Wrong City (9 page)

He did have a
smoking-hot TV-star girlfriend, though. When Mark wandered off to talk to one
of the production assistants, Vish looked around again for Troy. She was listed
on the call sheet for this afternoon, which meant she was probably resting in
her trailer. He could go looking for her, but she might prefer some time to
herself to prepare for her scenes.

An actress
approached the craft services table. A day player, not a series regular. She
was in costume, a skimpy toga-style dress in sparkly lavender taffeta. Her dark
hair was arranged in an elaborate topknot of coiled braids. She had a snub nose
and a prominent overbite, and while she was maybe shy of being a knockout, she
looked lively and pretty. She looked up from the table and grinned at Vish.

“God, those
brownies look fabulous,” she said. “I keep gravitating over here, even though I
know I can’t eat anything. With this costume, I’ve been sucking in my gut all
morning as it is.” She looked at Vish in curiosity. “What do you do on the
show?”

“I’m one of the
writers,” he said. Maybe he should add a disclaimer after that, mention that he
was on a trial basis, because he didn’t belong on that staff yet. Maybe he
never would. “I’m Vish.”

“Carlotta,” she
said. They shook hands. “I’m playing Vera.” At his blank look, she elaborated.
“The tavern girl who gets mauled to death by the mysterious space entity?”

“Ah. I haven’t
seen the script for this episode.” Which, if he thought about it, was kind of a
strange thing for one of the writers to admit.

“It’s a tiny
part. I’m just here today and tomorrow,” she said. “I always wanted to be a
writer. You guys get a lot more respect than actors do.”

“I’m not sure
how true that is,” Vish said. “I’m pretty sure I’m standing on the lowest rung
of the ladder. I just started on the show today.”

“Oh, wow.”
Carlotta looked around. “Do you feel anywhere near as overwhelmed as I do?”

“Very likely,
yes,” Vish said. “Until last weekend, I was working as a caterer.”

“I’m a
waitress,” Carlotta said. “At a Denny’s in Pacoima, no kidding. This is my
first paid acting job in like forever.” She looked around the stage, then back
at Vish. “Hey, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, but if we finish up
around the same time, do you want to grab a drink later?”

“He’s got
plans.” Vish jumped as Troy’s arm slid around his waist. She was in her costume
and heavy makeup, all long legs and stretchy silver fabric. She smiled at
Carlotta and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Troy. You’re in the next scene with
me, right?”

“Oh. I didn’t…”
Carlotta looked stricken, clearly afraid she’d made a career-derailing gaffe by
flirting with the boyfriend of a cast member. She recovered and shook Troy’s
hand. “Really great to meet you, Troy. I’m Carlotta. I didn’t know you and
Vish…” She reddened.

Troy laughed.
“Don’t worry about it.” Her dimples flashed. “Vish and I were just going to
grab dinner nearby, if we get done here at a reasonable hour. We’d love to have
you join us.”

“I…” Carlotta
looked wary, then relaxed. “Really? That would be great. If you don’t mind.”

“Perfect.” Troy
released Vish and linked her arm with Carlotta’s. “One of the PAs told me
they’re about ready for us. Shall we?” With a wink and a wave at Vish, she led
Carlotta over to the set, where the director and Freddie huddled in
conversation.

There was
something so
nice
about Troy. She didn’t make a stink about little
inconveniences, she was free of neuroses, she went out of her way to make
everyone feel relaxed and welcome. Though from Ridpath’s account, that wasn’t
always the case…

Vish stared
after Troy and wondered.

“I
t went well, I thought,” Troy said. She
settled back into her chair and glanced at Carlotta over the rim of her
margarita. “Carlotta, you were great.”

“Thanks. So
were you. It was a fun day.”

The three
nestled into a corner table at a trendy Mexican bar down the street from the
production facility. Carlotta had the only chair; Vish and Troy shared an
upholstered bench that ran along the wall beneath a stylized mosaic of the
Virgin Mary done in shiny bottle caps. A basket of multicolored tortilla chips
and chunky guacamole sat on the table in front of them, but no one had touched
it, Troy and Carlotta because working actresses didn’t eat, and Vish because
he’d grazed his way across the craft services table during the tedious evening
of taping.

It was nice to
unwind now with light conversation and margaritas that came in glasses the size
of a human skull. Vish hadn’t thought the day was fun. He’d thought it had been
murderously long. But Troy appeared to think things were great, and whether her
enthusiasm was real or feigned, it was infectious. Troy held her glass in one
hand and kept her free hand on the small of his back. Vish could feel the
angsty coil of stress in his spine unwind at her touch, and his dour mood
lightened.

“How long have
you two been together?” Carlotta asked. “You’re a couple, right?”

“We are,” Troy
said. She broke into a huge smile, and Vish felt giddy. “It’s been fast. We
only met a couple weeks ago, but…” She widened her eyes. “It was obvious from
the start that Vish and I had so much in common.”

She told the
story of their relationship from her perspective, about seeing Vish at the shop
and realizing he was injured and marching him straight to the hospital. Maybe
there was some Nightingale syndrome at work—maybe Troy had fallen for him
because she could fuss over him and fix his life—but she certainly seemed to
feel genuine affection toward him. Love, even. Maybe.

“That’s so
sweet,” Carlotta said. “You two look great together.” Her expression was
wistful as she looked at them, and Vish understood that. He understood being
alone and feeling purposeless and adrift. And now, with Troy, that was all
behind him, and all he could do was smile at Carlotta in sympathy and hope
things worked out for her.

Carlotta didn’t
show up on set the next day, which was odd. She’d seemed thrilled about the
role; she’d left the restaurant sober and at a reasonable hour. Hard to imagine
why she’d blown off the shoot.

When Freddie’s
office tried to reach her, she didn’t answer her phone. One of the PAs drove
out to her apartment in the Valley and pounded on her door, to no avail. Eventually,
the scene she’d done with Troy was hastily re-shot with a replacement, summoned
via a casting agent at the last second.

In the end,
though, it hardly mattered, because the show went on an unexpected hiatus at
the end of the week, with filming on the current episode unfinished.

In this case,
“hiatus” was almost certainly a polite way of saying “canceled.” The word was
never spoken outright, but everyone knew the network was unhappy with the soggy
ratings and thus had ordered production to cease for a month while the scripts
for upcoming episodes were retooled and revised. After that, the network would
make a decision as to whether to finish out the season, or cut their losses and
scrap it.

Vish thought
this meant he’d be called upon to work with the other writers during the
hiatus. Freddie soon disabused him of this notion.

“It’s just
going to be me, and Bob, and Ken,” Freddie said. “I think we’ll be able to work
more efficiently. The network says the recent episodes have seemed
inconsistent. I don’t really think that’s the problem, I think viewers just
weren’t prepared to evolve with the show as it developed. Still…” He shrugged.
“We’ve brought in too many new hires lately, and that’s probably why some
people think we’ve drifted off course. Things will be more cohesive if the
writing is only handled by the core group.”

This was
announced during Friday’s meeting in the writers room. It was Vish’s fifth such
meeting and, as seemed likely, his final one. His career as a television writer
had lasted one business week.

Troy took the
news well when Vish went to check on her in her trailer. “We’ll be back,” she
said. “It’s just a month. I know the ratings have dipped, but we still have a
lot of supporters.” She leaned forward in her chair and squinted at her reflection
in the mirror. She was already out of her wardrobe and in her street clothes;
her face was bare of makeup and shiny with moisturizer. “And if it doesn’t come
back, then it wasn’t meant to be. Something better will come along for us.”

Her eyes met
his in the mirror. “I’m mostly just sorry for you. You barely had a chance to
get started here.”

“It’s okay.” It
was. It totally was. He felt bad for Troy, who had far more emotional
investment in the show than he did, but for his part, it was a bit of a relief.

“Ridpath is
throwing a barbecue at his house tomorrow to… well, I guess ‘celebrate’ isn’t
the right term, is it?” Troy laughed. “I told him I’d check with you if we want
to go.”

“That sounds
like fun. Sure.”

“I’ll let him
know we’ll be there,” Troy said. “You sure you’re okay with everything? You
look a little… off or something.”

“I’m fine.
Maybe a little tired. It’s an odd end to an odd week.”

“I’m sure
you’re disappointed by all this. You’ve got to be.”

“I don’t think
I am. Not yet, at least. Probably I will be once the news sinks in, but I don’t
know if I was a good fit with the other writers anyway.”

“What do you
mean?” Troy asked. “Because you didn’t like their ideas?”

He shrugged.
“Yeah. I guess.”

“Ever consider
that it might be your problem, too?” she asked. She turned in her chair to look
at him. “I hear some people get good results from actually, like, going after
things they want instead of waiting for stuff to magically happen to them.”

There was an
edge to it. “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“No, of course
not. But you’re so damn passive sometimes. It’d be nice to see you get
passionate and really go after something for once.”

It stung,
probably because it was true. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Troy laughed.
“And that’s the perfect passive response.” She waved a hand, dismissing the
topic. “Sorry. I’m a little cranky about Freddie’s announcement, and I’m
picking a fight. Forgive me?”

“Always,” Vish
said.

Troy pulled him
down onto the chair beside her, scooting over to give him room, and slipped her
arm around his waist. He leaned against her and rested his head on her
shoulder. In the mirror, they looked like a cute couple—clean-cut, attractive,
affectionate with each other. For the first time, it felt like they matched.

So now Vish was
unemployed. Easy come, easy go. He was in limbo since the show hadn’t been
formally canceled and he was still drawing a paycheck, but as soon as it was
official, he’d go back and work for Jamie. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the
world.

Troy moved in
with him in an informal kind of way. She spent all her time at his apartment,
which made a certain amount of sense. Since she had a roommate, it’d be
inconvenient for him to stay at her place, and besides, he still didn’t have a
car. Much easier for Troy to zip up to Venice in her cute little two-seater
than for him to trek down to Hermosa on the bus.

They had a good
time together. They went to Ridpath’s barbecue, held in the immaculate green
backyard of the house he shared in Tarzana with Brad, his impossibly preppy
boyfriend. They splashed around in the courtyard pool, which Silas had finally
cleaned and filled, even though the days were growing colder. They received,
via courier, a big lavender envelope stuffed with a ribbon-festooned invitation
to Kelsey’s birthday party.

They strolled
through the grid of the Venice canals, with the rows of pretty houses lining
both sides of the water and the tall palms swaying overhead. Nice, though it
didn’t look much like Venice, the real Venice. The houses were contemporary,
and the only boats on the water were kayaks and rowboats. Nary a gondola in
sight.

They wandered
down Ocean Front Walk, the paved path that ran along the sandy beachfront, past
the shacks selling tshirts and knockoff designer sunglasses, the food stalls
selling ice cream and fried fish. Street performers, painters, panhandlers.
Loud reggae blasted from a speaker somewhere. Plenty of weed, the smell always
heavy in the air in the afternoon.

Troy liked the
area more than Vish did. She dragged him into dingy, cluttered shops and stood
elbow to elbow with tourists while she admired shell necklaces and cheap bangle
bracelets. Vish, who had a limited tolerance for shopping, often opted to
loiter outside on the pavement while she browsed. He stared at the glistening,
muscle-bound specimens working out on the fitness equipment at Muscle Beach and
wondered, not for the first time, about Kelsey’s claim that Troy usually
preferred beefheads.

At one of the
shops, Vish bought a necklace for Troy, a blown glass bauble shaped like a tiny
bottle. It cost him seven bucks. Troy hugged him and slipped the cheap aluminum
chain around her neck, fingering the bottle with as much admiration as if it’d
been a diamond pendant.

When they were
heading home, when the sun was low and red in the sky above the water, he saw
the surfers again, the same pack in Hawaiian shirts and board shorts they’d
spotted in Hermosa, loitering around a drinking fountain at the side of the
path. Vish paused.

“Maybe we
should walk on the sand,” he said. He tried to sound nonchalant.

Troy glanced at
him, confused, then noticed the surfers. “Why? Because of them?”

“They’re the
same ones from before, aren’t they?”

“Could be. I
don’t remember what they looked like.” Troy looked a little exasperated. “Vish,
they’re harmless. They’re
surfers
. At worst, they’ll say something
nasty, which… big deal, right?”

She was right,
of course. He forced himself to smile at her. “Yeah. Sorry.”

They walked
past. The surfers didn’t say anything this time, but their conversation
stopped. Even though their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, Vish somehow
knew, knew they were staring after them. And it frightened him.