The Next Best Thing (46 page)

He gave a shrug. “Ah, you know. Ups and downs.”

“Where are you working these days?” I asked him, thinking it would be a kindness if I changed the subject.

Evidently not. Rob shrugged once more, looking uncomfortable. “I’m doing a rewrite for Paramount. This action thing. It’s a remake of a Japanese film. Will Smith was attached for a while, but . . .” He rocked back on his heels, then forward. “I had a pilot in the running at CBS, but it didn’t get picked up.”

“Ah. Well, you know. Try, try again. Are you going out for staffing jobs?”

He made a face. “I’m getting a little expensive.”

I made a noncommittal noise, thinking that it would be the
absolute height of ridiculousness if Rob expected me to feel sorry for him. Then again, at his age, with his years of experience, he was probably too pricy for most writers’ rooms to afford . . . and if he couldn’t get a show of his own off the ground, his options were limited to screenwriting (or rewriting) and traipsing around after his wife.

“Hey, boss lady!” Both of us turned gratefully. Pete Paxton was ambling toward me, grinning, contented and possibly stoned. He was rolling with an entourage, his blond mom, blond sister and two blond brothers, and the obligatory beauty in a dress that advertised exactly the qualities that had attracted her TV-star boyfriend. I wondered if Penny Weaver had seen her yet and what would happen when she did.
Never mind,
I told myself. As of next week, the actors were officially not my problem anymore, and they wouldn’t be until—if—we got picked up for a second season.

“We did good, huh?” said Pete, after trying and failing to engage me in a complicated handshake.

“We did.”

“I’m feeling lucky,” he said, hugging me. I wasn’t, but I hugged him right back.

*  *  *

I waited, watching the time,
as people drank and filled their plates. Just before eight-thirty, Dave came up behind me. He touched my hand, and I turned to him, beaming. I should have been nervous, my belly knotted, palms sweaty, on edge, counting the hours until the ratings came in, but all I could do was think about how desperately I wanted this all to be over so I could go back home with him, back to bed. “You ready?” he asked.

I nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then go get ’em,” he told me as Reilly the line producer hurried over with the microphone in his hand.

“Ruthie? It’s time.”

I took the microphone and stepped to the front of the room, next to one of the television sets that was broadcasting the show’s title card.

“Hi. Welcome, everyone. Thank you all for being here.” I waited until the room quieted down and then said, “I’m Ruth Saunders, your executive producer, and I want to start with the good news. We’re airing the premiere episode of
The Next Best Thing
tonight, as you all know, so I’m happy to announce that there will be no more pilot reshoots.”

Laughter and a few good-natured groans filled the room.

“But seriously. This was my first show, and I couldn’t have asked for a better experience.”
Or a worse one
. But never mind. I thanked my stars, thanked the crew, the writers, the executives, the studio that had given the show its first shot, the network that had put us on the air. I let my eyes wander, catching a glimpse of my grandma, Maurice’s proud nod, Big Dave’s grin. “So, before I embarrass myself or forget someone important, thank you all. Thank you all so much. And now . . .” Just like I’d practiced, I waved my remote at the first of the flat-screen TVs and watched them flare to life as the theme music swelled to fill the night.

T
he Next Best Thing
premiered on a Wednesday night. Ten days later, on a perfect Los Angeles afternoon, with a breeze that smelled of eucalyptus and salt blowing in from the ocean, and the sun shining and the sky a brilliant blue, my grandmother and her beloved were married. They stood in front of the fountain in the lobby of our apartment building, which had been decorated with tiny twinkling lights. Grandma wore an ivory silk sheath, a double strand of pearls, and peau de soie heels. Her hair had been drawn back into a sleek chignon, ornamented with a single calla lily tucked behind her right ear. A canopy of flowers, more creamy lilies and pale-violet orchids, stood in the center of the tiled floor, and fifty of the happy couple’s friends and relations sat in ribbon-draped white wooden chairs in front of it.

Before the service began, Maurice pulled me aside. For a moment, I thought he was going to ask my permission for my grandmother’s hand. Instead, he put both big hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said, “Your grandmother is so proud of you.”

“Really? Even after everything?”

He smiled up at me, dentures gleaming in the sun. “It’s Hollywood. She’s been on enough shows to know how it goes. You did the best you could by her. Because of you, she’ll live forever!”

More like three episodes,
I thought, but I let him hug me, embracing me in his scent of Chanel for Men and soap and starch and the white rose pinned to his lapel.

Maurice’s sons held two corners of the chuppah. The lawyer had a stony expression on his heavy features; the podiatrist looked amused. I held the third corner, and Maurice’s greatgrandchildren, two boys and a curly-haired girl in a white dress with a violet sash, giggled as they clutched the fourth. The rabbi, who moonlighted as an extra, was a friend of my grandmother’s. His voice boomed theatrically through the lobby as he led the couple through the vows.

Do you, Maurice, promise to love this woman, to honor and cherish her, to always smoke your cigars on the balcony and never complain when she spends your money on organic produce? Do you, Rachel, promise to love this man, to honor and cherish him, to make sure he takes his Prilosec before you eat at El Coyote?
Smiling into each other’s eyes, hands clasped, they said
I do
and
I will
. After the rabbi pronounced them husband and wife, Grandma wrapped her hands around the back of Maurice’s golf-tanned neck and pulled him close to kiss her. The audience clapped. The great-grandchildren whooped. Maurice stomped on a lightbulb wrapped in a napkin, crunching it resoundingly, and the cheers were so loud you would have thought we were a crowd of hundreds.

Maurice clasped Grandma’s hand and started to lead her back down the aisle, but on the way Grandma stopped to give me a hug. I kissed her cheek, and she started to cry.

“Oh, don’t,” I said, even though I felt close to crying myself. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“I just want you to be happy!” Grandma said.

“I am,” I told her. “Really.” It wasn’t a lie. I was wearing my pink dress, the one I’d worn to the premiere party, and, last week after work, I’d gone to the Hermès store in Beverly Hills and bought Dave a tie to match. He hadn’t walked me up the
aisle—he wasn’t a groomsman, and it wasn’t the kind of wedding that even had groomsmen—but he was sitting in the front row, in a navy-blue suit and the tie, and he’d given my hand a squeeze when the vows were done, then put a glass of Champagne in my hand. “I believe a toast is appropriate,” he said.

I smiled and got to my feet.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Actors,” I began. A ripple of laughter made its way through the crowd. Dave looked up at me, pleased and proud, and I felt my heart melt, wondering whether I’d ever dreamed or imagined that I could be so happy. “Please leave your gifts on the table and your head shots with me.” More laughter. I adjusted the glass in my hand. “As most of you know, my grandmother has taken care of me since I was three years old. She nurtured my dreams. She made me believe in myself. She moved across the country with me, away from everything she knew, because she believed in me, and she made me believe that I could write. But more than that, she made me believe . . .” My throat was closing. Dave gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, and I made myself go on. “That I was smart, and funny, and worthy, and beautiful.” Across the room, I saw Maurice hand my grandmother a handkerchief, and I saw her wipe her eyes. I lifted my glass. “She gave me what every woman—every person—deserves. I’ve been so lucky to have her in my life, and Maurice, I know that you know how lucky you are to have her in yours, and how happy you make her.” I lifted my glass high. “A toast to my grandmother, Rachel Scheft, the best and bravest woman I know, who deserves every happiness.”

“And a speaking role in a major motion picture!” someone called, and everyone laughed. I took a sip of my Champagne, and the mariachi band struck up what sounded suspiciously like “La Macarena” as Dave and I found a quiet place at the side of the fountain.

“Did I do okay?”

“Perfect. Are you hungry?”

There was a taco truck parked outside, with servers handing out carnitas dusted with cilantro and wedges of grilled pineapple, and chicken enchiladas, and sugared, cinnamon-dusted churros. On the tables were pitchers of white sangria, with chunks of peaches and sliced sugared grapes. An open bar was set up in one corner, and the band in another. Children raced around the fountain barefoot, waving sparklers, and couples danced. Even Maurice’s sons didn’t look miserable. “Awesome party,” said Sam, who ambled by with a burrito in one hand and a bottle of Dos Equis in the other.

“Congratulations,” said Nancy, trailing happily after Sam. She’d made my grandmother a lei out of purple-and-white blossoms, and Grandma had slipped it over her head after the vows.

Dave and I filled our plates, and then I took a seat on the edge of the fountain. Tonight my grandmother and Maurice would sleep at the Regent Beverly Wilshire in the same room my grandmother and I had shared our first night out here, when Hollywood was all bright lights and possibilities. Maurice knew about the honeymoon, and I’d had the tickets and itinerary delivered to their room, along with Champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries. Tomorrow they’d be flying to Hawaii. From now on, I was on my own, a single lady . . . a single lady with a boyfriend who loved her. I bent down to dip my fingertips in the fountain water, smiling. If things wrapped up before the sun went down, Dave and I could take a swim before dinner.

“Did you see
Variety
?” he asked.

When I shook my head, Dave reached into his breast pocket and unfolded the page he’d clipped. Sure enough, there it was. “Maurice Goldsman, a retired financial adviser, and Rachel Scheft, an actress who has appeared in shows from
ER
to
Cougar Town,
are to be married on Saturday afternoon . . .”

“Good God,” I said, and shook my head, laughing.

“You’re in there, too,” Dave said. I kept reading. “Scheft is the grandmother of Ruth Saunders, creator, executive producer, and showrunner of the recently debuted ABS sitcom
The Next Best Thing.
”

I shook my head again, impressed by a woman wily enough to turn her own wedding announcement into a commercial for her granddaughter’s show.

Dave took my hand. “Are you doing all right?”

I nodded. “I’m good. I’ll miss her . . .” I didn’t want to say more, didn’t want to tell him how empty my apartment and my life would feel without her. It was a first-world problem if ever there was one.

“So tell me this,” said Dave. “Is it everything you thought it would be?”

I knew what he was asking about and considered my answer. “It’s different,” I finally said. I’d thought about it a lot since Rob had asked the same question, trying to digest the reviews and the network’s notes and what I was seeing every day, onstage and in the writers’ room. After all of that thinking, I had slowly arrived at the conclusion that there was no real way to change the show’s direction. Not this season, not at the four-shows-in-five-weeks pace the network demanded, where there was barely time to grab a shower and a few hours’ sleep after one episode wrapped before we’d have to be back on set to get started on the next one.

The stars weren’t going to be replaced. Cady was much more valuable than I was, and if it came down to it, the network would rather make
The Next Best Thing
without me than without her. Pete wasn’t going to get any more consistent about his line readings—if the acting coach we’d finally hired hadn’t gotten him up to speed by now, it was probably never going to happen. Taryn would do her Taryn thing, blond and gorgeous and funny
enough of the time, no more, no less. The best shows, the ones I’d grown up loving, the ones I admired as an adult, took a whole season, sometimes more than one, to come into their own, to find their tone and rhythm, their own particular language and look. We would not have that luxury. It was counterintuitive—if great television needed time to happen, why not give all shows that time? But the truth was, in this cutthroat climate, with cable channels and on-demand playback and entertainment available on every iPad and cell phone, no network was willing to wait. Either you were a hit right out of the gate, or you demonstrated the strong potential to be a hit, sooner rather than later. If neither of these things was true, then you were done.

Dave nodded toward the center of the room as the band swung into a bouncy version of “Wonderful Tonight.” The dance floor cleared. Maurice led my grandma to the center of the room. In front of the fountain, they posed, facing each other, hand in hand. Then, to claps from the grown-ups and cheers from the children, they began to dance. They shimmied and twisted, Maurice’s hands in her hands and then on her waist as she twirled, flushed and laughing, with her pinned hair coming loose and blossoms raining down onto the tiles. “Christ,” Maurice’s son the lawyer muttered, “Dad’s hip can’t take this.” His brother clapped him on the back. “Lighten up, Howie. Let him have some fun.”