Showbiz, A Novel Page 4

  “Yes.” Candace perked up. Thank goodness he’d been willing to meet there. She needed some liquid confidence that night. “I’ve had some thoughts about the replacement for Kanter.”

  “I assumed we’d promote the junior critic to chief. That’s certainly what he’s bound to assume, though I’m not opposed to discussing alternatives. He’s still a little green. Don’t we have a short list of candidates in a file somewhere whom we could interview?”

  “We could, and we do. But I think this could be an opportunity to generate some new attention around our section. Kanter came in with a whimper and went out with a roar. What if we started with a roar?”

  “Okay. I’m intrigued.”

  Candace had to give Tom credit. For all the pressure he’d been putting on her, he was a good guy and respected the fact that she’d been at the paper twice as long as he had. Of course, that might just be the bourbon speaking. Her second Manhattan had arrived, and Bar Centrale was anything but stingy on their pours.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  She leaned closer in an attempt to not be overheard. “You know how our reviews are getting diluted by the bloggers and chat rooms?”

  Of course he knows, she thought. It’s the reason we’re having this conversation in the first place. “Anyone with a computer these days thinks they can be a journalist. They love nothing more than to tear apart our reviews and lambast our critic, regardless of what he prints.”

  Tom nodded and took a sip of his wine. She couldn’t understand people who could nurse a drink all night like that.

  “Well, what if we let them pick our next critic?”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m thinking of it as our version of a reality show. It would work like this: We select, say, five candidates qualified for the job. Then, for the next five high-profile opening nights this season, we give one of them a shot at the review. The bloggers and chat room folks knock themselves out, analyzing the finalist’s every word. It would be a reading frenzy. At the end, we put it out to a vote. Let our readers and detractors pick the critic. They’ll stand behind whoever it is, because it was their choice!” She finished triumphantly, aware that her voice was getting loud.

  “I like it, Candace. We let the people pick the next critic, up our sales in the process, and bring back the respect of our critic’s pen,” he said. Candace could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Let me run it up the food chain and check it with legal. I have a feeling they might just bite. Like you said, it smacks of reality TV, and there is no denying that’s where the ratings are these days, god knows why.”

  They discussed the logistics for a few more minutes. Heading into spring, there’d be a lot of shows opening to get in the running for the awards season. The junior critic could pinch-hit for the next couple of reviews, but they’d need to put the plan in action right away to have the first candidates ready to go.

  Candace was pleased with herself. She nodded to the bartender for a third Manhattan—a personal celebration of her successful proposal.

  “Can I have him bring you another glass of wine?” She batted her eyes at her boss, feeling the weight of the week lifting from her shoulders. Her phone, which she had set on the bar, buzzed. She ignored it.

  “No, thanks,” he said to the bartender quickly. And to Candace: “I have to get home to my family.”

  Family. Who needs family? thought Candace derisively as her drink arrived.

  “I can have an answer for you next week,” he continued. “But feel free to start pulling together a list of candidates. We’ll need to get the initial interviews out of the way, and there won’t be a lot of time to vet our five finalists.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I can reach out to our colleagues and contacts and have some legitimate resumes on my desk right away. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I’ve already received several inquiries.” Her third drink was hitting the spot. Her phone rang again. “A job opening like this doesn’t come along very often.”

  “Do you need to get that?” He gestured to her phone on the bar. “Sounds like it might be urgent.”

  Candace squinted down at the name on the caller ID, feeling for her reading glasses, which were never where they should be. Her drink sloshed onto the bar as she set it down abruptly. Her mind was starting to swim a little. Had she eaten that day? She couldn’t remember. She had to keep it together for her boss.

  “Can you excuse me for just a second?” she said as she ungracefully dismounted from her bar stool, dropping her coat in the process.

  “Sure. Are you okay, Candace?” He asked that last question to her back. She had already thrown her coat over her arm and was heading toward the door as she put her phone to her ear.

  Scene 9

  Scarlett couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt like she had a front-row seat at the best show in town as she waited for Lawrence to arrive at Bar Centrale. The eavesdropping opportunities at the bar were always promising, but she’d hit the mother lode tonight.

  Doing her best to stay inconspicuous, she hung on every word issuing from the ever-more intoxicated middle-aged woman on the stool next to her.

  Scarlett waited until she thought the conversation was winding down and slipped out to call Margolies. Though Margolies had a knack for always somehow having the inside scoop, she had a strong feeling that it would be news to him.

  She shivered on the front stoop, having left her coat on her bar stool to save her spot.

  “Hey, boss, I just got word on the new Banner critic.”

  “I’m listening,” Margolies responded into the phone, his voice level.

  Scarlett glanced around to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard, but the passersby, bundled against the chilly evening, were out of earshot.

  She proudly filled him in on the plans she had overheard.

  “Who did you hear this from?”

  “I sort of overheard it, actually. From some woman at the Banner. I think her name was Candace—”

  “I have to make a call,” he said tersely, and she heard the click that meant he had hung up on her. Classic. But what was she expecting. Praise? A pat on the back?

  As she pulled open the large wooden door to get back to the warmth of the inner industry sanctum, the woman she’d just overheard, Candace, was stumbling out the door with her coat thrown over one arm and her cell phone to her ear.

  Practically bumping into Scarlett, she slurred into the phone, “Well, look who holds all the cards now!” she cackled as she nearly fell down the stone steps. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Scarlett waited to make sure the woman made it to the street in one piece, looking on in horror of seeing a train wreck in progress. She almost felt bad for her. Clearly an unhappy person, she thought as she made her way back to the bar.

  Lawrence arrived seconds later.

  “Hello, Gorgeous. Am I late?” He kissed Scarlett on the cheek. Turning to the, now-solo man from the Banner who had been left to settle the not-unsubstantial bill, he asked, “This seat available?” The man nodded, and Lawrence hopped onto the elegant bar stool that the Banner woman had recently vacated.

  “You’re right on time,” Scarlett said with a wide grin.

  “It looks like someone’s had a good day,” Lawrence said, picking up on her good mood. “Or are you just happy to see me?”

  “I’m always happy to see you,” Scarlett said. “And this is the perfect way to end the week.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Lawrence said, flagging down the bartender and ordering a glass of champagne for each of them.

  “Except you do this kind of thing every night,” Scarlett said.

  “Not with you,” said Lawrence with a charming smile.

  “Excuse me! Don’t you know it’s rude to bring up other wom
en?” Scarlett teased. “You’re such a cad!”

  Lawrence was momentarily taken aback. “Hey! That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

  “I know. But I’m allowed to give you a hard time, every once in a while,” she said, squeezing his hand good-naturedly. “You know I couldn’t care less who you see.”

  “I’ll never understand you... women!” Lawrence said in exasperation. “But that’s why I love you.”

  “Cheers!” Scarlett said with a laugh, raising her glass.

  “Cheers!” Lawrence said.

  Scene 10

  Reilly slid into a tall chair at a bistro table by the window at the Sardi’s second-floor bar, forgoing his normal bar stool. He had told himself that he was going to Sardi’s to try to seek out the breakthrough he needed to finish the exposé article that would be above and beyond his normal column material. And yet every flash of a black-and-white coat out the window on the street below caught his eye.

  “You brought some work with you today,” the bartender said, making friendly conversation in the afternoon quiet of the bar while eyeing the papers in front of Reilly.

  “My editor’s breathing down my neck.” It had been two days since Reilly had met Scarlett, and his initial attempts to discover who she was were unsuccessful. He needed some new gossip, and to get it he needed to keep his nose to the grindstone without being distracted by a beautiful face and witty personality. “I’m hoping to chat with a few friends here later. You expecting a good crowd?”

  The bartender raised his eyebrows. “I expect so. You should stick around.” The bartender had overheard Reilly eliciting his fair share of gossip, much of which later made an appearance in Reilly’s column. Through the unspoken law of bartender-client confidentiality, Reilly knew his sources were safe.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Will you be disappointed if I start with a club soda?”

  “Not at all. This one’s on me,” he said, filling a tall glass from the bar.

  “You’re a good man.” Reilly smiled as a flash of black and white caught his eye out the window. Not her.

  “And you’re a good customer.” The bartender winked at Reilly before he turned his attention to a couple of well put-together elderly women who were sidling up to the bar in their politically incorrect winter furs.

  Reilly forced himself to focus on the pages in front of him on the bistro table—his notebook of unanswered questions. He was still chipping away at his exposé. If he got it right, it could mean a big break for him, and he could potentially rise above the gossip columnist post to a more serious position. He was still working on the proper headline, given Kanter’s demise:

  “Corrupt Critic Gets His Due.” Or maybe “Broadway Bribery Scandal.”

  Another flash of black and white caught his eye. That time he was sure it was that zebra coat he had been scanning the New York City sidewalk crowds to spot. There she was—Scarlett. She was deep in conversation, threading through the mid-block 44th street traffic, a stack of files in her arms. Reilly was so distracted by the fact that he was finally seeing her that he almost didn’t notice who she was walking and talking with so intently.

  Reilly froze as recognition hit. Margolies. She worked for Margolies. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  Scene 11

  Scarlett took a deep breath. It was going to be a tricky meeting, and the players would arrive at the theater any moment.

  The writers of the Olympus musical were major celebrities—a rock-star couple who fronted the British pop band Cupid and Psyche. Margolies had convinced them to tackle a musical. Though publicly an “item,” their relationship had long ago become a working, if rocky, partnership, rather than a romantic one. Margolies and Scarlett were plenty used to wrangling celebrities through the artistic process of a Broadway musical, but the couple’s interpersonal challenges were proving to be particularly difficult.

  Cupid and Psyche (real names: Carl and Phoebe) weren’t used to taking direction, much less revising their work. Paired with Margolies, a producing genius with a severe deficit in the tact department, Scarlett could already picture the inevitable carnage between now and opening night.

  “The talent has arrived, loves!” Cupid said in his thick Liverpool accent, referring to himself, as he made a grand entrance, striding down the aisle into the theater. Scarlett could see Margolies cringe at his over-the-top theatrics. Psyche, close on his heels, just rolled her eyes.

  Cupid bounded up onto the stage on skinny, tight-jean clad legs and a t-shirt that appeared to be made out of an actual British flag. He took a seat at the long folding table that had been set up, center stage, for the purpose of that meeting. Normally, meetings and the first few weeks of rehearsals would not be held at the theater. However, the extreme technical requirements of the show had resulted in Margolies’ moving the show into the theater for the entire rehearsal period, at no small expense. Scarlett had been present for several of the negotiations with the theater owner to discuss the structural changes that Margolies was making to the inside of the theater to accommodate the unique requirements of the huge show—also not cheap.

  Psyche grabbed the furthest seat from Cupid and sullenly picked at her chipped cotton-candy pink nail polish, which was a perfect match to her hair color. They were both in their early thirties, but to look at them you’d think they were eighteen. Personalities aside, Scarlett was the first to admit that they had talent—both musically and at capturing a worldwide fan base that spanned generations. The fact that they were starring in the musical as the married Greek gods, Zeus and Hera, was a major coup for the production. Cupid and Psyche were the show’s biggest asset and biggest liability, all at the same time.

  Next to jump into the fray were the director and co-writer; the former was a well-known Broadway stalwart, and one of the few who could garner enough respect from Margolies to hold his own with the overbearing producer. He was used to Margolies’ exceedingly hands-on producing style that often irked other directors who didn’t appreciate Margolies’ micro-managing approach to the artistic process.

  “Good to see everyone,” the director said as he took a seat. He smiled pleasantly, pretending everyone was getting along, though he knew full well that it would be a meeting fraught with tension.

  Margolies had yet to utter a word. He simply glowered from the head of the table. Scarlett enjoyed observing Margolies in action at these meetings. It was highly informative to watch his masterful work, every gesture and every word carefully executed to propel each show, from inception to hit status.

  As the rest of the meeting’s attendees—set and lighting designer, costume designer, stage managers, flying and special effects designers, and other members of the technical team—made their way to the table, Scarlett handed out the revised budgets and schedules that she and the general management team had prepared for the meeting. Margolies had assembled the most innovative and creative designers for Olympus. Throughout the development process, Scarlett had continually marveled at what they would be bringing to the live stage for the production.

  “Let’s begin,” Margolies said.

  Abruptly, the various conversations that had been going on around the table went silent. Scarlett took her usual seat to Margolies’ right.

  “You have the revised budgets in front of you. This is the one we’re going with. Non-negotiable. If you can’t stick to it, I’ll find someone else who will.” He paused as his eyes swept the table for signs of an argument. Most of the attendees were looking down at the budget. Though each of them had weighed in with their initial budget projections, a show that big was sure to have budget overruns. Scarlett knew it was a testament to Margolies’ power that these hugely accomplished creatives would allow him to talk to them that way.

  “Moving on. Let’s go around the table. Cupid, let’s start with you. Where
are we on the music?” Cupid was sitting to Scarlett’s immediate right.

  “The score is done. And I think you’ll find that it’s absolute perfection,” he said arrogantly. Scarlett could tell he was preparing to wax poetic about the music, as he had on many occasions.

  “Good. Next,” Margolies cut him off.

  Next up was the sound designer. “I think we’ve resolved several of the issues that came up in the last meeting. The new costume adjustments should make it easier for the actor’s body microphones to come on and off for the storm scene.” He referred to a scene where real water and pyrotechnics would be used to represent Zeus’s anger. It would present a challenge for the sound and special-effects people, who had to make it work while allowing for the actors to be heard, and body mics weren’t made to get wet. Scarlett had seen amazing storm scenes done with lighting effects to simulate water and lightning, but that time, they were going for the real thing. It was probably unnecessary, but par for the course on the epic show. And Scarlett had to admit, if all went as planned, the effect would be truly spectacular.

  They continued around the table. Scarlett was making notes as they went so that she could follow up with the various designers and schedule any additional conversations that needed to happen, based on technical challenges.

  She felt a hand squeeze her upper thigh. It wasn’t the first time Cupid had tried something like that. Scarlett didn’t understand why a man with thousands of screaming fans who would welcome his advances was determined to hit on her, though she gave him zero encouragement. As he began to slide his hand up her thigh, all the while pretending to pay attention to the meeting, she discreetly crossed her legs and slid as far as she could to the edge of her chair away from him.

  He glanced sideways at her with a look that said he wasn’t giving up that easily. But he took his hand back, like it was all a fun flirtatious game. Scarlett glanced at Margolies to see if he had noticed the interaction, but he was focused on the update from the flying designers. The distraction had taken her focus away from the meeting. They were talking about the first act finale flying sequence when she tuned back in.