Tonic (3 page)

I thought about the way he looked at me and found myself embarrassed that I’d lost my grip on the situation. Producing, in our definition of the word, meant to manipulate. To create the environment for drama. And I should have been able to produce him even then,
handle
him, bend him. But he’d caught me off guard. I found my resolve — next time, I’d be prepared.
 

“Yeah. I’ll be able to produce him,” I answered with confidence I felt into my Manolos.

“Good,” she said, satisfied, turning her dark eyes to the windshield and road beyond. “I don’t want to have to step in, which means you’re going to need to bring it. We left Fashion Forward for this. It’s my shot to create my own reality show that people want to watch at a time when people are over reality TV. It’s
your
shot to prove you can run a show on your own. If you fail, I fail. And I’m not going to fail.”

“Understood.” Dread snaked through my stomach at the thought of failing anything, especially this. I cut off its head with a solid, fortifying breath.

“We’ve got a lot to work with, a good cast full of good people who we can hopefully turn into good TV.”

“So, good people who we can ruin.”

She shrugged. “They know what they signed up for. But this isn’t going to be like Fashion Forward. There are no sides, no winners. No villain.”

“Not true.” I pulled out my stack of dossiers. “We’ve got Hal.”

“True. And the fact that he’s married to Joel’s ex? We’ve got plenty of nerves to expose. But you know what I mean. There’s no villain contestant, no story manipulation, no pushing, or at least not on the competitive scale. I’m good at being a manipulative bitch, but I can’t say I’m not glad to have to ruin fewer lives. Maybe we can even do some good.”

I smiled. “Aww, look at you, ya big softie.”

She laughed. “I like Joel and Shep. And they’re going to kill it in the ratings. Let’s go over everyone again.”

I flipped through the folders in my lap. “Joel Anderson, thirty-eight, running Tonic for seventeen years with his brother, Shepard. Parents died a few months apart, his mother of ovarian cancer, and then his dad was in a car accident.” My heart ached at the thought of losing both parents so close together. “Married for five years to Elizabeth Jackson. Volatile, physical relationship, lots of fighting. She put him in the hospital just before they were divorced.”

“She sounds like a real gem. Maybe Hal’s shop would have been a better choice for the show.”

I chuckled. “Maybe if this were Fashion Forward, but if we want to do something different, something people will watch, we need heroes people can root for.”

She sighed. “So true.”

I flipped to my cheat sheet. “Shep and Ramona have been dating for a few years — she lives with the other two girls in the shop, Penny and Veronica.”

“Penny’s the one with the technicolor hair, right?”

“Yeah, and Veronica used to date Patrick.”

“Brooding hottie?”

I smirked. “I mean, they’re all gorgeous, but yeah. That’s the one. Veronica broke up him and his girlfriend for a time.”

“That’s a great angle to play. She’s single? He’s back with the other girl?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, that’s good. Real good.”

My finger ran down the list. “Max and Eli are like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”

“Except with better abs.”

I laughed. “Max has a girlfriend who he has a super physical relationship with. Apparently they get caught having sex in the shop all the time.”

She made a face. “Is that a health department concern?”

“They seem to keep it to closets and back rooms.”

“Well, skin never hurts ratings.”

“So we’ve got exes, horn dogs, and roommates,” I recounted.

“Like you said, it’s a ton of great material.”

“The roommates should be able to give us some drama too. They’re really close, but I’ve got some ideas that shouldn’t ruin any relationships.”

She smiled. “Of course you do. You’re the best in the business, besides me.”

I chuckled and closed the dossier, feeling a little better. It was so much easier when we didn’t think about them like people. Not that it was always easy to do, but it was the only way to really get the job done. Although, the situation was infinitely better with the format of Tonic than it was on Fashion Forward. If anything would turn you into an incarnation of Satan himself, it was producing competitive reality television.

“Let’s sit down in the morning and go over our character stories for the first half of season one and figure out our finale so we’ve got something to work toward. The crew will have everything moved into the apartment upstairs by tomorrow for sure, so we can start setting up the control room and our boards.”

“Good. It always stresses me out to not have them. Like all the details are in my head and these files. But when they’re on the board where I can see them, that’s when it’s real.”

“Me too,” Laney said as the car pulled to a stop in front of her apartment building on the East Side. “Need anything?”

I smiled as she gathered her things. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Get your head on straight about Joel. If you can’t handle him, we’re going to have problems.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll handle him just fine.”

She laughed. “I mean, if that’s how you have to get it done, I’m not one to judge.”

I gave her a look as she opened her door. “Bye, Laney.”

“Night, Annika. See you in the morning.”

I twiddled my fingers at her as she closed the door and let out a breath as the car pulled away.
 

“Where to, Ms. Belousov?” the driver asked.

“My parents’. Thanks.”

He nodded, and I settled back into my seat for the long ride into Brooklyn.

My parents lived in Brighton Beach in the same house where I grew up, just off the strip in Little Russia. They’d fled during World War II as children, part of a group of families, making their way through Eastern Europe to escape persecution until finally ending up in Israel. But when they went back to Russia to help my aunt escape, their papers were confiscated, and my uncle Andrei extracted them, bringing them to New York where he was, using his Bratva connections. Though being connected to the Russian mafia was never something we discussed in depth.

They settled into Brighton Beach, the home away from home, buying a house and opening a dry cleaning shop, again with the help of my uncle. And within a year, my mama got pregnant, a surprise to everyone at forty-six, especially my parents who believed they’d never be able to have children of their own.

So I grew up in the shop, helping my mother and aunt doing alterations, helping Papa press the pants for the rich men and Bratva who came into our store. It was there I learned the value of hard work. It was also there that I learned that I didn’t want to stay in Brighton Beach. I didn’t want the life so common for my culture — a life of not-so-quiet complacency.
 

Uncle Andrei had a daughter, Roksana, just a few months after I was born, whose mother died in childbirth. And when Andrei was busy with Bratva business, Roxy came to stay with us. We looked very much alike — blond hair and clear blue eyes, tall, fair — but she was the wild one, the one who would run through the rack of clothes in our store with her hands outstretched, trailing through the plastic-covered pants and shirts, giggling. She was the one who could always make me smile, who always set me free. As much as I’d allow, at least.

We moved in together after we graduated, into a brownstone in Park Slope where she had her daughter, close enough to my parents to see them, but far enough away that we were out of Little Russia.
 

When we both worked at Bryant Park in fashion — me on the show and her in actual fashion — the location made plenty of sense. Now that I would be in the Upper West every day? I was feeling like I lived on Mars.
 

At least it would only be for six weeks. The thought made me feel better about a lot of things. Including Hairy.

I tried not to think about how broad his shoulders were in his suit, or about the juxtaposition of his tattooed skin against the crisp lines of his collar. I tried not to think of his eyes on me and how they made me hot and cold all at the same time. Or about his cheekbones or dark lashes or strong brow.

I sighed and recrossed my legs, hanging onto the dossiers. I opened his again, touched his picture.
6’4”, 220lb, born August 14
th
, 1978. Opened Tonic with inheritance in September, 1999.
There were photos inside of his ex, Liz, and Hal, the owner of the rival shop. We had plans for him, the hot-button to rile Joel up.
 

A flash of foreboding ran through me, but I shook it off. This was all part of the job. They were just meat puppets, pawns in a game to move around, crash into each other, all while trying to make sure we caught it all on camera.

I reminded myself that Tonic would be so much less destructive than
Fashion Forward
as the car pulled to a stop in front of my parents’ building. I thanked the driver, slipping the folders into my attaché before climbing out of the car.
 

A row of red brick duplexes stood in front of me, built in the thirties with awnings over the porches and flower boxes hanging on the cast iron bannisters. It looked quaint, like a snapshot from another time, even in the dark as my heels clicked on the sidewalk and up to the door to ring the bell.

I heard my parents talking and the footfalls of my mother just before she opened the door, smiling, cheeks rosy and hair twisted into a bun much like mine, though her blond locks had turned a beautiful shade of silvery-grey.
 

“Annika! I didn’t think you’d make it tonight,” she said in Russian, opening her arms to greet me.

I slipped into her arms, and they folded around me, bringing me into her soft body that smelled of rose water. I sighed, smiling. “Hi, Mama. I’m sorry I’m late.”

She made a dismissive noise and pulled me inside before closing the door. “Don’t be silly. We know you’re busy. Come in, come in.”

Papa stood from his recliner and made his way to us, smiling broadly, arms open. His beard was thick, grey and white just like his hair, which was combed with a slight wave to it. His belly was large — when I was little, I thought it was why his laugh was so big, like the sound originated from a cavern somewhere in there and echoed out joyfully.

“Ah, my little Annika. Come and give Papa a squeeze.”

I slipped into his arms. “Hello, Papa.”

He kissed me on the cheek, though he didn’t let me go. “I missed you. I always miss you when you’re gone, my star.”

“I miss you too.”

He held me by the shoulders and leaned back. “You look hungry. Mama made supper — come fix yourself a plate.”

My stomach rumbled in response, and I breathed in the comforting smell of pastries and meat with a hint of cabbage, which was in nearly every Russian dish. He cupped my shoulder and guided me toward the kitchen, not requiring an affirmation.

“Anni!” a little voice crowed, followed by a thumping of feet as my cousin’s daughter Kira bounded out of the kitchen and flew toward me.

I scooped her up when she reached me. “Hello, Bunny,” I said, still speaking Russian. Roxy wanted her to learn, and I didn’t have a single qualm about that.

“
Zdravstvuyte, tetushka
,” she answered carefully, enunciating very slowly.

I laughed, the first truly happy sound to leave my lips all day. “Well done.”

Roxy appeared in the doorframe of the kitchen, smiling. “Hey. Long day?”

I sighed, not wanting to talk about work. Not now that I was home. All I wanted was to enjoy my family. “As usual.” I moved toward the kitchen, kissing Roxy’s cheek as I passed. “Do I smell pelmeni?” I asked, looking for the dumplings in the dishes on the table.

Mama chuckled. “Yes, and pirog.”

I spotted the meat and vegetable pie on the table, salivating as my eyes caught on the thick, fluffy crust. I set Kira down, my eyes glued to the food as I gravitated over. “Oh, thank God. I haven’t eaten all day.”

Mama tsked.
 

“What? I’ve been so busy with work.”

Everyone took seats to keep me company while I ate, since they’d already finished.

“Your new show starts soon?” Papa asked, slipping back into Russian again.
 

“Hopefully next week. The crew is on standby — we just have to get the cast contracts signed and the shop modified,” I answered as I loaded my plate, only satisfied when every inch of it was covered with food. “How did it go getting the papers I needed?”

Papa nodded. “Mama has them for you, everything we have for our business.”

“Let me get them for you,” she said and pushed away from the table.

I took a bite, nodding back. “I’m so glad you finally decided to retire.”

He chuckled. “Yes, well, I might have stayed there forever, if that was what fate had in store for me. But I’ll be happy to rest my bones all the same.”

I smiled, shaking my head as I took another bite of the pirog — the crust melted in my mouth, and I did my best not to moan. “You deserve retirement, as hard as you’ve worked, as much as you’ve been through in your life.”

“It is not our way,” he said with a shrug. “We do what we must and accept what we’re given. We make the best of what we have without asking for more. I would have worked until I could no longer do my job if you hadn’t insisted we discuss selling the shop.”

My cheeks flushed, and an exasperated sigh slipped out of me. It was always the same argument, one we’d had a thousand times. “Papa, you can make your own fate. That’s what I’ve done. If you can sell the shop and make enough, along with the money you’ve been saving for years? Why not enjoy the rest of your days in leisure?”

But he only smiled. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was patronizing me. “Of course, little star. You want to take care of us, help us, and we appreciate all you’ve done to do so. I haven’t even complained, have I?” he asked, teasing.

“No, you haven’t.” Which was true. They’d let me put their savings into high-yield accounts and IRAs, plus I’d set up a 401K for them. And they’d given me permission to help them sort out their books to determine whether or not they could sell, and if so, how much they could make. Their expenses were low — no car, their house paid off, and they were legitimate citizens, granted by the government when they immigrated, which gave them access to Medicare. It wouldn’t take much to sustain them, and I was sure I could find a way. They’d earned it.