I'm with Cupid (14 page)

Seven

Corliss couldn't pounce. Not in the middle of a glow-in-the-dark golf course, anyway. First of all, she and JB were surrounded by twenty cranky nine-year-olds who were waiting impatiently to tee off. Not exactly the setting for pouncing. Corliss had considered inviting JB over to Uncle Ross's and somehow muscling him into the hot tub—per Anushka's naughty suggestion—but naked hot-tubbing just wasn't her style. No, no matter what Anushka “The Teen Queen of Seduction” said, Corliss knew she'd have to proceed at her own pace.

“If you tap the ball real gently on the far side, JB, it'll knock it in the right direction,” Corliss offered helpfully. But then she worried her suggestion might injure his masculine pride. She'd read in
CosmoGirl
that boys didn't really want advice from their dates. She backtracked fast. “Least, that's what little old me thinks! Take or leave! Do or don't! It's your game!” she blathered, unable to stop the torrent of inanities that spewed forth. Finally, she clamped her hand over her mouth.

JB didn't seem to notice. He was still contemplating his putt, oblivious to the groaning nine-year-olds who were giving him and Corliss dirty looks. “You know who's a really good golfer?” said JB, stalling the tee again. “Rocs! He's also good at sailing, apparently. And woodcarving, ballroom dancing, and Legos. He's a pretty good pastry chef, too—have you ever tried his buttery biscuits?” JB licked his lips.

Corliss gritted her teeth. “Uh, no, can't say I have tried Rocco's, um, buttery biscuits,” she said, hoping JB would hear just how gay his question had sounded. He hadn't stopped talking about Rocco all evening. It was getting a little weird. In spite of all his protests it was still hard not to wonder whether he was gay. Maybe he was, but he just didn't know it yet? She was going to keep careful track of how many more Rocco mentions the night would hold.

“Those bis-quits are wunderbar!” JB kissed his fingers and threw them into the air. The nine-year-olds behind him shook their heads.

That did it. Corliss couldn't hold back anymore. “You and Rocco sure spend a lot of time together. Are you completely sure there's nothing gay going on?”

JB was taken aback for a moment, then broke out in a reassuring smile. “Cor, m'lady, I swear on a stack of
CosmoGirls
,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “Don't you just love that rag?”

Corliss put her hand on her hip and titled her head skeptically. What straight boy reads
CosmoGirl
? “See, that's another thing,” she said patiently. “You gave me that makeover once and you're always offering little tips on how I should wear my hair, or what shoes to wear. That stuff is all really gay, JB.”

“What can I say?” JB said, shrugging and still not teeing off. “My meterosexuality is known from sea to shining sea.” He squinted again at the ball, which was only three inches from the hole it was meant to go in.

“Just putt already,” said one of the nine-year-olds waiting in line behind them. JB looked up at the kid like he'd momentarily forgotten where he was, then swung his club and tapped the glow-in-the-dark ball exactly on the spot where Corliss suggested. It rolled cleanly across the AstroTurf and dropped expertly into the hole.

“You did it!” Corliss said, jumping up and down.

“I totally did!” JB looked like he couldn't have been more surprised. “Thanks to your advice,” he said, nudging her elbow.

Suddenly Corliss felt a wave of encouragement wash over her. JB had never elbow-nudged her before. Was it possible that he was flirting with her? “Now we just need to add up our scores,” she said with an undercurrent of “I'm flirting right back.” Then she took their scorecard over to a park bench and patted the seat next to her. When JB sat, Corliss moved a little closer to him. But then he inched away. So she moved closer to him again. But then he inched away again. This went on until JB inched his way off the end of the bench.

“Sorry,” he said, leaping up, red-faced, “my bad! The Jeebster isn't the picture of grace, is he?”

Corliss felt like a total dork. It was like JB was avoiding intimacy at all costs. Maybe her premonitions were wrong for the first time. Maybe she and JB were meant to be just friends. But what about the elbow nudge? And hadn't he said yes when she'd asked him to “hang out” again? And hadn't she just detected on him the distinct smell of cologne—when she'd only ever smelled Mennen Speed Stick deodorant on him before? Was all this the behavior of someone not interested?
Maybe,
she thought.
Maybe not!
JB was sending her so many mixed signals her head felt like sautéed onions.

Okay,
she thought,
I don't want to live in the dark anymore
. She knew she absolutely had to
somehow
move things forward. Really hit the romance nail on the head—and make no bones about it. “Hey, JB. I have an idea. Why don't we drive up to Topanga Canyon? It's a full moon tonight, and isn't that romantic?”

JB gulped. “Dontcha wanna add up our scores?”

“I already did,” Corliss said. “You won. Which means,” she said, pulling him down next to her on the bench, “whatever we do next is what
you
want to do next.” She waited for him to take the lead, be the man—something she had also learned from the
CosmoGirl
article.

“Well, I am kinda tired, to tell you the truth, Cor. And tomorrow is a pretty big day for me on the set. Would you mind if we just called it a night?”

“No,” she said, utterly deflated.

“And then, you know, do something else sometime soon?”

“Yes!” she cried, utterly overjoyed.

As they headed to the cashier to return their golf clubs, Corliss decided that if she wanted to get to the bottom of her relationship with JB, it was time to push herself to the wall. In other words, it was the hot-tub scenario or bust. Even if the thought of trying such a maneuver made her eyes cross. In fact, it occurred to her that securing a little backup to keep from caving at the last minute probably wasn't a bad idea. And who better to back her up than Uncle Ross, who was already overly invested in her dating life (and just so happened to have a hot tub in his very own home)?

“Um, what are you doing later this week, JB? Wanna have dinner at my Uncle Ross's place some night?”

“Free food cooked by other people? Are you kidding? I'm there like a bear at the fair!”

Not the most romantic response,
thought Corliss,
but it's progress.

The set for this week's episode of
The 'Bu
was a re-creation of the stunning estate in Malibu. The two-story-high blue stone fireplace, the vaulted Tibetan ceiling, the soaring leaded glass windows, the Belgian tapestries, the Murano glass chandelier that dripped thousands of glittering red shards from above—all of it was copied and built in the middle of the vast soundstage.

It was an uncanny replication, perfect to the last detail. Corliss, who was dressed in some of her cutest gear—a Max Azria cardigan over a Nanette Lepore skirt—whistled long as she took it all in. “Boy, look what a TV show budget will get ya.”

“Pretty impressive, I know,” said Max at her side. “The network is not sparing any expense with our show—which is a sign they continue to believe in it. I've got to keep them believing in it, Corliss.”

“You always find a way, Max.” She knew it was good to start the day with a little subtle brownnosing, just to get things off on the right foot.

“Thank you, Corliss,” said Max, looking pleased. “And how's the cast doing this morning? Any concerns I should have?” he said, taking in his perfect hair in one of the set's gilded mirrors.

Corliss craned her neck to the far corner of the soundstage, where the makeup technicians were fretting over the cast. She gave JB a little wave with her fingers. He gave her a little wave back.
Good sign,
she thought. Everyone else looked ready, willing, and able—until she spotted Anushka. Anushka was wearing a bikini so small it looked like three tortellinis tied together with tinsel. She was also wearing her bald cap—and sulking. “Um, let me get back to you on the cast concerns, Max,” Corliss said in her cheeriest voice, before making a beeline to Anushka. “What is it, Anushka?” she said under her breath. “You've got your crabby face on and you're not even near nap time.”

“First of all, Cor, I still can't get Patrizio to return any of my text messages and it's making me crazazy!”

“Anushka, please. We're at work. I'm sorry about the lack of Italian stallion-ness in your life, but it will have to wait till we're on break, okay?”

“Okay, Miss Company Policy,” said Anushka, rolling her eyes. “In that case I would appreciate it if you told Max I'd like to play this scene in a gold brocade head scarf with large gold hoop earrings.”

“What?! We're prepping the first shot, Anushka. You know how slow the costume department moves.”

Anushka just shrugged. Corliss bit her tongue to keep from screaming. But she was becoming smarter. Instead of relaying Anushka's dissatisfaction to Max—which is exactly what Anushka expected her to do—she would defray any potential tension by, well,
lying
. Just a little. “Everyone's in the
greatest
mood, Max,” shouted Corliss as she made her way back to her fearful leader. “Really upbeat and ready to work.”

“Excellent. I did notice a cheerful energy on the soundstage when I walked in.”

“There
is
the tiniest request,” she continued, very smoothly, “really very small—from Anushka.”

Max hardly batted an eye. “Yes, quickly. Out with it.”

“It's really hardly anything at all,” Corliss replied, consulting her clipboard to make it look official. And then she told Max about Anushka's request. As she waited for his response, she held her breath and pretended to look through her notes.

For a moment, Max's face was frozen, unreadable. “Fine by me,” he finally said. “Alert the costume department.” Corliss immediately text-messaged the costume department about the change. “Anything else?”

“Um,” Corliss said, silently amazed that she managed to pull that off, “just that the camerawoman has an appointment with her podiatrist at noon so we'll have to break for an hour then.”

“Fine as well,” Max said, further unruffled. “And Legend? I haven't heard a peep today.”

“That lack of peep you hear is good news, Max. Olga has Legend on a field trip to the La Brea Tar Pits. He's learning about the period when saber-toothed cats and mammoths roamed the Los Angeles Basin.”

“That woman is a gift from God,” Max said, lifting his eyes up to the heavens. “I mean,” he said, lowering his eyes, “from L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology.”

Corliss coughed to keep from giggling. “No matter who Olga's a gift from, she's in pretty good shape for a woman her age, dontcha think?” Corliss became dreamy imagining herself one day as vigorous—and as shapely—as Olga.

“That's something I'd prefer not to discuss with you, Corliss,” he said.

“Those legs . . .” Corliss rhapsodized, not hearing Max. “Those biceps . . . and all that big, blond hair . . .”

“Corliss, your Olga crush is showing again.” Corliss snapped herself out of it, going a little red in the process. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need to concentrate.” He held his hands up in front of his face, imagining the scene he was about to shoot. Corliss knew this meant he was getting into
his zone
and she started shushing the technicians and actors who were in close proximity. “One thing I forgot, Corliss,” he whispered to her, out of earshot of anyone else.

“What is it, Max?” she said, poised to write it down.

His voice became an almost inaudible hiss. “This Trent and Tanya marriage business. I need you to put an end to it.” He then raised his hands in the air again, going back to
his zone
, as if he'd just said nothing more controversial than “Bring me my loofah sponge.”

“What—what do you mean, Max?” stammered Corliss.

“Corliss, you know exactly what I mean,” Max whispered fiercely. “The network is trying to control the PR spin when it comes to the cast's personal lives. There's no way to spin a marriage between a seventeen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old. Only trailer trash gets married before their twentieth birthdays.”

Corliss was dumbstruck. She envisioned herself once again as some kind of hiding-behind-plants secret agent, skulking around in parked cars and trying to get cheap, tawdry information out of people whose cheap, tawdry business she wanted nothing to do with. And she knew it was hopeless, anyway: Trent and Tanya were
way
beyond dating. They were getting hitched—no ifs, ands, or buts. And once they were hitched, they were immediately going to
do it.
They had actually planned the date and hour and place Tanya would become de-revirginized. The event involved a thousand rose petals and a J. Lo soundtrack, but that's as much as Corliss could bear hearing about.

“But they're
getting married
, Max,” she said, finally betraying her exasperation. “That's an eensy bit more serious than dating, dontcha think?”

“Please, Corliss, look at them.” He nodded over to a corner of the soundstage, where Tanya bounced up and down on Trent's lap, elated as a second-grader at Wet 'n Wild. “Do you think those two could be serious about anything?”

“Um,” said Corliss, contemplating the really gross spectacle, “point taken, but—but the network really has no business interfering when two people are actually getting married!” she blurted.