Power Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Oh, it’s a barrel of laughs.”

  “Is that why you never brought me there?”

  “Yes,” Monica said stiffly. “The only thing lower than acting on their totem pole would be a professional athlete. They’d assume you were an idiot.”

  “The way you did when you met me,” Eric pointed out.

  “You were an idiot when I met you.” Monica became wistful. “Remember how you tried to pick me up the day you did your cameo on the show?”

  Eric smiled. “That was my evil twin putting the moves on you, not me.”

  Monica lifted an eyebrow. “How’s the evil twin doing?” she murmured.

  Eric smiled wryly. “He’s pretty much vanished since . . .” He trailed off.

  . . . We broke up, Monica finished for him in her head. She was longing to reach out and take his hand, but again, she didn’t want to send the wrong signal. She really needed to get her head screwed on straight before she approached the subject of reconciliation.

  “I’m really beat,” Eric said, yawning. “Would you mind if we canned going out for a beer?”

  “I thought you were just being polite when you suggested it,” Monica confessed.

  “No, it was genuine. I told you: I miss talking to you.”

  “Me, too. Another time, then.”

  “Yup.”

  The cab pulled up in front of Eric’s apartment first. He leaned forward, paying the driver the fare plus enough to cover the trip to Monica’s and a tip.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” she called after him as he slid out of the cab.

  “Wanted to,” he said, heading into his building.

  “Thanks,” she said, but she wasn’t sure he heard her.

  She settled back against the patched and torn leather seat of the cab as it pulled away from the curb smoothly.

  “Nice guy,” the cabdriver noted in a thick West Indian accent.

  “Very nice,” Monica agreed, confusion enveloping her. No job, no boyfriend . . . one not her choice, the other very much her choice. She shook her head as if to jar her muddled mind back into a state of clarity. Go home, go to bed, wake up tomorrow, face the day, and take your time to figure it all out. For now, that’s all she could do.

  “Have you seen these?”

  There was no mistaking the jubilation in Theresa’s voice as she directed Monica’s attention to the pile of newspapers atop her desk, where she’d laid out issues of the New York Post, the New York Sentinel, the Daily News, and Newsday. All four featured photos of Eric and Monica leaving Met Gar after last night’s game, the accompanying copy rife with speculation. Monica studied the pictures. It was weird to see herself and Eric together and think back to those months when their “relationship” was a calculated ruse.

  “Great coverage.” Theresa shut the papers, beaming at Monica, who had taken a seat across the desk. “I’m so glad you guys are back together.”

  “We’re not.”

  Theresa’s face fell. “What do you mean, you’re not?”

  “I went to a game last night. That’s all.”

  Theresa sat down, beating out a slow rhythm on her desk with a pencil. “So what were you two doing together after the game?”

  “Catching a cab back uptown together. We’re friends.”

  “Friends. Interesting.” Theresa paused, furrowing her brows. “Don’t let anyone know that.”

  “What?”

  “Keep the speculation going. It will keep people interested.”

  “Oh, I will, believe me. I need the attention more than ever.”

  Theresa’s ears pricked up. “Why is that?”

  Monica hesitated.

  “Spill it,” Theresa commanded. “I’m your publicist.”

  “You have to swear you won’t tell anyone, especially Michael.”

  “I swear on the heads of my three beloved children. Now start talking.”

  “I’ve been let go from the show,” said Monica, surprised to find herself tearing up. “Roxie is being killed by a zombie next Friday. My departure will be officially announced the following Monday.”

  Theresa’s mouth fell open so wide you could have fit a baseball inside. “You’re kidding me.”

  Monica gave her a withering look. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “But you’re the main reason people watch that show.”

  “You worked for the soaps. You know how it goes.”

  “They’re jumping the shark,” Theresa declared knowingly. “Ratings must be slipping.”

  “They are, but I don’t think that’s why I was let go,” said Monica, trying not to sound as bitter as she was feeling. “The show’s new little ingénue is sleeping with the show’s new executive producer. She put the bug in his ear to get rid of me so she could be front and center, and voilà! It’s bye-bye, Monica Geary.”

  “Who’s the new executive producer?”

  “Christian Larkin.”

  A gurgle of disgust came from the back of Theresa’s throat. “He’s a world-renowned asshole.” She sat back, tenting her slim fingers thoughtfully. “You need to be in the public eye more than ever. I’d suggest you keep seeing Eric and accept any interview request about your departure.”

  “No problem.” What else do I have to do? It was becoming the sad refrain of her life.

  Theresa looked pleased. “Good girl. As for you and Eric, you know the drill: smile and ‘no comment’ your head off.” Theresa paused. “Actually, you might want to hold hands every once in a while. Above all, keep going to the team’s home games.”

  Monica narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Because everyone thinks you’re their good luck charm. Go to the games, and we’ve got a chance for coverage from the sports reporters as well as the entertainment writers and gossip columnists.”

  “Did Michael tell you about the cutout?”

  “Yes.” Theresa chortled. “That was really brilliant, Monica, I have to say. I was so tempted to plant a piece about it, but I knew you’d kill me.”

  “Kill doesn’t even begin to describe it.” She wondered if Theresa knew about the boob-touching pregame ritual. Probably not, and Monica wasn’t about to tell her, either. She didn’t want to get Michael into trouble.

  “So, you keep the public guessing,” Theresa recapped, “and I will, too, giving the usual ‘My clients have no comment at this time’ line. I’ll talk to Lou Capesi and Eric about this, too, so we’re all on the same page.”

  “That would be great. Just make sure you tell Eric this new teasing of the media was your idea, okay? I don’t want him thinking I came up with it.”

  Theresa looked baffled but shrugged. “Okay. Whatever you want. Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know.” Monica felt miserable all of a sudden. “I’ll get another acting gig, right?” She hated the way she needed to get reassurance from everyone she talked to. What was next? Asking the doorman his opinion?

  Theresa looked at her worriedly. “Is that a serious question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you will. Why don’t you just enjoy your downtime, try to relax? And if you do anything interesting and press worthy, let me know, okay? So I can keep your name and face out there.”

  “You’re a doll, Theresa.”

  “Hey, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. Now get out of here. And don’t forget: the Blades have a game on Friday night.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Not only for herself, but for Eric.

  “Okay, let me make sure I can wrap my head around this.”

  Eric looked like he had a headache as he stared at Monica over a cup of coffee at Starbucks. He’d called and asked her to meet him after hearing from Theresa. Their simply sitting together was generating interest; Monica could see it: people glancing at them, people putting their heads together, whispering. She supposed she should have called Theresa, but it was too early in the morning.

  “W
e want the public to think we’re back together . . . maybe.”

  “Right,” said Monica. She leaned toward him. “And lower your voice.”

  Eric rubbed sleep from his eyes. “And we’re doing this because—?”

  “I need the PR. Especially after all the hubbub dies down about you-know-what.” It was T-minus one day until the show aired where Roxie was killed.

  “Mmm.” Eric took a long slug of coffee. “So, what are we, exactly?”

  Monica blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Are we back together in some weird way?”

  “I—we’re friends,” Monica said quickly, her heart beginning to pick up speed.

  “So it’s totally fake. Like last time. I mean, the first time.”

  “I guess.” Confusion was beginning to nibble at her synapses again.

  Eric ran his hand through his hair, a gesture Monica loved because he looked kind of sexy when he did it. “This would be real easy if I wasn’t still in love with you.” He blew out a deep breath. “Real, fake—I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Please.” Monica slid her hand across the table and put it on top of his. “Please do it for me.”

  Eric’s gaze sharpened. “I feel like I’m doing a lot for you lately.”

  Scalded, Monica slid her hand away from his. “You are,” she admitted sheepishly.

  “How about you do something for me, then?”

  “Okay,” Monica said cautiously.

  “Tell me how you feel about me.”

  Monica’s gaze dropped to the table. “It’s complicated.”

  “Try,” Eric demanded.

  “I care about you,” Monica said softly. “I just don’t know how to define it right now.”

  Eric snorted. “Oh, that’s rich.”

  “What? What’s your problem?”

  “When we were together and I said I didn’t know how to define things, you tore me a new one, telling me I was scared to.”

  “You were scared,” Monica countered vehemently. “Look, do you have any idea what a state I’m in right now about being written off the show? I can’t think straight about anything, including you. Is that definitive enough for you?”

  “No, actually. I want to know if any of your caring for me includes romantic feelings.”

  “Yes,” Monica admitted reluctantly. “But I can’t go down that road right now, Eric. I just can’t. I need us to be just friends for now.”

  “Fine,” Eric said, looking somewhat mollified. “As long as I know I still have a shot, I can deal with this latest charade.”

  Monica winced. “I wish you wouldn’t use that word.”

  “What would you prefer we call it?”

  “A mutually beneficial arrangement?” Monica offered tentatively, remembering the phrase they used way back when this whole thing began.

  Eric frowned. “Fine. Mutually beneficial arrangement, take two.”

  “This wasn’t my idea, you know,” Monica felt compelled to add. “It was Theresa’s.”

  “So she said.”

  Monica heaved a sigh of relief. Theresa hadn’t forgotten. She didn’t look as desperate as she felt.

  Eric drained his cup, and stood. “You’ll be at the game tonight?”

  “Can’t. I’m having dinner with Gloria.”

  Eric looked mildly disconcerted. “I guess we’ll have to make do with cardboard Monica.”

  Monica frowned. “I’m sure you’ll survive.” They began walking out of Starbucks together. “Do you feel better now that we’ve talked?”

  “I guess. It’s still an extremely fucked-up situation, if you ask me.”

  “Not as bad as a soap opera, though.” They paused on the corner. “Will you be watching tomorrow?”

  “We’ve got a team meeting tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll be watching together in the Green Room. I kind of wish I didn’t know.” Eric checked his watch. “I’ve gotta fly. Call me to let me know when our next fake rendezvous will be, okay?” He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

  Monica nodded, watching as he ducked into a cab. She waited until it was far enough down the avenue to touch the spot on her cheek where he’d briefly pressed his lips. He was right: the situation was absurdly complicated. But at least he still seemed willing to wait for her to sort her own feelings out. A lot of other guys wouldn’t. But Eric Mitchell, it had finally dawned on her, wasn’t like other guys.

  THIRTY

  Stunned silence reigned over the Blades as Friday’s episode of W and F ended with a close-up of Roxie’s lifeless body on the floor. No one moved, even as the show’s flowery theme music began playing over the credits. Even though Eric knew what was coming, he could barely breathe as Father Chessler squeezed the life out of Roxie, her eyes bulging, her body flailing, until she slumped lifelessly to the floor. Looking like a zombie himself, Thad switched off the TV.

  Tully broke the silence. “No way she’s dead. No way. We’ll find out Monday she’s just unconscious or something.”

  Eric heard sniffles in the back of the room and turned. Ulf was wiping his nose with his knuckle. “Are you crying, you pussy?”

  Ulf’s head shot up. “No. It’s my allergies, you fuckwit.”

  Thad looked distraught as he began pacing the front of the room. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe they’d kill Roxie.”

  “It’s cold, man,” said Burke Dalton, shaking his head in total disbelief. “Totally cold. I can’t believe it.”

  “I know,” Thad said miserably. “What’s the point of watching now if Roxie isn’t on?”

  Eric made a mental note to tell Monica how upset all the Blades were over Roxie’s demise. He knew she’d love it; maybe it would help her get over her current insecurity.

  Broken men, they began filing out of the Green Room. Jason held Eric’s forearm to hold him back from the rest of the fray so they were walking some distance behind.

  “You have to know whether Roxie is really dead or not,” Jason wheedled in a low voice. “I swear I won’t tell a soul. Not even Delilah. I’m your twin brother, dude. We’re blood. You can’t hold out on me.”

  Eric glanced around to make sure there was no one else behind them. “Roxie’s dead,” he whispered.

  “God. Damn.” Jason exclaimed loudly. A couple of Blades turned around. “Sorry guys, I’m just upset,” Jason explained. Nodding, the players continued on their way.

  Stealthily turning back to Eric, Jason whispered, “Is that why you flew back to New York? Was Monica freaking out?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jason looked confused. “Are you guys back together?”

  “We’re friends,” Eric maintained flatly.

  “Haven’t you ever seen When Harry Met Sally? There’s no such thing as a man and woman just being friends, unless the guy is gay.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between us right now,” Eric muttered.

  Eric knew he and Monica weren’t strictly friends; they were in some weird limbo in between, one he hoped they’d get out of, though he had no idea if or when that might happen. Ambiguity wasn’t something Eric could deal with for long. He always knew what he wanted and was used to getting it, when he wanted it. Patience wasn’t his strong suit, despite declaring to Monica while wooing her that he would wait as long as it took to break through her defenses. He just hoped all his patience wasn’t in vain.

  “The ratings are in the toilet, and I’m thrilled.”

  Gloria looked positively gleeful as she stretched out languidly on Monica’s couch, relating what was going on at W and F. Three months had passed since Christian had let Monica go, yet she was getting more fan mail than ever. So was the show, apparently, angry letters pouring in by the thousands, informing the network that a boycott was being organized. It made Monica feel cherished, valued.

  Now that she’d lost her job, she realized what a gift the show had been. It had allowed her to do what she loved, and it entertained millions of people. There were strug
gling actors out there who would give anything to have the adulation, outlet for their creativity, and steady paycheck she’d taken for granted for ten years. She got sick to her stomach whenever she thought about how much time she’d wasted not appreciating what she had. She swore she’d never bad-mouth soaps again.

  “Have you been watching at all?” Gloria asked, swirling her Rob Roy in its glass. Monica wasn’t even sure what a Rob Roy was. Something her grandparents used to drink, she thought.

  “I caught a few episodes,” said Monica. “The one where Chesty’s character kills off the zombie king, and the other where she gives birth to Royce’s child.” Monica suppressed a smirk.

  “Go on, grin, you vain bitch,” Gloria urged. “I know you want to. The crew were trying hard not to laugh during both scenes. She’s a nightmare.”

  Monica grinned.

  “We all miss you terribly,” Gloria continued, looking miserable. “Royce doesn’t make rude comments to anyone anymore. Jimmy doesn’t even have the energy to yell; he’s a shell of his former, manic self. It’s just not the same.”

  “I miss you guys, too.” She’d always hated it when actors told the soap press that the others on the show were “family,” but now she knew it was true.

  Gloria eyed her critically. “You’ve been awfully tight-lipped about Mr. Mitchell.”

  “I know.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Monica sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  Gloria rolled her heavily lined eyes. “Honey, it’s always complicated.”

  “We’re doing the charade thing again, mainly to help me.”

  “But—?”

  “But I want it to be real.”

  “So make it real.”

  “I’m afraid. I don’t trust my own motives at this point. And I’m afraid he could turn around and hurt me again.” Monica bit her lip. “I’m going to wait a little while longer. Until I’m completely sure.”

  “What are you waiting for? The Rapture?”

  “The right time.”

  Gloria gave an exasperated sigh. “And how will you know when that is?”

  “I don’t know. I just will.” Monica wondered if she sounded crazy—or worse, immature. But she couldn’t help how she felt.