Unscripted (5 page)

“Let’s eat, kids,” says Jeff, toting a large platter of chicken to the dining room table.

“So, Andrew, what do you think of L.A. so far?” Zoë asks, as she picks out the offending croutons from her salad.

“Compared to New York, it’s a cultural wasteland. But I found some decent clubs, and there’s a couple of good spas, so that makes it tolerable.” Wallet Chain leans over me to reach for the corn brick.

Zoë nods her head. “Yeah, I know what you mean, it’s not like living in England or France or anything.”

What does Zoë know about living in Europe? She was born and raised in Sherman Oaks. By birthright, she’s a bona fide Valley Girl.

“But we do have some amazing spas here,” Zoë adds. “Have you been to the Tallula Spa in Malibu?”

“I literally just came from there,” Andrew says. “They give the best shiatsus.”

Zoë lowers her voice a notch. “Have you ever had their colonics?”

Am I hearing things or did she just bring up cleaning out one’s colon at the dinner table? Well, if this is fit table talk, maybe I should relay my recent experience in a downtown gas station bathroom. Jeff pulls a face and winks at me—he must be thinking the same thing.

“Yes! They’re fucking brilliant,” Andrew responds, taking a bite out of a chicken leg. “It’s cool the way they have it set up with the soft sitar music and the dim lights. And when they start with the reflexology massage, all of the toxins literally just pour out of me. It’s so fucking purifying, you know.”

“So, did Abby tell you she works in reality TV?” Jeff says, trying to change the subject.

“No, I didn’t know that.”

Zoë gives me an exasperated look, like I wasn’t even trying to get to know him.

“Yeah, just finished up on a show called
Matchmaker.
”

“Sorry, I don’t know that one. I don’t watch much TV.”

“Totally, it’s such mindless entertainment,” agrees Zoë.

Oh great,
and
he’s a TV snob. Nice match. It’s not like Zoë and I haven’t spent years watching bad Lifetime movies and
90210
reruns together. How can she think this guy is my type? Not even close.

A few painful hours later I say goodbye to Wallet Chain for what I hope is the last time. As soon as the front door closes, Zoë whips her head around at me. “What is the deal with you? Why were you acting like such a cold fish?”

“What do you mean
what is the deal
with me? What is the deal with you?” I stare at Zoë as if she’s a stranger that I’ve just met for the first time. “Couldn’t you have warned me before my nap that you had someone coming over for dinner?”

“You’re right. I should have cancelled but he’s always so busy that it’s hard to pin him down. I figured there would be time for you to get ready, but I was wrong. Next time I’ll give you plenty of warning.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I say. “How could you think I’d be into that guy anyways? He was the biggest poser.”

“What the hell are your standards? He’s good-looking, artistic, sensitive and totally successful. He probably makes close to seven figures and he’s even looking at buying a house right now in the Hollywood Hills. Any girl in L.A. would kill to go out with a guy like that.” Zoë crosses her arms and looks over at Jeff, who is doing his best to ignore Zoë’s back-me-up-here body language. “What do you think? She’s totally overreacting, right?”

With an armload of dirty dishes, Jeff turns to Zoë and shrugs. “He seemed like kind of a douche to me.”

Zoë’s face falls. “He’s not a douche! You thought he was nice when you met him a few years ago.”

“Look, he acted like a tool tonight. New York this, no TV that. If I’d known he was so superficial I never would have agreed to this little setup you schemed.”

I love Jeff sometimes. He totally gets me. Why doesn’t Zoë? She’s supposed to be my closest friend.

“Whatever. He’s a good guy, and I thought I was doing Abby a favor.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” I say to Zoë sarcastically. “I dealt with narcissists for months on
Matchmaker,
and now you want to set me up with one?”

“You know what?” Zoë says, regaining her composure. “I thought you might want a guy who could take you to nice places, pay for things, maybe even take care of you. I’m sorry. So sue me. I just want what’s best for you.”

I let out a long sigh. I know she thinks that Andrew’s great boyfriend material, but a guy with a lot of money, does not a match make. He’d probably be perfect for Zoë if she didn’t have Jeff. But she should know me well enough by now to know that she picked the worst guy out there for me.

“Please, Zo, no more setups, okay?” I smile, trying my best to make peace.

Zoë starts to gather up the glasses from the table. “Fine, no more setups,” she mumbles as she sulks off into the kitchen.

Sometimes I wonder how two such different people can be such good friends.

Today is my first day on the clip show. When you work in production, you have a lot of first days. You go from job to job, never knowing exactly what to expect. While that certainly has its benefits, it also means you can never really get comfortable. It’s like the first day of school over and over again. There’s always that little nagging fear—what if I don’t fit in? Who am I going to eat lunch with? What if no one likes me?

Throw in the Will Harper factor and you’ve got some massive first-day jitters. Turns out, Will was sick the day I interviewed with Peter so while I was thrilled to have skipped that unpleasant encounter, I’ve been filled with extra dread about our first run-in ever since.

But Will Harper is apparently a very busy man. I’ve been here five hours and have seen nary a trace of the man formerly known as my non-PA. I know it’s coming, and a part of me just wants to rip off the Band-Aid but I’m also enjoying my Will-free day.

So far, it’s been a surprisingly good first day. Everyone seems really nice and I’ve already found my lunch buddy in an associate producer named Christine. We’re doing the talent booking for the show and we clicked instantly. So the longer I can put off the inevitable with Will, the better.

“How’s this?” asks Christine, as she hands me an interview-request letter to proof.

I give it a quick read. “Close, but it’s not quite dirty enough. You have to really kiss their ass. Say something like, ‘As someone who infused new life and energy into one of America’s most popular comic-book superheroes, we would be honored if you would grant us an on-camera interview to discuss your contributions to this beloved character.’ Maybe talk about how he’s been an inspiration to his fans or something.”

“That’s so good. I don’t think I can write anything that good,” says Christine, looking at me as though I’ve just written a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. She twirls a strand of her blond spiky hair and tilts her pixie face. I remember when I was that new. She’s young, eager to please and 100% in over her head. Tutoring her has recently fallen under my growing list of responsibilities.

“Believe me, anyone can write a kiss-ass letter. There’s nothing to it. Don’t worry.”

“Okay,” she mutters. “I’ll just add what you said, and send it out to the publicist.”

“Perfect. Then follow up in a couple of hours to make sure they received it, and they’ll most likely say they didn’t. So you’ll have to send it again and follow up tomorrow.”

“Then what?” she asks.

“Then you end up basically stalking them until they give you an answer. So, are you ready to call someone?”

“Can I watch you one more time?”

“Sure.” I understand why she’s nervous. She’s got thin skin. Not the best asset for this industry. Publicists and agents have an amazing ability to smell weakness.

I twirl my phone cord as I make my twentieth call of the afternoon. “Hi, this is Abby Edwards from ABT Network and I’m calling to make sure you received our interview request letter for Kat Simpson.”

“What show is this?” asks the snooty assistant on the other end, who sounds very put-out by my call.

“It’s called
50 Years of Entertainment
and it’s part of ABT’s weeklong fiftieth anniversary celebration. We’re producing a two-hour retrospective featuring some of ABT’s most beloved television shows and of course that includes
Triage.
” My voice is so sickeningly Up with People that I grimace. Christine stifles a laugh. “We’d love to interview Kat about her experiences on the show.”

The assistant sighs loudly. “We didn’t get a letter. Can you resend?”

“Sure!”
I’ll send the letter again, you vapid hooker.
“I’ll follow up tomorrow to make sure that you received it.”

She mumbles a thanks and hangs up.

“So that’s it,” I say to Christine. “Then you just harass them until they give you a yes or a no.”

Christine bites her nails. “I don’t want to screw anything up, maybe I can just write the letters and you call?”

Ah, my poor young apprentice. No way in hell am I going to be stuck talking to these crazies by myself.

I smile. “Don’t worry, you won’t screw anything up. After a couple of calls, I promise you’ll get used to it.”

I walk into the kitchen to grab some water and find Peter and Will loitering around the water cooler.

Worst timing ever.

“Hey, Abby, come meet Will.”

This is the moment I’ve been dreading all day. Oddly, my stomach gives an involuntary lurch at the sight of him. And it’s not just because I’ve been nervous about this moment ever since I got the job. These last eight years have been exceedingly kind to Will. With his salt-and-pepper hair, piercing hazel eyes and forest of eyelashes, he looks like he’d fit in perfectly with the cast of
Ocean’s Eleven…
if you go for that sort of thing.

“Hey, there. Actually, we’ve already met,” I tell Peter, gesturing to Will with my empty water bottle.

“We have?” Will asks. I can tell by his quizzical expression that he’s trying to place me.

Why didn’t I just pretend I didn’t remember him?

“Well it was years ago…”
And while I’ve merely aged, you’ve become a beautiful George Clooney butterfly.

“Sorry, you don’t look familiar at all,” he says flatly.

Okay he’s clearly still a dick. And I think he’s lying. He’s looking at me in a very peculiar way. His eyes are hard and his gaze feels almost invasive. I think he remembers exactly who I am and is wondering how in the hell I ever got hired here.

“What show was it?” asks Peter.

“I think it was a show called…it was um…what was it? I think it was called…
Musicians?
Was that it?” Yes, that little stall was a lame strategy but I didn’t want him to think I’ve been obsessing about him all these years.

“I really couldn’t say, that was like ten years ago,” he says with a note of incredulity.

Eight but who’s counting?

“Regardless, I never worked on
Musicians.
I did work at the production company that produced it, so maybe you saw me around the halls or something.”

Really? In the halls? Oh I can tell this is going to be a
great
working experience.

“Yeah, that was probably it,” I answer.

“Well nice to meet you…what was your name again?”

I might just hate you.
“Abby.”

He gifts me with a distracted nod and walks away. Peter smiles awkwardly and hightails it out of the room.

We’re deep into pre-production and the Will situation still hasn’t improved. He’s still a complete jackass. He barely deigns to speak to me. He clearly prefers Peter to dole out the
commandments. Fine by me. Clearly Mr. Big Time Supervising Producer is still pissy over something that happened eight years ago. What a baby.

And while I’ve settled in here, this show isn’t exactly the vacation I thought it would be. I fondly remember the days when I thought a clip show might be a nice change of pace. Yeah, I was wrong. Wrong. Very wrong.

First of all, the people who represent actors are like vampires. They look and sound like human beings, but really, it’s like they’ve just emerged from some dark hole in the earth and are sucking the very life out of me. So, maybe I’ve been watching way too many
Buffy
reruns. But I’m actually missing the reality nobodies now, so I know it’s bad.

Booking actors from first season shows has been fairly doable—they’re still trying to build an audience. And a lot of the former ABT stars are trying to get their faces back out there so we’ve had some luck with them, as well. It’s the hit shows that are impossible. These shows all have their own publicists who relish telling us that we have no hope in ever getting an interview from any of their major stars.

While Peter and Will understand this in theory, there’s one hit show in particular that we’re getting pressure to book the lead actors from, and that’s
Four Deuces.
It’s the hottest sitcom on the air and has basically put ABT back on the map.

Four Deuces
has been the bane of my existence, and it’s all because of a she-devil named Sasha Leeds, publicist to one of the four lead actors, John Taye. John plays the goofy eccentric neighbor on the show, but based on his choice of publicists, he must be a huge dick in real life.

On my third day here, I naively called Sasha’s office, thinking I would get my first big booking. Hey, they’re an ABT show, we’re an ABT show, and we’re family, right? Yeah, the kind of family that drinks together in silence while plotting each other’s deaths.

“This is Sasha.” She sounded curt.

I gave my spiel on how fabulous our clip show was, which was followed by a long pause on the other end of the line. Sasha finally asked, “Who have you booked?”

At the time, the only person we had booked was a former child star who was currently working mall security in Northridge.

“Well, we’ve just begun the process, but we are expecting some great people,” I chirped.

“Call me when you actually book someone I give a shit about.”

Click.

After a couple of days, and a couple of hundred phone calls, I booked the creators of
Four Deuces.
So with great trepidation, I called Sasha. And her response?

“Call me when you’ve actually booked an actor. From the show.”

Click.
So pleasant. Like an old friend.

Now, I wish I could say that I’m exaggerating this woman’s behavior, but alas, I am not. I have no idea what she looks like, but if voice is any indication on appearance, then she’s a plastic, cadaverous hag who smokes at least a pack a day, and if you wrung her dry, the only thing that would flow out of her would be martinis and Botox.

A week ago, I finally scored the other two actors from
Four Deuces.
I was damn proud of myself. I actually expected the witch to cave. I knew that Casey Moore, the break-out star of the show, was untouchable. She’d recently crossed over to film and was currently starring in a romantic comedy with Jake Gyllenhaal. So John Taye was the last get.

And what did Sasha say? “Call me when you get Casey.”

Biggest bitch ever.

I try to look busy as I see Will walking toward my desk carrying a highlighted piece of paper. Wow, he’s actually going to initiate a conversation with me. Middleman Peter must be out of the office or something.

“Abby.”

“Uh, yeah. Hi. Hi. What up?”
Oh my God did I actually just say,
“what up?”

“I want to do a segment on famous guest-stars that were on ABT. So I need you to try to get these people ASAP.”

Will hands me the list and walks off without waiting for my reply. I resist the childish urge to make a face at him.

“He’s like really hot, don’t you think?” Christine whispers as she cranes her head over the cubicle wall for one last look.

“Eh, he’s okay, I guess.” I’ll admit that I thought he was attractive. For about two seconds until he opened his mouth. That stellar personality is draining the good looks right out of him.

Crap.

I look down on Will’s list. The first name is Luke Canyon, action star extraordinaire, and client of, can you guess it? Sasha Leeds. Okay, desperate times, desperate measures. In my world, that translates to
pawn your dirty work off on the person below you,
in this case, Christine.

“Christine?” My voice is whiny.

“Umhum?” she says, her cute dimples disappearing as she frowns down at her calendar. Christine has started scheduling the interviews and is having her own problems trying to fit four of them into one shoot day.

“Would you mind if I put your name as the contact on a request letter?” I try to sound innocent.

She looks up and stares at me. “Who is it to?”

“Um, Sasha Leeds.”

“Please don’t make me.”

“Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

“That’s like
so
not worth it.” She turns her head to make sure no one is around. “Look, just fax it over and never follow up. Nobody here will ever know. Like he’d say yes, anyway.”

“Ahh, now the student is teaching the teacher.” I laugh as I open up my laptop to construct the request letter (not even bothering with a kiss-ass plea). As I fax the letter off I smile to myself. Poor Mr. Canyon will just have to be one of the unfortunates who slips through the cracks.

At 2:00, I’m drinking my second latte of the day when my phone rings.

“This is Abby.”

“Hi, this is Michelle Lewis from Rowles and Basset Relations, I have Sasha Leeds for you.”

Fuck, fuck, fuckety-fuck. Why is this crazy bitch calling me?

“So what is this letter to Luke about?” Sasha asks, her voice snapping with impatience.

“Hey, Sasha. We were hoping he might want to talk about his guest appearance on
Trauma One.
We’re devoting a whole segment to ABT’s special guest stars.”
Why did I answer the phone?

“Right. While I’m sure that it’s always been Luke’s dream to appear in a
clip show,
he’s a little busy directing and starring in a feature right now.”

Thanks for the sarcasm, wench.

I should just say “okay” and hang up. But for some perverse reason I want to push it with her. “I know he’s busy but we only need ten minutes and we can do the interview at a time and place of his choosing.”

Sasha laughs snidely. “I’ll tell you what. Luke will do it.”

Huh-what?

“For fifty-thousand dollars. I can manage ten minutes for fifty-thousand dollars. O-kayeee?”

“All righty then. I guess that’s a no. Well, thanks for calling.”
Jesus, I sound like Mary Fucking Poppins.

As usual, Sasha hangs up without saying goodbye.

“Now that’s why I didn’t want my name on the letter.” Christine smiles as she rocks back in her chair.