Chapter 39
39
T here are more important things in life than your next byline, especially if you ask your lover to start writing a script together.
“Forget about the Pulitzer, Scribe. We’re gonna get an Emmy!” I told David after I woke up from the most pleasant and restorative of siestas. I may have been almost killed twice that Saturday, but it was not going to be the day I also became a writer deserted by her agent.
“Huh?” he asked, confused and still battling sleep. “Can we still get a Pulitzer as well?”
I suspect he was still too sleepy to have heard my mention of the Emmy that Fred Appleton’s story was going to get us, because who cared about the Pulitzer. But that tale really had everything: a deranged villain, a victim no one was going to mourn, a true crime angle, a Hollywood backdrop, and a couple of sexy writers pining for each other and managing to solve the case.
I checked the time and realized it was almost 3 p.m. I texted Beatrice right away.
I guess the NYC Misconducts offer is off now Fred has been arrested but I have the perfect pitch for you.
The woman was ruthless and replied immediately.
Beatrice
Clock is ticking. Drop by the Shrine Auditorium before 5 p.m. You can catch me at the red carpet and tell me all about it.
“Feel like writing something else with me?” I asked David. He was still lying in bed. I was sitting up. He turned to me, propped his face over his flexed arm, and gave me the most sultry of smiles.
“Are we going to almost get killed again?”
“No, but we’re going to write precisely about that,” I said. “There’s a prestige TV movie in this mess we’ve found ourselves in these last few days, and I think we’re the perfect people to write about it.”
“Sounds good.” I have to reiterate here that his smile could be described as smoldering. “But can I think about it?”
“Of course you can. But I really can’t. And I’m gonna need a dress!” There was no way I was going to drop by an awards red carpet wearing ratty jeans and a stained top.
So I left David naked in bed, put some clothes on—probably the aforementioned ratty jeans and stained top—took the elevator down, and went straight to the Acne Studios store that resides at street level on the Eastern Columbia.
To the untrained pedestrian walking by, it could look as if the Downtown location of the Swedish-based minimalist brand was closed. I knew better.
Among the industrial-looking metallic hangers and the fluffy black ottomans, I rummaged through the selection of designer clothes with an edge. Fortunately, I was quick at finding the perfect garment for what I was going for: put together but not too fancy, glammed up with an attitude. For a moment there, I had a bit of trepidation. Could I possibly pull this somewhat daring dress off? Of course I could. I was so glad that I-don’t-give-a-shit-and-I’m-dumbly-sure-about-everything Elena was back.
Ten minutes after that, I’d bought a figure-hugging black satin dress with thin straps and an adjustable tie-up detail at the waist. It would go great with my battered classic Dr. Martens boots and the vintage Chanel mini flap handbag my mother had so generously gotten for me months before. I still hadn’t been social—and grown-up—enough to take it out of the closet.
I was running the pitch for Beatrice in my head and feeling energized and creative in a way I hadn’t experienced in months. I was so absorbed, I even took the stairs. By the time I made it to the landing of the tenth floor of the Eastern Columbia, I’d come up with the perfect elevator pitch for Beatrice. I know, it was paradoxical considering I hadn’t taken the actual elevator.
“You haven’t heard, have you?” said a recognizable bass voice. My next-door neighbor was standing by my front door with an expression that said: Ready for chatting up .
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“They figured out what happened with the fire alarm the other day,” George said in a hushed tone.
“Didn’t someone trigger it by mistake?” I dismissed him, not even trying to conceal my boredom.
“It wasn’t by mistake but clumsiness,” said my gossipy neighbor. “It was Andrew.”
“What Andrew? Hot Neighbor Andrew?”
“Yep. On Thursday morning, he came home much later than usual after his shift at the hospital ran long. He was so numb after working nights for the whole month that he didn’t see there was a corpse in the garage. Not only that, he triggered the alarm thinking it was the button to call the elevator. He was wearing noise-canceling headphones and didn’t even hear the sound. He went home and slept through the whole thing while we were out there freezing.” George chuckled in disbelief, but the thing was, I could see myself doing the same. Only in my case, I wouldn’t have triggered the alarm thinking it was the elevator because I’d been working for hours in a hospital but because I was too drunk. So I decided not to judge Andrew. He was only human after all.
As I looked at George, something occurred to me. “Do you have an agent?”
“What do you mean, do I have an agent? Of course I do! I’m a working actor!”
“Pity, I was going to introduce you to mine. I think you’d like each other. You both always seem to know everything.”
“I pay attention,” George dismissed me. “Information is power.”
“Yes, so says my agent.”
“You went shopping?” George changed topics. He didn’t miss a beat and was eyeing my shopping bag.
“I’m in desperate need of a makeover.” For some reason, I wasn’t feeling quite as vindictive with him. But I was fully aware I’d been way too social and congenial with him.
“I can see that,” he said, and I suddenly remembered why I’d never liked him. “Are you guys also humping like rabbits during the day now? Let’s just hope that means less of a racket late at night and after midnight. You were quite loud before.”
“You can hope whatever you want, George,” I said. “But I may set my alarm to hump at 3 a.m. if only to get back at you for talking to the fucking press.”
“Aren’t you actually humping a reporter?” George asked, but I could see he was disturbed by the idea of being woken up in the middle of the night.
“Which is precisely why I’m on a revenge path, George.” I opened the door to my apartment. “You talked to a competing outlet,” I added, then closed the door dramatically in his face.
“You’re back?” David said from bed. He was still naked, propped up on pillows while reading the latest steamy rom-com novel I’d been devouring the night before when I couldn’t sleep. And he was wearing my glasses. Needless to say, he looked irresistibly pretty. All my wild fantasies about a sexy naked librarian materialized in front of my eyes. “Come back to bed. We haven’t reconciled adequately enough.” He patted the mattress.
I took my glasses off his face—I’m sure they weren’t even the right prescription for him—and that only made it a little bit easier. It was arduous telling him why I couldn’t join him in bed and why he needed to get out of it and get changed into whatever presentable clothes he had. Pronto .
“I’ll pick you up at your place in ten minutes,” I told him.
He somehow found his favorite UCLA T-shirt while looking for the clothes he’d come in. He took it and showed it to me with a face I understood right away: May I take this one?
Leave it here, my eyes told him. We can share it.
“If you want me to be your pretty plus one for a fancy party, I’m going to need at least half an hour to get ready,” he said.
“Seriously?” I couldn’t believe his vanity. “You have fifteen minutes. Be ready.”
Before leaving my apartment, he tugged me close and kissed me—slowly and methodically.
“You’ve got only fourteen minutes now,” I said, still in a daze. He left with a grin.