by Jordan Cooke
“Escargot, eh?” the waiter asked knowingly, looking back and forth between Trent and Tanya. “Escargot are an aphrodisiac.” He gave the couple a sly wink.
“Is an aphrodisiac something that makes your hair all afro-y?” asked Tanya. “’Cause I just had mine straightened,” she said to Trent, “and I thought we were sharing.”
“Um,” said the waiter, looking dismayed, “an aphrodisiac is a food or beverage that stimulates the sex drive.”
“No!” shouted Trent. “I don’t need anything that does that, for cryin’ out loud! Bring me a PB&J!”
“Trent!” yelped Tanya. “That’s all fat and sugar!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Michaels,” said the waiter, looking suddenly very judgmental. “Our kitchen doesn’t do grade-school cuisine.”
“Then whatever you got back there! No food that will get me horny!” The waiter was mystified. Tanya saw they were causing a scene.
“Trent,” Tanya said, leaning across the table to whisper, “you’re obviously feeling the strain of my vow of celibacy. I think we need a prayer circle.” She took his hand. Then she took the waiter’s hand. “Now you take Trent’s hand.” The waiter did as he was told.
“Tans, why is this dude holding my hand?!”
“A prayer circle needs at least three people, Trent. Now lower your eyes and pray!”
“I don’t wanna pray, Tanya. And to tell you the truth, the way you’ve been acting, I’m not so sure about this wedding business anymore!”
Tanya’s jaw hit the ground. Sure, she’d been having her own doubts, but never once would she have considered postponing the wedding.
The waiter tried to move to another table, but Tanya wouldn’t let go of him. “Trent, how can you say that? It’s way too late for you to be having cold feet. I already got free sponsorship for our entire wedding from Virgin America!”
“Ha!” the waiter snorted. “Sorry,” he said immediately. “Um, can we pray now? I’ve got to serve Salma Hayek at table seven.”
Tanya nodded and looked up to heaven as she spoke. “Jesus, thank you for allowing us to have a prayer circle at the Ivy—which I just know would be one of your favorite restaurants if you weren’t in heaven because you died for my sins. Make Trent strong until the day we get married—which is gonna happen!” She raised her voice for this last bit. “He loves me, Lord, but he’s a total horndog. Amen.”
“Amen!” said the waiter, winking at Trent. He then scurried off to get Trent something lean and low-carb.
“Ohmygod,” said Tanya, peering into her salad. “Trent . . . do you see what I see in my salad?”
“Um . . . croutons?”
“No! Look at this leaf . . .” She plucked a baby spinach leaf from the bowl and passed it across the table so Trent could see what she saw. “All the little bumps on it form a face. And that face is the baby Jesus!”
Trent pondered the spinach leaf a moment, then turned white as a ghost. His mouth, which usually hung open, was down by his collar. His eyes quivered as if thousands of volts of electricity were coursing through him. “What’s the baby Jesus doing in your salad, Tans?!”
“He’s, like, looking up at me! And he looks so cute!”
“Tans, I’m really spooked. You know what this means?” She shook her head. “It means, like, you have a direct line to, like, God!”
“Wow . . . like, I’ve got God’s private number or something?”
Trent nodded fearfully. His hay-colored hair grew damp with sweat. He pulled at his shirt as if he were jumping out of his skin. “I swear, Tans, I won’t bother you about sex till we’re married! I swear on this baby spinach salad where the baby Jesus is! Now let’s get out of here. I’m not hungry anymore!” As he took her hand and they fled the Ivy, they were met at the curb by a dozen paparazzi, blinding them with flashes.
“Trent! Tanya!” they called. “Give us a smile! What’s wrong? Why the rush?” The valets had Trent’s Cruiser waiting, and he and Tanya were able to make a quick escape, tearing down Robertson. As they fled the scene, Tanya looked up to heaven and mouthed a silent thank-you to God.
Seven
The Putting Edge—7:24 P.M., the Next Evening
Corliss couldn’t pounce. Not in the middle of a glow-in-the-dark golf course, anyway. First of all, she and JB were surrounded by twenty cranky nine-year-olds who were waiting impatiently to tee off. Not exactly the setting for pouncing. Corliss had considered inviting JB over to Uncle Ross’s and somehow muscling him into the hot tub—per Anushka’s naughty suggestion—but naked hot-tubbing just wasn’t her style. No, no matter what Anushka “The Teen Queen of Seduction” said, Corliss knew she’d have to proceed at her own pace.
“If you tap the ball real gently on the far side, JB, it’ll knock it in the right direction,” Corliss offered helpfully. But then she worried her suggestion might injure his masculine pride. She’d read in CosmoGirl that boys didn’t really want advice from their dates. She backtracked fast. “Least, that’s what little old me thinks! Take or leave! Do or don’t! It’s your game!” she blathered, unable to stop the torrent of inanities that spewed forth. Finally, she clamped her hand over her mouth.
JB didn’t seem to notice. He was still contemplating his putt, oblivious to the groaning nine-year-olds who were giving him and Corliss dirty looks. “You know who’s a really good golfer?” said JB, stalling the tee again. “Rocs! He’s also good at sailing, apparently. And woodcarving, ballroom dancing, and Legos. He’s a pretty good pastry chef, too—have you ever tried his buttery biscuits?” JB licked his lips.
Corliss gritted her teeth. “Uh, no, can’t say I have tried Rocco’s, um, buttery biscuits,” she said, hoping JB would hear just how gay his question had sounded. He hadn’t stopped talking about Rocco all evening. It was getting a little weird. In spite of all his protests it was still hard not to wonder whether he was gay. Maybe he was, but he just didn’t know it yet? She was going to keep careful track of how many more Rocco mentions the night would hold.
“Those bis-quits are wunderbar!” JB kissed his fingers and threw them into the air. The nine-year-olds behind him shook their heads.
That did it. Corliss couldn’t hold back anymore. “You and Rocco sure spend a lot of time together. Are you completely sure there’s nothing gay going on?”
JB was taken aback for a moment, then broke out in a reassuring smile. “Cor, m’lady, I swear on a stack of CosmoGirls,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “Don’t you just love that rag?”
Corliss put her hand on her hip and titled her head skeptically. What straight boy reads CosmoGirl? “See, that’s another thing,” she said patiently. “You gave me that makeover once and you’re always offering little tips on how I should wear my hair, or what shoes to wear. That stuff is all really gay, JB.”
“What can I say?” JB said, shrugging and still not teeing off. “My meterosexuality is known from sea to shining sea.” He squinted again at the ball, which was only three inches from the hole it was meant to go in.
“Just putt already,” said one of the nine-year-olds waiting in line behind them. JB looked up at the kid like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was, then swung his club and tapped the glow-in-the-dark ball exactly on the spot where Corliss suggested. It rolled cleanly across the AstroTurf and dropped expertly into the hole.
“You did it!” Corliss said, jumping up and down.
“I totally did!” JB looked like he couldn’t have been more surprised. “Thanks to your advice,” he said, nudging her elbow.
Suddenly Corliss felt a wave of encouragement wash over her. JB had never elbow-nudged her before. Was it possible that he was flirting with her? “Now we just need to add up our scores,” she said with an undercurrent of “I’m flirting right back.” Then she took their scorecard over to a park bench and patted the seat next to her. When JB sat, Corliss moved a little closer to him. But then he inched away. So she moved closer to him again. But then he inched away again. This went on until JB inched his
way off the end of the bench.
“Sorry,” he said, leaping up, red-faced, “my bad! The Jeebster isn’t the picture of grace, is he?”
Corliss felt like a total dork. It was like JB was avoiding intimacy at all costs. Maybe her premonitions were wrong for the first time. Maybe she and JB were meant to be just friends. But what about the elbow nudge? And hadn’t he said yes when she’d asked him to “hang out” again? And hadn’t she just detected on him the distinct smell of cologne—when she’d only ever smelled Mennen Speed Stick deodorant on him before? Was all this the behavior of someone not interested? Maybe, she thought. Maybe not! JB was sending her so many mixed signals her head felt like sautéed onions.
Okay, she thought, I don’t want to live in the dark anymore. She knew she absolutely had to somehow move things forward. Really hit the romance nail on the head—and make no bones about it. “Hey, JB. I have an idea. Why don’t we drive up to Topanga Canyon? It’s a full moon tonight, and isn’t that romantic?”
JB gulped. “Dontcha wanna add up our scores?”
“I already did,” Corliss said. “You won. Which means,” she said, pulling him down next to her on the bench, “whatever we do next is what you want to do next.” She waited for him to take the lead, be the man—something she had also learned from the CosmoGirl article.
“Well, I am kinda tired, to tell you the truth, Cor. And tomorrow is a pretty big day for me on the set. Would you mind if we just called it a night?”
“No,” she said, utterly deflated.
“And then, you know, do something else sometime soon?”
“Yes!” she cried, utterly overjoyed.
As they headed to the cashier to return their golf clubs, Corliss decided that if she wanted to get to the bottom of her relationship with JB, it was time to push herself to the wall. In other words, it was the hot-tub scenario or bust. Even if the thought of trying such a maneuver made her eyes cross. In fact, it occurred to her that securing a little backup to keep from caving at the last minute probably wasn’t a bad idea. And who better to back her up than Uncle Ross, who was already overly invested in her dating life (and just so happened to have a hot tub in his very own home)?
“Um, what are you doing later this week, JB? Wanna have dinner at my Uncle Ross’s place some night?”
“Free food cooked by other people? Are you kidding? I’m there like a bear at the fair!”
Not the most romantic response, thought Corliss, but it’s progress.
The ’Bu Soundstage on the UBC Lot—10:52 A.M., the Next Morning
The set for this week’s episode of The ’Bu was a re-creation of the stunning estate in Malibu. The two-story-high blue stone fireplace, the vaulted Tibetan ceiling, the soaring leaded glass windows, the Belgian tapestries, the Murano glass chandelier that dripped thousands of glittering red shards from above—all of it was copied and built in the middle of the vast soundstage.
It was an uncanny replication, perfect to the last detail. Corliss, who was dressed in some of her cutest gear—a Max Azria cardigan over a Nanette Lepore skirt—whistled long as she took it all in. “Boy, look what a TV show budget will get ya.”
“Pretty impressive, I know,” said Max at her side. “The network is not sparing any expense with our show—which is a sign they continue to believe in it. I’ve got to keep them believing in it, Corliss.”
“You always find a way, Max.” She knew it was good to start the day with a little subtle brownnosing, just to get things off on the right foot.
“Thank you, Corliss,” said Max, looking pleased. “And how’s the cast doing this morning? Any concerns I should have?” he said, taking in his perfect hair in one of the set’s gilded mirrors.
Corliss craned her neck to the far corner of the soundstage, where the makeup technicians were fretting over the cast. She gave JB a little wave with her fingers. He gave her a little wave back. Good sign, she thought. Everyone else looked ready, willing, and able—until she spotted Anushka. Anushka was wearing a bikini so small it looked like three tortellinis tied together with tinsel. She was also wearing her bald cap—and sulking. “Um, let me get back to you on the cast concerns, Max,” Corliss said in her cheeriest voice, before making a beeline to Anushka. “What is it, Anushka?” she said under her breath. “You’ve got your crabby face on and you’re not even near nap time.”
“First of all, Cor, I still can’t get Patrizio to return any of my text messages and it’s making me crazazy!”
“Anushka, please. We’re at work. I’m sorry about the lack of Italian stallion-ness in your life, but it will have to wait till we’re on break, okay?”
“Okay, Miss Company Policy,” said Anushka, rolling her eyes. “In that case I would appreciate it if you told Max I’d like to play this scene in a gold brocade head scarf with large gold hoop earrings.”
“What?! We’re prepping the first shot, Anushka. You know how slow the costume department moves.”
Anushka just shrugged. Corliss bit her tongue to keep from screaming. But she was becoming smarter. Instead of relaying Anushka’s dissatisfaction to Max—which is exactly what Anushka expected her to do—she would defray any potential tension by, well, lying. Just a little. “Everyone’s in the greatest mood, Max,” shouted Corliss as she made her way back to her fearful leader. “Really upbeat and ready to work.”
“Excellent. I did notice a cheerful energy on the soundstage when I walked in.”
“There is the tiniest request,” she continued, very smoothly, “really very small—from Anushka.”
Max hardly batted an eye. “Yes, quickly. Out with it.”
“It’s really hardly anything at all,” Corliss replied, consulting her clipboard to make it look official. And then she told Max about Anushka’s request. As she waited for his response, she held her breath and pretended to look through her notes.
For a moment, Max’s face was frozen, unreadable. “Fine by me,” he finally said. “Alert the costume department.” Corliss immediately text-messaged the costume department about the change. “Anything else?”
“Um,” Corliss said, silently amazed that she managed to pull that off, “just that the camerawoman has an appointment with her podiatrist at noon so we’ll have to break for an hour then.”
“Fine as well,” Max said, further unruffled. “And Legend? I haven’t heard a peep today.”
“That lack of peep you hear is good news, Max. Olga has Legend on a field trip to the La Brea Tar Pits. He’s learning about the period when saber-toothed cats and mammoths roamed the Los Angeles Basin.”
“That woman is a gift from God,” Max said, lifting his eyes up to the heavens. “I mean,” he said, lowering his eyes, “from L. Ron Hubbard, founder of Scientology.”
Corliss coughed to keep from giggling. “No matter who Olga’s a gift from, she’s in pretty good shape for a woman her age, dontcha think?” Corliss became dreamy imagining herself one day as vigorous—and as shapely—as Olga.
“That’s something I’d prefer not to discuss with you, Corliss,” he said.
“Those legs . . .” Corliss rhapsodized, not hearing Max. “Those biceps . . . and all that big, blond hair . . .”
“Corliss, your Olga crush is showing again.” Corliss snapped herself out of it, going a little red in the process. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to concentrate.” He held his hands up in front of his face, imagining the scene he was about to shoot. Corliss knew this meant he was getting into his zone and she started shushing the technicians and actors who were in close proximity. “One thing I forgot, Corliss,” he whispered to her, out of earshot of anyone else.
“What is it, Max?” she said, poised to write it down.
His voice became an almost inaudible hiss. “This Trent and Tanya marriage business. I need you to put an end to it.” He then raised his hands in the air again, going back to his zone, as if he’d just said nothing more controversial than “Bring me my loofah sponge.”
“What—what do you mean, Ma
x?” stammered Corliss.
“Corliss, you know exactly what I mean,” Max whispered fiercely. “The network is trying to control the PR spin when it comes to the cast’s personal lives. There’s no way to spin a marriage between a seventeen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old. Only trailer trash gets married before their twentieth birthdays.”
Corliss was dumbstruck. She envisioned herself once again as some kind of hiding-behind-plants secret agent, skulking around in parked cars and trying to get cheap, tawdry information out of people whose cheap, tawdry business she wanted nothing to do with. And she knew it was hopeless, anyway: Trent and Tanya were way beyond dating. They were getting hitched—no ifs, ands, or buts. And once they were hitched, they were immediately going to do it. They had actually planned the date and hour and place Tanya would become de-revirginized. The event involved a thousand rose petals and a J. Lo soundtrack, but that’s as much as Corliss could bear hearing about.
“But they’re getting married, Max,” she said, finally betraying her exasperation. “That’s an eensy bit more serious than dating, dontcha think?”
“Please, Corliss, look at them.” He nodded over to a corner of the soundstage, where Tanya bounced up and down on Trent’s lap, elated as a second-grader at Wet ’n Wild. “Do you think those two could be serious about anything?”
“Um,” said Corliss, contemplating the really gross spectacle, “point taken, but—but the network really has no business interfering when two people are actually getting married!” she blurted.
“Corliss,” Max said, putting his hand on her shoulder, “the network is okay about them getting married. If they spin it right, the American TV-watching public would find it romantic. But one thing the network is not fine about is them getting a divorce.”
Corliss stepped back. Her mouth fell open wide. The thought had never occurred to her. Tanya was a good Catholic girl, for one thing. And Trent, well, Trent was and always would be simply too whipped to contemplate a divorce. “Max, that’s so—so—cynical of you. I think they really love each other.”
