chest. Her hand was still on his lapel and her breath was kissing his chin. She examined his eyes expertly.
“No,” she finally judged. “In fact, I’d say she did a masterful job, you can hardly tell it’s there.”
The novelist sighed.
“Geez, if my old gang back in the Bronx knew I was having a discussion about how much friggin’ eye liner I have on I’d never be allowed to set foot in Yankee Stadium again.”
“Well, I prom
ise not to tell,” Emily said. “I happen to be very good at keeping secrets.”
“Right, that’s what women are known for,” Max quipped. Suddenly the corner of his eye detected the assistant director, Clive, motioning with his hands. It was either the sign for Max to enter the Elimination Room or for him to steal second base.
“Show time,” the Writers Block’s star said. Stepping over to where Clive was standing near the door Max held up his hand, silently instructing the AD to wait a sec. Max took a few moments to compose his thoughts, dropped his hand to indicate he was ready and entered the Elimination Room.
***
The Elimination Room was set up to resemble the office of a school headmaster. There was a huge mahogany desk, walls lined with bookshelves, oriental carpeting on the floor and in one corner a very large globe that looked as if it could have been manufactured in the late 1700s. The overall color scheme was dark and foreboding. This was what the home audience would see when the show aired. What they wouldn’t see, of course, were the three mounted television cameras; the two guys walking around with handheld video cameras; the light stands; the boom mikes; the sound crew; the grips or Alistair in his director’s chair surrounded by numerous technicians and assistants.
On the wall behind the desk was a sign bearing the Writers Block logo and on the desk itself were the stories authored by the contestants, said contestants standing in a group in the room’s center. There was one other item of note in this room: a silver wastebasket, also bearing the show’s logo, placed prominently in front of the desk.
“Good evening, everyone,” Max said as soon he entered. He stepped to the desk, leaned against its front with his arms crossed and eyed the group of contestants. They returned his greeting with smiles and timid waves, their expressions betraying excitement, nervousness, awe—on their applications to be on this show more than a handful of them had named Max Bland as their biggest literary influence, this before they were told Max Bland would be involved with it.
“Welcome to you all,” Max continued pleasantly. “There were over six thousand people wanting to appear on this show. Six thousand. Of that number you thirty have made it this far, so well done. Over the past couple of days I have been reading the stories you submitted and I must say that there is indeed some talent in this room.”
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 10