“Here you go,” said Corinne, handing me the papers. I put them all together in a bunch and stuffed them back into my folder.
“Thanks Corinne,” I said, feeling my heart melt.
“Hey listen,” she said, standing back up and looking down at me in my chair. “I had a question about the script.”
“Shoot,” I said, trying to get back into professional mode. But I must admit it was difficult with Corinne standing there in front of me. I couldn’t believe I was this smitten, this starstruck. It wasn’t my style. I squirmed in my seat.
“This ‘Let’s see what she’s packing’ line,” said Corinne, touching her lips with her finger as she considered it. “Where do you want the emphasis? I mean, I don’t normally like to ask for line reads, of course, but I’m not really that familiar with comedy.” She smiled pleasantly and attentively at me.
“Oh,” I mused. “Um, well, put an emphasis on ‘she’s,’” I said. “Every time you say it, put the emphasis there. The joke is that you have bigger boobs than the other character. Get lurid with it.”
“Ah,” she said. “Got it.”
“Are you cool with these jokes?” I asked hesitantly. “You know, the sexism? The focus on your body?” I shrugged and flattened my mouth, as though I were saying ‘whataya gonna do?’
“Well, yeah,” said Corinne like I was being daft. “First, they’re just jokes. I don’t think there’s really anything you shouldn’t be able to joke about. And second, well,” she said, thinking about it. “I mean, everybody talks about my chest and if we didn’t mention it, the audience would think we were purposefully avoiding it, like I was ashamed or something.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“And I’m not ashamed,” said Corinne, smiling happily. “This is who I am.”
“You got it together, Holmstrom,” I said, like I were her sports coach.
“Thanks Bloom,” she said, leaning down and lightly punching me on the shoulder.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “That smarts!” Corinne laughed at me and then I looked away, slightly embarrassed but joyous that I could cause her to laugh.
“I’m really loving this experience,” she admitted. “I knew I would, but being here, like, really being on the set of This Saturday, it’s totally nuts.”
“Bah,” I said, waving my hand at her. “The shine wears off after a couple weeks. You’re lucky you’re only here for a short time.”
“I could see that,” she said with a laugh.
“I just thought of something,” I said, tapping my chin. “Maybe we could work you into a spot on News Week Update.”
“Oh God,” grinned Corinne. “That would be so much fun. What are you thinking?”
“You could be, like, a really snarky Hollywood blogger or something,” I said. “Just dish about celebrities in a really catty way.”
“I could get behind that,” she said.
“Start thinking of a list of your celebrity friends,” I said. “The ones who can take a joke. Write them down and give the list to Bernie and we’ll try to come up with something.”
“So I’ll be making fun of my friends?” Corinne asked, wide eyed.
“Totally,” I said. “Is that cool?
“It’s hilarious,” she said. “Tab, you’re awesome. This show is awesome.”
“No, you’re awesome!” I said teasingly.
“Let’s get back to work!” I heard Clyde’s voice say over my headset. My eyes darted up to Corinne’s.
“Looks like Clyde wants you back,” I said, motioning with my finger. Corinne turned around and saw that the rest of the cast was taking their places on stage again.
“Oh!” she said excitedly. “Super. Thanks Tab! You’re the best.” Corinne leaned over and squeezed my shoulder lightly, unsuccessfully trying to conceal her wild smile, and then made her way back toward the stage. I watched as she moved, her butt pumped back and forth underneath the light denim as her legs carried her. She was driving me mad. I didn’t know what to think. Was she coming on to me? Or was Bernie right? I felt like my brain was scattered.
“Places!” I heard Clyde call through my headset. Corinne was just lovely up there on the stage. She exuded glee. It was contagious.
*
Saturday night. Sunday now, actually. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as the show came to an end. The sketches were all finished and we were just about to return from commercial break for Corinne’s final “thank you” and the cast was beginning to congregate on stage along with the musical guest and his band. I watched as the neon sign returned to a glowing “On Air” and our house band began playing the closing music. Corinne was given her cue to speak by a director as the cast stood behind her.
“Wow,” mused Corinne, grinning out into the audience. “Thanks This Saturday for the amazing experience, thanks to the wonderful cast, thanks to Brutus Constantine!” she exclaimed, leaning over and hugging Brutus, the musical guest, as the audience’s applause grew. “Thanks to George and Clyde and Tab and everyone behind the scenes. This was awesome! Goodnight everybody!”
The music grew louder and the live audience cheered as Corinne turned around and started to hug the various cast members, everybody milling about, talking, shaking hands, embracing. It was over. Another show in the can. This part of the week was probably the most relaxing for me, as there was nothing more we could do. The credits were rolling over everybody’s TV screens at home. If the sketches hit they hit, if they missed, well, we tried to forget about them.
“Good show,” hummed George as he saddled up next to me to watch the ending. “Bit of a sagging middle, but you know, good.”
“I aims to please!” I said in a silly voice. George looked at me smugly and then widened his eyes, before turning and walking off. That was the kind of joke he liked to tell.
Once we were finally off air for the night, the audience offered the cast one more round of applause before they were prompted to begin filing out. My feet stayed glued to where I was standing, just simply watching the scene continuing to unfold on stage. Corrine was grinning happily, still chatting with the cast, just looking like a wonderful glowing angel of awesomeness.
“Stop drooling,” I heard Bernie say, his figure suddenly appearing to my side. “You’re a nut job.”
“That may be true,” I said. “But I’m telling you, Bern, there’s something there.”
“If Corinne Holmstrom is going to go for another woman,” said Bern. “It’s going to be the bass player in Brutus Constantine’s band. Did you see that chick? Stunning.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said wistfully, still watching Corinne. “I’m pretty attuned to these things, pretty intuitive.”
“Your gaydar is twerking?” asked Bernie with a sarcastic grin.
“Twerking?” I said. “Are you asking if my gaydar’s butt is moving in some sort of gravity defying bounce?”
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know how to answer that, Bernard,” I said.
“Truthfully,” he countered.
“I—“ I said, interrupting myself and looking over at him with confusion on my face. “No, we’re done.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “Still, I think you’re wrong about Corinne. Do you see how she’s talking to Kyle over there?”
“Hold on,” I said, quickly removing my glasses, wiping the lenses off with my shirt, and then pushing them back on my face. “Okay, where?”
“Over there,” said Bernie, pointing. “She’s totally flirting with Kyle. Does it mean she’s interested in him? Probably not. But he’s a good looking guy and the two of them are laughing and chatting. I think she’s straight, Tab.”
“Hmm,” I mused.
“Do you see how she touched his arm?” asked Bernie as the two of us intently watched Corinne and Kyle interact up on stage. “And the light giggle? And Kyle, well Kyle’s obviously trying to catch a look down her cleavage.”
“Right,” I said.
“Ugh,” I groaned. “I think you’re right. I’m just reading too much into her flirty nature. She didn’t become a famous Hollywood starlet by being a wallflower.”
“No,” said Bernie. “That’s how you become a writer on a sketch comedy show.”
“Bernie!” I whined, stomping my feet like I was throwing a tantrum. “I wanna get laid!” I turned from Bernie now and started to walk away from him.
“Are you coming out for drinks?” he called after me.
“Ugh!” I exclaimed. “Yes!”
*
After every This Saturday show, much of the cast and crew went out for late night drinks with the guests to celebrate. It had become a tradition and, to let you in on a little secret, it had become the downfall of some of our more infamous former cast members. When your high profile job puts a big seal of approval on late night partying, well, some people really take that to heart. The bartenders at Domaine de la Haille, the French bistro restaurant we frequented, had surely seen some shit.
I tended to behave myself, as I always planned to get ahead of my workload on Sundays. Planned being the operative word. More often than not I slept in too late, mainlined coffee all morning, and binged on bad cooking competition shows until I noticed the sun was beginning to set. Still, I limited my drinking while out with the cast in the off chance that maybe, just maybe, I’d get some quality writing in the next morning.
We all got loud and jovial on a long table in the middle of the restaurant. Lucky for us, the restaurant closed at midnight but remained open for us so that we could party in peace. Cast and crew members would invite their friends and family along, as would the guests, all while the show picked up the tab. Usually George only made a quick appearance, preferring to remain a bit of a mystery, and would sneak out after congratulating the guests on a show well done. Rarely was the feeling of the afterparty gloomy, even if a show had gone wrong. The afterparty was an excuse to celebrate a good show, or say farewell to a bad show.
I checked my watch and noted that it was coming on 3AM. The party was still going strong but I felt the compulsion to leave. It was usually the younger cast members that liked to really go at it. At 34, I’d pretty much exhausted my tank of party gas. Bernie had already left and although I dreamed of talking with Corinne, she was quite obviously the center of attention and I didn’t even attempt to butt in to that mess.
Once I finally decided that I was done, I pushed my chair back and began to stand. I lifted my blazer from the back of the chair and slipped my arms through it, amid the conviviality and merriment still going on at the table and all around me. I then picked up my purse and slung it over my shoulder, turned, and saw Corinne standing there right in front of me.
“You’re not leaving, Tab, are you?” she grinned, lightly shaking her glass of red wine at me.
“How many of those have you had?” I asked, pointing to her glass. Corinne looked down at it and laughed. She leaned in closer to my ear and spoke up in a whisper.
“It’s grape juice,” she said, giggling to herself.
“What?” I said. “Really?”
“I don’t really drink,” she said. “Do you know how hard it is to stay in shape for Hollywood if you drink? Oh my God, if I’m trying to get fit for a movie, ugh, my diet is just a joke!”
“Does anybody else know you’re just drinking grape juice?” I said with a wry smile.
“Nope,” she said. “Just the bartender. Nobody really cares. They just want to believe you’re drinking. That’s all they care about.”
“Nice trick,” I said. “I’ve been nursing a gin and tonic for an hour and I’m ready to call it a night.”
“No way, Tab,” Corinne half-whined. “C’mon, let’s get to know each other better.” She raised her free hand up and gave the sleeve of my blazer a tug.
No matter what Bernie had said to me, no matter what kind of smart guy logic he used, it still seemed to me that Corinne was showing off her interest in me. If you had asked me before I met the girl whether I thought she was a lesbian or not, I’d have told you most certainly that she wasn’t. You see her portrayed on screen as a sexpot that the guys drool over, she seems straight. But in person, there was just this vibe she was giving me, something emanating from her that said, “hey, idiot, I like vag.”
“This is my time to hang out at the infamous cast party for This Saturday,” continued Corinne. “I may never get this opportunity again, Tab. Would you deny me the occasion to hang out with this institutional show’s head writer?”
“Well, seeing as you just literally pulled my arm,” I said, trailing off, averting my eyes.
“Yay!” exclaimed Corinne. “Let’s get a booth. Grab your drink!”
“It’s mostly water at this point,” I said, reaching down to the table to pick up my half-full rocks glass.
Corinne and I slid into a booth opposite each other off in the corner of the room. By this time in the night, the cast was usually done grilling the guest and instead focusing on their own drunken buffoonery. All the more reasonable staff had flitted off for the night, leaving just the party animals and whoever they happened to bring along. The restaurant would usually kick them out around 5AM, automatically charging George’s credit card and tipping out the staff without any of us doing anything. If I told you how much these bills came to on any given Saturday, you’d probably soil yourself.
Taking a long sip of her grape juice, Corinne sighed and relaxed down into the booth. She grinned across the table at me, smiling wide, looking as though she wanted me to speak first.
“So,” I said, searching for some sort of icebreaking comment. “Was it all you expected?”
“And more,” she said. “I can see how it could become addicting, being on live television like that. I mean, you’re so in the moment, simultaneously worried you’re going to screw up a line and just loving being in front of the audience, those cameras.”
“You did great,” I admitted, holding my drink on the table with both of my hands. “You didn’t screw up once. Not like Wes,” I said. “That guy constantly breaks up during a scene, he’s so easy to laugh.”
“He almost threw me off!” Corinne exclaimed. “I almost lost it when Wes, as the chef in my singing waitress sketch, cracked up and flubbed his line.”
“Live TV,” I said with a grin.
“It doesn’t help that the audience cracks up when Wes cracks up,” she said. “Man, that was a brutal moment for me!”
“You killed it, though,” I said. “You’re a natural.”
“Thanks Tab,” Corinne smiled. That smile wouldn’t leave her face as she demurred, eyes looking down into her drink. She looked absolutely ravishing to me, even as the clock ticked on late into the night. Her blonde hair was immaculate with light curls, she wore an incredibly sexy little black dress, a big chunky necklace hanging down her chest. Corinne looked like a million bucks which I sure was selling her bank account just a bit short.
“Hey Corinne?” I said, searching for my words. Maybe I was just starting to get a little overtired or loopy, causing a loss of inhibitions. Maybe it was the half gin and tonic I drank, though probably not. Or maybe it was my curiosity getting the better of me. But in that moment, I felt like it might be appropriate to pry Corinne for, you know, information.
“Mmm?” she intoned, looking eager to talk with me.
“So Bernie and I are having this argument,” I said. “Not an argument, just a little bet, that maybe you could help settle.”
“All right,” she said with fire in her eyes. “I like it already. What can I do?”
“Okay, um,” I began, trying to be sly but knowing full well that I wasn’t very sly. “So, we’re trying to determine which hand you bat with,” I said. Corinne’s brow raised with interest. “Are you, uh, left handed like me? Or, you know, right handed… like Bernie?”
“You are so funny,” mused Corinne, looking across the
table at me a desirous glance. “Funny lady.”
“Or maybe you don’t even like baseball at all,” I said, suddenly feeling like I should abort my mission. “Maybe you’re more into tennis or something, I don’t know.”
“No,” said Corinne with a subtle laugh. “I like baseball.”
“Oh, hmm,” I hummed. “All right.”
“Look,” she said, a seriousness coming over her face. “First, you have to understand something about me. I take my job really seriously.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“And my job is being a sexy actress,” she said. “I’m in movies a lot of times to, quite frankly, be eye candy.”
“I’m aware,” I said with a single nod. Corinne chuckled.
“I’m the beautiful heroine who the male lead sweats after,” she said. “I’m not dumb. This is the role I play. And, honestly, I’m paid pretty well for it.”
“Right,” I said, trying to make her feel comfortable, like I was listening.
“So my personal life, in a way, needs to reflect my on-screen life,” she admitted. I could tell there was a bit of sadness in her face as she said this. “I’m sure you know that a lot of celebrities’ personal lives are carefully crafted by PR managers and such.”
“Oh yeah,” I said with fake authoritative obviousness. “My PR guy has told me, Tab, you’re killing it with the geeky writer spazz thing. Don’t drop that act!”
“Is that right?” said Corinne, tickled by my joke. “It all makes sense now.”
“This is just a costume I wear to maintain appearances,” I said. “I’m in the same boat as you, girl.”
“So you’ll understand,” Corinne said, continuing on in her seriousness. “That if I tell you something about my personal life, well, you can’t tell anybody else. Not even Bernie,” she said.
“Right, right, right,” I mused, scratching at my chin as I considered it.
“Because, you know, if it got out to the public,” said Corinne. “It could damage my reputation, as unfortunate as that is, and cause casting directors to look at me a different way and possibly hurt my chances of landing certain roles.”
Sweetheart Starlet: A Sweet Lesbian Romance Page 3
