Much Ado About Mother

by Bonaduce, Celia

  He was right, of course. He was being made out to be the villain.

  “Maybe we should all listen to Eric and settle down for a bit,” Virginia said. “Let cooler heads prevail.”

  Mr. Clancy finally smiled.

  “I think that would be a good idea. Maybe you and I could discuss this over a bee—a glass of wine.”

  “I would like that, Mr. Clancy,” Virginia said. She leaned into him and whispered, “But don’t tell my children.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ERINN

  Erinn was still steaming over the ignobility of today’s assignment. Cary had called and informed her that the latest focus groups revealed that women 18–45 wanted to relate to the people they saw on television.

  “It follows the same philosophy as book covers that feature bodies with no heads. Women relate to the body but they want to put their own faces on those bodies. It’s a way to make the fantasy feel more real.”

  Erinn found this very interesting. She had seen those book covers herself. She often wondered who was buying all those novels with decapitated people on them, referring to them as “The Romances of Sleepy Hollow.”

  “You want me to shoot Blu without her head?” Erinn asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “We need to make Blu seem just like everyone else,” Cary said. “Only more so.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Erinn, try to work with me. Anyway, I made an appointment with Dr. Roberts tomorrow.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “No! Not for me, for Blu!” Cary said, sounding exasperated. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Dr. Roberts, plastic surgeon to the stars?”

  Luckily, Erinn’s laptop was within reach and she got busy Googling Dr. Roberts. She had learned that while she was always alarmingly behind the times in all things Los Angeles, just a few clicks on a search engine and she could get herself up to speed enough to fake it.

  “Oh, Dr. Carson Roberts,” Erinn said into the phone. “Of course.”

  “I want you to shoot a consultation . . . maybe lipo, maybe new boobs, a new nose.”

  “She has new boobs and I’m pretty sure that is not her original nose. And she doesn’t have an ounce of flesh on her. Why are we doing this? I thought she was supposed to own a shoe factory.”

  “We can’t find a shoe factory willing to say it’s Blu’s.”

  Unlike me, who got suckered into losing my whole house. I can’t’t believe I have less integrity than a shoe factory.

  “We’re trying to make Blu seem more like her audience,” Cary said. “Aren’t you listening? A trip to a plastic surgeon will make her seem relatable.”

  “To whom?” Erinn asked, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “To the proverbial ‘everywoman.’ It will make Blu seem insecure about her looks.”

  “I’m not sure Blu can convey insecurity about her looks. She’s not that good an actress. And for your information, I think when ‘everywoman’ is feeling insecure she makes an appointment to get a gym membership, not a high-priced plastic surgeon.”

  “I’ll e-mail you the particulars. The appointment is at nine a.m.”

  Erinn and Blu headed out the next morning. Blu pouted the entire way to Beverly Hills. She was upset that Opie the audio guy was not joining them. Erinn tried to explain that her camera had a perfectly serviceable microphone and an extra person on a shoot in a tiny space would cause more problems than it would solve.

  “Let’s go over some ideas for the scene,” Erinn said, hoping to distract her.

  “I was thinking of asking for some lipo to get rid of this,” Blu said, grabbing some flesh at the top of her jeans.

  “That’s skin,” Erinn said. “You need that.”

  Blu rolled her eyes and looked out the window, watching Beverly Hills sail by.

  “Maybe we could shoot a scene in the Coach store afterward,” Blu said. “I’ll bet they’ll give me a free bag in exchange for the publicity.”

  “We need to sell this series first,” Erinn said. “Let’s save that for Season One.”

  Blu nodded, and Erinn was relieved that she gave in so easily. While it wasn’t a lie that they needed the series to sell before any of this made an ounce of difference, Erinn knew that brands with the upper-crust visibility of Coach did not need the kind of publicity Blu could offer. She didn’t want Blu’s feelings to be hurt. She wasn’t sure why she cared, exactly. It wasn’t as if Blu had taken Erinn’s feelings into consideration—ever. But there was no time for soul searching. Dr. Roberts’s Canon Drive office was right in front of them. Blu’s eyes gleamed in anticipation.

  Dr. Roberts was alone in the office when they arrived. He was wearing very expensive suit pants and a silk tie; Erinn wondered if he traded services with a few Armani salesmen. He had a white coat over a pinstriped shirt with French cuffs. He handed some paperwork to Erinn.

  “Here’s my location release and my personal release form,” he said.

  Erinn was impressed. She put the papers on top of her camera case. This obviously was not the doctor’s first cable station rodeo.

  “I always try to do these shows before business hours,” he said, leading them into an examination room. “That way, I don’t have to play favorites with the staff, choosing which nurse gets to bring in the charts.”

  Erinn found herself grinning. This man knew his stuff . . . or at least, he knew her stuff!

  As she set up for the shoot, she tried to hear everything the doctor and Blu were saying without appearing to be eavesdropping. This was a skill field producers had perfected. Direct questioning often led to answers the person thought you wanted to hear rather than the truth. And Erinn did try to stick to reality as much as possible in these shows, for what that was worth.

  “You’re pretty handsome for a doctor,” Blu said.

  The doctor looked Blu over, but in a completely professional way. Erinn was sure this was not the reaction she got from most men who were scanning her.

  “I mean, medical school must be a lot of work,” Blu continued. “You could have skipped all that and just become an actor.”

  Dr. Roberts took Blu’s blood pressure.

  “You seem to be in pretty good shape,” the doctor said.

  “Oh, no,” Blu protested. “I am flab, flab, flab.”

  She held out an arm and flicked at the skin on the underside. The doctor took it in his hands and examined it.

  “Two weeks in the gym and you would be fine,” he said.

  Erinn was of two minds. On the one hand, she admired this doctor who obviously wasn’t about to sell a procedure he didn’t think was warranted. On the other hand, she knew Blu would be impossible if she didn’t get her way.

  Blu rolled down her waistband and tucked her T-shirt into her bra, so her whole midriff was exposed, then jumped up on the examination table. Erinn flipped the On button on her camera.

  “You really should be naked for this,” the doctor said.

  “I know,” Blu said. “But my producer says I have to keep my clothes on.”

  “Cut,” Erinn said, pulling her eye away from the viewfinder.

  Blu and the doctor turned to look at Erinn.

  “We’re a women’s lifestyle network,” Erinn explained. “Our audience really isn’t comfortable with a lot of nudity.”

  “What if it’s tasteful?” Blu asked.

  As if Blu could do anything tasteful.

  “Doctor,” Blu said, “I really need you to agree to doing lipo. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, that’s not why I’m here,” he said. “I’m here to offer advice on what I think you do and don’t need.”

  “My company is going to pay you, you know,” Blu said.

  Erinn wondered if that were true.

  “It’s not about the money,” Dr. Roberts replied. “Television is a very powerful medium. This is my reputation we’re talking about.”

  Erinn knew he wasn’t talking to her, but she felt a tweak. What about her reputation?
She wondered again if the universe were sending her signs.

  Blu jumped down off the table.

  “Well then, this is a waste of time,” she said and stormed out of the office. Erinn noticed that she didn’t unroll her shorts or untuck her top. Dr. Roberts shrugged and picked up his paperwork from atop the camera case.

  “I guess you won’t be needing this,” he said.

  “I guess not,” Erinn said. This morning, she’d hated the idea of shooting this and now she was sorry it was over before it began. It would have been such a great scene: a high-profile plastic surgeon telling a starlet to go straight to . . . the gym! Unheard of in the annals of vacuous TV!

  Erinn packed her bag quickly and shook the doctor’s hand. She murmured an apology and went to find Blu.

  She was sitting on the hood of the car. She jumped when Erinn pressed the sensor to unlock the car and the horn beeped. Blu got right into the passenger seat without speaking to her as Erinn loaded the trunk with gear. As they drove down Wilshire Boulevard, Blu finally said, “A Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who won’t do anything for money? What’s that about?”

  Erinn thought of Mark Twain’s famous line: “It’s no wonder truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.” But she decided Blu would not appreciate the irony. She glanced over at Blu, who was still looking out the window, but she saw her brush away a tear. Was it possible this woman was insecure about her looks?

  Cary was sitting on the front step of Erinn’s house as they pulled up. She was not smiling. Blu and Erinn exchanged a look. Could Cary somehow have heard that they left the doctor’s office with no footage? Cary stood up and walked toward the car.

  Why can’t she be like other bosses and text?

  Erinn and Blu stepped out of the car looking like guilty teenagers who had taken their parents’ vehicle without permission.

  “We need to stick together on this,” Blu said.

  “Whatever this is,” Erinn said, as they watched Cary make her way purposely toward them.

  Cary wasted no time.

  “Blu, would you please give me a minute with Erinn?”

  “Sure!” Blu said and ran toward the house, digging in her purse for her keys.

  “Let me just get my camera inside,” Erinn said, stalling for time.

  “Oh, I’ll take it,” Blu said, grabbing the camera case and rushing through the front door.

  So much for solidarity.

  Erinn was used to being on the receiving end of bosses’ displeasure. She never intentionally set out to annoy them, but it happened regularly. She had ceased trying to guess what her transgression was; she was never right. So she waited.

  “The footage for Budding Tastes was finally digitized,” Cary said. “I’ve been going over it all morning.”

  Red, White, and Blu had been consuming so much of Erinn’s time that she had almost forgotten about Budding Tastes and her own executive decision to make it into a show about junk-food-and-wine pairings.

  Perhaps I should have mentioned that in my notes.

  Maybe this wasn’t bad news after all. Maybe, just maybe, Cary would see her vision!

  “What did you think?” Erinn asked.

  “Let’s walk,” Cary said, guiding Erinn away from the house.

  They crossed Ocean Avenue to Palisades Park. They made their way to the fenced edge that looked over the cliff toward the Pacific Ocean. They rounded a class of five or six people learning swordplay and skirted a yoga boot camp that took place every day. Erinn always considered “yoga boot camp” an oxymoron but thought better of sharing this with Cary in case she wasn’t in the mood.

  Erinn waited.

  “May I ask what you were thinking?” Cary asked.

  This wasn’t good.

  Erinn thought of changing the subject but realized telling Cary that she had nothing to show for herself from the visit to Dr. Roberts probably wasn’t going to help the situation.

  “I think if you just give the junk food slant a chance—” Erinn began, but Cary interrupted her.

  “Of course I’m going to give it a chance,” Cary said. “I have no choice but to give it a chance. The network paid for this, and I have to now try and sell them on their own show!”

  “They might find it interesting,” Erinn said. “It hasn’t been done before.”

  “Erinn, there is not an executive in all of television who wants something that has never been done before.”

  The two women looked out over the water. Erinn was grateful for its calming presence. She willed it to soothe her boss. She racked her brain for something to say. She knew she was terrible at that loathsome thing called “small talk.”

  “This view never fails me,” she said, hoping to ease the tension. “I wish I had my camera.”

  “Speaking of your camera,” Cary said, turning to face her, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “How did today go with Dr. Roberts?”

  Another massive small-talk failure.

  Erinn was grateful that Cary was looking into the sun and couldn’t read her face.

  “I don’t think it’s going to work for our story,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

  That wasn’t exactly a lie!

  “Whatever.” Cary shrugged, turning back toward the street.

  Erinn took this to mean the inquisition was over.

  “I’ve got enough problems,” Cary continued. “I’ll work on Budding Tastes; you do what you can with Blu.”

  “Sounds like a plan!” Erinn chirped, wondering whose bumptious voice she was channeling.

  “But, Erinn, please, toe the party line.”

  “Toe the party line,” she repeated, as they crossed the street. “A mixed metaphor, but I understand your meaning.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Cary said as she got into her car.

  Erinn watched her drive down Ocean Avenue until she was out of sight. Sighing with relief, she turned toward the house. Blu was standing in the front window, peeking out from behind the curtain. Erinn looked directly at her and the curtain dropped back into place. She knew that by the time she got into the house Blu would be nowhere in sight. This knowledge gave her a sense of satisfaction, until she remembered that Blu would be hiding out in her own bedroom.

  Erinn picked up Caro and carried him into the hideously redecorated living room. She sat down at the computer and clicked on Facebook. She clicked on Suzanna’s page and found pictures of Lizzy and Eric. She noticed a new profile picture, which was decidedly unmotherly. To Erinn’s professional eye it screamed, “I might be a wife and mother, but I’m still hot.”

  Poor Suzanna. She needed so much . . . feedback.

  She clicked on Eric’s page, which was full of links to social causes and thinly veiled advertisements for the Nook. There were no personal photos or comments. Erinn knew he used his site for more professional reasons—she did that herself—but he actually had a personal life. A picture of the family couldn’t hurt, could it? Her mother’s page could have passed for a travel brochure for Venice Beach. Pictures of the Beach Walk, the bike path, the tea shop, Bernard’s artwork, Donell and his sage—it was all there. Erinn scanned the photos quickly, looking for a picture of Christopher, but didn’t see any. Her mother had a new profile picture as well. Virginia was holding Spot up to the camera, their faces touching cheek to cheek (if rabbits had cheeks).

  Erinn clicked on Jude’s profile. He was still traveling the world, apparently. In his latest self-portrait (she refused to use the term “selfie”) he was pretending to be passed out among giant beer steins. His caption read: Beer, women, and song . . . OK, beer and women . . . OK, beer. Erinn smiled in spite of herself.

  Blu’s page was pretty much what Erinn expected: one semiporno-graphic pose after another. Erinn saw a video post that said “Blu twerks.” Having no idea what that meant, she clicked on it. Staring at the screen, she witnessed Blu squatting low to the ground, her backside thrust toward the camera. Her tiny rear end tensed, bobbed, and weaved
to a pulsing, thumping rhythm. Was this a dance? Was that music? Blu started moving around the room, continuing her strange fertility rite. Erinn realized this video was made upstairs in Erinn’s own room. She closed the page.

  Dymphna’s offering was a “fan page,” which meant you could show your support by “liking” it. There was a link to a YouTube video. Erinn watched as her own mother appeared on the scene, chasing a rabbit that in turn was chasing a square-headed dog, which was followed by a shrill, terrified man. The video had 100,000 hits. There was also a news article explaining why the rabbits were in Venice Beach in the first place: They were being used to highlight the tug-of-war about the cedar tree in Mr. Clancy’s Courtyard. The article went on to say that the community was collecting signatures to show support for the tree and were now in the process of applying for historic landmark status.

  Erinn read the comments at the bottom of the article. Viewpoints were passionate. Many agreed that the idea of landmark status for a tree that was too big for the courtyard was silly and “too Southern California for my tastes.” Others felt that the tree was deserving of protection, while others deplored the exploitation of the helpless, opinion-less rabbits.

  There was a quote from Christopher, who said, “We want to be open-minded. We’re going to apply for landmark status in short order and hope to raise enough funds to get a professional evaluation.” Erinn wondered if Christopher hadn’t put the cart before the horse. Shouldn’t they have checked out the tree before making all this fuss?

  Giving in to temptation, she clicked on Christopher’s Facebook page. Her fingers froze. Christopher’s latest post featured Alice Albert’s artwork and an open invitation to all interested parties to stop by and “check out the work of this first-class artist.”

  Caro sensed the shift in Erinn’s mood and jumped to the floor. Erinn put her head in her hands. She was a TV hack and Christopher was keeping company with a first-class artist.

  Damn Facebook.

  CHAPTER 17

  VIRGINIA

  Two months ago, if anyone had told Virginia she would be the object of desire of not one, but two men, she would have laughed . . . if she hadn’t wept with relief. The malaise she felt in New York City those last few months, which she had pinpointed as missing her daughters, turned out to be a broader problem. She was missing life!