Showbiz, A Novel (15 page)

Scene 26

             
The room was positively bursting at the seams with excitement. Despite her personal challenges, Scarlett felt immensely proud of her work that evening. Everyone was thrilled. Well, everyone except Lawrence.

             
She supposed she should hear whatever it was Lawrence had been wanting to talk to her about all night. She had lost him in the crowd, but she didn’t have time to worry about it at the moment. She still had several investors to schmooze. Her evening’s work was far from done.

             
She pushed her way back into the crowd, chatting with people along the way and keeping an eye out for Lawrence. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Candace talking to Margolies. Candace was leaning against the wall for support. Margolies didn’t look happy. She couldn’t picture the two of them married. Then again, many things about Margolies surprised her those days.

             
Making her way to the back of the room, she could feel the crowd starting to thin out as people left for their evening plans. Suddenly, she felt arms wrap around her from behind. She was frozen in shock for a moment that anyone would be so forward. A brief glance down at the thin hands adorned with gaudy rings and arrow tattooed forearms confirmed her fear—it was Cupid.

             
“You look positively good enough to eat,” he whispered in her ear, his arms tight around her. She could feel him pressing his hips against her back. She felt
positively
disgusted.

             
“Get your hands off me,” she said, none too politely. She had developed a high tolerance for sexual harassment during the past few years of working in theater, but that was way over the line.

             
“I’m just having a little fun.” He licked her neck as she pried his hands off her waist.

             
“I’m not interested.” She wiped his spit off her neck. Disgusting! “I have a boyfriend.”

             
“Perhaps he’d like to watch,” Cupid
said,
as Scarlett tried to get away. She found herself trapped in the corner of the room. She turned toward him and scanned the crowd over his shoulder, trying to catch the eye of someone who might rescue her from his unwanted advances. Unfortunately, the shadowy corner was protected from easy view by a headless Adonis-like statue atop a pedestal.

             
Cupid ran his fingers down the side of Scarlett’s face and along her breasts. “The more you resist, the more I want you.” The smell of his breath and his sweat so close made her want to retch. She could see traces of white powder under his nose. He had told Margolies that he had kicked his drug habit. Apparently not.

             
“I just want one little kiss, love.” He brought his face close to hers. She turned her head and tried to push him away when they were interrupted by a voice behind them.

             
“Don’t you two make a pretty little couple?” Psyche
hissed
in her over-emphasized cockney accent, glaring at them under her hot pink bangs. “Husband, darling, leave Margolies’ little slut for a minute and pretend like you don’t hate my guts as much as I hate yours. We have a public to greet.”

             
Scarlett was relieved to see that she might have been rescued, despite Psyche’s insults. She couldn’t wait to get home and get in the shower. There was something almost lizard-like about Cupid. She couldn’t help but feel like he’d left a film of reptilian slime on her skin; probably just sweat. Unfortunately, Cupid wasn’t done having a little fun with her.

             
“You can spare me for a few more minutes, wife. You’ve been doing fine without me for years.” He gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. “Buh-bye.” He waved as Psyche stormed off. He turned back to Scarlett, who had been trying to quietly slide out of the corner.

             
“Not so fast.” Cupid gripped her arm tightly. Too tightly. Scarlett felt herself starting to panic. With his other hand he reached around her back and pressed her hips onto his, grinding their bodies together.

             
Scarlett wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to cause a scene. The last thing she wanted was for the investors and the media to see her like that. And yet why wasn’t anyone paying attention? She pushed Cupid away with all her might. For such a skinny man, he was unexpectedly strong.

             
Suddenly stronger hands than hers pulled Cupid away.

             
“What the...?” Cupid wheeled around to see who would dare interrupt them yet again.

             
“Get away from her,” Lawrence
demanded
, towering over Cupid. Cupid started to protest, but Lawrence cut in. “Now!”

             
“Screw you, man,” Cupid
said
. To Scarlett he added, “You’ll come around, love. Let me know when you’re ready for a real man.” He shot Lawrence a contemptuous look before smoothing his greasy black hair and strutting toward his wife. Psyche was making an unlikely tableau, chatting with a retired banker and his wife. Before Cupid got to her, he turned to Lawrence, his face contorted with anger, and yelled, “I want you off my show!”

             
“Done,” Lawrence
said
. “
Buh-bye
.”
             

             
“Thank you,” Scarlett
said
, eyeing the red welts on her arm left by Cupid’s fingers.

             
“Are you okay?”

             
“I guess. Good thing you got here when you did.”

             
“I’m always watching out for you, Gorgeous.” He smiled, and her heart softened toward him.

             
Scarlett felt exhausted. She glanced around the room. The party was winding down. She didn’t see any sign of Margolies.

             
“Are you really off the show?” she asked. “Cupid can’t do that to you. He’s an idiot.”

             
“I know. I was already off the show.”

             
“What are you talking about? Are you serious?” That was a major deal. Losing a $3 million investor would be a huge blow to Margolies.

             
“This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Lawrence whispered. “After you acted so strangely at my apartment the other night I did some poking around into the
Olympus
financials. I couldn’t get all the details but there were enough red flags to convince me that there are some seriously shady backers involved.
The last thing I want is to have my money tied to potentially illegal dealings. Life’s too short to deal with the devil. Margolies must be desperate on this one.
”

             
“After I ran into Margolies at your place that night, I was afraid you were somehow mixed up in it too,” Scarlett said apologetically.

             
Lawrence looked hurt. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

             
“I do. I was just so confused...” Scarlett trailed off, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with exhaustion.

             
“Can we get out of here?” Lawrence asked.

             
Scarlett gave herself permission to be done with the event for the night. “Yes, please.”

Scene 27

             
Reilly woke up early, threw his coat on over his sweat pants and t-shirt, and slipped into the tennis shoes he kept by the door. Not his best look, but he was only going to the corner newsstand to buy the day’s
Banner
.

             
He brought the paper back to the apartment and dropped it onto a table already covered in newspaper clippings. He’d been busy the past week. After the full-page spread had come out announcing the finalists, he had made it his mission to learn everything he could about his competition. Each candidate had been given 500 words to introduce themselves, and he was pleased with what he’d come up with for himself. However, his attention had been primarily focused lately on what the other finalist did—and didn’t—have to say about themselves.

             
Reilly was obsessed with his speculation that Margolies and Candace would be working together again, all these years later, to plant a new corrupt critic. Could it be one of the finalists? Or would each finalist’s integrity be tested in some way as part of the process? His mind had been racing with conspiracy theories.

             
He flipped on the pot of coffee he had prepped the night before and opened the
Banner
to the day’s Arts and Culture section. The first finalist's review had come out that day.

             
In Reilly’s analysis of his competitors he found only two really viable threats, from a writer’s perspective. The junior critic was one, since he’d been at the
Banner
for several years and knew how to write for their readers. Plus, he was a familiar name to them already and was not unpopular.

             
The other strong competitor was the woman.
The
Banner
had never had a female critic, and that one was imminently qualified for the job with her journalism background as a bureau chief in Paris, and before that, in the States.

             
The other two candidates were an active theater blogger whom Reilly discovered had a solid, but probably too niche-y, following; and a critic from Chicago who could probably do well at the job but wouldn’t get through the competition, as the readers would likely penalize him for not being “New York” enough.

             
It was the Chicago candidate who had been tapped to go first. His assignment had been to review the previous night’s opening of a new musical called
Evening Madness
at the Public Playhouse. It was customary those days for critics to see a show a night or two before opening so as to have time to write a thoughtful review and still hit the print deadline. Back in the days when critics attended opening nights, they could often be seen sprinting up the aisle as the curtain fell, trying frantically to get their scathing or revelatory thoughts on paper and turned in. But that rarely happened anymore.

             
Reilly had made a point to see
Evening Madness
the week before, so he could practice and compare notes with whatever his opponents came up with. He briefly wondered what the Public Playhouse thought about having one of the critic candidates review that particular piece. They had an impressive track record of moving new shows onto Broadway—a boon both financially and for their reputation for discovering the best new talent in the country. But a Broadway transfer for that particular show would require a rave review.

             
As Reilly took in the review, he knew the Public Playhouse would be pleased. The Chicago candidate, likely in an attempt to prove to New Yorkers that he loved their town as much as his own, had written what the industry called a “love letter” to the show. He praised the theater, the piece, and the author. Reilly closed the paper and smiled smugly.

             
It wasn’t that he disagreed with the sentiments.
Evening Madness
was an excellent show. However, the candidate had made a huge mistake. Reilly knew from the success of his own column that even when writing praise, readers need an undercurrent of dirt, wit, criticism—writers were
critics
after all. A straight-across-the-board rave was boring. It provided no fodder for the water coolers and dressing rooms around town, which meant, in that case, no buzz for the finalist.

             
Reilly got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, still smiling. One down, three to go. Reilly wondered if he had been deliberately selected as the last to audition, or if it was just the fact that he had been the last finalist to be selected. Either way, he was pleased with his position.

             
By his calculations, it would be a month before he was up to the plate. His attempts to determine which show he might review had been only somewhat successful. There were two Broadway openings coming up—a play and musical—but they were likely opening too soon to fall to him and would go to the other two finalists.

             
Reviewing a Broadway show would have been good. But he felt a non-Broadway opening would give him more leeway to make a splash. The high-profile, non-Broadway openings a month out, however, were too hard to predict. There had not yet been enough buzz around any of them to indicate which would be singled out for him.

             
He picked up his cell phone and called Scarlett, eager to share his good mood. He knew she would have read the review. He could imagine how much fun they’d have dissecting it and discussing it. Maybe she would even read the practice version he had written and confirm his belief that his version would have been better.