by Jordan Cooke
“Naw, Cor—it was two tons o’ fun. I’m just real sorry I went missing there at the end. Not cool!”
“Yeah,” said Corliss, still hurt that she had to travel home alone in Uncle Ross’s Bentley with the driver asking her where her date had gone. “I was kinda wondering about that . . .”
“Well, see, I went to the restroom and got into this long discussion with Jack Osbourne, who was in the stall next to me. Apparently, he’s just as much into Star Wars as I am!”
“Wow,” said Corliss, not knowing what to say. “That sounds really interesting.”
“It was! But next thing I knew, I came out and you were gone. I feel like a Class-A bonehead. Is there any way I can make it up to you?”
Corliss studied JB’s expression. He looked sincere enough. In fact, he looked pretty cute this morning in his faded Le Tigre polo and his madras shorts. She quickly asked herself what Uncle Ross would do. Forgive and forget, came the answer. And then Ask him out again. “Well, I guess we could try, um, hanging out again, maybe? If you wanted? If you had the time?” She tried patting down her hair again.
“Sure!” JB said quickly. “What did you have in mind?”
Emboldened by his fast response, she searched her mind for an innocent-seeming activity they might both enjoy. “You like putt-putt golf?”
“Um, you mean those miniature golf courses that have themes like giants or animals, or giant animals?”
“Yeah. But this one’s in Culver City and it has a glow-in-the-dark theme. You go at night and everything glows! It’s pretty cool.”
“At night, huh?”
Corliss could tell JB was mulling it over. “Yeah, it’s called the Putting Edge. Are you free Friday night?” She couldn’t believe how forward she was being.
“The Putting Edge! Well, you know how much I like geeky wordplay. Sure, Cor. Let’s do it.”
“Great!” she said, overjoyed that she was moving this dating thing forward.
“So you wanna ride to the set?”
“Well, our call isn’t until noon because of last night. So if it’s all the same to you, I wouldn’t mind tucking myself back in bed for a few more Zs.”
“Don’t you think Max will want to talk to you sooner than noon?”
“Why?”
“Um . . . you haven’t read The ’Bu-hoo yet?”
“No, I just woke up. That’s why my hair’s all rat’s-nesty and I’m wearing my bathrobe. Is there anything wrong?”
“Maybe you should have a gander and then decide.” JB whipped his iPhone from his shorts and opened to The ’Bu-hoo. As he held the phone up for Corliss to see, her eyes grew wide at what she read . . .
Tanya’s Condo at the Beach—9:32 A.M.
Corliss banged on the door for the fifth time. But there was so much sound coming from inside no one heard her. “Tanya, open up!”
Eventually the door flew open. Inside was a morass of stylists, florists, and champagne delivery boys climbing all over one another. It looked like West Hollywood on a Saturday night. Sandwiched way in the back, besieged by requests to sign this and accept that, was Tanya in a big, fluffy, terrycloth, thigh-grazing bathrobe. “Corliss!” she called out. “I’m way over here,” she said.
Corliss motored over, elbowing her way through the crowd of strangers. When she reached Tanya, she threw her arms around her. “I can’t believe it! I read The ’Bu-hoo when I got up this morning and there it was!”
“I know!” squealed Tanya. “I don’t know how everyone found out, but it’s true, Cor! I’m going to be Mrs. Trent Owen Michaels! Isn’t that the bestest best?!”
“It’s amazing, Tanya,” said Corliss, plucking a fluted glass of champagne out of her friend’s hand and moving her into the bedroom so that they could talk.
“What is it?” asked Tanya. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
“I’m totally happy for you, Tanya,” said Corliss, sitting Tanya down on the bed. “I just want to make sure you’ve thought this whole marriage thing through.”
“What do you mean? I love Trent. We’re going to be man and wife. Which means we can do it without burning in hell.” The look on Tanya’s face was so uncomplicated, so full of simple joy at the solution, that Corliss could only smile.
“Well, that of course—the doing it without burning in hell business—is one of the perks of marriage, Tanya. But what I meant was you’re not even twenty years old yet! Marriage is a commitment that lasts a lifetime—or at least a part of a lifetime if you’re my mother. I mean, sheesh, it’s such a big deal.”
“Corliss,” said Tanya, patting her hand, “you’re way too worried about this. Besides, I know in my heart it’s the right decision. The most amazing thing happened to tell me so! Do you want to hear?”
“Of course I do, but—”
“But if I tell you, you can’t tell anyone ’cause they’ll think I’m more ditzy than they already do!”
“What is it? You can trust me, Tans.”
Tanya took her hand, led her into her walk-in closet, and shut the door. Once they were plunked down on the floor in a pile of teeny-weeny bikinis, thongs, and halters, Tanya spoke in a reverent whisper. “Okay, this is going to sound completely nutso—but it’s true. The Virgin Mary came to me in a dream.”
Corliss cocked her head. She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You mean Jesus’s mother?” Tanya nodded slowly and Corliss immediately worried for her friend’s mental health. “Are you sure?”
Tanya’s chocolate-colored eyes were the picture of seriousness. “Totally she did. It was amazing. First of all, she’s really pretty. Like, so much prettier than she is in pictures.”
“Um—in pictures?”
“And second of all,” continued Tanya breathlessly, “we had this totally amazing conversation where she was like, ‘I am the Virgin Mary’ and I was like, ‘I totally know!’ And then she was like, ‘You know I’m a virgin, right?’ And I was like, ‘Yeah—that’s why that’s your name!’ And she was like, ‘Totally,’ and I was like, ‘So what’s up, Virgin Mary?’ and then she got all, like, scary. With a big scary face. And then she said it. The thing that made me decide to say yes, I’ll marry Trent.”
The story was ludicrous, but Corliss was enthralled. “What was it? What did the Virgin Mary say?”
“She said, ‘Don’t end up like me!’” Tanya sat back, as if to let Corliss absorb it. “And then I was like, ‘But why not? You’re so pretty,’ and she was like, ‘But I’m a virgin, which totally sucks,’ and I was like, ‘OHMYGOD, YOU ARE, THAT’S THE WORST!’”
“Tanya, wait, whoa, take it way down. Are you telling me—?”
“I swear, I swear, Corliss. The freakin’ Virgin Mary! She said Trent’s name and everything. And Trent was asleep on my couch out there, all curled up asleep—groaning in pain like usual whenever he crashes here and I refuse to have sex with him—and I went in and woke him up and said yes!”
“Wow, Tanya, I don’t know what to say. . .” She truly didn’t. Tanya certainly seemed like she believed what she was telling Corliss. But Corliss was pretty skeptical about a Virgin Mary sighting in the Malibu area.
“You don’t have to say anything, Corliss. Just say you’ll be a bridesmaid!”
Corliss’s mouth flew open. Never in her wildest dreams back in Indiana-no-place did she ever imagine that someone like Tanya—a world-famous Sports Illustrated cover girl—would ask her to be a bridesmaid. In spite of the deeply strange nature of the entire conversation up to this point, Corliss was genuinely flattered. “Seriously . . . ?”
“Totally seriously! I’m going to have about twenty bridesmaids so I can afford to make one of them you! Please, oh, please say yes?!”
“Gee, Tanya, when you put it that way . . .”
“I’m going to have a humongous wedding with, like, a dozen flower girls and lots of silk draperies all draped over everything in, like, a huge church with all my cousins flying in from all over and a salsa band.”
“Wow, you sure are pl
anning quite the event . . .”
Tanya grew serious again. “Would you tell Max?”
“Max! Me? Why not you?”
“Please, oh, please? I’d totally love for him to throw me and Trent a party at his house. It has those amazing views and he lives near so many famous people I want to invite! But I don’t want to ask him myself and seem all grabby, ya know? Ohmygod I just had another idea! We could get Star magazine to sponsor the party! They could buy the photo rights, too, which should be about two hundred grand.”
Corliss was confused all over again. She’d never known Tanya to be so calculating. What could be going through her gorgeous brunette head? “Photo rights . . . ? Where are you getting these—”
“And maybe Wolfgang Puck could cater it! Wouldn’t that be fierce? We’d really get a lot of publicity out of that. And Max loves publicity. Please, oh, please ask Max for me?”
Corliss panicked. After her conversation with Max the night before, she was completely certain Max wouldn’t take this marriage news well at all. And there was no way she could ask him to throw Tanya and Trent an engagement party. She knew Max and the higher-ups at the UBC had a whole plan about when Trent and Tanya could date each other, but she was pretty sure they never factored in marriage. But then again . . . maybe they would be happy about it. A big splashy wedding could be excellent for publicity. It all depended on how Corliss spun it for Max . . .
Corliss decided she’d figure it out later. “Sure, Tanya. I’ll tell Max—and somehow ask him about a party. Consider it my first wedding gift to you.”
Tanya looked confused. “Does that mean you aren’t going to buy me an expensive present? I’ve already registered at Tiffany’s.”
Before Corliss could answer Tanya’s latest whopper, her phone rang. She scrambled for it in her bag and saw that it was—Max. “Hey, Max,” Corliss said, answering it. “Were your ears ringing?”
“Why would my ears be ringing, Corliss?” Max replied in his most humorless tone.
“Um, it’s a saying? Like when people are talking about you?”
“Corliss, I can’t entertain your cryptic form of communication this morning. I need you in my trailer ASAP.”
“Righto, Herr Captain. I’m on my way.” She hung up and hugged Tanya hard. “I’m really happy for you guys.”
Tanya hugged her back. “Thanks, Cor. You’re the best! But wait a second,” she said, pulling away from Corliss. “Were you on a date with JB at the Emmys last night or what?”
“Me and JB? Ha! That’s funny!” Corliss was suddenly shouting. “Naw, we’re just friends. F-R-I-E-N-D-S!”
“Cor, I might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but I certainly know how to spell friends.” Tanya made her pouty face. “Well, that’s too bad. You two would make a pretty cute couple.”
“Ya think so? Never crossed my mind,” Corliss said, standing up, pulling herself together, and heading out of the closet. She didn’t want to engage Tanya—or anyone in the cast—about JB until she knew exactly what was going on between them. “I’ll talk to Max, don’t you worry. It’s totally amazing you and Trent are getting married, Tanya.” She suddenly meant it. “Two people like each other not just enough to date—but to spend their entire lives together!” The thought blew Corliss’s mind.
Max’s Trailer—9:46 A.M.
“What is it, Max?” said Corliss, who’d jogged all the way from Tanya’s condo. “I didn’t think you’d be in until later. What with the Emmys and all last night.” Corliss wondered if he’d read The ’Bu-hoo yet this morning. She gritted her teeth and hoped he hadn’t.
There were deep rings around Max’s eyes. “Please don’t mention last night, Corliss. I was up until 4 A.M. with Mingmei Rothstein discussing our astrological signs and trying to find excuses why I couldn’t give her a full-body massage.”
“Yikes.”
“And this morning I come into the office to find even more bad news.” He opened his jar of painkillers, popped a few, and crunched them.
Corliss winced as Max crunched. “Nothing about any one of our stars, I hope?”
He gave her a desperate look. “Not unless you consider Legend one of them.”
Corliss sighed. “Uh, not exactly.” She felt terrible that she still hadn’t been able to find a nanny for Legend. His presence always seemed to weigh on Max in a way Corliss didn’t really understand. Then again, she never had to take care of a hyperactive preschooler with an unhealthy interest in bodily functions. “What is it this time, Max?”
“He egged the camerawoman’s Subaru Outback.” He pointed out the window of his trailer in the direction of the carnage. Sure enough, there was the camerawoman’s Outback, glistening and sticky yellow in the morning sun. “It’s embarrassing enough having that kind of car parked next to my Porsche Boxster, but to have it covered in eggs is really too much.”
Corliss pretended to be as appalled as Max—“That’s terrible!”—even though she found it pretty funny.
“The higher the sun gets in the sky, the more the paint on my Porsche absorbs the smell. I might have to have the whole thing repainted. And macadamia metallic is hard to duplicate.”
“Want me to run a hose out there and take care of things, Max?”
“No, thank you. I’ve just dispatched twelve of my assistants with toothbrushes. What I do need you to do is please, please focus on the nanny search. I’m dangerously close to the end of my last good nerve, Corliss, and we’ve got some very important scenes to shoot this week.”
His manicured hands were actually trembling. Corliss knew she had to comfort him—but she didn’t want to sugarcoat the truth. “I’ve been trying, Max, I really have. But it’s extremely hard to find a top-notch nanny in a city full of rich people who don’t want to take care of their own children. Nannies go like that.” She snapped her fingers; Max flinched.
“Corliss, no snapping fingers.”
“Sorry.” She pulled up an Eames stool and gave Max her most compassionate look. “What in God’s name are your parents doing on safari for so long anyway?”
Max glanced at his iPhone despondently. “Apparently my father is in the African desert riding on top of some elephant that doesn’t get reception.”
Corliss thought this was strange, but she certainly wasn’t about to argue with Max when he was in a state like this. “Okay, Max, I’ll clear my desk and focus on nannies. I’ve still got a few tricks up my Midwestern sleeve. You know I never let you down.” She started for the door, full of resolve.
“Just one nanny, that’s all I ask!” he pleaded, rising from behind his desk, his girly upper-register voice rising with him. “It can’t be impossible to find one competent child-care worker for one little tyrant! I’m desperate, Corliss,” he said, crunching more painkillers. “Legend and his antics have a bigger effect on me than you realize.”
Max was totally worked up. He was now chewing the end of his beloved Gucci glasses. “Calm down, Max. You’ll work yourself into a tizzy. I’m on it—seriously. In fact, when I got to the set today there was a message from that nanny’s agent—the Scientology-approved one I mentioned? She looks excellent on paper. In fact, she survived three months as Britney Spears’s nanny.”
“That is impressive,” said Max, suddenly looking hopeful.
“Right? So I called the agent back and he said he’d do his best to determine her interest. Apparently she’s in pretty high demand.” Corliss hoped this would placate Max for the time being. And she realized now was absolutely not the time to tell him about the Trent and Tanya engagement. The news, coupled with the lack-of-nanny hysteria, might send him kerplunking off the deep end.
“Thank you, Corliss. Keep me posted if she or her agent calls.”
“Will do, Max.” As Corliss turned for the door, her phone rang. She rummaged for it in her bag. The caller ID said MAX’S ASSISTANT #3. She rolled her eyes and answered it. “Yes?” These boneheads of Max’s were usually calling with some ridiculous bit of useless information, like,
“Max is twelve yards from set, look sharp!” But as she listened she realized this time they were calling with some real news. News that seemed heaven-sent.
She turned back to Max to fill him in. “She’s here, Max! That nanny. Apparently she was on the west side and her agent got through to her so she thought she’d stop by. She’s just pulled into the parking lot!”
Max’s face opened up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Don’t just stand there, Corliss,” said Max, rushing to take her by the arms and shake her. “Get out to that parking lot and book that nanny!”
The Parking Lot—Less Than a Minute Later
Corliss arrived, huffing and puffing. At the edge of the lot, was a convertible, fire-engine red Karmann Ghia, circa 1972. Sitting squeezed into the driver’s seat was an extremely pretty middle-aged woman with big, puffy blond hair and an even bigger, puffier pair of bazoombas. “Are you Corliss?” the woman shouted in a thick Russian accent. Corliss nodded, beholding the strange and wonderful vision in front of her. “I’m Olga Rachmoninoff! Best nanny outside Minsk.”
Olga vaulted out of the two-seater without opening the door. She was an awesome example of post-forty dexterity. Outfitted in a crisp white Brooks Brothers men’s button-down shirt, Capri pants, and espadrilles, Olga strode up to Corliss with a brown leather satchel, took out her résumé, and handed it over with a big, capable smile. “Here is all about me. With the references you can’t beat.”
“Thank you, Olga. Wow. You came at just the right time! I was about to give up on the nanny search.”
Olga leaned in to Corliss and whispered confidently, “You never have to give up with Olga around.” Then she winked and elbowed Corliss playfully.
Corliss liked Olga’s style. She was fun, but still respectful. Stylish without coming off like a hoochie mama. And so sturdy-looking she seemed like she could take down a redwood without getting a splinter. Maybe Legend had finally met his match. Corliss would have to put the two of them in a room to find out.
