Where We Belong (23 page)

As we cross the finish line, Mrs. Tropper bellows out our time, shaking her head. “Thirteen minutes, forty-two seconds. A sorry effort, ladies! My grandmother can run a faster mile.”

I shrug and give her a blank stare, showing her how very little I care. The one thing I’m
really,
consistently good at.

16

marian

First thing
Monday morning, Angela Rivers makes an entrance into my office that is as dramatic as any scene she has performed to date, including the one in which she discovers that her boyfriend is having an affair with his ex. I realize, within seconds, that this is no coincidence.

“He’s
fucking
her,” she says, showing her range as an actress as she vacillates between pitiful sobs and manic rage. Her eyes are red, her skin is broken out, and I quickly notice that she has done something drastic to her gorgeous, long red hair. Her trademark. Not only is the color off—verging toward Cyndi Lauper orange—but as she drops her head to her hands, I notice that there is a whole chunk missing in the back where she (or a very mean-spirited hairdresser) whacked it good. I find myself silently brainstorming styles to fix it, and more important, how we could work the change into a story line.

She repeats her announcement, as I wonder why I can’t take her pain more seriously. Am I being selfish, concerned only about how this turn of events (and bad hair) will impact my show? Or am I unconvinced that she is doing anything other than acting. I notice that in her impressive display of grief, there are no actual tears.

“Who is fucking whom?” I ask a little too loudly. I glance toward the hallway hoping that no one heard me, just as I can tell Angela hopes
everyone
hears us. After two assistants peek in and Angela has yet to reply to my question, I stand, walk past her, and push my door closed.

“Damien,” she says. “I should have known not to trust someone whose name is synonymous with
Satan
!”

“What?” I say, confused.

“Damien Thorn? In
The Omen
?” she says, as if I’m stupid for not instantly making the connection between an actor’s name and a horror film franchise from the seventies. “I can’t work with him.”

I stare at her, and process the possible magnitude of the situation. After Angela, Damien is our most important asset, dubbed “the next big thing” by the Hollywood hype machine and recently chosen as one of
People’
s “50 Most Beautiful.” In other words, she
better
work with him. And then I remember Jeanelle’s remarks in the writers’ room and say a prayer that the rumors aren’t true—and that he isn’t fucking the
third
most important asset, Carrie England.

Sure enough, she says, “I just can’t believe he cheated on
me
,” she says. “And with
her
. He knows how much I
loathe
Carrie!”

Indeed, we
all
know how much she hates Carrie, even before this, although no one is quite sure why, as Carrie is one of the most gracious, humble, easygoing actresses I’ve ever worked with, practically an oxymoron. Maybe that’s the very thing that chafes Angela—the fact that everyone constantly remarks on how lovely Carrie is, both outside and
in
. Maybe, deep down, Angela knows she only has half of that equation covered. And maybe she’s starting to figure out that it’s the part that matters the least. Though I doubt it.

Before I can get down to the nitty-gritty of the life-imitating-art situation, Angela shakes her head, clasps her hands in her lap, and strikes an Oscar-winning, injured pose for the ages.

“I’m sorry, Marian. But I quit.”

“No. Just calm down,” I say, although I’m now in a panic.

This advice only serves to rile her more, as she stands, tosses her massacred hair to one side, and says, “I won’t work with them. Either of them. I quit. Unless—” She looks up at me, her timing as impeccable as it is on set. “Unless you fire them.”

“Fire Damien and Carrie?” I say.

“Yes. Both of them.” She thinks for a second and then says, “Or at least her.”

She stares me down, a dare to do what she wants, as I realize the real purpose of her visit is revenge.

“They have contracts,” I say, shaking my head, but mentally doing the figures and calculating the cost of buying out Carrie’s contract and replacing her.

It’s doable, of course, but there’s
principle
involved. It would be egregious to let one series regular force another out—and a terrible precedent to set, an indication that Angela is the true showrunner. I would lose all control and respect. “I just can’t do that,” I say.

“Well, then I quit,” she says, turning to leave.

“Wait. Wait! Let’s call Standish,” I say, as everyone refers to Peter. “Let’s be rational here.”

“I am rational,” she says. “What about my reaction to infidelity is irrational? Have you ever been cheated on?”

For one second I feel sorry for her. “Not that I know of,” I say.

“Well, then you can’t possibly know how it feels.”

“But this show is making your career,” I say, appealing to the best thing I have in my arsenal: her ego. “You’re becoming a star. You were nominated for a People’s Choice Award. All that goodwill you built up will be gone if you pull a stunt like this.”

“It’s not a stunt,” she retorts. “It’s the way I
feel
. I’m being true to myself. Putting my heart over fame.”

“But it won’t be perceived that way. It will be perceived as a diva move.”

Because it is
.

“Diva? I’m not the diva.
She
is.”

I sigh, thinking that maybe I should start writing novels so the characters wouldn’t have to come to life when she blurts out, “You know, this is
your
fault!”

“
My
fault?” I say.

“You writers,” she says, pointing at me. “You put them in bed together. I told you it was a bad idea.”

“You told me it was inconsistent with Damien’s character. Not that you were worried about this outcome,” I say.

“Still,” she says. “I warned you.”

“Okay. Look. Let me call Standish,” I say, swiveling in my chair, hitting speed dial, and lowering my voice into the phone. When he answers, I say, “Um. It’s me. Hey. Can you come down here, please?”

“Right now?” he says.

“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s sort of an emergency.”

“I’d say it’s an emergency!” she shouts over my shoulder.

“Shit. Is that Angela Rivers?” Peter asks. “I heard she was in the building.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“Tell me we don’t have a Charlie Sheen on our hands?”

“Um, yeah. Can you just come down here, please?”

“Yep. Be right there,” he says, with the same mix of irritation and urgency that I feel. We are both acutely aware that this is how shows implode, especially one already put on the ropes.

I hang up the phone and stare Angela down. “He’s coming,” I say.

“How are things with you two, anyway?” she says.

“Great,” I lie, wondering if anyone knows
we’re
on the ropes, too.

A beat later, Peter arrives with a sexy air of calm competence. He takes a seat next to Angela and humors her, murmuring his concern as she repeats much of the same tirade about Carrie, along with her demands that she be fired from the show.

When she is finished ranting, he offers his condolences. “Be the bigger person,” he says. “Show them what a pro you are.”

She sniffs and says, “I
am
a pro.”

“I know.” He nods encouragingly but then glances at his watch. “Sorry, ladies. But I have a marketing meeting to get to.”

“I have to go, too,” Angela says. “But thank you, Mr. Standish. Thank you very,
very
much. For your perspective.”

“Peter,” he says with a condescending smile that, based on her sensual stare in return, she reads as something else.

“Thank you,
Peter
 … You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Super,” he says. “We’ll be in touch, okay?”

She smiles, shaking her chopped hair from her face and offering a final, coy, “I look forward to that.”

When the door is closed behind her, I roll my eyes and say, “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, it’s believable,” Peter says. “She’s a nutball, delusional actress. They all are. And what’s with the Pippi Longstocking look? What happened there?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t get into that.”

He shakes his head and says, “She’ll calm down.”

“And what if she doesn’t?” I ask. “Do we meet her demands and fire Carrie?”

“Are you serious?” Peter asks, aghast. “You want to lose clout with everyone on your show? Including the other writers, actors, and crew?”

“I know, I know,” I say, wondering whether I’ve already lost all clout with him. “I was just asking.”

“Hell, no. Let’s just keep our eye on her. Closely monitor the situation. It could work to our advantage. Let’s be sure to fill in Anita in publicity so we can be ready to spin this thing. Also, call her agent at CAA and get them to rein her in before she goes rogue with this story.”

“Yeah. My girl Jennifer Peros at
Us Weekly
just e-mailed,” I say, glancing in my in-box.

He shakes his head and cracks his knuckles. “What a complete train wreck.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It sure is.”

Peter gazes at me across my desk. “I miss you,” he says. “But maybe this is for the best. A little time apart.”

I nod and pretend to agree with him when all I want to do is go give him a huge hug and bury my face in his neck.

“We both have a lot to straighten out,” he continues. “In our heads.”

I want to ask him what he has to straighten out, exactly. His feelings for me, my past, or our future? But I’m afraid of the answer I might get. I’m afraid to hear him say they are all inextricably, impossibly linked. Or, that he might just try to humor me as much as he just humored the star of my show.

*   *   *

When I get home that night, I find a package waiting for me. It is from Kirby, her St. Louis address written neatly in the upper left corner. I can’t imagine what could be inside, but my heart sinks as I slice it open, and see that it is filled with all the clothes I bought her, the tags still on. The wedges, too, are unworn, tucked neatly into the sturdy navy Prada box. I find the note last, written in cursive so tiny that I need to get out my reading glasses.

Dear Marian,

Thank you again for letting me stay at your place when I came to New York and for buying my plane ticket home. That was very nice of you. It was also nice of you to take me to your work. I enjoyed it and look forward to watching your show this season. (Especially Shaba. Ha.) As you can see, I’m sending back the clothes you bought for me. I really appreciate it and everything, but don’t feel right about keeping them. They are just too expensive of a gift, and besides, they aren’t really me anyway. I hope you understand. Thanks again for everything.

Sincerely,

Kirby K. Rose

I read it again, as it registers that there is no mention of Conrad. No mention of being glad to have met me. No indication that we are anything more than acquaintances. I fold it and put it in the top drawer in my closet, along with the picture of Conrad, realizing that this is all I have of hers. My heart fills with shame that I know so little about her. That I never took a single photo of her while she was here. That I actually thought it was a good idea to buy her gifts like these—even before I told her the truth. That Peter is right—secrets and lies are really the same thing, and so in many ways, my life has just been one big, giant lie.

Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up the phone and call her, actually hoping that she will answer. She does, sounding surprised, which only affirms my guilt.

“Hi, Kirby,” I say. “It’s Marian.”

“I know,” she says. “Hi.”

“I got your box,” I say.

“Yeah. I hope you didn’t think that was rude. I really appreciate it and all … I just…”

I shake my head, on the verge of tears. “Kirby. No. I get it. And I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” she says, but I can tell it’s more of a test than a question.

“For taking you shopping like that. When we had so many more important things to do. To talk about. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking. I was just … trying to find my comfort zone,” I say, wondering what it says about me that Barneys is my comfort zone. “It was a really bad idea.”

“Yeah,” she says—and I can tell I just said the right thing. Finally.

“I was just so … terrified,” I confess.

“I know,” she says. “I was, too.”

“I still am,” I say as I’m hit with a wave of relief that I’ve not only told her the truth about what happened—but I’ve also told her the truth about how I feel. In some ways, it is an even bigger step. In some ways, it feels like our first truly honest moment.

We are both silent for a few seconds and then she clears her throat and says, “So … where do we go from here?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I hope we can figure it out together.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Me, too.”

17

kirby

“
So. Confession
,” Belinda trills as she fixes her bangs and lipstick in the rearview mirror. We’ve just pulled into the parking lot at the Tivoli, my favorite theater in town. “Don’t hate me.”

I raise my eyebrows as she continues her grooming, spritzing perfume in the crook of her arm and on the back of her neck. “Want some?” she says, holding up her small bottle of Vera Wang Glam Princess that she keeps in the car. She has one in her locker, and one in her room, as well.

“No, thanks,” I say. “I’m good … What’s up, Bel?”

“We-
ell
. I kinda sorta invited Jake and Philip to join us. And
there
they are!” she squeals, pointing excitedly toward two boys just getting out of their car.