by AnonYMous
The ratings were as much about her career as they were mine.
I must have sat there in the green room for ten minutes, going through all this in my head while sipping on a cup of instant coffee that managed to smell—and taste—like burning plastic. Still, at least it was keeping me awake, and it was the best I could get in the studio without having to bribe one of Teddy’s assistants to sneak into the invitation-only judges’ lounge and smuggle out a nonfat cappuccino made by Nico DeLuca, Icon’s implausibly accented in-house barista (“Dude sounds like a Euro retard, but shit, his coffee’s Grade A,” as Joey had announced a few days earlier. “One sip is like mainlining an eightball of coke into both fuckin’ eyeballs… and I say that as a guy who once mainlined an eightball of coke into both fuckin’ eyeballs.”)
I was just about to get back to work when a voice made me jump. “Hey, why so glum? You okay?”
Looking up, I saw Mitch in the doorway, a nerdy little backpack in one hand, a stack of binders in the other. “No,” I replied, not bothering to lie. “I’m not okay.”
“What’s up? Is it the coffee? You didn’t use that instant crap, did you? It’s about ten years out of date. I can ask Joey to get you some of the good stuff if you want.”
“It’s not the coffee,” I sighed. “It’s the contestants.”
“Listen,” said Mitch. “Don’t worry about the contestants. They’re expendable. Oh, and it looks like we’ll get a big pickup in the ratings tonight. Finally, huh? Amazing what you can do with a slutty dress and all those filthy minds on Twitter.”
“Yeah, amazing.” I managed half a smile.
“See ya tomorrow. And, Bill?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Make sure to buy yourself a copy of Cheer the Fuck Up magazine on your way out.”
With that, he was gone for the night.
I couldn’t help but feel pleased about the ratings. Mia had no idea how lucky she was. Len would protect her now. She was a star. That dress had pretty much guaranteed her a place in the Final Three—if the season lasted that long. Better than that, of course, was the fact that I’d been partly responsible for it, and by extension, all the free publicity. Maybe this was leverage. Maybe I could use it to get a raise out of Len… Jesus, Sash, listen to yourself, I thought, you’re becoming one of them.
There was no denying it: I’d changed so much since joining Project Icon, I sometimes hardly recognized the words that came out of my own mouth. Was I becoming a cynic? Or was I just seeing things a lot more clearly now? Another possibility: I was simply getting better at my job. Whatever the case, it was making me think about everything in a different way—even Hawaii. What Joey told me in Maison Chelsea had put doubt in my mind. It wasn’t that I no longer wanted to write. No, I wanted to write more than anything else—especially now, with all this material everywhere—but what if Joey had a point, what if I’d ruin paradise by making it my home? What was it he’d said exactly? “Beautiful place, man, don’t get me wrong. But live there? Try it, I dare ya. Relaxation is stagnation.”
Also—I didn’t even want to admit this—I was getting tired of Brock. Every time he called, he was high. Giggling pathetically. Then he’d start telling me some circular, thirty-minute anecdote about a practical joke he’d played on Pete that was, like, so awesome, and I’d have to invent an excuse to get off the phone. Then he’d call me again, and I’d put him through to voicemail. What kind of person puts their boyfriend through to voicemail all the time? His most recent message:
“Hey, sexy! [Cue ten seconds of giggling.] Look, Sash, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking you should just quit Project Icon. I mean, you hate it in LA, right? Man, I can’t even believe you’ve lasted this long. And this is bullshit, us not being together. Come to Honolulu, Sash. Get on the next plane, like you said you were gonna do that one time. We’ll figure it out. I got some money from my dad. I got a place here. I mean, Pete is sleeping on the sofa, but you’re cool with that, right? He says hi, by the way. You’re gonna love this Afghan resin his buddy got him from the Navy. The other day, we spent all afternoon just sitting on the beach, smoking that stuff and looking for dick-shaped clouds. [A full minute of giggling.] I wish you could have been there, Sash. Some funny shit. Anyhow, call me, okay? No more Project Icon. Call me back. Love ya, babe.”
Why couldn’t I listen to this without cringing? Maybe it was because he was so high, he probably wouldn’t even remember having left the message by the time he woke up. And if all this was irritating me so much now, was it really such a great idea to go live with him on a distant tropical island? I didn’t know the answer to that question any more. I wasn’t sure of anything.
It was getting late. Although Project Icon went out at five o’clock, local time (which meant eight on the East Coast) there’d been so many logistical issues this week—missing caterers, broken mixing desk, outbreak of the flu—I hadn’t been able to start work on Michael Bolton Week until seven. And now, thanks to Mia’s outburst, it was almost eight thirty. I was hungry and tired. And, I had to admit, a little depressed.
Sighing, I snapped my laptop shut. There was no way I could concentrate on work right now. I needed to go home. Have a glass of wine. Sleep.
I drained my coffee and threw the cup at the trash, missing by about twelve feet. Pathetic. I was about to try again when my phone broke into the chorus of “Whatta Man.”
I stared at the vibrating plastic for a moment, baffled.
What the…?
Then I looked at the screen, and burst out laughing. “BORIS” said the caller ID. He must have put his name into my contacts book—and programmed that ringtone—while he was showing me his friend’s translation app at Soba Kitchen.
“You’re unbelievable,” I said, accepting the call.
“I had a feeling you might be a Salt-N-Pepa girl,” he replied. “I mean, I know you say you’re into all that ‘smart-people’ music—like that growly voiced dude Tim Watts or whatever—but I’m not buying it. I think you have some hidden shallows, Sasha King.”
It was hard to believe I hadn’t seen him since the night of Maison Chelsea, which was—what?—a month ago now. He’d tried to rearrange our date several times, of course, but things had just been too crazy. Besides, I had a boyfriend.
“So hey,” Boris went on. “I got your message on eCupidMatch.”
I was confused: I hadn’t sent him a message. Then a terrible image came to mind: Mrs. Zglagovvcini. Or rather, Mrs. Zglagovvcini—halfblind even with her reading glasses on—bent over the yellowing keys of her ancient, wheezing PC. Oh, no.
“You didn’t need to be so hard on yourself,” said Boris, as I crouched down and bit into my fist.
“What do you mean?” I groaned, eyes closed. Oh, what did you say, Mrs. Zglagovvcini?
“Look, I admire that level of… honesty,” Boris continued. “But you’ve gotta give yourself a break.”
“Thank you, Boris,” I said, deciding not to probe any further. I just didn’t want to know.
“No—thank you,” he said.
“… for what?”
“For what you said about me. I mean, heh-heh—it’s not every day a girl calls you—”
“Please don’t mention it.”
“I mean—”
“Seriously, Boris. Whatever it was. Don’t mention it.”
Boris coughed, awkwardly.
“So, anyway,” I said, ending the brief silence on the line. “I tried out your friend’s new phone app the other day. I had no idea the Russian dry cleaner around the corner from me was offering happy-ending massages in its alterations department.”
“Guess most cops don’t speak Russian.”
“Guess.”
“By the way,” said Boris. “I meant to say I’m sorry about what happened with your boyfriend.”
I wanted to throw the phone on the floor and jump on it.
“I mean, what a douche,” he went on. “He gets a cushy bar job at some tiny hotel in Hawaii and you’re the on
e who has to save up all the money, working day and night, only ever coming home to eat takeout food alone in front of the TV, even though what you really want is just to find a good guy, settle down in the country, and have kids. Wow, Sash. That dude sucks ass. And he’s never even been over to visit you? Not once? Some guys have no idea how lucky… anyway, I’m glad you dumped him. I’m sorry. But I’m glad.”
“I don’t know what to say, Boris.”
“You don’t always have to contact me through eCupidMatch, y’know,” he replied. “You’ve got my e-mail, right? And you can call. Anytime. My number’s in your phone.”
“I’m actually gonna shut down that eCupidMatch account,” I said, my voice hardening. “As soon as I get home, trust me. I’m going to talk to my, uh, service provider, and I’m going to tell her to mind her own goddamn business from now on. I mean, uh, I’m going to, y’know, terminate my profile. I’m over it, to be honest with you.”
“Hey,” said Boris, “how’d you like to come over this Saturday and taste my granddad’s—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Meatballs. He was Polish: left me some great recipes. I’m having some friends over at noon.”
“I’d love that, Boris. But I gotta go. Sorry. My boss is calling me over. Speak later.”
“Okay, talk to you—”
Click.
Truth was, Len wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I was just out of breath.
I liked Boris.
Way too much.
24
The Talent and the Glory
IT WAS DARK BY the time I left Greenlit Studios. One of those surprisingly cold LA nights—with a huge, bright moon, the kind that follows you around so much, you feel like taking out a restraining order. The coyotes would be out later, I suspected, howling down from the hills. I wondered if Joey would do what he usually did on such occasions, and climb onto the roof of his house to howl right back at them.
Not likely. It had been weeks now since Joey’s relapse, but he still hadn’t returned to his former self. He was clean, at least: Mitch had established this beyond any reasonable doubt—with Mu and Sue acting as round-the-clock enforcers.
But Joey’s funk hadn’t lifted. Which meant he was still—I swear—the most boring judge on the panel. “Yeah, that was nice, man,” went his tediously predictable nightly criticisms. “You did great.” If Project Icon hadn’t been in mortal danger, Ed Rossitto would almost certainly have fired him by now. Ironically, it was the show’s weakness that had convinced Ed against such a radical move. Project Icon couldn’t afford to make itself look vulnerable, not now. A midseason panel rethink would do exactly that. To the likes of Chaz Chipford at ShowBiz, it would be like seeing blood in the water. Instead, the show had to pretend it was still invincible. Hence Wayne’s repeated claim that season thirteen had generated “more votes than any previous season in the HISTORY of our show”—without any acknowledgment that this was possible only because Rabbit had started to count the results of spam surveys and pop-up ads on third-party websites. In reality, the number of telephone votes was down by eighty percent…
I checked the time on my cell phone as I walked out into the parking lot: almost nine o’clock. The place was empty. Just Two Svens’ Bugatti convertible, some crew vehicles, and my bicycle—its frame and front wheel chained to the fence. It was so cold, I had to pull my cardigan sweater tight around me and readjust the belt. Then a rush of air behind me. Turning, I saw Len’s dark green Jaguar, which had come to a halt noiselessly about five feet away. The window was down, framing Len’s Merm between the chrome pillars. Beside him was his wife, the scowling woman from accounts. I remembered her from my first day.
“Good work with that dress,” said Len. “At last, you’re learning. Now let’s hope those tits translate into to some fucking ratings tomorrow. From what I hear, Sir Harold is due back first thing. We need all the help we can get, Billy the Kiddo.”
“Here’s hoping,” I said, feeling dirtied by the compliment.
“Well, good night. Sleep well in Siberia.”
Len’s grin disappeared behind privacy glass as the Jaguar pulled away. After a few yards, however, the car stopped again. The window reopened. Len had forgotten something.
“Oh, and Bill,” he called out. “I don’t know if you’re going for some kind of ironic dweeb look or something, but I think those glasses are the worst thing I’ve seen you wear to date. And frankly they’re up against some pretty impressive competition.”
“They’re my emergency backup pair,” I protested.
“They’re an emergency in their own right, Bill,” said Len. “For God’s sake, buy some new ones.”
“Is that all?”
“I guess we can discuss those pants another day. That’s a ketchup stain, right?”
I looked down. He was wrong: It was in fact two ketchup stains, but one had annexed the other to form a larger, more influential federation of residue. When I raised my head to explain this, however, Len was no longer there. The Jaguar was already at the studio gate, tail lights on, turn signal flashing.
“Asshole,” I muttered, returned to the task of putting on my helmet. No sooner had I got it on than I became aware of something else behind me. A voice, getting closer.
Couldn’t everyone just leave me alone?
“Bill? Is that you, Bill?”
I turned wearily. The owner of the voice had now almost reached me. “Hey—it is Bill, right?”
“David?” I gasped, my face changing color instantly. It was Bibi’s chauffeur. The hot one. He was dressed in skinny jeans and a puffy, dark-colored sleeveless vest, with a pair of headphones—or maybe they were earmuffs—around his neck. He reminded me of a life-size action figure. Only somehow more perfect.
“How did you know my name?” he replied, confused. Then he remembered. Snapping his fingers: “The ride to Bibi’s, right? In the Rolls. Well, you certainly have a lot of powerful folk chasing after you, Bill. We’re waiting for you on the roof.”
“We?… what are you talking ab—”
“Follow me.”
“But my bicycle.”
“You can bring it with you if you want. But I don’t recommend it. Heh, not where we’re going.”
I took David’s advice and locked it up again, only this time without removing the wheel. Then I allowed him to lead the way, wondering what Bibi could possibly want from me this evening. We traversed the parking lot, left the studio grounds through a side gate, crossed Gower Street, then entered the lower floor of a high-rise parking structure opposite. Two elevators gaped open in front of us. We took the first, with David tapping a button marked “H,” whatever that stood for.
A giddy sensation as we rose.
“Are we going to Bibi’s again?” I asked.
David smiled. “Bibi isn’t my only client, y’know,” he said. “I’m in the general transportation business. Celebrities. Politicians. High net worth individuals.”
“So this isn’t about Bibi?”
“You’ll see.”
The doors opened to reveal the top-floor level of the parking structure, the moon hanging there in front of us, huge and solemn. But I wasn’t looking at the moon. I was looking at the large white H-shape in front of me—on top of which was resting a sleek white helicopter, its windshield shaped like the visor of motorcycle helmet. The rotors were spinning. “Here, you might want to wear these,” shouted David over the noise, taking off his ear muffs and handing them to me. “If you wanna talk, plug ’em into the outlet next to you, there’s a mic built into the cord. You’ll figure it out.” Then he pulled open the rear door and helped me inside.
This was insanity.
I’d never been in a helicopter. Then again, this machine didn’t resemble any helicopter I’d ever seen before—not on the TV, not the movies, not anywhere. The cabin, for example, was even more unsparingly appointed than Bibi’s Rolls-Royce—a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Seating was provide
d by six retrocontoured armchairs in white leather. Under foot: floors made from some exotic timber. And between the chairs was a glowing console, outlined in blue LEDs, which served as both an armrest and a glass-topped champagne cooler. An open bottle was locked in place, next to a single tethered flute.
I was now alone, harness in place, looking out of the vast, bulbous window. David, meanwhile, had climbed in through the co-pilot’s door and was also seated, checking instruments, making hand signals. He still hadn’t told me where we were going, what we were doing, who had organized all this. And by the time I’d plugged in my headset to ask him once more, we were already in the air.
It felt as though we were barely moving.
“Have some champagne,” said David, his voice in my ear. “He bought it especially for you.”
“He? Who’s he? Where are we going? This is crazy, David, you have to tell me now.”
“Relax. You’ll find out soon enough. Drink the champagne.”
I did as he said. It was a midnineties Dom Pérignon, according to the label. Still, I couldn’t exactly savor the taste when I didn’t know what this was all about. Of all the people I knew, who had the means to send for me in a helicopter—this helicopter? Certainly not Len. David seemed to have ruled out Bibi, pretty much. Two Svens? Unlikely, given that he could see me whenever he wanted to at work. Joey? No, he hated helicopters—they made him nervous. And it couldn’t be Sir Harold Killoch, because he was still in Germany. Besides, what possible reason could the Big Corp CEO have for this kind of ego display?
It took perhaps five or six minutes for us to reach the ocean. The aircraft banked. For a moment, I felt suddenly light-headed. Then we turned up the coast—ocean to one side, the lights of Highway 1 to the other. For the first time, I felt wind buffet the cabin. We seemed to be descending, somewhere near Malibu.
Static in my headset.
“Can you see it yet?” asked David.
I looked out of my window. Ocean everywhere now—the color of poured concrete in the moonlight. We must have been a mile or two offshore. Then spots of white in the gray vastness, gleaming brighter as we lost altitude. Was it an island? A boat?
