The Next Best Thing

by Jennifer Weiner

  I edged through the crowd, murmuring, “Excuse me.” Kids and hipsters and parents parted, eyeing me hopefully: Was I a producer? Maya’s new assistant? Someone worth flirting with or sucking up to? One of the moms, a streaked blonde whose spandex skirt strained over her hips, looked sharply at her towheaded son, who’d been staring at my face, until he gave me a lisping “Good afternoon.” A hipster offered me an American Spirit cigarette. I declined, unlocked my car, and took a seat behind the wheel with the phone against my ear.

  “I just watched Renée’s false eyelash fall into her cleavage,” I began. This had become my habit: I’d find an anecdote from my day, polish and smooth it until I deemed it Dave-worthy, and then have it ready for the next time we’d talk.

  “Lucky eyelash,” said Dave. “I got in touch with Cady’s people to set up the meeting.”

  “Ah. The meeting.” The one the network executives had promised us, so we’d at least get to say hello to the new star of our show before the pilot shoot began.

  “I’m sorry to say that the news is not good,” Dave continued. “She’s out of town for the next two weeks.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “Her manager was a little vague on that point.” I could tell, from his dry tone and the pause before he answered, that whatever Cady’s manager had told him hadn’t impressed him much. “The bottom line is, she’s in Hawaii, and she’s not coming back until the day before we’re scheduled to start shooting. The best they can do is make her available for a drink that night.”

  I tugged at my hair, thinking. The meeting, as I well knew, was a formality. Cady would be our star, even if she showed up for the first day’s filming having sustained a major head trauma and forgotten every word of English she’d ever known. But this bit of Cady’s-on-vacation nonsense was also the first move in the Hollywood game that everyone played, the game of Who’s Got the Power. Cady’s team telling us that she could give us only thirty minutes’ worth of her time less than twelve hours before we started taping was a preemptive strike, their way of letting us know that they mattered more than we did, that Cady’s plans and desires were more important than ours. It was their way of establishing the hierarchy without saying a word.

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  “We could push back,” Dave said. “We could tell them it’s not good enough and that she needs to get off the beach, get on a plane, and at least sit down for lunch.”

  “Hmm.” I wondered if I’d have to make that call or if I could get Dave to do it for me.

  “Or,” he continued, “we could let her win this round. Make her feel like she’s got the upper hand, then use it as leverage when we really need her to do something.”

  “I think that’s the way to go,” I said, imagining what it would be like to start filming the pilot with a star who was already resentful about a vacation she’d had to cut short. Still, it was confusing. What exactly was Cady on vacation from? Wasn’t her whole life a vacation? She had to have made plenty of money from All Our Tomorrows. If I were her, I’d spend my whole life going from spa to spa and beach to beach, with a retinue of friends and camp followers. I’d swim, and loll in the sunshine, and read all the classics I’d skipped in college . . . and probably be bored after three weeks, buy a laptop, and start writing something else. I knew myself well enough to know that I was not a girl made for lying around on beaches. I liked being busy, and I loved to write, and I’d panic about the money running out, no matter how much of it there was.

  “I agree,” said Dave. “Let her win the battles, as long as we win the wars. I’ll let her pick the place and the time, and Bradley will go ahead and set it up. Unless you hired an assistant?”

  “I’m getting there,” I said. In fact, I’d been completely daunted by the stack of résumés the studio had sent to my apartment. Every single person who’d applied to be my assistant was at least as qualified to run my show as I was, and many of them were more qualified. Most of them had gone to film school. They’d all had at least one assistantship, some to big-shot directors or successful showrunners, and although nobody was foolish enough to put his or her age on a résumé, I could do the math and guess that at least half of the candidates were older than I was. My plan was to pick three finalists, interview them all, and then hire the one who intimidated me the least, and be as generous to him or her as the Daves had been to me.

  “Don’t wait too long,” Dave said. “You don’t want all of the good ones to be taken.”

  “No, no, I’ll find someone. And I’m going to help her, like you guys helped me,” I said. I could feel my throat getting tight, and I was glad that I was in my car, with the windows up and the doors locked and the air conditioner humming noiselessly, instead of with Dave, trying to say this to his face. “I don’t think I could ever tell you how grateful I am—”

  “Hey,” he said, cutting me off. “Give yourself some credit. This is all you. Dave and I might have sped things along a little bit, but this was going to happen eventually. You’re talented, and the script’s good.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and swallowed, and wished for some knitting, something to do with my hands. Then I reminded myself of the email I’d seen, the picture of Shazia on Dave’s lap. I adore you. You’re my girl. I opened my purse and started rounding up stray receipts and gum wrappers, untwisting strands of hair from the ponytail holders I used when I swam, gathering breath mints and business cards as Dave talked through the scheduling. We’d have a week of preproduction, when we’d fine-tune the script, and the carpenters and painters and set dressers would build and furnish and decorate our sets, and we’d handle the thousand other chores that came along with getting a show on its feet. We’d have to have music written and approved, or buy the rights to existing songs, which could get expensive. The network would have to sign off on our casting, not just of the main roles but of anyone who had a single line, all the extras, and the clothes that every single person who appeared on camera would wear. There would be dozens of people to hire—everyone from the line producer and set designer to the caterer and the warmup comic. We’d work together for a single intense week—two days of rehearsal, a run-through apiece for the studio and the network before we finally shot the pilot. Then the crew would disband, I would go home, and all of us would wait for the network’s verdict.

  “One more thing,” said Dave.

  “What’s that?”

  “I heard from the network about rewrites.”

  “Oh?” My heart was pounding again, even though I’d been planning on revising the script to the network’s specifications, making whatever changes they required. It was what you did, the price you paid for getting on the air . . . but I was terrified to hear what they’d want from me.

  “Nothing too big,” he told me. “It’s just that, instead of finding out through dialogue about Nana Trudy’s boyfriend moving into assisted living, they want to see that scene. That was their biggest note.”

  “Hmm.” In addition to more writing, adding this new scene they’d asked for would require building a new set, and casting actors to play the boyfriend and the boyfriend’s sons. “I don’t suppose they’re going to give me any more money?”

  Dave gave a quiet, not unsympathetic chuckle. “Oh, grasshopper,” he said. “You have much to learn. Anyhow, Lloyd—you remember him? The one who was Joan’s assistant until about ten minutes ago?”

  “The one who looks like he’s twelve?” I asked, which earned me another chuckle.

  “That’s the fellow. He wrote up some notes. I think he might have actually taken a stab at writing the whole scene.” Dave would never insult one of his corporate masters directly—he left that to Big Dave, who could insult his corporate masters all day long, using combinations of words and gestures I’d never imagined—but Little Dave’s tone made it very clear what he thought of Lloyd’s efforts.

  “Well, send it along,” I said. I tried to sound brave and cheerful, but I must have sounded sad or tired because Dave a
sked, “Hey, Ruthie, are you holding up okay?” His voice was so kind that I just blurted it out.

  “My grandma’s getting married.”

  “Wow,” he said. “That’s big news.”

  I nodded, feeling weepy and bewildered, wanting nothing more than to rub my eyes with my bunched fists and maybe take a nap in the sunshine.

  “When’s the wedding?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I cleared my throat, excused myself, and then said, “I don’t know if they’ve gotten that far.”

  “Ah.” There was a brief pause, and then Dave went back to the schedule, the meetings with potential line producers and directors of photography, the game of phone tag it would surely take to set up drinks with Cady. “Hang in there,” he said. “I’ll see you soon.” I hung up the phone, rubbed my face, groaned out loud, hoping no one could hear me, and then went back into Maya’s little office, where the next half-dozen hopefuls were waiting anxiously for their turn in front of the camera.

  ELEVEN

  I realized I was in love with Dave Carter on the Warner Bros. lot. The Daves were taking a meeting with Vincent Raymer, a producer who up until five years ago had run a network. After three dismal seasons he’d been fired and moved to Umbria, where he’d spent a few years growing and bottling his own olive oil. Eventually he’d returned to Los Angeles as a producer, developing his own shows and hoping that the newer, younger network president would look upon them with favor. Normally the Daves stayed away from outside producers, preferring to dream up and develop their own ideas, but Vince had been persistent, calling and emailing for weeks, telling me that he just needed five minutes of the Daves’ time. Out of respect to the power Vince Raymer had once wielded, and because he’d told them, via email, that he had “something that I think you guys will really spark to,” they’d agreed to a sit-down.

  As usual, I’d called ahead to ask about parking arrangements and whether the offices we’d be visiting were handicapped-accessible, explaining, in the event that whoever on the other end of the phone didn’t know, that Dave Carter used a wheelchair (that, I’d learned, was the preferred language—used a wheelchair as opposed to was in a wheelchair). Vince’s assistant, Alice, who turned out to be a pudgy, pale, freckled young woman with lopsided eyes and a collection of too-short Ann Taylor sweater dresses, assured me in a hostile drone that we’d have nothing to worry about.

  “Have you ever had anyone who used a wheelchair in your office?” I’d asked, and she’d sighed as if I’d just asked her to pack up her boss’s entire wardrobe and have it shipped to Oahu for the weekend (a task that I myself had performed in my own early days on The Girls’ Room) and said, “I have no idea. I’ve only been here for six weeks.”

  And I doubt you’ll last six more, I thought. “Could you please check? It’s important.” She sighed again and promised that she would . . . but she hadn’t called me back, and my three messages, two emails, and one text had all gone unanswered. According to the blueprints I’d found online, though, the building we’d be visiting had been built in 1953 and completely overhauled in the late 1990s, which meant that it should be fine.

  Vince Raymer had an office befitting his former stature as head of a network, an expansive suite of rooms furnished with antiques, the walls hung with posters from the greatest hits of his network tenure. The floors were covered with Oriental rugs, and fresh flowers stood on the end tables. Instead of fluorescent lights, he’d installed chandeliers, and he’d mounted some kind of animal’s bleached skull on the wall behind his desk. After waters had been offered and accepted, I took my place on the couch, and Alice, who gave off a vibe of barely suppressed hostility, plopped down beside me with a sigh. When we were all seated and waiting, a door toward the back of the office swung open, and Vince himself, an elfin man whose beard and cowboy boots and ears were all pointed, walked to the center of the room and held up a hand in the universal gesture for Stop!, waiting for silence. Once the room had gone quiet, he inflated his chest and, in a low and resonant voice, spoke two words: “Time-share.”

  We stared at him.

  “Time-share,” he repeated. “What do you think?”

  “About time-shares?” Big Dave ventured.

  “About a show called Time-Share,” Vince said. “We take all the people who own a piece of a time-share in Florida. Or the Bahamas. Wherever. Doesn’t matter. Those are our characters. We tell their stories.”

  “From the perspective of the time-share?” Big Dave asked, and the producer, apparently unaware that he was being teased, said, “Sure, if that’s how you see it! The condo becomes a character! I love it!”

  I bent my head, squeezing my legs together, hoping that, if anyone noticed, they’d think I was shaking because of some kind of gastric distress and not laughter.

  “There could be a married couple that buys into the timeshare as a last-ditch effort to save their marriage,” Vince said. “And maybe an older woman . . . well, not too old, maybe she’s thirty-five, but she’s widowed, and her husband died in the timeshare, and maybe his ghost is haunting it.”

  “A nighttime soap,” said Little Dave.

  “With a supernatural twist,” said the producer. “Or, really, whatever you want. I just saw the time-share itself as, you know, the unifying thematic element.” He rocked back on his heels, looking pleased with himself.

  “What about continuity?” said Big Dave. “Is it a different story every week? Is it episodic? Because every week there’d be a different family in the time-share.”

  Vince frowned. “I hadn’t really thought of that.” He frowned some more, stroking his beard. “Tell you the truth, I hadn’t really thought a lot beyond the title.” He brightened. “But it’s a great title, isn’t it? Time-Share. It practically pitches itself!”

  “I can see the poster,” Big Dave said, and, with his big hands, sketched rectangle in the air. “Time-Share: The Times They Share.”

  I bent over again, biting my lip, shaking with laughter. Beside me, Alice yawned. I looked over and saw that she was busy tapping at her BlackBerry. Closer scrutiny revealed that she was playing FarmVille on Facebook. I mentally revised my estimate of how long she’d last on the lot from six weeks down to four.

  “I bet we could get Moira Callahan,” the producer said.

  “For what?” asked Big Dave.

  “For whatever part you write,” said Vince. “The network’s got a holding deal, and, you know, her last two shows died in development.” He paused. “Dead in Development. You think that’s a show, too?” He glanced at the couch, apparently noticing for the first time that his assistant was not assisting. “Alice, can you write that down?” The slug next to me sighed, put down her phone, and picked up a notebook.

  The Daves and Vince spent ten minutes kicking ideas around. Maybe the time-share is actually a wormhole leading to other dimensions. Maybe an older woman left it to her young niece and nephew, who have to pretend to be married to live there. Maybe there’s an evil developer who wants to tear down the time-share to make way for a shopping mall, and the residents have to band together to stop him. I scribbled down notes, knowing they’d amuse the Daves the next time they took me to lunch. Time-Share: The Times They Share.

  Finally, the meeting sputtered to a halt. “We’ll be in touch,” said Big Dave.

  Vince waved grandly. “I look forward to it.” Hands were shaken; goodbyes were said. Lumpy Alice heaved herself off the couch and bent to gather up the water glasses. Big Dave zoomed away in his sports car to go look at a new sports car, and I began the trek to my Prius, which I’d been directed to park on the lowest level of the farthest-away parking structure. I was about halfway across the lot when my telephone rang, and I saw that it was Little Dave calling.

  “Hello?”

  For the first time in our acquaintance, Dave sounded flustered. “Hello. Ruth. Have you left yet?”

  “No, I’m still here. Are you okay?” I said.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just
sort of . . . stuck.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the men’s room, at the end of the hall. Same floor we were on. I’ve been waiting for someone to come get me unstuck, but I think everyone’s gone to lunch.”

  “Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Take your time,” Dave said. I hung up, stashed my phone, and started trotting back across the lot, stopping to pull off my heels and trade them for the flip-flops I had in my bag. I’d dressed in what had become my work uniform—jeans and a T-shirt, for comfort, with a blazer on top, for polish, and a scarf around my neck and a hat on my head, for camouflage. In my mind, I was composing the letter I’d send to that idiot assistant who’d assured me that, oh, fer shur, the building was just fine for a man in a wheelchair. The nerve of her, I thought as I race-walked to the end of the hall, where, just as he’d said, Dave’s wheelchair had gotten wedged in the doorway to the men’s room.

  I came up behind him, trying not to pant. “Hi.”

  “Ah,” he said. “The cavalry.” He sounded the way you’d expect a man stuck in a bathroom door to sound—stressed and embarrassed and trying to sound brave. I wondered how badly he needed the bathroom. Then I wondered how, exactly, Dave used the bathroom. Like normal people? With a catheter? Some system I’d never even considered? “Thank you for coming back.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. It was no problem. So, um . . .”

  “I think,” he said, “if you just gave me a good push, I’d make it.”