Showbiz, A Novel Read online

  Lawrence perched casually on the other couch that was littered with tech magazines and the intimidating master remote that Scarlett learned operated everything in the apartment from the lights to the music to the blinds. Lawrence could be such a tech geek. She wouldn’t be surprised if one button ordered take-out and another made the bed.

  “Um, thanks,” Jersey Jeremy said. She had never seen the Jeremys so nervous.

  Eager to put them at ease, she said to Lawrence, “I’ve told them a bit about our conversation. But why don’t you tell them why we’re here?”

  “Of course!” Lawrence said with enthusiasm. “Well, as Scarlett has probably told you, I’ve been investing in several Margolies’ shows over the years and have been having a blast. However, due to some recent events”—his eyes met Scarlett’s for a moment—“I’ve decided it’s time to broaden my portfolio, so to speak. From a financial perspective, it really doesn’t make sense to throw in my whole lot with Margolies. I’ve decided to diversify, and, it seems our Scarlett here has had a project up her sleeve all along.”

  Despite her close relationship with Lawrence, Scarlett had kept quiet about her own producing projects. She hadn’t wanted to come across as poaching Margolies’ investors—a big no-no, even though it happened among producers all the time. All that changed, though, when she learned that Lawrence had discovered the source of the additional Olympus money and had pulled out.

  “I’ve told him about our success at Pinter and the fact that we got slotted into this season at the Manhattan Theatre Workshop,” Scarlett said. “I’ve invited him to come to rehearsals next week, of course. In the meantime, I want him to meet you guys and learn more about our plans.”

  “I’d love to hear what you have, if you don’t mind,” Lawrence said to the Jeremys. “Scarlett said you’d be nice enough to give me a sneak peek. How’d you come up with the idea, anyway?”

  That was the right question. The Jeremys’ eyes lit up and they launched into the story Scarlett had heard a million times about the genesis of their musical project—Jersey Jeremy’s love of Swan Lake as the first ballet he ever saw, one magical night in Manhattan during his childhood. Buff Jeremy’s obsession with Black Swan, Darren Aronofsky’s film with a dark take on the same story. The combination had inspired their own contemporary version of the Swan Lake story. Lawrence had gotten the basics from Scarlett, but hearing the Jeremys’ compelling description was clearly thrilling for him.

  The ice broken, the three men gathered around the piano, where the Jeremys walked Lawrence through the show.

  “Do you know the original Swan Lake story?” Buff Jeremy asked.

  “I’ve seen the ballet a few...hundred times, give or take,” Lawrence said with a smile, gesturing out his window to Lincoln Center, home of the New York City Ballet. “A Russian prince who is looking for a wife comes across a lake made from the tears of swans that were once women but have been transformed by an evil sorcerer. He falls in love with one of them—”

  “Odette. The white swan,” Jersey Jeremy prompted.

  “Right. But the sorcerer somehow tricks him with a different woman—”

  “The sorcerer’s daughter, Odile. The black swan. He tries to trick the prince into marrying her instead,” Jersey Jeremy said.

  “Does that about cover the plot?” Lawrence asked.

  “Basically, other than the fact that the prince eventually figures out he’s been tricked and he and Odette are reunited, where upon they promptly drown themselves in the swans’ lake.”

  “…And they all live unhappily ever after,” Scarlett finished.

  Jersey Jeremy jumped in and started playing the introduction to the opening number on the piano. “Now put all of that in the back of your mind, because this is Swan Song.” He kept playing, underscoring his narration. He adopted a lilting Southern accent. “Let us take you to Louisiana. 1952. Simple set, small but brilliant cast, lush orchestra. A small-town sheriff’s deputy we call Prince. A powerful, and, might we suggest, evil sheriff. And the beautiful girl Prince loves, Odette.” He continued through the opening number, singing through all the parts as the characters were introduced and the exposition was set up.

  “With us so far?” Buff Jeremy asked Lawrence.

  “Absolutely! Did I hear a little hint of gospel in that opening number?”

  “You caught that?” Jersey Jeremy beamed. Then picking up his accent again, he continued: “Why, yes, sir, you did. Did we happen to mention that the lovely Odette is African American?”

  “Does that make her the black swan?” Lawrence asked Buff Jeremy.

  “Not exactly! In our version, the white swan is black, and the black swan—”

  “...the sheriff’s beautiful blonde Southern-belle daughter—” Scarlett inserted.

  “...is white,” Buff Jeremy finished.

  They continued through the show that way with the Jeremys trading off on narration and singing through a few of the songs, portraying all the different characters.

  At “intermission,” Lawrence ran to his wine cellar (if you could call it a cellar in a penthouse) and popped open a bottle of Moet & Chandon.

  “To Swan Song,” Lawrence said, raising his crystal champagne flute.

  “You haven’t heard the rest of it,” Jersey Jeremy said.

  “You’re right!” Lawrence smiled. “Get back to work! Intermission is over.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jersey Jeremy said flirtatiously. Both Jeremys were now obviously, if harmlessly, enamored of Lawrence. He had that effect on everyone, including Scarlett.

  Scarlett was pleased to see them all so excited. She’d had no doubt they would hit it off, but their enthusiasm was incredible to experience and so exactly mirrored her own. As they wrapped up the Act Two synopsis, Lawrence applauded loudly.

  “I’m in!” he announced. “Though I’m disappointed in you, Scarlett,” he said in mock anger.

  “What did I do?” Scarlett asked, enjoying the cozy feeling of warmth that came from sharing a nice champagne buzz with great friends—feelings she had been sorely missing of late.

  “You’ve had this gem of a show for a year now, and yet, till tonight, you left me floundering in Margolies’ Olympus schlock! Imagine, a musical that doesn’t rely on spectacle to be successful. I really have been drinking the Margolies Kool-Aid for too long.”

  “Well, better late than never,” Scarlett said.

  “Where do we go from here?” Lawrence asked the question on everyone’s mind. All eyes turned to Scarlett.

  “Well, we start previews at the Manhattan Theatre Workshop in three weeks. Opening night is the following week. If we get good reviews, we’ll have some options.”

  “Are you thinking Broadway?” Lawrence asked.

  “That’s certainly an option,” Scarlett responded. “A lot would have to fall into place to make that a reality, in addition to a rave review—which is never a guarantee.” Except when it is, she thought bitterly. “Even finding a Broadway theater to rent would be tough. Experienced producers cultivate those relationships for years.”

  “Can’t Margolies help with that?” Buff Jeremy asked. “He owes you that much, after all you’ve done for him.”

  Scarlett hadn’t mentioned the current drama in her personal life to them. They needed to keep their focus on Swan Song. “I think I want to branch out. Find a producing partner who doesn’t think of me as his Girl Friday, for one.”

  “Plus, Margolies will be pretty busy with Olympus,” Jersey Jeremy said.

  “Well, there’s no way we can come in this season anyway,” Scarlett said.

  “Why not?” Lawrence asked. “That’s exactly what Rent did. Look how that turned out! Don’t we want to jump on the momentum from downtown?”

  “Just because a show’s a hit downtown doesn’t mean it’s right for a Broadway tra
nsfer. Rent is the exception, not the rule. Though, you’re not entirely wrong. Other shows have pulled it off. But it’s a long shot. And coming in the same Tony Award season with Olympus would be risky.”

  “Olympus is exactly why we need a show like this. This is what theater is supposed to be. Beautiful music, real heart, raw talent up on the stage,” Lawrence said.

  “Let’s not forget, we’d also need about $5 million for Broadway. Maybe more.”

  Lawrence’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I did just save $3 million on Olympus. My investor friends are pulling out, too. Why don’t you leave the money part to me.”

  Throughout the conversation, the Jeremys were exchanging excited glances and finally could no longer contain themselves. They practically tackled Scarlett and Lawrence in a group hug.

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” they squealed together.

  Scarlett couldn’t believe it, either. The odds of taking her first show to Broadway had been so remote a few days ago. And now, it was a distinct possibility. She felt nervous, excited, and so very grateful for those wonderful people piled together with her in a tangled mess on a $30,000 couch in a penthouse in Manhattan.

  Scene 29

  Candace poured a shot of bourbon into the coffee mug on her desk. It’s after 5:00 p.m., after all, she thought to herself. So what if I need to let my hair down a bit? She had every right to be pleased with herself. The first two candidates’ reviews had come out, and the readership numbers were through the roof. On top of that, the story was getting picked up by other news sources, and those damned chat rooms were driving people to the Banner website by the thousands. How nice, thought Candace, that they are actually working to my benefit for once.

  Today’s review by the latest candidate was open on her computer screen, allowing her to watch, in live time, as reader comments came in. Though she was determined not to play favorites in the competition, she felt secretly pleased that the second candidate to audition, the one lone female of the finalist pool, was getting such a positive response.

  Candace had assigned her a Broadway opening to review and was not disappointed to see that the candidate had nailed it. The readers clearly agreed.

  Her desk phone rang and she flinched. For several weeks she hadn’t been able to shake a feeling of dread every time the phone rang. She took a sip from her mug. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ms. Gold, er, Candace, please.”

  “This is she.”

  “Hi, this is Reilly Mitchell. One of the critic finalists.”

  He sounded nervous. She wondered if the competition was getting to him. That would surprise her, since he was a strong candidate and must have a lot of nerve to write his usual column.

  “Ah, yes, Reilly,” she said, warming up. Reilly was actually her other favorite in the competition, if she had to be honest. She liked his freshness and integrity, and it didn’t hurt that he was cute and younger than the other candidates by a few years. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping to come by and talk to you.”

  “Is this regarding the competition? I’m keeping my distance from the candidates. Can’t be seen as giving anyone an unfair advantage. I’m sure you understand. If you have logistical questions, I can put you through to my assistant who is handling those things.”

  “Well...” He hesitated. “I really need to talk to you. It’s, uh, important.”

  She paused, not sure what to do. She wanted to stick to the competition rules, which she and the Banner’s legal team had so carefully crafted. But what harm could it possibly do to meet with him? He said it was important.

  “Hello...?” Reilly said into the silence on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry, I was just...” She supposed it would be okay, particularly if they were discreet. “Alright, we can meet. But not here.”

  She racked her brain for an out-of-the-way spot. Both she and Reilly were well-known enough that they needed to steer clear of the theater district. “Can you meet me in an hour at the lobby bar in the Bowery Hotel?”

  “Yes! Thank you!” Reilly said into the phone.

  An hour later, Reilly waved Candace over as she walked through the door of the Bowery Hotel. He didn’t spend much time in the East Village neighborhood and had never been to that bar before, but he could immediately see why Candace had suggested it.

  Still March, it was dark outside, and almost as dark in the bar. The rich oak paneling, dim lighting, and profusion of nooks and crannies housing deep wingback chairs all provided the perfect setting for clandestine conversations. He had been browsing the impressive cocktail menu while he waited, but decided he’d better stick with water. He needed his wits about him.

  He knew it was irrational, but his imagination was running wild with the whole scenario—secret meetings in a shadowy bar, an older blonde, blackmail, suicide. He snapped out of it as she took a seat in the wingback chair opposite his. She glanced around the room briefly, but he knew it was unlikely that they would be noticed, tucked away as they were.

  “I really appreciate your meeting with me,” he began, but she held up a manicured finger for him to wait, flagging down the waiter with her other hand.

  “Manhattan. Rocks.”

  “What kind of bourbon would you prefer? We have...” He began with a plethora of brands, but she clearly didn’t have the patience for it. She cut him off immediately.

  “Blantons. Thanks.” She turned back to Reilly. “What are you having?

  “Oh, nothing for me,” Reilly said, half to Candace and half to the waiter who was still hovering, waiting for his order.

  “Bring him the same,” she said to the waiter with a gesture indicating that she wouldn’t tolerate any argument. The waiter took the cue and made his way to the long bar in the back.

  “Thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever had that kind.”

  “It’s the best,” she said.

  Reilly made a mental note. It would be good information to know about his future editor.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to drink alone,” he said with a smile as the waiter returned almost immediately with the drinks.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. “Cheers.”

  The ice glittered in the candlelight as they clinked glasses, lending ever more ambiance to the film noir fantasy playing out in Reilly’s head.

  She took a deep sip of her bourbon and leaned back in her chair. “So, you wanted to talk to me.”

  He felt his mouth go dry. He was suddenly grateful she’d insisted he have a drink. Though he had planned exactly what he was going to say, he was having trouble keeping the lines he’d rehearsed in his head.

  “Uh...” He stole another quick sip of bourbon. “Well, first I wanted to thank you again for selecting me as a finalist. I am confident that we will work very well together. I have so much respect for you and for the Banner, and I’m eager to join the team.”

  “You said as much in your interview,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “If you think you can bribe me with good bourbon and flattery, you are mistaken.”

  Her words sounded severe, but her tone of voice almost gave him the impression she was flirting with him. She had given him the opening he needed.

  “Interesting that you should mention bribery.”

  Her eyes went wide but she remained silent.

  Reilly took a breath and leaned toward her. This is it, he thought. He spoke quietly but urgently. “I have proof that you were in on a scheme to plant Kanter in the chief critic spot to guarantee good reviews for your ex-husband, Margolies. And I’m prepared to make this information public if I don’t get the job.”

  He felt a wave of relief at having said it. He had been worried for days that he wouldn’t follow through with the blackmail. It felt good to have gotten it out. Hi
s relief was short lived, however, when he took in the look of unadulterated wrath on Candace’s face.

  She leaned close to him and hissed, “How dare you threaten me?” Having gulped down the rest of her drink, she snatched his off the tiny table between them and nearly finished it off as well. “You know nothing.”

  He had expected that, but faced with her anger, he felt agitated himself. She was a business woman, after all, and he’d expected her to treat it like a business deal. Instead, she was clearly in a rage. He could see her hands shaking in anger.

  He tried to keep his voice calm. “I can prove it and I will. But I don’t want to have to do that. I believe I am the right person for the critic job, and you have the power to give it to me. Though, as the new chief critic I will adhere to the highest standards of integrity. There will be no more bribery or rigged reviews.”

  “So let me get this straight.” Her eyes were slits as she glared at him. “You’re blackmailing me to get the job, and yet you plan to bring—what was it you said?—the ‘highest standards of integrity?’” She rolled her eyes. “You’ll understand if I don’t buy a word you’re saying. Even if you could prove it, this is a contest. Readers are voting.”

  Reilly let out an exasperated sigh. “As if you’re really going to leave it up to the readers. I wasn’t born yesterday, and neither were you.” Now he was angry. It felt good to say whatever he wanted to say. He was certain that his accusations were true and it gave him confidence.

  “Then prove it. Right now.” She slammed her glass on the table.

  If looks could kill… he thought. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “That’s because you're bluffing.”

  “Do you really want to find out?”

  Reilly was all-in now. His lunch with his editor—ex-editor—hadn’t gone well. They planned to cut him loose since he had so publicly thrown his lot in with the Banner. He knew it was all or nothing for him.