Unscripted (6 page)

When I arrive home, I find Zoë on the phone, blabbering like a fifteen-year-old girl. She’s obviously keyed up about something, but after a day of phone calls and divas all I want to do is drown my sorrows in whatever chocolate I can find in the kitchen.

As I pour myself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, I hear snippets of Zoë’s animated conversation in the living room.

“I know can you believe it? I’m so excited. I had to grease the wheels a bit, but he did ask. But really we love each other so why wait any longer, right? No, we haven’t set a date yet, but I’m thinking July.”

At the mention of setting a date, the spoon slips out of my hand and directly into my bowl, splashing chocolaty so-so-ness all over my white hoodie. “Fuck,” I mumble. But instead of grabbing a paper towel, I shove my head out of the arched kitchen doorway and into the living room.

I widen my eyes and shrug my shoulders into a silent question mark. Zoë holds up one finger and starts flipping through her calendar. “We can swing by Barney’s over the weekend. I’ll give you all the details then. Okay, I’ve got to run. Abby just came in and I’ve got to tell her the news. Yep. Sounds good. Okay, bye.”

Zoë hangs up the phone and stares at me. I take a deep breath.

“We’re engaged!” Zoë cries, slamming her perfectly manicured hands down on the couch. “Jeff and I are going to get married!”

I know I have to pretend that I’m thrilled, but to be honest, Zoë is the actress here, not me. “Oh my God, that’s amazing. Tell me what happened,” I say, clandestinely swallowing the growing lump in my throat.

“Well, I told him I wasn’t getting any younger, and that I wanted to get married. I also told him if he wasn’t ready, then I wasn’t going to take that crap and wait around. I basically said I was going to start dating other guys.”

“And he obviously took it well,” I reply, biting back a judgmental tone.

“Not exactly. He kind of yelled at me for backing him into a corner and stormed out. But he called me about four hours later and said that he didn’t want me to date anyone else and so if I wanted to get engaged, we’d get engaged.”

How romantic.
This certainly wasn’t the Lizzie/Darcy moment Zoë had been dreaming of since she read
Pride and Prejudice
in the eleventh grade. Without even thinking, I shake my head and frown.

“What? You’re not happy for me?” she asks, her smile fading.

“No, no. I’m totally happy for you.”
Even though you’ve completely settled for a pseudo proposal from a guy who you have just blackmailed into marriage.
“I was just shaking my head because I’m in shock. I mean it’s great news. I can’t believe it.”

Zoë looks relieved. “I told him I thought we should go ring shopping tomorrow and he sounded fine with it,” she says, her smile returning. “I think anything less than two and a half carats is too small, don’t you think?” she asks, glancing down at her petite ring finger.

“Well, you know me and jewelry. I basically own a watch and a pair of silver hoop earrings. But I can’t wait to see what you pick out,” I say in the cheeriest voice I can muster. I’m not thrilled with the situation but I know if it were me, she’d be totally supportive. “You know what we should do?”

“What?”

“We should go out and buy a bunch of those girlie wedding magazines and start cutting out pictures and stuff.”

“Love it. Let’s do it in like twenty though, okay? I still have a few more people to call.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

“Holy shit! I’m getting married!” Zoë shouts as she picks up the phone and starts dialing the rest of the people in her address book.

I close my bedroom door and peel off my top, tossing it toward the hamper that is now spilling over onto the floor with two weeks’ worth of dirty laundry. I lie down on my white-and-pink-striped duvet that Zoë and I bought when we first moved in together and stare up at the 1970s cottage-cheese ceiling.

Maybe I should have been more honest with Zoë. It seems as though I’ve been hiding a lot of my true feelings from her recently, just to keep the peace. It never used to be like that between us. I always felt that we had the most authentic relationship. We could tell each other anything without worrying about hurt feelings. We just told it like it is. These days though, I’m beginning to think that maybe I’m becoming a better actress than Zoë.

It’s been three weeks and Zoë is in full-on Bridezilla mode. Last night, she huffed off in a snit after Jeff joked (sort of) that they should spend her parents’ wedding fund on a trip to Jamaica. In my opinion, he’s closing down bit by bit. At first, he tolerated the wedding talk but now he seems a little vacant. Zoë is choosing to interpret this as a typical male response. I hope she’s right.

Work is finally calming down—the booking is almost over, thank God. I’m still pursuing a few people, but I’ve mainly moved on to writing interview questions for Peter. It’s easy and fun and people don’t yell at me.

Right now, I’m working on questions for our interview tomorrow with Bill Loudon. He was on a hugely popular action-adventure cop show called
Mellow and The Fuzz
during the seventies and, in the eighties, he starred in an ABT sitcom called
Hill Days
that ran for six years. Now he’s on a competing network, so he was a difficult one to book. In the end, it took me four weeks and $10,000 to get him to sit for the interview.

The questions for Loudon are turning out to be a bit tricky too. I’ve heard he’s prickly about
Mellow and The Fuzz
so I decided to start the interview with questions about the ABT sitcom role, especially since it won him an Emmy. Hopefully that will butter him up for Peter.

My computer alerts me to a new email arrival so I check it to find a message from Casey Moore’s agent.

“Christine, look.” I excitedly turn my laptop screen toward her.

“No way. That is amazing. Casey is a huge score.”

“I’m going to go tell Peter.”

As I walk to his office I feel elated. I’ve even impressed myself with this one. No one expected this. She’s a major star. But then it hits me; this means that I have to call Satan Leeds.

I peek my head in through the open door to find Will and Peter talking. They both look up at me expectantly. Damn it. Why does Will have to be in here?

“Hey, just wanted to give you some good news,” I say, keeping my eyes glued on Peter. “Casey Moore from
Four Deuces
just said yes.”

“Wow, that’s great.” Peter grins.

“Nice get,” Will adds, not quite breaking a smile. His arms are crossed and he’s leaning against the wall as if he owns the joint.

“Yeah, she, uh, took a while.” Why am I so tongue-tied around him?
Get a grip.
“Now I just have to call the dragon lady.” I make a face at Peter, who knows all about my dealings with Sasha Leeds.

“Who’s the dragon lady?” Will asks.

As Peter tells him the story, Will glances at me, his expression inscrutable. “Don’t call her. We don’t need him, the segment will be crowded enough without John Taye.” Will uncrosses his arms and starts to leave the room.

While I love the idea of this, I have a bad feeling about it. I have to say something. “Politically, this may not be the best move. Sasha will be beyond pissed when she finds out.”
And it will all come down on me,
I add silently.

“Screw her. If she’s pissed she can talk to me. I know how to handle her type.”

Oh, as if I don’t?

As he leaves, he barely looks at me. Does he think I’ve mishandled this? I’d like to see him hold his own with that witch. And I guarantee you, when she calls screaming, he’ll back down.

I arrive at Mustard, a trendy new hamburger spot in Hollywood, and quickly realize I’m the first one there. No surprise. I’m always showing up for plans at least fifteen minutes early. The problem is that I have no idea how to gauge traffic in this city. So I constantly end up having to sit by myself, waiting for everyone else to arrive.

I’m meeting Nancy and Stephanie for dinner. I met them when we were all working on a reality show a couple of years ago. It was about a bunch of wealthy Hampton housewives who all got together once a week at a country club to complain about their dreary days as women married to millionaires. The show was cancelled after two episodes. With their constant whining, spending and days at the spa, most of the real housewives of America just couldn’t stomach the “serious issues” these women had to face. Although my job ended abruptly, thankfully the friendships I forged did not.

I make my way toward the overcrowded bar. The booths and couches are covered in white faux suede, and are offset by florescent yellow flowers adorning the walls on all sides. I practically trip on the yellow shag carpet, which looks about five inches deep (heaven help the woman who loses an earring or a contact lens in it). Sitting down on one of the white vinyl barstools, I feel as though I’ve landed myself smack in the middle of the
Brady Bunch
house.

Most of the women have that spray-on tan, bleached teeth, L.A. look about them. Their baby-doll dresses, skin-tight $300 jeans, and barely-there tanks show off a bevy of anorexic shapes and jeweled naval rings. It’s the kind of place where heads turn every time the door opens so they can see if someone important is arriving. I think I would have preferred chips and salsa and flaming margaritas at El Compadre.

As I finish ordering my drink, Nancy appears next to me.

“Yay! I’m so glad you’re here,” Nancy shrieks as she gives me an enormous bear hug. “I haven’t seen you in ages. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. Wow, you look amazing,” I say. And she does. Nancy has definitely dropped at least a dress size. “You’ve lost weight.”

Nancy smiles and tucks her jet-black bob behind her ears. “You know, I wasn’t even trying. But I went to this amazing chiropractor and she told me that I had too much yeast in my body, so she put me on this diet, and the weight just melted off.”

“So what are you eating?” I ask as the bartender hands me the biggest mojito I have ever seen.

“Well, I’ll usually eat something like salmon and cucumber in the morning, a salad for lunch—no dressing, of course, and for dinner, just some organic chicken. And definitely no alcohol.” Nancy looks pointedly at my drink.

I glance down at my mojito and wonder how many calories are actually swimming in that bowl of booze.
Ahh fuck it.
I take an enormous sip and sigh. “Well I’m happy for you, but I could never eat fish for breakfast, even if I had enough yeast in my body to bake a loaf of rye.”

“Of course you could. It’s all about positive thinking and setting your intention. I don’t even miss sugar or bread.”

Before Nancy can go off on one of her self-help sermons, I see Stephanie walking toward us. She too looks amazing. She’s wearing brown leather pants and a flowing silk top that perfectly frames her Victoria’s Secret-catalogue body.

Nancy and I say our hellos and take turns giving Stephanie a hug. “I love that outfit,” gushes Nancy.

“Thanks. I had a shit day at work. Just shoot me now. Better yet, just give me some fucking alcohol.”

Ahh, Stephanie, always the beacon of light in a world full of darkness.

The three of us manage to find a semi-quiet booth in the back where we can catch up without shouting over the blaring music.

“So guess what?” I ask as the girls flip through their mustard-colored menus.

“You’re pregnant,” jokes Stephanie.

“Um, that would be an Immaculate Conception. Actually, Zoë and Jeff are engaged.”

Nancy beams at me. “That’s amazing. How did he do it?”

“Under duress,” I mutter, but feel instantly guilty as soon as the words tumble out of my mouth. “I mean, she sort of did the ultimatum thing, but they were probably going to get married anyway.”

I look at Stephanie as she shakes her head and continues to study her menu. “Poor guy.”

Nancy tsks her disapproval in Stephanie’s direction. “Good for Zoë. I mean, she’s almost thirty-five, right? I totally understand why she gave him an ultimatum.”

“Well I’m thirty-four. So what does that mean for me?” Stephanie asks curtly.

“So, what’s new with you, Nancy?” I ask, desperate to change the topic that I stupidly brought up.

“Well, I met someone,” she says as she thrusts her wrist in front of Stephanie’s face and mine. “And he just gave me this gorgeous Tiffany charm bracelet today. Isn’t that sweet? It has cats on it because he knows how much I love them.”

I take Nancy’s wrist into my own hand, studying the delicate sterling silver bracelet. “That’s so sweet. I had no idea. You never even mentioned him to me. How did you guys meet?”

Stephanie takes a swig of her vodka on the rocks and plops it back down on the table. “They met on JDate.”

“That Jewish dating service?” I ask. “But you’re not Jewish,” I say, confused.

“I know, but I’ve always seemed to really connect with Jewish men. Plus, a lot of them are Buddhists. He’s not, but he’s very spiritual.”

“But you’re not a Buddhist either,” I say.

“No, but I’ve been reading about it a lot lately, and I’m interested in exploring it. He’s so amazing. Our first date was at the Bikram Yoga place in Silverlake and it was perfect. We have a real spiritual connection.”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me that you sat there in a downward dog, sweating your asses off for an hour, and that was your perfect date? I’m sorry, but that’s kind of nasty,” balks Stephanie.

I choke a bit on my drink.

“Oh, Stephanie, I know it’s going to happen for you one day too. I think he’s the one,” she says, barely at a whisper. “I can’t wait for you guys to meet him.”