Unscripted (12 page)

It’s too much. I look down at the floor, trying not to laugh. I check out the other women’s reactions. They are completely enchanted. Their heads are tilted and they are smiling as if an angel has descended from heaven right into Mia’s Craftsman-style living room.

Creepy Jacques finishes with a bow and everyone claps. He hugs as many women as possible (as I step into the kitchen to fill up my wineglass) and leaves.

Just feed me so I can get out of here!

Nancy comes over and puts her arm around my shoulders. “Isn’t this just fantastic?”

I roll my eyes. “Who was the crooner?”

“Oh, that’s Mia’s neighbor. They’re really close. He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

I can’t help but look at Nancy as if she has truly lost her mind. “Why do you think he’s amazing? Because he can sing in tongues?”

Nancy shakes her head and laughs. “He’s just really in tune with his emotions and isn’t afraid to show them. He gets it, you know?”

Hmm, was that a little passive-aggressive slap from Nancy? Is that her trying to say
the old, creepy guy gets it, why don’t you?
Maybe it’s time to do some damage control. I love Nancy dearly, and the last thing I want her to think is that I’m mocking her.

“Don’t get me wrong. I think everyone is really nice, but it’s just not my scene.”

“How can you say that? You need to open your mind. Just let it happen, stop analyzing everything.”

I sigh. “Okay but don’t volunteer me for any more sharing. I will witness, drink in and then leave. That’s it.”

“I was just hoping with a little push you’d feel at home and…”

“No sharing.”

“Okay, okay. You are going to
love
dinner. Mia is the most amazing cook.”

It’s times like these I wish I was more like Stephanie.

Mia walks to the center of the room once again. “I think we should wait until after dinner to open the workbooks, so why don’t we go out back and make a toast.”

“Workbooks?” I whisper to Nancy. She walks by quickly, pretending not to hear me.

I definitely feel a headache coming on.

We walk out to her backyard. It’s gorgeous, and absolutely huge by L.A. standards. There’s a long table set for dinner and a roaring fire in the outdoor pit.

“As usual with our little get-togethers, the night is off to an interesting start. Here’s to an amazing night full of blessings and revelations.”

We all take a sip. I hold back a groan.

“Well, I’m ready for a little Ohm,” says one of the more new-agey-looking women.

What the hell does that mean?

“Ooh great idea!” Nancy glows. “Come on, everyone.”

Suddenly I am being pushed into an enormous group hug.
Noooo. For the love of God, no!
I am wrapped in a cocoon of fifteen women. The smell of wine, essential oils and hairspray is clogging my nostrils. Then it starts, the
Ohm.
Everyone is Ohm-ing, I can actually feel the rumble. I am silent, but I feel the pressure to join in on the Ohm. To Ohm, or not to Ohm, that is the question. I don’t want to Ohm, but it seems rude not to.
Oh fine!

“Ohm…”

Pushover.

And there we stand, Ohm-ing in a giant circle of love for-freaking-
ever.
Seriously, it’s not stopping. I can’t take it.
They are all great, lovely, powerful beings but get me the hell out of this huddle!

“Let’s serenade the moon goddess,” Mia says excitedly.

Oh my God.

“Wait, let me go get my flute,” cries a short woman who looks as though she’s just returned from a Grateful Dead concert.

Two minutes later, Dead Head comes back with a large wooden flute and begins to play a sort of haunting, Native-American-style tune (out of key, of course). Mia clears her throat and begins to sing.

The song is about some Moon Goddess named Selene and how she is the key to our feminine energy and power and some other kind of shit like that. Then, when I think it can’t get any worse, everyone else begins to join in, swaying to the song. And I can do nothing to stop it; I am part of a giant, swaying, singing, cluster hug. I am going to be scarred for life.

After the hug from hell disbands, I claim that I feel a migraine coming on and ditch the party. I’m pretty sure everyone knows the score, but I don’t care. One more minute of that earth mother festival and I might have had to kill myself.

On the way home I hit a drive-thru and vow to never ever let Nancy talk me into anything again.

It’s been a few days since Nancy’s freakish, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar party and tonight I’m going out with Zoë and some of her high school friends for dinner. I really just need a night of normal conversation. No howling at the moon, no reveling in our female genitalia. Perhaps I’ll even meet a cute boy, flirt a little, you never know. Zoë could be right. Maybe I need to think about dating again.

Zoë’s car is in the shop, so I’m picking her up from Paramount Studios before dinner. I’m excited because I haven’t watched her work on set for a long time, and tonight she’s doing a fight scene on an action film.

As I drive up to the lot, I stop at the security kiosk in front of the large, neoclassical double arched gates. I hand my driver’s license to the guard and he prints out my drive-on pass.

It’s funny, everyone thinks my job is so glamorous back home. What they don’t realize is that I’m either housed in a dirty, old office building built in the seventies, or traipsing around L.A. following a bunch of drunk wannabe reality stars ’til all hours of the night. It’s only recently that my work has connected me with real celebrities, and that’s not all that thrilling either.

Here lies the
real
glamour of Hollywood. It’s all I ever dreamt about before moving here. I never thought I was bitter about it not working out until Matt succeeded where I miserably failed.

After driving around for at least ten minutes, I finally find the right soundstage. Outside a young woman talks into a mouthpiece. “Copy that. Yep, we’re rolling in five.”

“Hi there. I’m a friend of Zoë’s. She’s the stunt double for Rachel McAdams.”

“You must be Abby. I’m Amy,” she mumbles in a
Night of the Living Dead
-type voice.

“I was going to join you guys tonight at Lush, but I had a 4:00 a.m. crew call this morning, so I’m wiped.”

“Wow, that’s brutal. I’m sorry. So you’ve been here for how long?”

“Fifteen hours, shortly going on sixteen.” Her eyes are so bloodshot they actually blend in with her red hair and freckles. “Come on, I’ll take you to her. She’s about to start shooting again.”

I follow Amy inside the soundstage. She guides me through a maze of darkened rooms that are not being used for tonight’s shoot. As my eyes adjust to the light, we come across the set of a woman’s apartment. There are cameras, lights and random pieces of equipment surrounding the living room and kitchen area. I step around the cables that litter the floor, careful not to trip and knock some five-thousand-dollar light over.

“She’s right over there.” Amy points. “If you just take a seat behind these monitors I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Zoë is straight ahead of me talking to a large man. She looks tired.

“Thanks. Hope you get some sleep soon.”

“You and me both,” she says as she walks away.

I climb into one of the tall director’s chairs and sit next to an older-looking gentleman wearing headphones and a shirt that says Kiss Me, I’m Irish. He shoots me a sweet, yet exhausted half smile.

“Hi, sweetie, I’m Max.”

“Hi, Max, I’m Abby.”

“Nice to meet you. Is this your first time on a set?”

“Nah, I’ve been a couple of times before.”

“Well relax and enjoy the show,” he says with another smile, turning back to his camera monitors.

“Hey you,” pipes Zoë as she takes one of the seats next to me. “Have you met Max our sound guy?”

“Yep,” I say.

“He’s our big teddy bear, aren’t you, Max?” she says, leaning over to give him a squeeze.

“Sweetest guy on set. He keeps us laughing all day long.”

“Someone has to keep up the morale,” Max replies blandly.

“So, they promise me that I have about two or three more takes and then I’m out of here. You cool with that?” Zoë asks.

“Sure. What are you shooting?”

“It’s been a bit of a nightmare really. See that big guy over there?” Zoë cocks her head to one side, motioning to the guy she was just talking to.

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s playing a hit man who’s broken into Rachel’s apartment. The problem is he’s not a stuntman, he’s the actor and he wants to do all of his own stunts. So, he’s supposed to throw me up in the air and then I’m supposed to hit that mark there—” she points to a piece of tape on the floor, “—and then slide into the kitchen, hitting my head on the bar. But he’s never done this before and he’s not throwing me hard enough. So I’ve been sliding on my ass for the last hour and a half, and he won’t let the stunt guy take over.”

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“I’ve got my gator pad on, so I’m good. But it’s just annoying you know? Hopefully the director will grow a set and tell him that the stuntman is doing the scene.”

“Quiet on the set,” I hear someone shouting from a distance. “Quiet, quiet on the set,” two other people belt out.

“Gotta go.” Zoë jumps off the chair. “You can see it much better if you watch me on the monitor.” She waves her hand as she walks back onto the set.

Five minutes later I watch as the big actor guy grabs little Zoë and throws her onto the floor. Unfortunately, I don’t see any air action going on. Just a small, bumpy tumble that looks incredibly painful. She’s also nowhere near her mark.

“Cut,” cries a short man in a red-and-yellow USC baseball cap, who I’m assuming is the director. I watch as he approaches Zoë and the actor. They do a sort of huddle, but I have no idea what they’re saying.

“She’s a trouper,” says Max.

“It sounds like it.”

“Poor kid has been tossed to the ground like a sack of potatoes about twenty times.”

“Twenty times?” I ask.

“Mmm, hmm. Guy can’t stand someone else doing his stunts. Real complex this one has.”

“Rolling!” someone shouts behind me.

Once again, Zoë is thrown to the ground, but this time slides on her ass off set. She pops back up, brushes herself off and gives the actor a look that would make Hitler cry.

Within moments, I hear shouts erupting, but all I can see on the monitors are a pair of muscled arms waving about in an extremely effeminate manner. Seconds later, the large, tough-looking actor storms past me, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I can’t work like this,” he cries.

Max turns in his chair to watch the actor push his way through the soundstage door. “Jesus H. Christ! What a fucking pussy,” grunts Zoë’s sweet, ole, funny sound guy. “Piece of shit needs to find another line of work. Cocksucking perhaps?” He turns to me and chuckles.

“Uh, yeah. Ha ha,” I fake laugh.
Yeesh!
He’s the scariest “teddy bear” I’ve ever met.

Next thing I know, a new guy onstage is tossing Zoë across the room. She flies through the air, hits her mark and whacks her head on the side of the bar.

The director cries, “Print, that’s a wrap,” and immediately everyone starts cleaning up. I can’t believe nobody is celebrating. Not so much as a high five, a clap or a cheer. No camaraderie whatsoever. Everyone onstage looks positively wretched as they drag their weary bodies off the set.

Well, so much for the whole Hollywood glamour theory. They look just as miserable as reality people.

“I think I’m going to have it done again,” says Dana, one of Zoë’s high school friends, as she self-consciously rubs the bridge of her nose. “It just looks different. I don’t like it anymore.”

“You’ve had your nose done twice since you were fifteen. Let it go. You’re gonna look like La Toya Jackson,” Zoë replies as she slides into one of Lush’s dark, mahogany booths.

I’m fairly impressed with the old Hollywood décor of the place. Especially since the restaurant has only been around for a few months. Chandeliers with miniature lampshades dangle from the oak-beamed ceiling, bathing the entire space in soft amber tones. The walls are wood-paneled, the cushions on the booths are lipstick-red, and the table linens are crisp and white. It’s the kind of place you can imagine Dean Martin knocking back a vodka on the rocks with Sammy Davis Jr.

“I’ve heard really good things about this restaurant,” says Marcie, another old school friend of Zoë’s. “It’s been written up everywhere and they just did a segment about it on
Entertainment Tonight.
”

“I hope it’s not one of those places that gives you two scallops, a sprig of parsley and calls it
nouveau cuisine.
I actually like food in my food.” Everyone laughs, but I wasn’t making a joke. Somehow, both of Zoë’s friends have managed to remain stick-thin even with four children between them. It’s either good genes, Pilates six times a week or they simply don’t eat. I’m putting my money on the last two.

“So, Lenny and I found a house,” says Marcie. “The girls need more space, you know?” She takes the knife off the table, holds it up to her mouth and checks to make sure there’s no lipstick on her teeth before continuing. “It’s gorgeous. Six bedrooms, five bathrooms, Spanish style, Studio City, south of the boulevard. We’ve just put in our offer. It’s 1.9 but our agent thinks we’ll get at least 1.4 for our place now.”

I take a huge gulp of my water while stealing a glance at Zoë. I know this kind of talk kills her. This is exactly where she thought she’d be by now. Not working. Lunching every day with her other rich, stay-at-home mommy friends and raising babies with the help of a nanny.

“Well, that’s exactly the reason Gil and I moved. Four bedrooms just wasn’t cutting it.” Dana sighs. “Plus, Gil needed a lot more space to hang all of his artwork. I swear we could open up our own gallery at this point. I think he even hides some of it from me so that I don’t know how much he’s actually bought.” Dana’s brow furrows, but no wrinkles appear. Clearly, rhinoplasty isn’t the only thing Dana dabbles in.

“So how have you been, Abby?” asks Marcie.

“Oh, I’ve been okay.”

“Are you still on that crazy dating show?” chimes in Dana.

“No, I’m working on a clip show now.”

“Abby’s been interviewing all sorts of celebs. Casey Moore, Sebastian Lucas, oh and she interviewed Bill Loudon. Isn’t that cool?” asks Zoë.

“His granddaughter Ashley goes to Madison’s school,” says Marcie, who always finds a way to direct the conversation toward her kids. “And between us, she’s not very bright. Maddie takes Japanese, violin and fencing three days a week after school, and Ashley doesn’t do anything. I even heard she has to have a tutor for history. I mean, who has a tutor for history?” She shakes her head.

“Did I tell you that Josh and his debate team just won the nationals?” adds Dana, referring to her child prodigy. “They won a trip to London. He really is an exceptional child.” She smiles proudly.

Oh no. Not the kid talk. I like Zoë’s friends, but before we can get to the fun, I always have to suffer through the same sanctimonious conversation. It’s like they’re compelled to brag about how talented, beautiful and intelligent their children are before they finally relax.

“Hey, so how’s the movie going?” asks Marcie as she turns to face Zoë.

“It’s fine, you know. Same old.” Zoë shrugs her shoulders, looking bored. “The director is a wimp, the cast are a bunch of prima donnas, and I’m ready for a vacation.”

“Ooh, speaking of movies,” Dana interjects, “have any of you guys seen that new movie,
It’s Not Me, It’s You?
”

A cold chill blankets my body as I nervously wipe off the condensation on my water glass. How the hell did we get on the topic of movies? Weren’t we just talking about their kids? Okay, what’s the best way to steer the conversation back to the debate team?

“I was thinking maybe we could all go see it this weekend or something,” Dana adds.

Before I can open my mouth, Zoë grabs my knee under the table and gives it a quick squeeze. “Why would you want to go see that piece of shit?” Zoë asks.

“Because I heard it was cute.”

“Not even,” Zoë chides. “It got like a 71% on Rotten Tomatoes. It sounds so stupid.”

“71% isn’t bad,” Dana says, shaking her head.

“Yeah, it’s not bad, it sucks.” Zoë squeezes my knee again.

We both know 71% is pretty damn decent. We even have a rule that anything over 50% we’ll go see unless it’s a race ’em chase ’em, and then the rating has to be at least a 60.

“That’s too bad. I thought it looked really funny.”

“You couldn’t pay me to go and see it. Awful. How does crap like that even get made?” Zoë looks at me through the corner of her eye and twitches her lips into a mini smile, signaling the end of the discussion. I squeeze her knee back as a silent thank you.

“Hello, ladies, how are we all doing tonight?” asks a man who’s just approached our table. He looks to be in his late fifties, tanned to a crisp, and his stubby gray ponytail and little gold hoop are decades out of style. “You all look beautiful tonight,” he continues, but looks directly at Zoë. “Is this a special occasion or just a little get-together?”

“Just a little get-together,” Zoë answers, flipping her hair a bit.

“Well, since you all look so gorgeous—” still staring at Zoë, “—would it be all right if you were the first to try a new wine I just acquired? It’s truly superb and the vineyard only produced one hundred cases in 2005.”

Zoë leans over the table and smiles a little too flirtatiously. “Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” the Silver Fox says as he walks away.

“That’s the owner,” whispers Marcie out of the side of her mouth. “He was on that
ET
segment I was just telling you about. He’s loaded. He’s got another restaurant in Santa Monica, two in New York and one in London.”

“And he was checking you out,” Dana adds, turning to Zoë.

“No he wasn’t. He was complimenting everybody,” Zoë says coyly.

“But he was staring at you, Zoë. Looks like Jeff has some competition,” I joke.

“By the way, how are things going with you and Jeff?” Marcie asks.

Zoë turns to me and gives me a knowing look. We haven’t talked much about the verbal boxing matches that have been going on at home, but I’m currently her only friend in the loop.

“You know how he took that AE job?” Zoë asks both girls. They nod. “Well, I didn’t tell you that he had to take a
major
pay cut and he didn’t even bother to consult me about the decision. And he couldn’t care less about planning our wedding. I’m doing everything by myself. It’s been really terrible.”