Chapter 2
“Drew, Juliana, thank you for meeting with me tonight. As I said in my call, I have some news.” Keith leans forward in a navy crushed velvet club chair amid the Art Deco elegance of Needle & Thread and smiles professionally.
“Good news, I hope?” I wiggle nervously in a ridiculously tall and not very comfortable linen balloon chair and take a sip of my bespoke cocktail, trying to look cool and sophisticated, not sweaty and antsy, which is how I actually feel.
I can’t believe that just thirty minutes ago I was washing off lemon Jell-O as we wrapped filming for the day.
Now here we are in a business meeting that could change our futures.
Next to me in a matching balloon chair, Drew clears his throat nervously.
Keith, Drew, and I are crowded around a tiny table in the glamorous, narrow speakeasy hidden above Tavern Law, a popular bar near our apartment.
Currently, I am drinking a St-Germain—a deliciously bubbly twenty-dollar champagne and elderflower liqueur cocktail.
Thank goodness Keith is paying. My job at Trader Joe’s and my half of the modest amount we make through the show do not allow for such luxuries in a city as expensive as Seattle.
All around us there’s a low hum of conversation.
The dim lighting and muted jazz soundtrack make the small space seem exclusive and very posh.
Beside me, Drew is sipping a fancy French gin cocktail.
Outwardly, he looks calm and affable, but his knee is jiggling, a sure sign that he’s as agitated as I am.
He’s seemed a little off today, to be honest. When I asked him on the way over if he thought it would be good news, he hesitated and didn’t meet my eyes, which isn’t like Drew.
Usually, he’s Mr.Enthusiasm. Maybe he’s just nervous too.
We both want this to go well. There’s a lot riding on it.
“Well, that depends on how you look at it, I guess.” Keith smiles coolly.
He isn’t drinking a cocktail, which for some reason makes me even more nervous.
Actually, Keith makes me nervous period.
He’s very well-groomed for a man in his fifties, tanned with wavy blond hair and shockingly white teeth.
His smooth, blank face gives away nothing.
He must be a great poker player. I can never tell what he is really thinking, and I have this sneaking suspicion for some reason that he doesn’t really like me.
He’s a successful talent scout for TV series and has turned more than one YouTube sensation into a genuine star.
As the brains behind Nailed It! and Snack vs.
Chef among other shows, he has a nose for winners, he’s told us more than once.
Somehow when he looks at me, though, I get the niggling feeling that I am being measured and found wanting.
I never feel like a winner around Keith.
And yet, here we are. I sip my cocktail, the elderflower liqueur and champagne tickling my nose.
“So what’s the news?” Drew asks with a strained smile.
I draw a quick breath, equal parts anxiety and anticipation.
What we are hoping for, what Keith has been working toward, is getting a contract for a limited series on one of the streaming networks like Peacock or Max.
Netflix would be a dream come true, although Keith says that’s a long shot.
Any deal with a network would mean significantly more money and viewership reach than anything we’ve done before.
And it would allow us to keep filming together.
We’d have to move to LA, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay.
Seattle has always been my home, but since my dad passed away and my older sister Aurora got married and relocated to the East Coast, it’s also felt lonely.
Maybe something new could be good. I take a gulp of my cocktail for courage.
Keith picks up his glass of water and takes a small sip.
“Look, I know we were hoping for a limited-run series for The Bygone Kitchen .” He glances at both of us dispassionately and sets his glass down with a clink.
“Let me be frank. That’s not going to happen.
I presented the idea to several streaming services, and unfortunately, none of them were interested in picking up your show. ”
“Oh.” My hopes deflate as suddenly as a popped birthday balloon. No LA. No TV deal. “Why not?” I ask hesitantly.
“They don’t see the current format resonating with audiences. They’re looking for something more…on trend,” Keith says carefully.
“On trend.” I swallow the words and taste disappointment, as bitter as flat champagne.
I take a moment to absorb the news. Honestly, I’m crushed.
But then I try to look for the positives, another Dr.Dana trick.
True, it’s not what I was hoping for, but it isn’t the worst news in the world.
Drew and I can keep doing what we’ve been doing, keep building the brand, and maybe something good will happen soon.
We have seventy-five thousand viewers. We’re growing slowly, but it could potentially turn into more…
I realize Keith is still talking.
“There is some interest from another angle,” he says.
Beside me, Drew leans forward curiously. “What angle?” he asks.
My heart skips a beat. Maybe there’s good news after all?
“Peacock has decided to test out a new show with a different format,” Keith explains. “They want to offer a limited-run series of six episodes, to see how it does with audiences.” He pauses. “They’re interested in a show that hosts a themed dance contest in local iconic dining spots around the US.”
“What?” I stammer in surprise just as Drew blurts out, “Cool!”
I’m baffled. How is this going to be a good fit for us? Drew is the dancer. I have no rhythm. “I don’t understand. They want us to host this new show?” I’m trying to imagine myself hosting this. I think I’d be a disaster.
Keith holds up one well-manicured hand and smiles regretfully. “I’m sorry, Jules, but unfortunately, they only want Drew.”
“Only Drew?” I stare at Keith as an icy feeling of comprehension trickles through me.
“Hey, that’s not what we discussed,” Drew protests. I glance over at him in surprise. His expression is mingled confusion and disbelief as he looks at Keith. “You said you were going to find something for Jules too,” he says.
“You knew about this?” I whisper in disbelief, the feeling of betrayal cutting sharp and quick.
Drew squirms in his seat. “Keith called me a couple of days ago and asked me to submit an audition recording, but he said he was working on finding something for both of us in LA,” he tells me, looking guilty.
“It was supposed to be for both of us.” He shoots a helpless glance at Keith, who is watching us impassively.
“I tried to find something for you both, but unfortunately, right now there’s only interest in you, Drew,” Keith explains. “I’m sorry, Jules.” He frowns sympathetically in my direction.
I stare at Keith, then Drew in bewilderment.
Drew submitted an audition tape and didn’t tell me?
I thought we had no secrets from each other.
Confused and hurt, I look down into my glass.
The champagne bubbles are still rising lazily from the bottom in a beautiful golden stream, like anticipation, like hope.
They only want Drew. The rejection stings so badly. I swallow hard and look up at Keith.
“Why don’t they want our show?” I’m trying to control my voice so it doesn’t tremble, although I can feel a hard knot of disappointment and embarrassment tightening in my chest. I feel so small in his eyes, the one who wasn’t wanted.
I hate this feeling. I’m failing all over again.
I’m losing the thing that is most precious to me.
I bite my inner cheek hard. Keep it together, Jules. Just a little longer.
Keith sets down his water glass. “The producers want the new show to appeal to a certain young demographic, and they feel both the show and your hosting style just doesn’t set the right tone.
” He steeples his fingers and waits, his pale eyes on me, impassive.
“If you had a bigger following or a fresh concept, that would be one thing, but as it stands now…” He spreads his hands, implying there is nothing he can do.
I am simply not enough. No one wants me.
I nod numbly, the hard knot unfurling into a familiar feeling of shame and grief.
I’m going to cry. Suddenly, I can’t stand to stay here a moment longer.
Setting my half-empty champagne coupe on the table, I rise abruptly, fumbling for my vintage flower power patterned handbag.
I turn to Keith. “Thank you for this opportunity,” I say with as much dignity as I can muster.
I’m fighting hard to quell the hot tears pricking the backs of my eyelids.
Keith stands and shakes my hand firmly. His look of dispassionate sympathy almost wrecks me.
“Good luck, Jules,” he says. “And if you come up with a really fresh, new concept or if you get those numbers up, feel free to contact me, okay?”
I nod silently and whirl toward the stairs, deliberately not looking in Drew’s direction.
“Jules,” Drew calls to me, but I don’t stop, stumbling down the narrow stairs, my chunky penny loafers making a clunky racket with each step. I can’t quite seem to breathe.