First Stop, New York (18 page)

She began her trek alongside the pool. Max bit his manicure. She seemed a little wobbly. Trent kept looking back over his shoulder to see if she would make it. Suddenly, JB entered, jumping his cue.

“Ollie’s here! Time to party!”

Tanya flinched when she heard his voice.

“Oh, God,” said Max as Tanya turned.

Oh, God,
thought Corliss as she saw Tanya catch her heel.

“Oh, God,” yelped Tanya as she stumbled. She regained her balance and took a big breath. Then with seemingly no provocation other than a faint breeze, perhaps, she stumbled again, this time toppling backward and landing in the pool with a giant splash.

“Cut, please,” said Max.

JB looked confused. “Did we restage this?”

“Tanya!” yelled Trent. “I’m coming to save you!” He ran a few feet alongside the pool until his Bruno Magli shoe caught on one of the camera cables, which sent him flying through the air. He landed on the slate deck with a giant thud.

“Trent,” Tanya gurgled. “Are you all right?”

“Um,” said Max, “where are my pills…?”

Oh, God,
thought Corliss as she watched Tanya go under.

“Um,” said Tanya, bobbing in the water, “I can’t really swim!”

“Lifeguard!” shouted Rocco into the hotel.

“Is that my cue?” called Anushka from the hotel.

Corliss put down her wallet and whipped off her jewelry.
“I’m a certified lifeguard!”

“Corliss,” called Tanya, “help!”

“I’m coming, Tanya!” Corliss said before diving into the pool and swimming to Tanya’s side.

“Oh, no,” said Max, “I think my medication is wearing off…I think I’m about to scream…Yes, I am!…I’M SCREAMING!!”

“Thanks, Corliss,” said Tanya, spitting a geyser of water in Corliss’s face. “I think those pills Anushka gave me made me sink.”

Corliss swam with Tanya to the side of the pool and pushed her bony butt to safety. As she looked up, she saw Max being cradled like a baby by the camerawoman. She saw JB, oblivious, hammering away at his MacBook keyboard. She saw Rocco shaking his head and pulling
Anna Karenina
from his pocket. She saw Anushka stealing a glance at her reflection in the hotel lobby window.

“Jeez, you freaks,” Anushka said, redoing her lipstick, “am I the only one who’s ready to work or what?”

“I would,” said Trent, “but my ankle is the size of a beach ball.”

Max shot Corliss a chilling look. He’d given her a lot of strange looks since the day they met, but this one made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

Above, the sky was moving from violet to black.

“We’ve lost the light,” said Max with a dramatic whisper as he clung tighter to the camerawoman. “And it’s all because of…Corliss.”

“What?!” Corliss said, climbing out of the pool and spitting water.

“Yes, Corliss,” said Max with a crazed look in his eyes. “You told me this afternoon that everything was ready.”

“It was!”

“You assured me that all the elements were in place for a spectacular scene.”

“They were!”

Rocco put down his book. “It wasn’t her fault, Max.”

“Stay out of this, Rocco DiTullio. I don’t care who you’re related to, I’m not going to be intimidated by you anymore. I am Max Marx, creator of
The ’Bu
! And what I say goes.”

“Well, what are you saying, then, Max?” Rocco said, daring him.

“Yeah,” Corliss echoed.

“Yeah,” said Anushka.

“Yeah,” said Tanya, spitting and wringing out her now see-through dress.

“I’m saying,” said Max, pausing for what seem like an eternity, “that Corliss is fired.”

Corliss was dumbstruck.

“I’m sorry. That’s just the way it has to be.”

“But—but—but—” Corliss said, pointing across the deck at her wallet. “And—and—and—”

“You don’t have any grounds to fire her, Max,” said Rocco.

“Oh, I don’t? Maybe you’d be interested to hear that in addition to this evening’s nightmare, there is also a blog called
The ’Bu-Hoo
that purports to have all the inside dirt on this show and all the cast members—including you, Rocco DiTullio. And I’m pretty certain that Corliss here is the author of this scandal sheet.”

“Max,” Corliss said, “I’m the one who told
you
about the blog! Why would I do that if I were the one writing it?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m impressed, Corliss,” said Anushka, smirking.

“Don’t be! It’s not me! That blog knew all about your night out with Writer—I mean Petey!—the night it happened. And I was with
you
, Max, that evening, ironing your board shorts!”

Max looked away. “I’m sorry, Corliss. This relationship just isn’t working out anymore.”

Corliss could no longer form words. And everyone was staring at her. How could this be? How could Max turn on her, at no provocation, after everything she’d done for him? After all those times she covered his designer-clad butt. Fluffed up his gigantic ego. Carried through his morally bankrupt directives. And even though she was planning to leave
The ’Bu
, this was
not
the way she intended to go. This was
so
not good for her self-esteem.
So
not better than waiting around all semester for a prom invitation that would never come. At least in Indiana-no-place she was never publicly humiliated. Because how can anyone humiliate someone they don’t actually see?

It was too much to bear. And holding back the tears was becoming a physical impossibility. So Corliss ran off. Away from all the freaks with all their freaky needs, and the head freak with the freakiest needs of all. Away from the freaky, freakified
Awesomeness that is The Freaky
’Bu.

Corliss’s Bedroom, Uncle Ross’s House—10:12
A.M.,
the Next Day

Corliss’s new BlackBerry was once again ringing on the nightstand. It had been ringing all morning, but she couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.

“Shut up,” came Corliss’s voice, muffled by a pink silk duvet.

It rang again.

“I told you,” she said, feeling miserable, buried in a little ball under three thousand thread count covers, “I don’t have a job so
you
don’t have a job.” Her hand reached out to silence it, but it raged on. She finally gave up and emerged from her cocoon. “Enough!”

She gripped it and pushed every button she could. Finally, the BlackBerry shut up. When it did, Corliss paged the housekeeper by pushing a button on her headboard. “Claudia, can you please bring me one of your famous café au laits?”

“Yes, right away, Miss Meyers,” came a woman’s crisp voice.

Corliss flopped back on the bed, tossing and turning. She was a mess. Being fired had torn her up in a way she didn’t entirely understand.

But isn’t that exactly what I wanted? To be free of
The ’Bu?
And the rampant psychosis that was everywhere?
But she also knew she wouldn’t use the plane ticket back to Indianapolis that had been a gift from her uncle. It was somewhat powerful to go home having rejected Hollywood. But utterly humiliating to go home having
been
rejected by Hollywood.

She roused herself, threw off the covers, and moved to the window. The sky was a deep gray. Dust swirled in circles near the pool’s peeing cherubs. The immaculate hedges rustled as if cats were scampering around inside them.

Corliss hugged herself tightly. Then her BlackBerry trilled again.

“Okay, okay, all right,” she said, surrendering.

She lumbered over to her nightstand and saw she had a text message from Petey.

EMAILED YOU LATEST REWRITE REFLECTING TRENT’S ACCIDENT. ACTORS EXPECTING COPIES. THANKS.

What? Doesn’t he know I was fired?

She called him immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. Sighing heavily, she went over to her computer and checked her e-mail. Sure enough, there was one from
[email protected]
with an attachment labeled “Revision.”

She hit the reply button, typed in a short message that said “Talk to office,” and sent it off. In an instant her e-mail was returned with an “Out of Office” message.

Argh.

She swallowed what pride she had left and called Max’s office. One of his snotty assistants picked up. “Max Marx’s office.”

“Hello, this is Corliss Meyers.”

“Corliss Meyers who?” came the reply before the snotty assistant hung up.

Corliss silently counted to ten and decided she would rise above it. She was not going to stoop to the level of Max Marx and his band of B-level hangers-on. She downloaded the rewrites. As they printed, she whipped her hair into a ponytail, threw on her baseball cap, and stepped into an adorable Anna Sui tennis skirt she’d picked up on Robertson. Then she sent Petey a text message: ON MY WAY.

Malibu, Max’s Trailer—1:12
P.M.

Corliss stood in front of Max with copies of the rewrite. She was still trying to take the high road, which at the moment meant she’d put her nose high in the air to keep from crying. She plunked the rewrites on his desk.

“I guess Petey didn’t know what happened yesterday, Max. So here I am.”

“Well, Corliss,” said Max in his chilliest voice, “Petey is very new to the staff and he can’t be expected to be aware of every little thing.”

“Of course, Max, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.

“In any event, Corliss, thank you for the rewrites. I wish I could say this gesture of yours made up for yesterday’s
fiasco, but of course it doesn’t. You failed me on every level.”

It took every ounce of restraint Corliss had not to remind the empty-headed haircut that she was the best assistant he’d ever had.

“So I guess this is good-bye, Corliss.”

“I guess so, Max. Good luck.” She saluted like the soldier she was.

“It’s a shame, too, because I have a feeling that today, with the filming of the pilot’s climax, we just might make television history.”

You know what,
Corliss thought,
you should figure out how to work your ‘eco-flush’ toilet before tackling television history, Max Marx.
She was about to say it, too, when one of his assistants stuck her head in. She scowled when she saw Corliss, but then turned to Max. “Max?” Her tone was urgent.

“What is it, please?”

“Michael Rothstein just pulled up.”

Max and Corliss looked out the window. Sure enough, there was Michael Rothstein’s town car. Production assistants were gathered around it, waiting for Michael to emerge. When he finally did, they could see he was dressed in midnight black, looking like the angel of death.

Outside Max’s Trailer—Continuous

Max stepped down from his trailer. Corliss followed.

“Don’t leave just yet, Corliss.”

Corliss, too shut down by Max’s complete and utter
gall, didn’t respond.

“Max,” called Michael Rothstein in a gruff voice as he approached. He was moving toward them at a clip. “We expected to see footage yesterday and it’s
nowhere.
”

“Michael, hi. I don’t know if you’ve met my assistant Corliss. Corliss, can you check on that thing we talked about you checking on?”

“Max, you can’t possibly want me to—”

“You look busy,” said Michael.

“We are, yes. Aren’t we, Corliss?”

“Yes, Max. Very busy,” Corliss droned halfheartedly—clearly Max had finally taken complete leave of his senses.

“Good,” said Michael. “Because listen to me, Max. I don’t care if you do work in a top-secret bat cave somewhere. We need to see that climax you keep promising. The one that’s gonna make TV history, blah blah…”

Corliss could tell Michael meant business.

“And it better have ‘wow’ factor! I don’t want to have to drag my saggy tuchus to the beach again. I don’t like the beach. I get sand in my loafers and everyone smells like cocoa butter.”

“I’m sorry, Michael, I meant to call you, but—”

“No buts, Max. The only buts I want to hear about are the butts jiggling across the screen when
The ’Bu
pilot airs to fabulous ratings. We’ve already spent millions and we’re not spending a penny more until we see
approved footage.
Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Michael,” Max said with a steely stare. “Corliss, take down everything Michael just said.”

“Good,” said Michael. “I expect this history-making
climax scene in my office within twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-four hours?” Max’s eyes clouded over.

“Yes. Last time I checked, that meant a day. If it’s not there in twenty-four, consider yourself off the project.”

Max staggered back against Corliss.

“Max,” Corliss whispered, “you’re on my foot.”

“But Michael, you can’t possibly mean—”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Max. You can always go back to directing Justin Timberlake videos. Now where can I get a Sprite around here?”

Corliss pointed to the catering trailer farther down the beach and, for the first time, Michael took her in. “Thanks, kid. I’m parched.”

Malibu Canyon—Continuous

Max was hiking up to the location where they were about to shoot the climax. Corliss scrambled alongside him, incredulous at what had just taken place.

“Um, excuse me, but what was that about, Max?”

“What?” Max said, the picture of innocence. “I merely wanted to show Michael Rothstein that we were a cohesive unit and—”

Corliss held up a hand, just like Max had done to her a thousand times. It worked. Max stopped talking.

“Don’t bother explaining yourself, Max. People who are fired don’t deserve explanations.”

“Corliss, I don’t like your tone.” Max moved to a small plateau where the production assistants had set up the lights and sound. The cast was there, too, all staring a little
sadly at Corliss.

“Hey, m’lady,” said JB with a long face.

“Hi, Corliss,” waved Tanya with a frown.

Max gestured for everyone to move away from Corliss. “Let’s go, everyone! Where’s Anushka?”

“Here, Max,” came her unmistakable throatiness from a few yards off. “Hey, Corliss, what are you doing here? Didn’t Max can your butt?”

“Yes, and I was just leaving.”

“Anushka, Corliss is not your concern. You should be preparing for the scene we’re about to shoot.”