First Stop, New York (6 page)

“How romantic!”

“One of his
other
assistants overheard them discussing their dinner plans and mentioned it to Max!”

“Intrigue!”

“Max wants me to go there and break it up. He says he e-mailed me the rewrite for tomorrow, and he wants me to print it out and hand-deliver it to them and tell them to go home—separately—to study it. He also said in the future he hopes I can do this kind of scheming myself!”

“I like his mind.”

“This is like junior year all over again! People talking behind your back, lies on top of more lies—how far have I sunk in one day? Can I use your office printer?”

“Of course you may. Buck up, Corliss. You can always try quitting tomorrow.” Uncle Ross kissed her head and sauntered inside. “If you want dinner, I’m having the staff whip up lamb kabobs with a chutney demi-glace.”

“No, thanks,” Corliss said, with a heavy heart. “I better print out those rewrites and head to the beach…”

Musso & Frank Grill, Hollywood—6:27
P.M.

Rocco was tearing mercilessly into an eighteen-ounce sirloin. The hunk of meat was slathered in butter and soaking in a puddle of bloodred juices. JB, sitting across from him, stared at the carnivorous attack and felt queasy.

“Why didn’t you mention you were a vegetarian?” asked Rocco.

“Why make waves?”

“Does this bother you?” Rocco said, holding up his fork. Speared on the end of it was a hunk of meat so rare, it looked almost alive.

“Nope,” said JB, holding his stomach. “No, siree. You eat that big piece of dead cow and I’ll just start in with my lovely starch dish.”

JB looked down at his plate. On it sat an enormous baked potato, stuffed with sour cream and sprinkled with chives.

“Thank you,” said Rocco, stuffing the beef in his mouth. “I require a lot of lean protein to maintain my muscle mass. It’s extremely important to me, JB. To be sound in mind, one must also be sound in body.”

JB took note of Rocco’s arms, which somehow managed to bulge even when they weren’t moving. “Ya look pretty sound to me, Hulk. It’s like both my arms could fit into one of your arms. Both my arms folded over. Twice. Which makes me wonder why you want to hang out.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Well, don’t you only run with other protein-pumped muscle dudes? I mean, you’re like a giant sequoia! I’m more like one of those potted plants you buy at Trader Joe’s.”

Rocco laughed. “Frankly, I find a lot of body-conscious guys to be completely brainless. You, on the other hand, have a vibrant perspective. You say whatever is on your mind—however wack it is.”

“Er, thanks.”

“That’s rare in this business. But there’s also something else about you I noticed that intrigues me.”

“My eczema?”

Rocco laughed again. “No. It’s something we
do
have in common. You’ve got a mysterious side.”

“Me? Mysterious? I’m about as mysterious as the six o’clock news!”

“Then where were you during those fifteen minutes you kept us waiting after break today? You told Max you were checking your e-mail, but you had a strange look on your face…”

JB blushed and hung his head. He felt completely revealed. “Wow, you’re good.”

“So what is it?” said Rocco, leaning over the table.

JB sighed and knew he had to come up with an explanation. “Okay—I’m addicted to YouTube! Which I’m officially renaming YouTouchYourselfTube.” JB giggled sheepishly. “But I’ve got it under control, Scout’s honor.”

“Aha,” said Rocco. “YouTube, huh…great way to keep your finger on the cultural pulse. I knew there was something else going on under that geeky exterior.”

“Geeky?” said JB, pretending to be offended. “What a strange word to describe me.”

Rocco thought JB was a riot. A waiter approached the table, bearing aloft a silver platter. On it was a thick yellow
envelope. “Gentlemen, this package arrived via messenger.” He lowered the plate to the table.

“Mail at dinner! Who knew?”

“Thank you,” said Rocco, slipping the waiter a twenty. He opened the envelope to find two scripts. On the cover page it said:
THE ’BU
PILOT REWRITE.
“Guess the new script has arrived.”

“Wow,” said JB. “Abracadabra.”

JB tore into his script. Rocco let his copy sit on the table.

“Aren’t you interested in the changes?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why not?”

“The process doesn’t engage me.”

“But Rocs, this show could be our big ticket! Fame, fortune—naked Twister with Scarlett Johansson.”

“I’m not interested in fame and fortune.”

“But I got you on the naked Twister, right?”

Rocco shrugged. “I have fairly lofty goals, JB.”

JB was now completely confused. “Explain-ay-voo see voo play. That’s French for
talk to me
.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m interested in learning about the process—but not from an actor’s point of view.”

“Then from whose?”

Rocco leaned in. “From the
director’s
.” Rocco leaned in even closer. “See, I want to direct movies.”

“Wowzer! Really?”

“Really. Of course, with the family I come from, full of illustrious directors, I have to go about it in a kind of covert way—otherwise I’d be accused of nepotism.”

“
Dictionary.com
, please.”

“It means riding on my family’s coattails.”

“Wait, halt, cease—who’s your illustrious family? I live under a very large rock.”

“I’d rather not talk about my family.”

“The mysteries continue!”

“Don’t mean to be mysterious, JB. It’s very simple—but keep it just between you and me—I auditioned for
The ’Bu
so I could secretly watch Max Marx. Everything he touches turns to gold.
The ’Bu
should be a huge success. I’m going to pose as a vaguely distracted actor while I actually take copious notes and
learn.
”

“Well,” said JB, trying to make sense of Rocco’s reasons, “the world is just full of crazy logic, ain’t it? But if
The ’Bu
is going to be a hit, I’m ordering another glass of milk so we can celebrate!”

“To
The ’Bu,
” toasted Rocco. “A show that might just give us both the means to pursue our dreams. For me, that’s directing.”

JB raised his glass of milk and toasted. “For me, that’s celebrity orgies.”

“JB, you are certifiably nuts.”

JB wiggled his eyebrows and drank down the last of his milk in one gulp.

Sunset Tower Hotel, the Pool—7:18
P.M.

Anushka blinked, but it was all darkness. Her eyes were open—wide open, in fact—and yet she could see
nothing.
“Ahh!!!” she screamed, terrified that it was the end. That she’d finally screwed up big-time this time and there was no returning.

“Ms. Peters?” inquired a voice with an indistinguishable European accent.

“Yeah,” replied Anushka fearfully.

“Once again, you’ve fallen asleep with a towel wrapped around your head.”

The man with the accent unwrapped Anushka’s pretty little head. She blinked, focused, and looked around the poolside area of Sunset Tower, the posh Hollywood high-rise hotel.

“Phew…I’m still here. Hey, Lorenzo—you saved my life again.”

Lorenzo was an impeccably tailored concierge with slicked-back hair. He had a sneaky voice and a sneaky way of doing things. “It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, Ms. Peters, to save your life as often as possible.”

As Lorenzo slithered off, Anushka called after him. “I don’t suppose you can come back with one of your killer martinis? Please-oh-please?”

Lorenzo turned only to wag his finger and smile.

“Luv ya, weirdo!” she called.

Anushka shook off her sleep and gave herself the once-over. She was sporting the Cameo bikini she’d picked up at Fred Segal, where she’d also received a flawless bikini wax—on the house. She’d also recently had herself tanned at Le Soleil and mani-pedied at Burke Williams. She clenched her abs and smiled appreciatively as they rippled back at her.

What a shame the sun was setting and it was getting a little too chilly to stay out and appreciate her body any longer. She arched her back to give the few remaining people around the pool a chance to take in her perfection. She knew all eyes
were on her—they always were. People around the pool smiled in approval. Anushka smiled back.

I’m, like, the queen here,
she thought as she spied Lorenzo coming toward her with a drink on a tray.

“This is the best I could do, young lady. It’s not a martini, but it should give you a little lift. Please don’t report me to the authorities.”

Anushka salivated over the delectable-looking drink, then glanced at her watch and frowned. “You know what, Lorenz? I probably shouldn’t. I’ve got to look over this big rewrite tonight. Which suuuuucks so bad! Hey—did anything come through yet? It should have been delivered by now.”

“Nothing from the studio.”

“Huh. That’s weird.”

“Only the usual hundred or so nightly invitations to one fabulous party after another. So I guess I should take this delightful beverage away?”

“Yeah—Anushka is trying to turn over a new leaf. Don’t want to get my butt canned like I did on my last show.”

“Oh, I just loved
Suburban Magic
! All those teenage girls causing all that trouble in the suburbs!”

“You sure nothing came for me? I hope they give me something juicy to do. Not the usual evil teenage vixen stuff. It’s sooo boring.”

“I’ll alert you the minute the script arrives. In the meantime, I’ll take this lovely concoction and toss it in the sink.” Lorenzo sighed and pretended to be exhausted. “The things I do to please my princess…” he said as he slithered back to the hotel bar.

“And I love ya for it!” she called after him.

Anushka leaped from the chaise she’d parked herself on and slowly made her way indoors. Heads turned as she passed. People nodded and murmured and she gave her little smile again.

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Anushka turned. It was one of the hotel guests. A businessman with silver hair and steel blue eyes. She batted her lashes at him. The gentleman pointed to a pile of things Anushka had left behind: a Treo, sunglasses, an iPod, and a diary.

“Aren’t you leaving some important things behind?”

Anushka shrugged. “The only thing important to me tonight is keeping this million-dollar butt employed!”

She gave her butt a loud
thwack
, winked, and sauntered into the hotel.

Shutters on the Beach, Santa Monica—8:34
P.M.

Corliss was hiding behind a thatch of sea grass. She could see Trent and Tanya through the reedy strands. They were seated at a table for two on Shutters’s outdoor patio. A small lamp sat on their table. Crystal glasses and silverware shimmered in the glow.

Corliss had to catch her breath. The beach stretched out behind the couple, and waves crashed in the distance. A crescent moon hanging low over the ocean cast a romantic glow over the entire scene. It looked to Corliss like a painting by one of the French Impressionists she’d studied in art history.

It was all so beautiful that she momentarily forgot her mission. She wished she were having dinner at a gorgeous
restaurant on the ocean with someone dreamy like Trent. Well, maybe not Trent himself—although he was the perfect picture of surfer-dude dreaminess—but someone with clear skin who took a bath every once in a while.

Is that too much to ask?
Corliss wondered. Someone whose attention was focused on her and her alone. Someone who knew all the right things to say—and said them without getting his lips caught on his braces. Someone who looked really good in Diesel jeans.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Corliss’s mind drifted further as a breeze from the ocean caressed her face.
There is something about Los Angeles
, she thought,
that lends itself to romance. It’s so balmy and sensual, so different from Indiana-no-place.

Is it because the sun shines year-round
,
and everyone looks so healthy? So, well, ready for French kissing?

Corliss focused and snapped out of her reverie. She made a mental note to tell Max about the restaurant setting; it would be a perfect location for the show. That is, she’d tell him if she didn’t diagnose the whole situation as nuts and quit after her first week. She was so mad she was even doing this.

Crouched like a criminal behind indigenous plant life!

Just as she thought this, Trent and Tanya laughed and threw their heads back, like people do on TV. It was truly amazing: Everything about them looked styled for
Vanity Fair
. Especially their hair.

Corliss had never seen such hair. Her own was now an official disaster site. Puffy where it should have been flat, chaotic where it should have been peaceful. There was nothing to do about it until she got back to Uncle Ross’s.
Oh, well,
she thought,
I’m Max Marx’s number-one assistant, not a contestant on
America’s Next Top Hairdo.

Besides, the only thing that mattered now was her mission. If she could pull this off, she could confidently walk up to Max tomorrow and say, “I’ve done this for you, but this is the last time I’ll disgrace myself for a job in television. I want real responsibilities!”

Corliss took big gulps of air and counted.

One, two, three.

“Hey, guys,” she blurted from behind the sea grass.

Tanya looked up blankly.

Trent covered his face. “No photos, please.”

“Oh, God, I didn’t mean—” Corliss knew from her psychology books that you needed to speak tenderly to frightened people in order to gain their trust. “Sorry, I’m not paparazzi! My bad. I’m Corliss Meyers—Max Marx’s assistant?”

Tanya squinted. “Oh, hi. Did we meet?”

“I kind of waved at you in the rehearsal.” Corliss waved to demonstrate. Tanya waved back.

Trent, breathing through his mouth, seemed skeptical. “But, like, wait—
who
are you?”

Corliss took one giant step through the sea grass and approached the table. “Max Marx’s assistant, Corliss. I, uh, had a lot of beet juice on my top and on my face today, so you might not recognize me now that I’ve showered and changed tops.” She laughed nervously and extended her hand, but Trent just stared.