by Jordan Cooke
“I’m sure your references are stellar, Olga, but I did want you to meet Legend before signing on.”
“Of course,” said Olga, tilting her chin up confidently. “I meet the little rascal and then we take it from there.”
“Rascal is the word for him, too—full disclosure!” replied Corliss. “But he’s a great kid when you get to know him. He just gets himself involved in some unusual activities. Like today, for instance, he was, um, experimenting with egg yolks.”
“Hmm,” Olga said thoughtfully, “sounds creative. Let’s meet little one.”
“Who you calling little one?” snarled someone a few feet below them, caked in egg yolk.
“Legend!” shrieked Corliss. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a time-out in Max’s trailer?”
Legend turned and shook his plump derriere in Corliss’s general direction.
“Legend, don’t be so rude—we have a guest.” Corliss turned to Olga. “This is Olga Rachmoninoff, the best nanny outside of Minsk.”
Olga and Legend stared each other down like two cowboys in a gunfight at high noon.
“You thuppothed to be my nanny?”
“You got problem with that?” said Olga sternly, her hands on her hips.
Legend looked Olga up and down. “Naw, I think you’re kinda fly.” With that, he reached up for Olga’s hand, clasped it, and the two of them strolled off down the beach leaving Corliss in a state of amazement.
A Small Bungalow Farther Down the Beach—A Few Minutes Later
The Bu-Hoo
Holla ’Bu babes—
It’s your pal MBK comin’ at you live from da
beach. My crack might be sandy but my
heart’s in the right place!
But it’s not MY heart you give a flying flip
about, is it? NAH. Not my crack, neither!
LMCO (that stands for LAUGH MY CRACK
OFF). You wanna hear what all those horny
’Bu kiddies are up to on America’s hottest
new TV show, dontcha???
Well hang on to your bikini bottoms ’cause
you is in for a treat. We got love, we got
romance, we got intrigue!
BADABING BADABOOM!
First up? That delectable duo Trent and
Tanya. Since those two will soon become
one, joined together eternally in holy
matrimony, we’re going to mash them up
and call them T&T!
CUE: DYNAMITE SOUND!
Dat’s ’cause it’s an explosive combination
(HEHE). Okay, some of you might
remember Clueless Meyers calling them
that, but that’s when she was trying to
keep them apart for the sake of The ’Bu!
Now that there’s no way—NADA—ofkeeping them apart, because they are
closerthanthis, I get to steal T&T from
Clueless and use it as my own!
Sorry, Clueless!
But the BEST news about the impending
nuptials? M2 is fit to be tied! When Herr
Director found out about this little unholy
alliance (by checking out The ’Bu-hoo of
course!) he went BALLISTIC! The screams
were heard from San Diego to Santa Cruz!
LMCO!
But M2 can’t do nuttin’ now! Word’s
already out by yours ’Bu-ly. HA!
So now Tanya’s planning the biggest
wedding since Pam Anderson first got
married to Tommy Lee! We’re talking
MONSTER wedding. A HOT MESS of a
wedding. Don’t you wanna be a fly on dat
wall?????
No worries—you got MBK. And you can
be sure I’ll bring in all da spooky wedding
news. Boowahaa!
And now I must leave you, my kiddies.
There’s a festive-looking beachy drink with
my name on it heading this way. Yummy!
BUT WAIT!
THERE’S MORE!
One more little tidbit before I dive into this
liquid concoction: There’s a new nanny in
town named Olga. For some reason she
thinks she can handle that terrible tyke,
Legend. Thinks it won’t be a problem at all!
Confident lady, right? Excellent nanny, right?
Stellar references, right?
Only time will tell.
All my ’Bust,
MBK
Six
Malibu Beach—10:42 A.M.
Bells were once again going off in Corliss’s head. Not alarm bells, no. The bells she always heard when something felt perfect, predestined. And those beautiful clanging bells were because of Olga.
“You like me, no?” asked Olga, who was walking at Corliss’s side. Corliss did indeed. Olga had spent a good half hour with Legend, and it was clear that with this nanny he’d finally met his match. After that, Corliss interviewed Olga briefly and determined her to be the perfect nanny. Years of experience, impeccable references, and an attitude that could scare Amy Winehouse straight. All in all, Olga was a twenty-first-century Mary Poppins.
“Olga, I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is to meet you. To walk down this beach with you!”
“It’s nice day, no?”
“It’s a great day,” said Corliss, kicking sand with her foot as they headed to Max’s trailer. “Max is going to be so relieved to meet you.”
“Max is good name.”
Corliss’s wonderment continued as she pondered just how solid-gold Olga’s résumé was. “You speak six languages! I mean, that won’t really come in handy. Legend can barely speak his own language.”
“Olga notice. You know what? I cure this boy of lisp.”
“Really?” Corliss had never met anyone like Olga before. Everything seemed to come easily to her. She was the picture of proficiency. She’d even spent time working as a sous chef on a submarine!
“Did I bring up psychology degree at University of St. Petersburg?”
Corliss stopped in her tracks and staggered around in the sand. “Olga, if I was the kind of girl who liked girls, I might just propose right now.”
“Olga not lesbian. But many my friends are. We go hiking. Does this Legend like outdoors?”
“Well, he’s got a lot of allergies so—”
“I cure him of allergies.”
Corliss was over the moon. As they continued moving toward Max’s trailer, Corliss saw the next couple of weeks stretch out in front of her. Olga would step in and relieve her of her Legend babysitting duties—which would relieve her of some of the emotional babysitting she had to do with Max. That would leave more free time to figure out exactly what was going on with JB.
They arrived at the door to Max’s trailer. “So,” Corliss said. “Here we are.”
“Very nice. Katie Holmes trailer not this good.”
Corliss smiled. She just knew this would go beautifully. “Now, let me do all the talking.” As Corliss raised her knuckles to give her signature three-quick-raps-in-succession knock, a noise emerged from within. It was an unearthly noise—a cat in heat, maybe?—and so high-pitched as to be almost indecipherable. Whatever was making it was sure in a lot of pain.
“THEY CANNOT GET MARRIED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!”
Corliss’s face fell. Max must have read The ’Bu-hoo. Maybe she should have been the one to tell him after all.
“NO ONE GETS MARRIED HERE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!”
Max was taking the news much harder than Corliss would have predicted. She was just about to take Olga by the hand and lead her away from the ensuing bloodbath when Max appeared, practically tearing off the door to his trailer in an effort to escape.
When Max saw Corliss and Olga standing there, he froze, his face beet red, his choppy four hundred dollar haircut completely pulled this way and that.
“Um, hi, Max. Bad time?”
&n
bsp; Max shook his head and let out the teeniest cry. “Nuh-uh.”
“Um,” continued Corliss, smiling at Olga as if there wasn’t a man in emotional freefall standing in front of them, “I do have some good news, Max. This is Olga Rachmoninoff—Legend’s new nanny.”
Max looked at Olga strangely. And then, bit by bit, the color came back into his face, and he stood up tall and began to smooth his hair out. He went from a stark raving madman to the picture of serenity in about a minute. Once again, Corliss was amazed at the effect Olga had on people.
Max then extended his hand, and in his dreamiest, most low and resonant and not-girly voice—and with what looked to Corliss like a twinkle in his eye—he said, “Charmed to meet you.”
King’s Road Café—12:42 P.M., the Next Day
Anushka sat just outside the front door of the café in Hummer blackout shades, dangerously short cutoffs, and an old Johnny Depp T-shirt she’d bought on Melrose. She was twirling an unlit cigarette. She didn’t smoke anymore, but she was still addicted to twirling them. It’s what she did when she didn’t know what else to do. And since she wasn’t in any of the scenes they were shooting today, she was trying to keep herself out of trouble. That’s why she’d called Corliss to come into town on her lunch break.
Several photographers flew by in their cars, grabbing shots of her with their high-powered lenses while leaning out of their windows on Beverly Boulevard. A few feet away, a waiter pretended he didn’t know who she was, but Anushka sensed he was actually the person who’d alerted the paparazzi. She stuck her tongue out at them as they sailed by. Of course, she knew her manager would call her up when the photos appeared and yell at her for not letting them take some flattering pics, but Anushka didn’t care. Not today. She was several iced teas down and in a foul mood. She’d been text-messaging Rocco’s cousin Patrizio for the last two hours and he hadn’t gotten back to her. This never happened. Boys always got back to Anushka.
She wanted to stuff her face with a chocolate chip muffin, she was so angry. But she didn’t. She crumpled the cigarette and ordered another iced tea refill. When it arrived, she looked at her phone. Corliss was supposed to have been there over a half hour ago. It wasn’t like her to be late. Why was the entire world failing her today, she wondered. Just as Anushka was poised on storming off in a huff, Corliss jogged up to the table.
“I’m so sorry, Anushka,” she said frantically. “Legend has a new nanny and I’ve been filing the paperwork all morning. Max has got a confidentiality clause like you wouldn’t believe! If you work for him you’re never allowed to say the word fake in his presence or point out how many times he looks at his hair in the course of a day.”
“Whatevs,” said Anuhska, “I was fine here by myself being pestered by paparazzi—my only friends.”
“Listen,” said Corliss, “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately and we haven’t had a chance to hang out outside of work to do, you know, girl stuff. It’s just been one of those nutso periods where work and, um, other things are all mushing together into one great big ball of, um, obligation. Like a cheese ball with too many expectations.”
“Whatevs.” Anushka shrugged and pretended like she didn’t care. “Look, I’m just bummed because I met Rocco’s totally hot cousin Patrizio at the Emmys and we exchanged digits, swapped a little spit, whatev—and now he won’t get back to me? Me! Anushka Peters!” More paparazzi flew by. Anushka tore off her Hummers and crossed her eyes.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Anushka. I saw you two—and he was really gorgeous.” Corliss fanned herself. “What an Italian stallion—phew!”
“Enough about my rotten love life. How goes yours? If it isn’t at least as bad as mine I’m going to be really pissed off. Ha!”
Corliss laughed. “Just as bad—no worries. But I have hopes . . .”
Anushka leaned in. “Tell, tell!”
Corliss bit her lip. “Okay, but this is just between you and me, okay?”
“I swear on Orlando Bloom.”
“Wow,” said Corliss, impressed. “I know how you feel about him so I guess you’re serious. The thing is this: I need girl advice—about love. Uncle Ross comes close, but he’s not the real deal.”
“I’m all ears, girl. Bring it.”
“Okay, so my thing for JB?” Anushka nodded. “Our not-exactly-a-date thing at the Emmys was a total disaster, but even so, I asked him to go putt-putt golfing with me Friday night!”
“Sounds hot,” said Anushka, sticking her finger down her throat like she was making herself retch.
“Anyway, I don’t know if it’s a date-date or a friend-hang.” Corliss lifted and lowered her hands like a scale measuring the possibilities of each scenario. “Date-date” she sent the scales up and “friend-hang” she sent the scales down. “And frankly all this mystery is making me a little impatient. What’s a girl from Indiana-no-place to do?”
Anushka sat back in her chair and tapped one perfect fingernail on her perfect chin. “Hmmm . . .” she mused. “Here’s what I think, Cor. And I want you to listen closely.” Anushka knew she had to be succinct with Corliss, whom she judged to be about middle-school level when it came to dating. “It’s very simple: You have to pounce.”
“Pounce?!” Corliss shouted. “I can’t pounce, Anushka! It’s Corliss Meyers you’re talking to here. I never left the house until a few months ago! I didn’t even go to my prom—I watched it on Web simulcast from under my covers! I couldn’t possibly pounce. Sheesh!”
“Cor, listen to me. These boys don’t know what they want. And we gotta tell ’em. Ya hear? We give them all this power, pretend they should be the ones to make the moves, but take it from Anushka. After the first date if there ain’t nuttin’ going on, I make sure something’s going on. Or I’m outta there.”
“But how? When? And what do I wear!” Corliss was drenched in sweat.
“Calm down, hot pants. The prescription for pouncing can be found in three words: naked, champagne, hot tub.”
“Um,” said a terrified Corliss, “that’s four words.”
“Whatevs. Get him drunk, get him dunked, and get the deed done.”
Corliss shivered. “Uncle Ross has a hot tub at the house, but . . .” Anushka thought she heard Corliss’s teeth rattling. “ . . . but I don’t know if I can do that . . .”
“Suit yourself, Cor. But let me ask you this: Do you want a year’s worth of Friday nights spent at putt-putt golf?” Corliss shook her head no. “Okay, then. Do as Mama Anushka says. And tell that waiter dude you want that muffin to go. I’ve got an appointment at Pat’s Tats to get a little star inked behind my ear. I’ve scheduled an appointment for you, too—as a gift.”
Corliss’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. I even came up with a design for you, too. It’s real small, and real classy: a little arrow pointing to your cleavage and with the words THIS WAY TO LOVE.”
“WHAT?!”
“Kidding,” winked Anushka, pushing her boobs together as more paparazzi sailed by, cameras a-blazin’.
The Ivy on Robertson—9:36 P.M.—That Evening
“But what does it matter?” pleaded Trent as he speared a fistful of rigatoni slathered in tomato sauce and dripping with squid. “We’re getting married anyway, right? One night with me slobbering over your hot, naked body can’t be that sinful, Tans . . .”
But lately Tanya wasn’t so sure she wanted him slobbering over her hot, naked body. Ever since she’d accepted his proposal, he seemed to grow up before her eyes, less and less like a sun-kissed beach boy and more and more like . . . her father. Kind of thick in the middle and jowly. “You sure you should be eating carbs this late?” she asked, crinkling her face, more than a little worried about his waistline. “I mean, we did get the tux measurements and it would be so not hot if you came down the aisle all, like, porkin’. Maybe we should call Jenny Crai—”
Trent slammed down the forkful of rigatoni. “Jeez, Tans, avoid my question why dontcha? And no, we are no
t calling Jenny! I got ribbed enough for being on that housewife diet. Now I just eat sensibly and make sure my glycemic load is, like, low.” He looked really miffed.
“Sorry,” Tanya pouted, moving some hair from his eyes in a tender gesture, knowing how big his ego could sometimes be. She never forgot that he was once a total player, breaking hearts up and down the coast. That he’d chosen her above all others still seemed miraculous to her. And miracles came from Jesus.
“Look, Trent, we’ve set the wedding date—and it’s only a month away. I know it’s hard to wait for this . . .” She opened her arms wide to show him her taut, sinuous body, which at the moment was showcased in a clingy Onna Ehrlich top that hugged her like wet paint. “But just think of how good it will be when you finally get to do me up and down!”
Trent’s eyes pulsed with desire. He needed to quell his passion by putting something in his mouth—something with a low carb content. He signaled the waiter, who arrived at their table in a flash.
“Yes, Mr. Michaels, is there a problem?” the waiter said, all butt-kissy and ready to jump into action. “I notice you haven’t touched your rigatoni di calamari.”
Trent took three quick breaths to calm himself down—and then adjusted his pants. “Uh, yeah, can you bring me the escargot appetizer and a glass of water and give this rigatoni to someone who, like, doesn’t care if they’re a porker? Maybe that dude over there?” said Trent, pointing in the direction of Tom Cruise.
