3. “There is always madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
Dylan – New York
I waited patiently in line in the queue of the small hole-in-the-wall deli four blocks away from my office. Did other closer delis serve bagels? Yes. Did other delis serve decent coffee? It was New York, so obviously yes. Did those delis have a six-foot-four Henry Cavill lookalike working behind their counters? No, they did not.
“What’s taking them so long?” Natalie’s voice whined in my ear. “I need to get my daily fix of Dylan’s humiliation or my whole morning is shot to shit.”
“What?” I gasped, my hand pressed to my chest. “When have I ever humiliated myself?”
“How about when Superman up there asked if you liked it spread all over, you replied with ' only if they bought me dinner first' ? Or when you asked if you could taste his sausage first before you bought it? Or what about the time you sucked cream off your thumb, looked at him and hummed? Or…”
“Okay!” I yelped. “Maybe I don’t always act my best when it comes to Muscles McGillicutty up there.”
The line moved slowly forward. With each few feet we moved, I was one step closer to those deliciously bulging biceps. I could feel my heart pounding as I watched him smile at a customer as he passed over what looked like a salt beef bagel.
“Oh dear, you must be starving – you’re drooling. Don’t worry dear, the line here moves pretty quickly,” an older lady said with a sympathetic voice.
I wiped away the traitorous stray bead of moisture from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.
“The time is eight-fifteen a.m. Humiliation complete. I can now go happily on about my day,” Natalie laughed in my ear.
I liked to kid myself that there were times that I regretted putting Natalie’s name forward for a writer’s position when one of the spots had opened up at the end of Season Two, now being one of them. However, whilst I had found my job fulfilling and rewarding before, there was something about having her there with me that really let me find my voice as a writer. She was a great sounding board and was ruthless in her critiques, and whilst never needlessly cruel, she allowed herself the freedom to tell me if a scene I'd written sucked if she'd thought so. I credited her a lot in my writing, especially in a new project I’d been working on for the past year. Although there was no shortage of cop dramas on TV, I'd been working on one that would have a gay detective as the lead. I knew it would be a hard sell to the network as the initial episodes I'd penned had the lead character out on the dating scene, dealing with homophobia within the NYPD and succeeding in finding love eventually. A lot of prime time shows with gay leads either had the lead as a tragic character who found themselves in the ‘seedy’ underbelly of the queer community or as the comedy relief. My show highlighted committed queer relationships that dealt with all the same trials and tribulations as any other straight TV couple.
Once Season Four had wrapped, only a few weeks had passed before we were going into the pre-production phase of Season Five. It was legit nuts, but the job market and the realities of working in television were such that Natalie and I were now found ourselves as two of the longest-serving writers in the staff pool.
“Next!”
My gaze lifted to meet Mr. Muscles on the other side of the counter. Apparently while I'd been lost in my thoughts the line had cleared, leaving only a thin countertop between me and him. “Sorry!” I mumbled, my voice strained and flustered.
“It’s all good.” He winked, he god-damned winked at me. “Seemed like you were lost in your thoughts a bit.”
“Not so much lost as pleasantly meandering around in them.” I smiled back. What a douchebag answer.
He at least had the good grace about him to laugh at my lame joke. “Well, I’ll have to try and keep your attention on me long enough to take your order.”
“Not gonna be a problem there.” Natalie chuffed out a quick laugh behind me. I repaid her outburst with a quick light elbow to her stomach, expelling the air quickly from her lungs as she struggled to hold in a laugh. “Sorry,” she wheezed through clenched teeth.
“Sorry,” I mimicked to him, “about her, I mean.”
“No, you guys are fine.” He smiled, his teeth brilliant white and perfect. Even this man's beautiful teeth made my heart stutter. “So can I get you the usual?”
“You know what I want?” My jaw dropped slightly.
“Yeah, I know what you want.” He winked at me again before turning around to busy himself at the Gaggia machine.
“This is the part in the porn where he'd say he could tell you want something hot and creamy,” Natalie whispered in my ear.
“This elbow can keep going,” I warned her. She chuckled in my ear and backed off.
A minute later he turned back around with a dark purple paper cup and plastic lid. “One half caf, skinny latte, extra hot with a shot of hazelnut syrup. Am I right?”
“You are right.” Holy shit, he remembers my order. I guess he remembers a lot of regular customers’ orders if he makes them enough. I’m not going to let silly details like facts ruin my moment though! I tapped my card against the machine and put a few bucks in the tip jar.
“Thank you, Dylan,” he called as I turned to walk away.
“You know my name.” I turned back to stare, dumbfounded.
“Of course I do.” He bit his bottom lip. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” I left the shop without Natalie, waiting outside with my nose pressed up against the window like a dog at a butcher shop. I smiled as I saw Natalie walking towards the door of the shop, drink in hands with hearts in her eyes.
The bell chimed as she exited the shop. She immediately slapped me on the arm.
“Ouch!” I yelped out, unable to rub the sore spot because of the scalding hot coffee in my non-smacked arm.
“How could you leave without asking that delicious specimen out?” She gawped at me, gesturing towards the window. I followed the direction of her arm, through the window to the now-smiling Muscle Mary behind the counter who gave me the slightest of nods and grinned at me.
“Come on!” I grabbed her arm and hurried her away from the coffee shop. Safely round the corner I turned on her. “I mean, we don’t even know if he likes me.”
“Come on, doofus,” she chuckled. “I mean, I know it’s been a while, but the signals he was giving were quite clear. I’m a lesbian, and the signals were so strong I could feel some of the old stirrings down below.”
“Please don't talk to me about your down-belows.” I covered my mouth and pretended to gag. “Anyway, I told him I'd see him tomorrow.” I shrugged.
“Well, you'd best practice your best moves and lock that shit down tomorrow then.” She linked our arms, pulling me towards the direction of the office. “Come on, we're gonna be late and will have to face off against The Beast .”
A few minutes later we were hurrying through the lobby of the building, nodding at Cliff, the old security guy, who on more than one occasion had had to let me through the turnstiles as I had a habit of leaving my ID at home. It happened so often that he automatically sighed and reached for the switch whenever I patted my pockets and cursed, vividly picturing my ID hanging on the back of the chair in my kitchen.
We rushed into the lifts. My feet didn’t stop tapping until the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor. The black square modular desk that served as the office reception lay just beyond the doors. Behind the desk was Gretal, the keeper of the office diary, merciless protector of the writer’s schedule and the key holder to the copy room. I would liken Gretal to Cerberus in almost every way, except that Cerberus was probably cute when he slept. I imagined Gretal slept upside down, above her desk with one dazzling blue eye constantly open.
“Good afternoon,” Gretal chirped brightly, her perfectly polished talons gleaming red as she drummed them on the desk in front of her.
“Gretal, it's fifteen minutes before nine a.m.” I checked my watch to make sure I wasn't going nuts.
“Some of us have been here for an hour already.” She shrugged, looking pointedly between the pair of us.
“Some of us should get a life then,” Natalie muttered, patting me lightly on the back before moving swiftly down the hallway. Gretal eyed me like a lynx just before it pounced on its prey. I shrugged slightly and gave Gretal a tight smile, nodding down the hallway that Natalie had disappeared down.
“I’m just gonna…” I hooked my thumb over my shoulder.
Gretal’s gaze didn’t leave mine as I made my way down the office. I could feel her stare still on me like icy claws dragging down my spine.
I caught up with Natalie just before she entered the viper pit. We had taken to calling the main writers’ room that after our first few months. We'd learned that if you wanted any credit for any of your ideas, you'd best have that shit written down before floating the idea openly in the writers’ room, otherwise another writer would snap that shit up and have their name on it quicker than you could say boo to a goose.
Just as Natalie reached for the door, a voice that chilled my soul sounded from behind us. “Can you two please follow me?” I yelped and jumped away from the ice-cold fingers and sharp talons of Gretal, who seemed to have appeared behind me like a ghoul. “You both are wanted upstairs.”
My heart beat slowed as she walked back towards the bank of elevators, her black leather high heels clacking on the marble floor as she went. She gestured over her shoulders vaguely, which I assumed meant we should follow her.
“I would so hit that if she wasn’t the epitome of evil,” Natalie whined in my ear.
“That is gross, even for you,” I winced.
“She’s hot!” Natalie gestured towards Gretal’s retreating form. “I mean, you have to appreciate the aesthetic.”
“She probably stole that body from some unsuspecting new actress or model.” I eyed the demon in front of us. “I am almost positive that she had green scaly skin underneath all that Prada.”
Natalie laughed and punched me lightly in the arm. “What do you think they want us for?” she whispered as the elevator dinged and the doors parted.
“I’m guessing it’s something to do with Season Five starting production. Maybe they want to negotiate our contracts for the upcoming season?” I silently hoped and crossed my fingers by my side.
“If we could keep the chatter to a minimum, please?” Gretal scolded as she pressed the button to the twenty-first floor.
My heart pounded as the cabin ascends up the building. A growing dread rose in my stomach. I’d been getting some troubling vibes from the show runners and producers when it came time to discuss moving forward with the next season. There had been chatter about giving more credits to the up-and-coming writers in the room, and with good cause, because the new breed were very talented. I hoped that this wasn’t a very nice handshake from the head of the studio before they pushed us out of our jobs.
We rarely got called to the twenty-first floor. If the studio heads wanted to talk to us, they would come down to fifteen and chat with us in the writers’ room. We walked into the reception area of the space, their very own Gretal sitting behind a white circular desk – Meave.
“Good morning.” Gretal nodded almost in deference to the tall, eagle nosed brunette behind the desk. I guess Meave was an upper level demon to whom Gretal must pay homage. “I have the two writers I was asked to deliver.” She gestured behind herself towards us as if we were some street urchins she was dropping off at the orphanage.
“Oh of course,” Meave sighed without looking up from her French tipped manicured fingernails. “Please go on through to Mr Hughes’ office. He is expecting you.”
I gathered, from her not leaving her chair and waving us towards the large dark oak door to her right, that she had no intention of introducing us.
“Go,” Gretal urged us along, moving us swiftly to the door. I heard a few choice words leave her lips to Meave as we knocked on the heavy oak.
“Come in,” a deep disembodied voice called from the other side. Harold Hughes was a legend in film and television. During his tenure as the head of the studio, he had managed to increase revenue to all the departments under the company’s umbrella, as well as its fledgling streaming platform. Few studios could compete with FilmFlix , but StudioNine , our very own platform, was giving them a run for their money.
Natalie poked me in the side, urging me to open the door. The door groaned on its hinges as it opened, revealing a huge expansive office that must have taken up a good sixty percent of the entire twenty-first floor. The long office extended from the east side of the building to the west, giving an amazing view of the north side of Manhattan, from the Bowery all the way to Harlem. The luxurious plush white carpets looked so soft that I almost wanted to curl up in a ball like a cat on the office floor. The hunter green walls were dotted equally along their length with white square moulding that held posters from Mr. Hughes’ earlier television successes. A glass and dark wood cabinet held various awards, which included two Oscars and a BAFTA amongst them. At the head of the room, backed by the panoramic New York skyline, was a large glass Etienne Dupre desk that I knew from the fall issue of Vogue cost around forty thousand dollars.
“Ah, Mr. Cooper and Ms. Spencer!” Mr. Hughes exclaimed, standing up from behind his desk. His large frame dwarfed the brown leather Giovanni Riocardi chair that would have set him back at least another ten grand. “Right on time.” He gestured towards the two identical chairs to his own that were situated in front of his desk. There were another three unoccupied chairs just off to his left. Thirty thousands dollars’ worth of chair, currently unoccupied.
Natalie and I took our seats, as Mr. Hughes lowered himself down into his own gingerly, groaning all the way. “Don’t get old kids,” he winced as he sat down, “it’s not fun.”
“I’m sure you’re not a day over sixty-five, sir,” Natalie exclaimed, waving her hand in the hair.
I winced and kicked Natalie swiftly in the shin. She sucked air through her teeth, resisting the urge to retaliate or sooth the sting on her leg as Mr. Hughes belted out a deep throaty laugh. “You would be right Ms. Spencer, since I’m only fifty-eight.” He reached forward and picked up the phone on his desk. “Meave, can you please call for the department heads please.” He hung up without saying goodbye, leaning forward on the table to rest his elbow on the glass surface in front of him.
“I suppose you are wondering why you are here.” He smiled kindly, reaching into his desk drawer to pull out a box filled with various hard candies, offering it to us. Natalie and I both turned down the gesture. He shrugged, unwrapping a small red candy and popped it in between his teeth.
“Yeah, I guess we are a little confused?” I bit at the skin on the inside of my mouth, my hands wringing on my lap in front of me.
“Well, I won’t keep you in suspense much longer.” He slipped the box of candy back into his desk.
I silently prayed that this would be good news. Maybe the show has been picked up for more seasons and they are just strategising with us. Why they would do that without the head writer, I don’t know. Maybe they just want to commend us on a job well done for Season Four, since Natalie and I carried that season. There is no way they can just fire us.
“We have made the decision that you won’t be joining the writers’ team for Season Five of your show.”
Well, shit.