I'm with Cupid (16 page)

“But Max,” said Corliss, stepping in and talking to him in soft, measured tones as if he were a psych outpatient. “We're on a soundstage—there are no trailers here.” She took his hand and gestured around the vast space as if to prove her point. “Do you want to go to your
office
?”

Max felt like he was about to cry. He missed his trailer. And the big mirror in it where he checked his hair. And his toilet where his assistants floated fresh rose petals every morning. His trailer was a bastion of serenity to him, and everything in front of him right now was . . . chaos. He thought he'd made such strides since the first episode. He thought he'd pulled himself together and become the captain of everyone's ship. And the live second episode—he thought he brilliantly handled that, taking
The 'Bu
to the next level. But apparently it was all an illusion. He was a fake and now he knew it to the very soles of his Bruno Maglis. And to top it off, Ellen and Portia had frozen him out. When it all seemed to be getting even darker and stranger in his head, his iPhone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It said OLGA.

“Olga!” he said, answering the call quickly. “It's me, Max.”

“Yes, Max,” came her thick Russian accent. “I know. I call
you
. Listen, I have question.”

“Okay, but it's a little crazy here at the moment, Olga, so I only have a minute. What is it?”

“Da, okay. Can Olga can cancel Legend's appointment today with speech therapist?”

“Uh, well, why would you want to do that, Olga?”

“Because this lisp of Legend? No more. I cure.”

“What? You've cured Legend's lisp . . . ?” He was astounded. Corliss's eyes opened wide and she moved closer. “How is that possible? He's been to every speech therapist from San Simeon to San Dimas!”

“It's no problem. I try this and that. Something finally work. We at Tar Pits now. Soon we get hot dog and have more fun.”

“That sounds so nice, Olga. Max could use a hot dog and some fun himself . . .”

“Max not so good today?”

“No,” Max said, “Max not so good . . . Max very bad, in fact.”

“Talk to Olga. Problems at
'Bu
?”

Max thought Olga sounded so cute when she said
'Bu
in her Russian accent. In fact, he was beginning to feel as Corliss felt about Olga: as if she were the greatest thing since hot borscht. “Well, Olga,” said Max, moving away from Corliss and the actors so that he could speak freely. “Two of our actors are all of a sudden getting married to each other, and it's causing a lot of commotion on the set.”

“This Trent and Tanya?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I read on 'Bu-hoo.”

Max sighed. Was there
no one
who didn't read that infernal blog? “Yes, Trent and Tanya. And two of my
other
actors are in some fight about some Italian text-messaging business. My camerawoman is on the bus to her foot doctor. And, to top it off, Corliss—my top assistant, as you know—seems to be having a clandestine relationship with one of the actors. And relationships among staff members are strictly verboten.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “I like this Corliss. She good people. The others I don't know. This I do know: nothing you can do about love life of other people. You direct TV. Not love life. You need to step up, bub. Tell them who is boss. Make this clear. One more thing. Get new camerawoman with better feet.”

A wave of relief swept over Max. Everything Olga was saying was so simple—but he'd lost track of all of it. He
did
have to step up and remind the cast who was boss. It was a simple as that. “Olga, I don't know what to say. You're a miracle worker. I'm going to have to give you some kind of raise, or gift, or something. What can I do?”

“Nothing. This work I do for love. We see Brontosaurus now. Call you later.” With that, she hung up.

Max moved back to the set, dazed and dazzled by Olga the übernanny. Anushka had returned, a derisive look on her face. Rocco stood with his arms crossed, avoiding her. Tanya had come back, too, and she was blissfully plunked back on Trent's blissed-out lap. Corliss and JB were now far away from each other, pretending like they were strangers. “Okay, people. I'm going to put a call in to the cameraperson's union for a replacement so we can return to this scene in an hour.”

“But, Max . . .” Anushka wailed.

“No ‘But Max,'” Max said in his lowest, most resonant tone. “There've been a few too many distractions from each and everyone one of you and it's going to stop.” The authority in his voice seemed to reach them. Slowly, they stopped slouching, scowling, and bouncing. “I'm the one running the show,” he continued. “And it's a
show
, not a wedding hall or a group therapy session or a dating service.” This last was for Corliss and JB's benefit. Their faces betrayed nothing, however—except blind obedience. In fact, everyone was now standing at attention, looking to Max for direction.

“Very good,” he said. “Now get some lunch and be back in an hour.” They all turned on a dime and marched off to the cafeteria. Max couldn't have been more impressed—by
himself
. He was the real article—brilliant, in fact. And it was all because of Olga. “Olga . . .” he said out loud, savoring the Slavic sound. “Olga . . . !”

Eight

JB was in the hot seat.

“And what is your opinion of
Project Runway
?” said Uncle Ross, leaning toward JB, waving a tiny shellfish fork in his face. “Does it compel you? Do you record it for viewing time and time again? Do you memorize the inanities that come from Heidi Klum's mouth on a weekly basis?”

Uncle Ross had forgotten Corliss's explicit instructions to sit back and stay out of JB's business. His only purpose was to have her back until she got JB into the hot tub. But did Uncle Ross listen? Never. And now he was in the midst of a full-on gay inquisition—and JB was squirming under the scrutiny. His monkfish carpaccio appetizer sat completely untouched before him and Corliss was mortified. She had already moved on to the entrée—Alaskan king crab legs—and she tore into the fishy meat, taking out her nervousness on it.

“Um,” said JB, “I've only seen
Project Runway
a few times. I mean, I guess it's a way to spend an hour, right? All those creative types on some crazy deadline.” JB wiped pretend sweat from his forehead. “Relate much?” He raised his hand in the air answering his own question. “Yes, officer, I do!” Neither Corliss nor Uncle Ross laughed. “Tough crowd,” said JB, shifting uneasily in his chair.

“Hmmm . . .” said Uncle Ross, squinting at JB as if trying to read his mind. “You've watched those shows only a few times. That's very interesting.” He twirled his shellfish fork, and then pointed it at JB like a judge with a gavel. “But Corliss tells me you have an eye for fashion.
Women's
fashion. That, in fact, you were responsible for her rather startling makeover a couple months back. Stripes with plaids!” Uncle Ross howled as if Corliss's former fashion faux pas were a devastating riot.

Corliss shot Uncle Ross a really mean look.

Uncle Ross jabbed his fish fork in the air above his head. “But you rescued her from a life of that, didn't you? You somehow knew enough to turn this drab Midwestern girl into an almost entirely presentable young woman. That's a very interesting talent for a young man to have.”

“Um, I guess,” said JB, looking more and more stricken by the moment. “We had a fun day in BH doing the shops, hitting the spa. Guilty on count number two!”

“Uncle Ross,” Corliss interrupted finally. “Shouldn't we—?”

But Uncle Ross put a finger to his lips and narrowed his eyes. Corliss knew he was going in for the kill. “Is women's fashion something you've long been preoccupied with?”

Corliss, racked with anxiety, cracked a king crab leg in half and crab junk shot across the table at JB. “Looks like I'm in the line of fish fire!” he joked, wiping the gunk from his nose. Once again, neither Corliss nor Uncle Ross laughed. JB squirmed some more. “Boy, flying crab usually cracks everyone up. This
is
a tough crowd.”

“Are you avoiding the question?” asked Uncle Ross accusingly.

“No!” shouted JB. “Women's fashion? Me? Oh, well, I guess we go way back.” Uncle Ross raised an eyebrow. “I grew up in a house o' ladies—my older sister and my moms. I was the sole dude! I guess I got trained to keep my eye on hems. Paging Michael Kors!” JB laughed way too hard. “Why—why do you ask?” he gulped, looking like a scared little rabbit.

“Well, JB, I'm just interested in getting to know you,” Uncle Ross said slyly. “Corliss speaks very highly of you.” Corliss shot Uncle Ross a look that said “careful where you're going with this one.” “In a
professional
sense,” Uncle Ross continued, taking Corliss's silent warning. “But also in a
personal
sense,” he then said, completely disregarding Corliss's silent warning. Corliss made a mental note to kill him after dinner. “And of course I'm a big part of Corliss's life. I secured
The 'Bu
internship for her and rescued her from a dreary future in the field of psychology.”

“Uncle Ross!” Corliss interjected, totally fed up. “I have
not
in any way, shape, or form given up on my dream to help people in distress. I've just postponed it a little while I work in television.” She then used her fingernail to remove some crab that was stuck between her two front teeth.

JB smiled uneasily at Corliss. Corliss smiled uneasily at Uncle Ross. A moment passed with uneasy smiles and the sound of Corliss nervously sucking yet another Alaskan king crab leg. JB finally broke the silence. “Um, request on aisle seven—where's the little boys' room?”

“Just down the hall, right past the Statue of David replica,” said Uncle Ross.

“Right” said JB, “I'll make a left at the marble gonads.” He moved his seat back and scampered away. Corliss wondered if he'd ever come back. She still hadn't completely recovered from the Emmy afterparty when JB had chosen the company of Jack Osbourne in the next bathroom stall over Corliss in Versace.

“Uncle Ross,” she said sternly. “Stop grilling JB about his sexuality! Okay, so he's a little . . . into girl things. But that's why I like him! You're just supposed to be here to keep me on track for the Jacuzzi maneuver. Remember?”

“Ah, yes,” Uncle Ross sighed, leaning back from the table and wiping the corner of his mouth with a taupe Jonathan Adler silk napkin. “The Jacuzzi maneuver! Fear not, my child. I have your back. And besides, I've heard everything I need to hear and I have my ruling on JB's sexuality.”

Corliss leaned forward in her seat. There was no finer judge of homo-, hetero-, or metrosexuality in Los Angeles County than he. After secrets, judging gayness or the lack thereof was what Uncle Ross lived for. In fact, Corliss couldn't remember a more joyous time in Uncle Ross's house than the day he decreed that Lance Bass was unequivocally homo.

“Well, don't you want to know?” he asked.

Corliss nodded fast, then closed her eyes as if she were going down a water slalom at Knott's Berry Farm. She was white-knuckling it, that's for certain, and Uncle Ross—evil queen that he sometimes was—was going to keep her on pins and needles. “Okay, all right!” she burst out. “Tell me the verdict!”

“Your adorably geeky little coworker is . . .
not
playing on Uncle Ross's team.” Corliss slowly opened her eyes. Had she heard right? “Yes, Corliss, you've heard right! Break out the bubbly and dance in the street! JB is as straight as Victoria Beckham's blowout.” Uncle Ross kissed her on both cheeks like she'd just won a beauty pageant. “Aren't you relieved? I mean, I must admit he's scrumptious—in a kind of geek chic way—and I certainly wouldn't mind him playing on
my
team—third base would be nice,” he said with a naughty inflection. “But young Master Bader belongs to the ladies!” he declared triumphantly.

“Oh my God, Uncle Ross, that's great!” She leaped up from her chair so fast she knocked over the entire gold-plated chafing dish of king crab legs. “Whoops,” she said as fishy gunk trickled down her Wet Seal jeans. Uncle Ross's two new Goldendoodle puppies scampered over to lick at the fish pooled around Corliss's pink Mephisto sneakers.

“Isn't that adorable?” Uncle Ross said, looking at the puppies. “They can't help loving what I love.” He shooed them away and leaned in to Corliss with a very serious look on his face. “Now that we have this very important info, Corliss, you can't waste any time. You are to get out of those fishy jeans and into that Jacuzzi!”

“But Uncle Ross—” she said, suddenly terrified the moment was upon her. “I don't think I can do it!”

“Steady, now. Listen carefully to me. I'm your second, right? I'm here to keep you on track. There's a bottle of Bolly chilled to perfection in the Sub-Zero. I want you to uncork it, bring it outside to the hot tub—which I've heated to 104-degree perfection—and get workin' on romance.”

“But Uncle Ross!” Corliss said, starting to panic just as she knew she would. “Are you sure JB is straight? I mean, really? I mean, on a stack of bibles—or whatever it is you worship—Zac Efron's eyelashes?”

“Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, taking her by the wrist. “You're spiraling just as you yourself predicted. JB
is
straight.

No gay boy would use the word
gonads
. Now buck up and
don't
disappoint me. You are a Meyers, after all.”