Showbiz, A Novel Read online

  She supposed she should hear whatever it was Lawrence had been wanting to talk to her about all night. She had lost him in the crowd, but she didn’t have time to worry about it at the moment. She still had several investors to schmooze. Her evening’s work was far from done.

  She pushed her way back into the crowd, chatting with people along the way and keeping an eye out for Lawrence. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Candace talking to Margolies. Candace was leaning against the wall for support. Margolies didn’t look happy. She couldn’t picture the two of them married. Then again, many things about Margolies surprised her those days.

  Making her way to the back of the room, she could feel the crowd starting to thin out as people left for their evening plans. Suddenly, she felt arms wrap around her from behind. She was frozen in shock for a moment that anyone would be so forward. A brief glance down at the thin hands adorned with gaudy rings and arrow tattooed forearms confirmed her fear—it was Cupid.

  “You look positively good enough to eat,” he whispered in her ear, his arms tight around her. She could feel him pressing his hips against her back. She felt positively disgusted.

  “Get your hands off me,” she said, none too politely. She had developed a high tolerance for sexual harassment during the past few years of working in theater, but that was way over the line.

  “I’m just having a little fun.” He licked her neck as she pried his hands off her waist.

  “I’m not interested.” She wiped his spit off her neck. Disgusting! “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Perhaps he’d like to watch,” Cupid said, as Scarlett tried to get away. She found herself trapped in the corner of the room. She turned toward him and scanned the crowd over his shoulder, trying to catch the eye of someone who might rescue her from his unwanted advances. Unfortunately, the shadowy corner was protected from easy view by a headless Adonis-like statue atop a pedestal.

  Cupid ran his fingers down the side of Scarlett’s face and along her breasts. “The more you resist, the more I want you.” The smell of his breath and his sweat so close made her want to retch. She could see traces of white powder under his nose. He had told Margolies that he had kicked his drug habit. Apparently not.

  “I just want one little kiss, love.” He brought his face close to hers. She turned her head and tried to push him away when they were interrupted by a voice behind them.

  “Don’t you two make a pretty little couple?” Psyche hissed in her over-emphasized cockney accent, glaring at them under her hot pink bangs. “Husband, darling, leave Margolies’ little slut for a minute and pretend like you don’t hate my guts as much as I hate yours. We have a public to greet.”

  Scarlett was relieved to see that she might have been rescued, despite Psyche’s insults. She couldn’t wait to get home and get in the shower. There was something almost lizard-like about Cupid. She couldn’t help but feel like he’d left a film of reptilian slime on her skin; probably just sweat. Unfortunately, Cupid wasn’t done having a little fun with her.

  “You can spare me for a few more minutes, wife. You’ve been doing fine without me for years.” He gave her a sickeningly sweet smile. “Buh-bye.” He waved as Psyche stormed off. He turned back to Scarlett, who had been trying to quietly slide out of the corner.

  “Not so fast.” Cupid gripped her arm tightly. Too tightly. Scarlett felt herself starting to panic. With his other hand he reached around her back and pressed her hips onto his, grinding their bodies together.

  Scarlett wanted to scream, but she didn’t want to cause a scene. The last thing she wanted was for the investors and the media to see her like that. And yet why wasn’t anyone paying attention? She pushed Cupid away with all her might. For such a skinny man, he was unexpectedly strong.

  Suddenly stronger hands than hers pulled Cupid away.

  “What the...?” Cupid wheeled around to see who would dare interrupt them yet again.

  “Get away from her,” Lawrence demanded, towering over Cupid. Cupid started to protest, but Lawrence cut in. “Now!”

  “Screw you, man,” Cupid said. To Scarlett he added, “You’ll come around, love. Let me know when you’re ready for a real man.” He shot Lawrence a contemptuous look before smoothing his greasy black hair and strutting toward his wife. Psyche was making an unlikely tableau, chatting with a retired banker and his wife. Before Cupid got to her, he turned to Lawrence, his face contorted with anger, and yelled, “I want you off my show!”

  “Done,” Lawrence said. “Buh-bye.”

  “Thank you,” Scarlett said, eyeing the red welts on her arm left by Cupid’s fingers.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I guess. Good thing you got here when you did.”

  “I’m always watching out for you, Gorgeous.” He smiled, and her heart softened toward him.

  Scarlett felt exhausted. She glanced around the room. The party was winding down. She didn’t see any sign of Margolies.

  “Are you really off the show?” she asked. “Cupid can’t do that to you. He’s an idiot.”

  “I know. I was already off the show.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you serious?” That was a major deal. Losing a $3 million investor would be a huge blow to Margolies.

  “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Lawrence whispered. “After you acted so strangely at my apartment the other night I did some poking around into the Olympus financials. I couldn’t get all the details but there were enough red flags to convince me that there are some seriously shady backers involved. The last thing I want is to have my money tied to potentially illegal dealings. Life’s too short to deal with the devil. Margolies must be desperate on this one.”

  “After I ran into Margolies at your place that night, I was afraid you were somehow mixed up in it too,” Scarlett said apologetically.

  Lawrence looked hurt. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

  “I do. I was just so confused...” Scarlett trailed off, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with exhaustion.

  “Can we get out of here?” Lawrence asked.

  Scarlett gave herself permission to be done with the event for the night. “Yes, please.”

  Scene 27

  Reilly woke up early, threw his coat on over his sweat pants and t-shirt, and slipped into the tennis shoes he kept by the door. Not his best look, but he was only going to the corner newsstand to buy the day’s Banner.

  He brought the paper back to the apartment and dropped it onto a table already covered in newspaper clippings. He’d been busy the past week. After the full-page spread had come out announcing the finalists, he had made it his mission to learn everything he could about his competition. Each candidate had been given 500 words to introduce themselves, and he was pleased with what he’d come up with for himself. However, his attention had been primarily focused lately on what the other finalist did—and didn’t—have to say about themselves.

  Reilly was obsessed with his speculation that Margolies and Candace would be working together again, all these years later, to plant a new corrupt critic. Could it be one of the finalists? Or would each finalist’s integrity be tested in some way as part of the process? His mind had been racing with conspiracy theories.

  He flipped on the pot of coffee he had prepped the night before and opened the Banner to the day’s Arts and Culture section. The first finalist's review had come out that day.

  In Reilly’s analysis of his competitors he found only two really viable threats, from a writer’s perspective. The junior critic was one, since he’d been at the Banner for several years and knew how to write for their readers. Plus, he was a familiar name to them already and was not unpopular.

  The other strong competitor was the woman. The Banner had never had a female critic, and that one was imminently qualified for the job with her journalism background as a bure
au chief in Paris, and before that, in the States.

  The other two candidates were an active theater blogger whom Reilly discovered had a solid, but probably too niche-y, following; and a critic from Chicago who could probably do well at the job but wouldn’t get through the competition, as the readers would likely penalize him for not being “New York” enough.

  It was the Chicago candidate who had been tapped to go first. His assignment had been to review the previous night’s opening of a new musical called Evening Madness at the Public Playhouse. It was customary those days for critics to see a show a night or two before opening so as to have time to write a thoughtful review and still hit the print deadline. Back in the days when critics attended opening nights, they could often be seen sprinting up the aisle as the curtain fell, trying frantically to get their scathing or revelatory thoughts on paper and turned in. But that rarely happened anymore.

  Reilly had made a point to see Evening Madness the week before, so he could practice and compare notes with whatever his opponents came up with. He briefly wondered what the Public Playhouse thought about having one of the critic candidates review that particular piece. They had an impressive track record of moving new shows onto Broadway—a boon both financially and for their reputation for discovering the best new talent in the country. But a Broadway transfer for that particular show would require a rave review.

  As Reilly took in the review, he knew the Public Playhouse would be pleased. The Chicago candidate, likely in an attempt to prove to New Yorkers that he loved their town as much as his own, had written what the industry called a “love letter” to the show. He praised the theater, the piece, and the author. Reilly closed the paper and smiled smugly.

  It wasn’t that he disagreed with the sentiments. Evening Madness was an excellent show. However, the candidate had made a huge mistake. Reilly knew from the success of his own column that even when writing praise, readers need an undercurrent of dirt, wit, criticism—writers were critics after all. A straight-across-the-board rave was boring. It provided no fodder for the water coolers and dressing rooms around town, which meant, in that case, no buzz for the finalist.

  Reilly got up and poured himself a cup of coffee, still smiling. One down, three to go. Reilly wondered if he had been deliberately selected as the last to audition, or if it was just the fact that he had been the last finalist to be selected. Either way, he was pleased with his position.

  By his calculations, it would be a month before he was up to the plate. His attempts to determine which show he might review had been only somewhat successful. There were two Broadway openings coming up—a play and musical—but they were likely opening too soon to fall to him and would go to the other two finalists.

  Reviewing a Broadway show would have been good. But he felt a non-Broadway opening would give him more leeway to make a splash. The high-profile, non-Broadway openings a month out, however, were too hard to predict. There had not yet been enough buzz around any of them to indicate which would be singled out for him.

  He picked up his cell phone and called Scarlett, eager to share his good mood. He knew she would have read the review. He could imagine how much fun they’d have dissecting it and discussing it. Maybe she would even read the practice version he had written and confirm his belief that his version would have been better.

  No answer on her phone. That dampened his elation for a moment. It had been two days since they had talked, and he was shocked to realize how much he had been missing her. He’d always prided himself on his independence, especially where women were concerned, and he had all but given up on the idea of an actual relationship. He always had plenty of women willing to keep him company. Now he only thought of one woman. He knew he shouldn’t be concerned. It was still too early in their relationship for a routine. But they had been talking more frequently up until that point.

  The only other thorn in an otherwise-rosy weekend was his upcoming lunch with his editor on Monday. Not surprisingly, his own paper was less than thrilled that their columnist was so visibly looking for work at the Banner. Then again, it made for good gossip. If they were smart, he thought, they’d use it to their advantage. He was planning to pitch to them that if he didn’t get the job, he’d use any additional dirt he got on the Banner in his much-anticipated and now very overdue exposé and make it that much better.

  His eyes drifted over to the bank statements Scarlett had left with him. She had gone way out on a limb for him, and he wanted to do right by her. Maybe it was best that they weren’t talking for a few days. It would make it easier for him to do what he needed to do without getting her more involved than she already was. She could thank him on the other side, when everything worked out.

  He took a deep breath and thought about the best way to approach Candace with what he knew. Could he really pull it off? Fight fire with fire, he kept telling himself. So what if on the surface it looked like he was blackmailing Candace for his own benefit? He was convinced that it was for a larger cause. He’d come clean later, after he’d brought integrity back to the Banner.

  Reilly sipped the hot coffee and walked over to the window. He could see people scurrying to work, some stopping at the newsstand that he could just see from sixteen stories up. Some of them may be buying a paper that held his column. Even from up here, he knew that most of them would be reading the Banner, and in a few weeks, they’d all be reading him.

  Scene 28

  “Don’t be nervous,” Scarlett said to the Jeremys, as they came out of the subway station at 66th Street.

  “I’m not nervous,” Jersey Jeremy said, passing his stack of sheet music from one arm to the other for the hundredth time.

  “He doesn’t like having to play and sing his own work in public,” Buff Jeremy reminded Scarlett. Then turning to Jersey Jeremy, he said, “I’m sure Scarlett’s boyfriend will love our show, despite your attempts to mangle it with your singing voice.”

  “Gee, thanks for that. I don’t see you getting up there to sing with me!” Jersey Jeremy said.

  “Have I ever told you how much I loved your singing voice?” Buff Jeremy said to Jersey Jeremy with chagrin.

  “You better stop with that whole boyfriend business, too,” Scarlett said as they crossed the street to Lawrence’s building. “Lawrence is not and never has been my boyfriend,”

  “Right, of course. I meant to say boy toy,” Buff Jeremy said to Scarlett. Then, considering Lawrence’s more than several years on Scarlett, he added, “Or man toy? Which do you think he’d prefer?”

  In response, she punched his shoulder playfully as they waited at the light.

  “You still dating mystery man?” Jersey Jeremy asked. “We’re beginning to think he doesn’t exist!”

  “You’ll meet him soon, I promise,” she said, knowing that she needed to call Reilly. After their impromptu sleepover, he’d be wondering by now why she hadn’t called. She was pleased with herself for having the will power to get some distance, in light of everything that was happening, and despite her desire to call or see him every minute. Apparently, absence was only making her heart grow fonder.

  The Swan Song trio walked through the sparkling revolving doors into the grand lobby of Lawrence’s building.

  “Is there a dress code I should know about?” Jersey Jeremy said, eyeing the white-gloved, uniformed doormen, fresh flower arrangements, and endless gold leaf.

  “Yes,” Scarlett said. “A Rolex, some Armani, and a few million dollars in your wallet.”

  “Damn, I left my Rolex in my limo,” Buff Jeremy said sarcastically.

  “Don’t worry, honey, I’m sure Lawrence has fifteen or twenty to spare,” Jersey Jeremy said.

  “Behave yourselves!” Scarlett said, smiling. “We’re here on business. I’ve told Lawrence how great you are. Don’t let me down.”

  They all stepped into the elevator.

 
“We’ll be perfect angels,” Buff Jeremy said, fluttering his eye lashes and putting his hands together as if he were praying, which showed his pecs off to best advantage.

  “Now you’re pushing it.” Scarlett laughed, as the elevator opened.

  The doorman had let Lawrence know they were on their way up, and he was waiting for them.

  “Welcome! Come in, come in!” Lawrence said grandly. “You must be the famous Jeremys that Scarlett’s told me so much about!”

  Scarlett enjoyed watching the Jeremys’ eyes widen as they entered the main room and took in the view of Lincoln Center and Julliard. It was not often Scarlett saw them speechless. It is fun to have friends in high places—literally and figuratively, thought Scarlett. The Jeremys took in the early evening view, watching the city’s lights twinkle on one by one. Scarlett wondered how long it would be before they realized that, with the binoculars perched on the window sill, they could actually watch ballet rehearsals going on through the windows across the way. It was one of Lawrence’s favorite past times.

  Lawrence gave Scarlett a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “How are you holding up, Gorgeous?”

  “I’m good. Thanks for meeting with us.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine.” He turned to the guys. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks,” both Jeremys said. They were standing forlornly in the middle of the living room, clearly not sure where to park themselves among the sleek black and chrome bachelor-pad furniture. Jersey Jeremy was eyeing the grand piano.

  Scarlett jumped in to rescue them. “Shall we get down to the business at hand?” She had no doubt that they would all hit it off, once they got to know each other. She was eager to get past the awkward getting-to-know you phase.

  “Please sit,” Lawrence said with a flash of his charming smile. The Jeremys sat on the black leather couch directly behind them. “I’ve heard so much about you from your lovely and brilliant producer, here.” He gestured to Scarlett, who had taken a seat in the black leather Barcelona chair near the piano.