Unscripted

by Jayne Denker

  Either I was the victim of a flashmob home invasion, or it had something to do with Jamie. I was pretty sure it was the latter, but I wished it were the former. That’d be easier to deal with.

  I got out of my car and dodged between the vehicles blocking my way into the house. Someone had rolled over a good chunk of my landscaping, flattening some flowers and mashing a solar light into the ground, which seriously irked me.

  The foyer was empty, but the living room was a hive of activity. At least a dozen people were milling around. My furniture was moved again. Wires and cables were everywhere. And then someone shouted, “Okay, let’s go!” and blam—lights on C stands positioned around the room all came to life at the same time, and suddenly my living room could have doubled as the surface of the sun.

  Somebody was using my house as a film set.

  Oh my God,Jamie really was making a porn movie?

  “What the fuck is going on here?” I demanded, charging into the room and nearly walking right into a tall, gangly guy with his hands on his hips.

  “What the—shut up!” He spun toward me. “Who the fuck are you?”

  I got in his face. “I fucking own this house. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Oh shit.” That was some other person, who came flying between us, his hands raised as if to restrain the angry dude. “Trev, Trev. This is Faith Sinclair. She lives here.”

  “‘Lives here’? It’s my fucking house. Now, I want to know what—” Then I recognized the white-boy ’fro blocking my view. “Evan?”

  “Hey . . . Faith. How’s it going?”

  This made no sense. I hadn’t seen this guy, or his cohort Sean, since they booted me from their Web site, months ago. And now he—and an entire film crew—were in my house?

  “Jamie,” I hissed to no one in particular.

  “He—he said it was okay!” Evan squeaked.

  “Oh he did, did he? ‘Okay’? To film in my house?”

  “He didn’t . . . didn’t check with you?”

  “Do you know Jamie at all?”I gave Evan my best hairy eyeball, and included Trev the angry dude as well. It didn’t seem to faze Trev; he stayed angry, probably because I was cutting into his shooting schedule. I could relate. But I wasn’t about to accommodate him.

  “Aw, Faith, I’m sorry, man. Really. I thought—”

  “You thought wrong. Now gather up all your toys and clear out of here.”

  “But—”

  “I have a show to shoot!” Trev griped.

  Trev had picked the wrong day to argue with me. I was sleep-deprived, I was stressed, I was full of beans. “Boo fucking hoo. Shoot it somewhere else. Does this look like fucking Paramount Pictures to you?”

  “Faith, can I talk to you in private?” Evan ventured nervously.

  “In private? Sure, if there’s one square inch of this house that’s still private.”

  That square inch turned out to be the bathroom off my bedroom. Evan backed up against the sink, trying to keep as far away from me as possible. Wise move.

  “So okay, Faith, remember when you were hanging out with us—”

  “I was helping you out, yes.”

  “And then MTV said they wanted a reality Web show?”

  “When you fired my ass because I was too old for MTV? Yes, I remember that quite clearly.”

  “Well . . . the webisodes got really great ratings. MTV picked us up for a series. On the network, not on the Web!”

  I rubbed my forehead, trying to massage away an encroaching headache and smooth out the lines deepening between my eyebrows. “Get to the point, Evan. Why are you shooting it in my house?”

  “Well, be–because . . . the show’s about Jamie.”

  I’d like to say that I was shocked by this, but my shock-o-meter had broken long ago. Now all I could muster was a half-raised eyebrow. “Really.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jamie living in his stepsister’s house? Jamie sponging off her and eating everything in her fridge? That’s a premise for a reality show? I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised—we have the Kardashians, after all—but isn’t MTV scraping the bottom of the barrel here?”

  Evan looked at me like I’d been asleep for a hundred years. “Faith, Jamie’s got a huge fan base. His whole thing—it’s like a real-life Entourage. In fact, that’s how we pitched it. Good-looking guy, great accent, in L.A., partying, hanging with the hottest celebrities, inside scoop on the glam lifestyle, never know who he’s going to run into—get it?”

  “Ah.” I hated to admit it, but it actually made sense. A reality show like that would sell in a heartbeat—and get a huge following.

  “See?” Evan looked relieved that I was finally tweaking to the whole concept.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Okay, so—”

  “Now get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Aw, Faith.” He thought a moment. “Hey, we’d love to have you on the show. Great exposure—”

  “OUT!”

  Chapter 22

  Well, now I knew where my money had gone. And I knew why Jamie had been avoiding my calls. He was hiding from me because of the money, sure, but he was also busy starring in his own reality show. Which, evidently, I had financed. He had a lot of ’splainin’ to do.

  Once I had evicted the crew, their equipment, and the “actors” for today’s shoot—apparently their sole purpose today was to talk about Jamie while he wasn’t around (gotta love those top-notch reality story lines, but at least the cameras hadn’t followed him into Mona’s hospital room)—I allowed myself a good cry for a few minutes.

  My money was gone. I had hoped that maybe there was a better, more reassuring answer for why my credit cards had been maxed out and my bank account emptied—some way the situation would wrap up like a happy-ending TV movie, with Jamie handing over a bag full of cash, saying, “It’s all here, Faith. I was keeping it safe for you.” But no. Every last penny had been spent on production costs, equipment, salaries for the cast and crew. And probably those brand-spankin’-new servers Sean was always moaning he needed. I could sue them to get my money back, I supposed, but I’d probably just end up with a garage full of their equipment, stuff that I didn’t want or need, for my trouble. But my actual cash was long gone.

  Drained, I dragged myself toward my bathroom—stepping on a left-behind clamp in my bare feet on the way, which got me cursing and crying anew—and huddled in the shower. I sat down in the tub, my forehead on my knees, and let the water course over my hunched back. I had to get back to the hospital, but I just needed to sit for a moment. And maybe rock back and forth a little. And gather my strength. Because I decided that whatever method I chose for murdering Jamie was going to require the use of a very large, very heavy weapon.

  * * *

  Once I was showered and dressed, I felt better—at least on the outside. I checked my phone; I had two texts, one from Mason asking about Mona, which made my heart flutter, and the other from Jaya: “It is ON! Randy = YES” and a “thumbs up” emoticon. Well, that was something. I started to text her back, but then I heard rustling coming from the kitchen. I charged in there, guns blazing.

  “I told you to get the fuck out of my house!” I roared.

  Jamie stood up from his usual position—rooting around in the fridge—holding an open takeout container and munching on something that looked like an old, soggy taquito. Blech.

  “Faith,” he said around a mouthful of Mexican leftovers, “’s just me.”

  “Yeah, well, that goes double for you.”

  “You met the crew, yeah?”

  “I’m hoping you rushed back here to keep me from killing them all.”

  “Exactly right.”

  “Well, you’re too late. I’ve got ’em all buried in the back yard. Saved a space for you too.”

  “Faith, I was going to tell you. I was!”

  “When were you going to tell me? You’ve had plenty of time. But I guess you were too busy cleaning out my bank account, right? So, what, y
ou were going to come clean when you needed to hit me up for more money? After all, I’ve got some investments you haven’t gotten your grubby little paws on yet.”

  “You do?”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I growled.

  “Nah, nah—don’t have to, do we? Now that we’re on MTV and all.”

  “I heard. From the crew of strangers making themselves at home in my house!”

  “So—free sailing from now on. All gravy!”

  “Then I’ll thank you to sign over those checks MTV writes Random Shit Productions: ‘Pay to the order of Faith Freakin’ Sinclair.’ Might take quite a few of them, come to think of it.”

  Jamie approached me cautiously. When I didn’t rip his head from his neck, he gingerly put an arm around me. “I’ve got an even better idea.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Producer credit.”

  “Oh God.” I rolled my eyes and ducked out from under his arm.

  “What? ’S a brilliant idea. Loads of cash in it, and you don’t have to do a thing. Just sit back and watch the money roll in.”

  “As easily as I watched the money go out?”

  “Faith, it was an investment.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Tompkins. I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone’s shoveling it.”

  Jamie actually smiled around a mouthful of taquito.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “You sound just like Mona.”

  “And there’s strike three.”

  “She’s been talking about you, you know. This afternoon, while you were out.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “Nah. She’s chuffed you came to see her. Never seen her so happy.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Truth. I think she’s going to get better faster if you’re going to stay around.”

  “Well, the bad news for you is that I am going to stay around. And that means no more shooting in my house.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. If you’re going to be an L.A. resident for a while, it’s time you got your own place. Make MTV pay for it.”

  “That’s a good idea . . .”

  “Experience, my dear stepbrother. It goes a long way.”

  “And that’s why we need you as a producer.”

  I thought about it a minute. There was no way I was going to get my money back in a lump sum, no matter what. This might be the only way I’d get reimbursed at all. “Who’s your contact at the network? I want to negotiate my terms.” That was something else I had a lot of experience with, and I was about to work it, big time.

  * * *

  I spent the next couple of days at the hospital, then stayed up all night, each night, writing new scripts and talking with Mason. I filled him in on all the details of Mona’s illness, Jamie’s follies, and plans for Modern Women. He told me how the students were doing—especially Kaylie, who was having trouble recovering from her addiction to Alex—and expressed how hard the faculty and kids were taking the news of the dissolution of IECC’s theater department. He wanted to visit me, but he felt he should be around to help get the students transitioned over to UCR or whatever college they ended up choosing, so we settled for lots of promises, future plans, and a little bit of smutty talk late at night.

  Although I didn’t mind making the hospital my second home, I had to admit I was a bit relieved to walk into my mother’s room one day after making a coffee run to find my most recent stepfather, Dominic, by her bedside as she napped.

  “Rossmerry,” he crooned in his thick accent, holding out his arms.

  “Hi, Dominic.” I gave the rotund man a brief but warm hug. “How was Australia?”

  “Very nice. Wait. I have something for you.” He rummaged around in a plastic grocery bag on the floor and brought out a brown and yellow jar. “Is Vegemite,” he said, holding it out to me. “Is good. Fix your wagon.”

  “My wagon is fine the way it is, Dominic.”

  “You take. You eat. Is good. Yes?”

  He looked so eager, I couldn’t say no. “Thank you.”

  Then he looked over at Mona, and his face fell. “This crazy,” he whispered. “I told her she no need this. She beautiful. So beautiful.” His pouchy eyes filled with tears. “I love her the way she was.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” Mona mumbled. “I’m not dead yet.”

  Dominic immediately grabbed her hand. “She tell me to go home. But no. I stay here.”

  “I have Rosemary,” Mona protested.

  “I stay,” her husband insisted.

  “You irritate me, old man,” she muttered, but with a smile. Dominic brought her hand to his lips.

  “Have you slept, Dominic?” I asked, banishing the jar of brown goo to a far table.

  “Pah. Sleep.”

  “Did you at least get some rest on the plane?”

  “No, I too worried. Before that.”

  “Good grief, you must have been up almost twenty-four hours by now. Look, at least stay at the beach house Mom rented.”

  That got his attention. “Beach house, eh? How surf? Any ‘tasty waves’?”

  I tried not to laugh, failed. “I have no idea, Dominic.”

  “Wait! I have surf report app.” And he pulled his phone from his pocket.

  “Of course you do.”

  “Maybe I go, I surf, I come back here, then surf more later?”

  “A fabulous idea.”

  “You want me to open Vegemite for you before I go?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  * * *

  When Alex rolled back into town, I was too busy with Mona to think about dealing with him. So I left him to Jaya without a second thought; I found I’d rather help Mona out, and keep her company, than babysit the ol’ prodigal star. I trusted Jaya. So this must be what it’s like to delegate, I thought. Not bad.

  Mona was recovering nicely—and ahead of schedule. The doctors were impressed, but I took it as a matter of course. This was Mona Urquhart, after all—she wasn’t about to let a touch of sepsis slow her down. She was going to vanquish it out of sheer bullheadedness.

  Her improved health was paralleled by her increasing number of demands for everything from stocking her hospital bathroom with special organic towels and handmade soap to exactly what she wanted for her meals, three times a day—and sure as shootin’ it wasn’t going to be anything from the hospital kitchen. The finest of fine dining establishments all over Los Angeles were put on high alert that Mona Urquhart needed meals. I suspected bookies were making a small fortune taking bets on which one she’d choose for each meal, each day. At least Mona wasn’t demanding linens, bone china, and silver service to eat it with. Yet. Right now she was tickled to be eating out of plastic containers—her version of slumming.

  When she wasn’t selecting which restaurant was going to serve her next, Mona was holding court—once the bruising eased and the swelling went down a bit. She wouldn’t have been caught dead looking too ill and puffy, after all. Every big name in Hollywood managed to come see her—and some smaller names too—until Jamie and I got a talking-to by the charge nurse because of all the traffic. With Mona’s visitors limited to three at a time, it eventually quieted down, and there were even times when I was the only one with her. And what was interesting was I didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

  One day, when I was unpacking some delicate gnocchi and a serving of greens and beans from one of her favorite Italian bistros in Beverly Hills, I decided to ask her something that had been bugging me for a while.

  “Mona?”

  She sighed. “You know, dear, I’m actually disappointed that we’re back to the ‘Mona’ thing. I rather enjoyed you calling me Mom. Or is that reserved only for when I’m well and truly ill? Should I use that as a bellwether for my impending passing, when I’m in my dotage?”

  “Force of habit, I guess. I’ve been calling you Mona for so long it’d be pretty hard to change now.”

 
; “I suppose.” And she took a tiny mouthful of the greens and beans. “Now, what did you want to say, dear?”

  “Right. I . . . well, I happened to see the interview you did for your latest boxed set—”

  “Did you?” She sounded thrilled. “How did that happen? I thought you didn’t, er, partake of my offerings.”

  “You mean I don’t usually watch your movies? That’s true. But lately I’ve realized that there’s something to be learned there.”

  “Ah, my little girl grows up. How nice.” And she nibbled on a gnocchi.

  “Anyway.”

  “Yes?”

  “In the interview, you, uh, said some stuff about me.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “Was that . . . was it true? Or did you just say it because, you know, it sounded good?”

  Mona put down her fork. “To what are you referring, exactly, Rosemary?”

  Oh God, she was going to make me say it out loud. “The part about your being proud of me.”

  My mother smiled patiently. “Yes, Rosemary,” she said slowly, as though she were talking to a child. “That was true. It’s still true, in fact.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. Why wouldn’t I be proud of my successful daughter?”

  “But it’s not my success.”

  Mona started to tuck into her food again, stopped. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t get the show off the ground. You did. By telling Randy to order the pilot.”

  “Oh, that. How did you hear about it? Did he tell you? I told him not to.”

  “No, you did. The first day you were here in the hospital.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “You were pretty out of it.”

  She shrugged. “Well, I wanted to help.”

  “Why couldn’t you just let me do it by myself?”

  Mona actually laughed. “Oh, Rosemary, some things never change with you. You used to say that all the time when you were a toddler. ‘I want to do it myself!’ I heard that day and night. You never wanted anyone’s help.”