First Stop, New York (15 page)

“Um…” Tanya said, staring into the sun trying desperately to remember her lines. “Um…”

“Cut, cut, CUT!” Max finally said, kicking the sand at his feet and jumping up and down like a deranged person.

“Sorry, Max. I just got the new lines this morning when I was in hair and makeup and Anushka didn’t have time to coach me—”

“Cease, emaciated person!” said Max with his hand in the air. Tanya froze. JB checked his underarms for BO. The crew exchanged glances. “First of all, you are never, never, never—do you hear me?—allowed to let Anushka coach you ever again. Would you mind if I told you why, Tanya?”

“No, I’d totally appreciate it,” she chirped.

“Because she turns you into a kind of poop.”

“Poop?”

“Yes, poop.”

“Like poopy-poop? Like out my butt?”

Max’s eyes became slits. He thought he might explode into a million sweaty, Prada-covered pieces. He tried to count to ten, but he was so livid he couldn’t remember what came after four. Just then, Corliss ran up with the production phone.

“Max, I’m sorry to interrupt, but you have a very important call.”

“Not now, Corliss, I’m about to bludgeon to death everyone in my direct field of vision.”

Everyone except Corliss took a giant step back.

“But it’s Petey, Max.”

The name didn’t register.

“
Writer.”

“Thank God!” Max steered Corliss away from everyone. “I need him to completely write Tanya out of this scene. She’s redefined ineptitude.” Max swiped the phone from Corliss’s hand. “Writer, where are you?” As Max listened, his mouth began to twitch. “I see.” Max handed the phone back to Corliss.

“What is it, Max?”

“Apparently Writer has been charged with several misdemeanors and one felony involving public nudity and those little pouches of ketchup you get with French fries.”

“Oh, no.” Corliss watched as Max silently counted to ten. “What will we do?”

“Nothing,” said Max, who could no longer hide his growing despair, “except watch this day slide further into madness.”

Rocco ambled over. “I think I can help, Max. Shoot the
scene with Tanya and JB with the camera on JB. When Tanya’s saying her lines she can read them from a cue card and you can shoot her from behind. You can then cut in Tanya’s reaction shots to what JB is saying. If you edit it correctly, it will end up looking like a real conversation and the audience will be none the wiser.”

Max’s nostrils flared only once. He looked to Corliss for what she thought.

“Max, that’s a really good idea.”

“You’re
sure
, Corliss? You know how much the pressure’s on. Of course, I do value your oftentimes strange but effective input…”

“My witchy side says yes, it’s a good idea, and so does my psychologically intuitive side.”

“Okay, Corliss, I’ll try it. But we should have a rewrite just in case it doesn’t work. This day has been wall-to-wall poop and I don’t want to take any more chances.”

“Great. Shoot the scene like Rocco said, and I’ve got an idea about how to get a rewrite. But I’ll need your Amex.”

“Corliss, the last time I did that, a seven-thousand- dollar charge for high-end chocolates appeared on my monthly statement.”

Corliss looked sick. “I thought you didn’t look at your monthly statements?”

“I don’t need to look at my monthly statements, Corliss, when some mysterious person is writing a blog about what’s going on right under my nose.”

Corliss nodded. “Point taken. Okay, okay, I can explain that chocolate charge later, but let’s take a breath and think something through here.”

“
Please
, Corliss, you know my deductive skills are crap when I’m tense.”

“Okay, Max. Here goes—and just off the top of my head. You need a rewrite—I can post Petey’s bail and run him his laptop. On the drive back here to the beach I’ll fill him in on the rewrite we need. By the time we arrive he might just be able to deliver a new scene.”

“Corliss, you shame me with your efficiency. Here’s my Amex.”

“Wait!” It was Anushka, looking smashing in a two-piece made of brass rings tied with burgundy silk. “I should pay the bail. Anyway, you can’t post bail with a credit card.”

Everyone looked at her.

“Anushka, I don’t have time for nonsense.”

“But it was my fault, Max.”

“What do you mean?”

“We went out last night—me and the guy who does the rewrites—and he has a real name, too—but I kinda forgot it…after the sixth champagne.” Anushka made a pouty face.

Max pinched the top of his nose and looked skyward. “Anushka, are you telling me you got Writer drunk?”

“I didn’t mean to, Max! Swear it. You know how good I’ve been lately, right? And how hard I’ve been trying?”

Max’s anger was not appeased. “Go. Both of you. Anushka, you are skating on rice-paper-thin ice. I don’t want you in my field of vision until your call tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Max.”

Max made his close-mouth signal. “Corliss, give me back my Amex. The last thing I need is another investment in retail chocolate. Let Anushka pay the bail.”

“Okay, Max. Give me a couple of hours and I’ll be back with a new Tanya-less scene.”

The 10 West—2:20
P.M.

Petey hammered away on his laptop in the back seat of Corliss’s Mazda. Every few minutes he groaned and Anushka passed him more aspirin and smartwater from the front seat.

“How’s it coming, Petey?” asked Corliss, steering masterfully through traffic.

“Fine, fine,” Petey said. “If only I could stop hearing Electroclash in my head…”

“I’m really sorry, Writer,” Anushka said, stifling a laugh. “But some of it was fun, wasn’t it?”

“If you call being molested by an Amazon with pierced nipples fun, then yes, I guess so.”

Anushka couldn’t help laughing. Corliss frowned.

“What
wasn’t
fun was being left on the side of the road,” Petey said.

“Yeah, my bad. Look, if I’d known you’d end up streaking through South Central after getting the munchies, I never would have stopped the limo so you could pee against that palm tree.”

“Thanks,” said Petey bitterly. “But you didn’t have to drive off.”

“You told the driver to! You said you wanted an adventure! That you were going to go to Mexico and make tacos by the side of the road.” Anushka cackled and hit Corliss in the ribs. “Pretty funny—Writer making tacos.”

“Oh,” said Petey, thinking that sounded familiar. “I
think you’re right. I’ve always liked tacos.”

“See?”

“Let him work, Anushka. If we don’t arrive back on set with a new Tanya-less draft of that scene, Max will have our heads.”

“Sorry, Cor.”

“I don’t know why you think all this is funny, Anushka. You heard Max. You’re skating on thin ice.”

“Don’t worry about me, Cor. It’s Tanya’s ship that’s going down. My place on
The ’Bu
is secure. Especially now that the guy who does the rewrites has decided to write to my true strengths as a sex bomb.”

Petey’s head began throbbing again. “Every time you call me ‘The Guy Who Does the Rewrites,’ I lose sensation in my feet.” He held out his hand for more aspirin. “You called me Petey last night, remember? Even Petey Newsome! When we were best friends?”

“How ’bout Petey Rewrite?” She pinched Corliss on the boob. “Pretty funny.”

“Ow, stop doing that, Anushka, you’re making them swell.”

“That should be a good thing,” Anushka said out of the side of her mouth.

“Hey, don’t talk to Corliss like that, Anushka!”

“I’ll talk however I want!”

“Both of you behave, seriously, or I will pull this car over!”

“Writer started it!”

“I did not! I’m trying to work! Ow, my head!”

“Okay, okay, okay!” said Corliss. “We can work through all this later. If we had a little more time I’d suggest group therapy.
But Petey, you need to finish that rewrite now, and Anushka, you need stay in your beach condo tonight and keep your hands off the Veuve Clicquot. Jeez.”

“You’re right, I know,” Anushka said. “I swear, I swear I’ll be good. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. It’s like this giant brat emerges from deep within and just spews and I can’t stop it!”

Petey noticed that Anushka seemed truly contrite for the first time. That she’d begun to realize the consequences of her actions. Maybe there was a thoughtful person deep inside that luscious tower of flawless beauty.

“This show is too important to me,” she said, her scratchy voice sounding hurt, maybe even scared. “America
wants
me back and I won’t disappoint them. There is too much wonderful
me
to keep to myself. I have the gift of real stardom and it’s a gift that should be constantly shared.” Anushka cackled again. “Aren’t I a riot?”

She was, but Petey felt sorry for her. He watched her chew her nails. He knew how nervous she really was. Anushka wasn’t the person she made herself out to be. Not according to his findings on Google, anyway. “Peters” was short for “Petrovsky.” Her parents owned a Russian deli in LA’s Fairfax district. She was teased through middle school for smelling like lox.

But it’s amazing what a few years had done for her. Now her Agent Provocateur perfume, smelling of crushed raspberries and black plums, transported Petey to a place that was exotic—and just a little bit dirty. She was full of contradictions and magic. Even facing away from him she was a star—thrilling, unpredictable.

And then there was Corliss, darting in and out of traffic
like a pro—and after such a short time in LA. Stronger than she realized, and blossoming into the prettiest girl, Corliss was the kind you could bring home to Mom. And then leave with Mom when Mom started her constant, brutal criticism. Corliss could handle anything, and look cute as a Midwestern button doing it.

Petey’s two women, they made him feel alive. His muse, Corliss, and his star, Anushka. He shook his head. He almost didn’t know where one ended and the other began…

Am I still stoned?

Zuma Beach—4:42
P.M.

Corliss was splayed in the sand underneath the canopy of Max’s trailer. Every part of her was exhausted.

“Cheers, m’lady.”

JB was looming over her with two Arnold Palmers.

“Excellent timing, Jeebs.”

“Jeebs! Makes me sound like your butler. I like, I like.” He wiggled his eyebrows and knelt by her side with the drink.

“Thanks,” she said, leaning up on her elbows and sipping the cool drink. “I could use a butler about now. You can’t imagine what Max has put me through today. Wait, maybe with your ESP you can.”

“That Trent and Tanya stuff again?”

Corliss sat up. “No. Hey, that’s the first time you haven’t gotten it in one.”

“I am only human, Corliss Meyers.”

“I know, Jeebs. That’s why you’re so sweet.” JB blushed and looked away.

“And no, haven’t even had a chance to think about my secret Trent and Tanya mission. It’s beyond hopeless, anyway. Trent is totally crazy for Tanya. I made a complete fool of myself going over to his condo late at night and sitting next to him on his couch while he was wearing only a Speedo—”Corliss’s mind drifted back—“while a fire roared in the fireplace causing light to reflect off his strong, glistening chest…”

JB raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry. It’s a pretty vivid memory.”

“Hmmm,” JB said with a thoughtful look on his face. “I have another idea, if you care to hear.”

Corliss sighed. “I’m never getting myself out of this pickle, am I?”

“Not until you get yourself closer to Trent’s pickle—if you catch my driftwood.”

Corliss swatted at JB. “Ick! It’s so gross! Men are never used as sex bait—it’s such a double standard.”

“Are you kidding? I am
constantly
used as sex bait. Just look at this butt.” He stood up and smacked his nonexistent backside. “It might not look like much, but watch how I use it.” JB hiked up his oversize board shorts and moved his butt in a figure 8 while singing “I’m a Slave 4 U.”

“Blech!” Corliss said, laughing. “Stop it! You look like a reject from
Boys Gone Wild
!”

“I actually made the first cut,” he said, plunking back down next to her. “But I wouldn’t sign the release form.”

“Okay, what is it? Lay this new plan of yours on me.”

JB tapped his chin. “See, even though I’m a vegetarian, there’s nothing I love more than a nice, home-cooked meal.”

“I don’t get it.”

“The way to a man’s heart is through his…?”

“Gonads?”

“No duh, Corliss, but the classier way to a man’s heart is through his
stomach.
You should cook Trent a meal.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Light candles, set a nice table, put on some Norah Jones. Get all domestic goddess on him. Guys find that hot.”

“Well, I do a mean grilled cheese.”

“I said
cook
, Corliss, not
fry
. Boy, you can take the girl out of Indianapolis, but the cheese still clings to her! You need to cook something special, and that means nothing you can heat up in a microwave at a gas station. Something that makes his mouth water.”

“But what would that be?”

“Well,” JB said, tapping his chin thoughtfully again, “you could make tilapia with olive and grape-tomato tapenade with a side of grilled asparagus sprinkled with parmesan,
or
you could do a pork loin with a balsamic and cranberry reduction as a glaze with shredded brussels sprouts and couscous with pine nuts.”

Corliss looked JB up and down. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”

The Beach—6:20
P.M.

Max ran his tongue back and forth over his teeth while six wardrobe personnel oiled down JB for his big scene where his character, Ollie, almost drowns. “More oil,” he commanded. “I want Ollie to be as slippery as an accidental
Exxon spill.” The wardrobe people nodded feverishly and broke open more bottles of oil on top of JB.

Corliss ran up to Max with his phone. “An important phone call, Max. Do you want to take it here or in your trailer?”

Max snatched the phone from her. “Max Marx here.”

“Hey, kid. Michael Rothstein here.”