by Jayne Denker
Instead, I said carefully, “You’re . . . sending each other sexy photos . . . even though you’re . . . in the next room?”
Chasen broke his pose. “Cool, right?”
I was at a loss for words. I glanced at Evie. She was texting someone. I hoped it wasn’t Chasen, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. “You know what?” I said, with an encouraging smile, realizing I was talking to Chasen in the tone adults adopt when they tell small children to go play and let the grown-ups talk. “The natural light that comes in the skylight of the master bathroom upstairs is really . . . righteous.”
His eyes lit up. “You’re right! Babe, I’m gonna get a shot in there. So cool.”
“’Kay,” she muttered, not moving her barely parted, highly glossed pale lips, as she typed out another text with her thumbs.
“Evie.” I waited. No response except the ticking sound of her nails on her phone. “Evie.” I snapped my fingers. “Up here. Don’t make me confiscate that phone like I do when you’re on the set.”
That got her attention. She sighed, put the phone next to her on the couch, and looked up at me. “Sorry, Faith. ’Sup?”
Oh no, no—not the loop again. “You tell me. I got your note that said to come here, so here I am. What’s going on?”
Her glossy lips parted a bit more, showing off the tips of her brilliant white teeth. “Oh,” she breathed in realization. Then she shook her head. “No,” was all she said before she picked up the phone again.
I crossed to her, grabbed the phone, refrained from throwing it at the far wall, and sat down next to her on the couch. “‘No’ what, Evie?”
“I didn’t send you a note.”
My impatience struggled under my virtual boot. I pressed down harder. “Okay,” I said slowly, carefully. “Then who did? The note—”
I stopped at the sound of the front door opening. The next moment, Jaya was in the room, followed by Ashley, who was apparently her new, permanent shadow. Jaya looked nervous in large sunglasses and a baseball cap (Ashley just looked vacant, her huge eyes staring around at nothing in particular). Jaya paused to get her bearings, probably because she couldn’t see much behind her huge, dark shades, despite the light of the late afternoon sun coming in the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall windows, then crossed to me, her hands outstretched. “Faith . . .”
Good grief, had my once down-to-earth bestie gone Hollywood? Did she expect me to grasp her hands in mine and do an air kiss beside either cheek? I’d do something on either cheek, but I was pretty positive a kiss—even an air kiss—wasn’t at the top of the list.
I stayed where I was on the couch, at a loss for words. What was I supposed to say? “Good to see you?” “Show looks great?” What I wanted to say probably wouldn’t sound anywhere near that polite. So I stayed silent.
Jaya tucked her hands at her sides and looked appropriately jittery. “I’m so—I mean—it’s good to see you.”
“Hi, Faith,” Ashley peeped. I just frowned at her. She’d been a fixture on our set, much to my displeasure, for quite a while, bouncing from job to job and excelling at none of them, mainly because she had the IQ of a baby squirrel that had fallen out of the nest onto its soft little head. Although I probably should have been pleased that she’d finally found her niche catering to Jaya, it just pissed me off, like she’d been rewarded for her incompetence.
“Can we . . . ?” Jaya gestured behind me, toward the kitchen.
Evie took her phone back and started texting again. I didn’t think she would pay attention to our conversation even if we came to blows right over her bowed head, but you never knew what random stuff was going to sink into that girl’s cranium and come flying out later. So I got up and headed into the other room, followed by Jaya, who was followed by Ashley. Once through the doorway, I stepped to one side, let Jaya through, then shoved Ashley backward.
The girl looked at me, bewildered. I glared. Jaya was more polite. “Ash, why don’t you hang with Evie, okay?”
Ashley blinked mildly, then drifted back to the living room. Once Jaya and I were alone, I let out a breath and leaned against the counter, watching Jaya expectantly. I’d be damned if I was going to speak first. But I was ready for a battle.
The last thing I was ready for was what Jaya actually did. She took off her sunglasses and stared down at them while she folded and unfolded them. Click clack. Clack click. I waited. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “I’m so sorry, Faith,” she rasped, her voice husky with tears.
Was I supposed to cave? Was I supposed to be charmed by the humility in my former best friend, run to her, hug her, and reassure her that whatever she’d done was all right, that I understood?
“Faith?” Jaya prompted. “Please say something.”
Before I could speak, Evie called from the living room, “Jaya? Ask Faith about my bulimia story line.”
Bulimia? I gave Jaya a suspicious look. This I could handle. This was a concrete issue I could grasp, to keep from being blown off the cliff into the bottomless pit of emotions I couldn’t sort out. “What about bulimia?”
Jaya shrugged, then took a quick swipe at the corners of her eyes. She murmured, “We’re thinking of having Ariel struggle with bulimia. You know—the character’s modeling career and all.”
Shaking my head, incredulous—and suddenly furious—I stammered, “No. Absolutely not. We decided ages ago that Ariel would never have that kind of a problem. I’m not against body dysmorphia awareness, but—”
“But it’d be a really great opportunity for Evie to show off her acting chops and—”
“Shehas no acting chops, and you know it,” I hissed. “That’s why her character is a brain-dead model. Art imitates life. You think she can convey the emotional impact of such a loaded topic? Seriously?”
Jaya shrugged again and studied the tile floor, and everything became crystal clear. As I suspected, she wasn’t calling the shots. She hadn’t stolen my job—not willingly. She was in over her head, and she knew it. I didn’t know how Randy B. had convinced her to take over, but at this point I didn’t care. I needed to reestablish the integrity of Modern Women before he turned it into just another nighttime soap with sensational plots that were cheap excuses to put my female characters in lingerie and have them vomiting over their toilets. Just what he’d always wanted.
I shook my head again. I was well and truly disgusted. “And another thing—what’s with the ‘we,’ Jaya? This all sounds like Randy talking. Just him.”
Her head snapped up. “How do you know it wasn’t my idea?”
“Because you’re too smart for that. And because ever since Bridesmaids came out, Randy thinks that for any movie or TV show to be ‘cutting edge,’ it has to have a gross-out scene with diarrhea or vomit. Preferably both. Featuring women. So this is his chance. But I’ll be damned if he does something like that with my show.” Jaya opened her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “Don’t you daresay it’s not my show anymore. It’ll always be my show.”
“I know. I know.” She took a step toward me, her words tumbling out. “Faith, I swear, I didn’t go behind your back. I didn’t want any of this. Randy came to me after he fired you and said he needed a showrunner or Modern Women was off the fall schedule. It was just before the upfronts—I had to act fast or he was going to yank us on the spot. And then everybody on the crew would be out of a job.”
That stopped me. If Jaya was telling the truth—and I’d never known her to lie in all the time we’d worked together—then she had done the right thing. Everybody knew I put the cast and crew first—especially the crew, who didn’t do this for any glamour, just a steady paycheck and health insurance.
“I just wanted to save the show,” she whispered.
“Is that what you call it?” My words still came out hard and bitter.
“Yes!” she protested. “And . . . and Randy said he would charge you with assault if I didn’t step in and keep the show going. I wanted to keep your
name out of the papers.”
“Well, mission accomplished. Practically overnight, I’m nobody,” I muttered, but my mind was racing. I studied her; she looked pretty vulnerable and downright afraid. “So you’re going to stand there and swear to me that you never had your head turned by the thought of being the one calling the shots? Not even a little bit?”
She shook her head, eyes wide. “Never.”
“Bullshit.” But I couldn’t prevent the corner of my mouth from turning up, just a bit. Jaya noticed it, and she visibly lightened up, probably relieved that I wasn’t going to kill her here in Evie’s kitchen with one of the unused knives in the wooden block by the similarly unused oven. Still, I wasn’t going to let her off that easy. “Show’s going straight to hell, you know.”
She pressed a hand to her temple and smiled ruefully. “Oh, I know it, Ms. Sinclair. Nobody knows that better than I do. See my new crop of gray hairs?”
“You do look like crap, woman.” I shook my head. “This is why I wanted Randy’s paws off completely. This is what he does: makes a mess.”
Jaya crossed the kitchen to lean against the counter beside me. Her voice low, she said, “I need you back, Faith. The show needs you back.”
“Well, that ain’t happening, is it?”
“The finale is being savaged online; the fans are pitching a collective fit. If we don’t come back strong after the hiatus . . .”
“I know. Randy’ll cancel the show. And he’ll blame you. His hands stay clean and he can act all outraged and disappointed. Hello, scapegoat.”
“I don’t understand why he’s setting us up to fail.”
“It’s my fault. I’ve always been a pain in his ass. Now he also wants to get revenge for, uh . . .”
“You grabbing his balls?”
“Why does everybody keep saying that?”
We both managed a wry laugh, and Jaya leaned sideways and bumped my shoulder with hers. “I miss you, Faith. It’s just not the same without you there.”
“Finally somebody says it!”
Jaya hesitated, then blurted out, “I’ve got an idea to make sure we come back strong in the new season.”
“Well, let’s have it!”
“I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”
“Will it help the show?”
“Yeah, but . . . this would be all on you. Nobody else can do this.”
“Er, I’m off the show, remember? I got a letter to prove it and everything.”
“But if you pull this off, I’d bet you could get reinstated.”
“Good lord, woman, what is it? Establish world peace?”
“That’d be easier.”
Now I was completely puzzled . . . and intrigued. “Lay it on me.”
She hesitated, then said gingerly, “Bring back Alex.”
“No.” The word was out of my mouth almost before my brain had even processed what Jaya was suggesting, and well before it parsed what the implications were. All I knew was that my body had a visceral reaction to that name, Alex—one I hadn’t heard in a while, mainly because I had forbade anybody from uttering it within a hundred yards of me, for a lot of reasons, only some of which were known to the cast and crew. The rest were locked in my own personal emotional vault.
“Faith—”
“Don’t ‘Faith’ me. I said no.”
“Just listen. Bringing back Alex would—”
I opened my mouth to snap at her for daring to say that name again, when Evie wandered into the kitchen and said, “Alex is coming back?” I think she said it eagerly, but I wasn’t sure—all the Botox treatments had neutralized her expression so completely that I was never sure what type of emotion she was feeling. “Can Ariel sleep with him?”
“No!” I repeated, even more vehemently. “Evie, your character is fine the way she is. And Alex is not coming back. Put it out of your heads, both of you.”
My mouth was dry and my face was hot all of a sudden. To avoid Jaya’s and Evie’s eyes, I bolted for the giant stainless steel fridge across the room, yanked open the door big enough to be the portal to a commercial meat locker, and stuck my head into the cool depths, looking for something to drink.
Behind me, Jaya kept up her campaign. “Faith, listen. I know how you feel about the whole Alex thing. I do. But try to put it in perspective. He’s been gone more than a year. If we bring him back—okay, maybe not in time for the start of the fall season, but maybe November sweeps . . . just think of the buzz.”
I grabbed a bottle of water—almost the only thing in the fridge that wasn’t a shriveled-up bit of fruit or a bottle of champagne. I toyed with the idea of appropriating a jar of maraschino cherries as well, but decided against it. I took a deep breath before I turned to face Jaya and Evie.
“When Alex left,” I said, working hard to keep my voice calm, “I told him there was no way we’d ever have him back. And I’m sticking to that. It’s non-negotiable.”
Jaya studied me. “Things change, Faith.”
“Yeah, well, not this.”
“Look, I know he hurt you—”
“The show,” I insisted, a touch desperately. “He hurt the show.”
“Okay.”
Jaya’s thinly veiled sarcasm did me in. “I’ve gotta go.” I pushed past her and Evie (who was texting again) but stopped on my way out of the kitchen. “Evie,” I said, snapping my fingers. She looked up. I’d trained her well. “Not a word about Alex to anyone. Got it?”
“Who?”
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be clever or if she really had forgotten already, but it didn’t matter. “Good girl.” I paused. “Jaya.” My former BFF’s face lit up hopefully. “Keep an eye on Hector.” He was our props master. “Don’t let him self-medicate—he always forgets what he’s taken and what he hasn’t.” I wracked my brain for whatever else I was supposed to have taken care of. I thought of our pregnant editor, and one of our favorite grips. “Make sure that Jennifer’s maternity leave paperwork is filed—she’s going to be ready to pop in a couple of months. And don’t forget Bob’s Birthday Burrito Breakfast—right after hiatus ends. It’s on the calendar.”
I saw her swallow with difficulty before she rasped, “So that’s it, then?”
“That’s it,” I said mildly, even as a dozen emotions wrestled with one another to be the first to break the surface of my calm exterior. Screw my cast—Ideserved an Emmy right about now. “Go get ’em, tiger. I’m pulling for you.” And I meant it.
Chapter 4
The late-afternoon temporary parking lot that was the 405 freeway made my attempt to get home so freaking futile I thought I was going to lose my mind. I sat . . . and sat . . . inched forward . . . then sat again. My stomach churned; I hadn’t eaten all day. A hunt through my glove box produced only an energy bar that, from the feel of it, had completely melted. I wasn’t that desperate. I shoved it back in and slammed the door shut, a little too hard. For a second I thought I’d broken the latch.
Yikes. Didn’t know my own strength when I got agitated about certain subjects. I still couldn’t believe that Jaya had brought up the one topic, the one person, she knew never to mention in front of me again. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of Alex for the better part of a year, and now the equilibrium I had established was all blown to hell.
Desperate for a voice of reason to help me get my head straight, I took the next exit and headed for Wilshire Boulevard. It was finally time to check in with my agent, Susan, the one person I could trust to give me a straight answer. Even at this late hour, I knew she’d still be in her office and, workaholic to workaholic, I understood and approved.
“Susan?” I pushed open the door to her office. No assistant for her—she preferred to take care of everything herself. Fiercely old-fashioned, which I loved, Susan was the opposite of all the slick, shiny, über-cool agents who populated L.A. like tribbles—open up a cupboard and a dozen fell out (all texting on their smartphones while downing green tea smoothies, of course). I could have gone
with one of those, sure, but instead I actually listened to my mom’s advice for once and chose this old, craggy, wouldn’t-touch-a-yoga-mat-with-a-bargepole pit bull with a lousy haircut. I’ve never regretted it.
“Well, look at that—she lives. Get in here.”
Just being in my agent’s presence made me feel a whole lot lighter all of a sudden. Dropping into her guest chair with a sigh, I said, “In a manner of speaking. I’ve been . . . reevaluating.”
“You’ve been a goddamned idiot.”
Bless her for dispensing with the preliminaries.
“Gee, thanks. Love you too.”
“You know I’m right. What have I always told you? When this business kicks you to the curb . . .” she prompted, waiting for me to finish the lesson she’d been drumming into me for the past decade.
“. . . Kick ’em in the sidewalls before they pull away. And be sure to leave a dent.”
“Then call a cab back to town,” she added, scratching the back of her head; her short, salt-and-pepper hair stuck up at the crown. “But you didn’t. You stayed on the curb after Randy kicked you there. Dumbass.”
“He’s loving this, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea. The way he tells it—and tells it, and tells it—hewas the one who humiliated you.”
“But I grabbed his balls!”
“Yeah, but he was the one who made you vanish. So who wins?”
Susan was right. She always was. “What do I do now?”
She hesitated, and I felt an icy claw clutch my heart. Susan had the answer to every question, a solution for every problem—and was always happy to share her thoughts, often before you knew you wanted her advice. She. Never. Hesitated.
“. . . Suze?” I prompted, fearing her response.
“I don’t know, Faith. You made an enemy of Randy. That has repercussions.”
I dug down deep for whatever bravado I had left. “Yeah, yeah, powerful, domineering, influential, I’ll never work in this town again. But you can fix that. You always fix stuff like that.”