Showbiz, A Novel Page 5

  “...innovative remote-control technology that requires fewer cables and pullies in the rigging.” The designer was gesturing to the tracks and cables that were being installed for the flying sequences that would occur over the audience. He held up a remote-control device. “We should be ready to test it next week.”

  The stage manager jumped in. “Let me know when you start testing the flying effects. The actors union will need to come through to do their usual safety check, since this is new technology.”

  Margolies cut in. “I’m counting on the fact that we won’t get any pushback from the unions, gentlemen. Do what you need to do to assure we pass the safety inspection.” Both men nodded. “I don’t want anything to hold up the rehearsal process. We start previews in a couple of weeks, as you well know, and a lot of eyes are on us. No delays. No mistakes.”

  “Cupid,” asked the flight designer, “can you stick around after the meeting today to do a final fitting for the harness?”

  “No can do, love,” Cupid said. “We’ve got the photo shoot for Rolling Stone this afternoon, I’m afraid. Can’t you have the understudy do it?”

  Cupid still doesn’t get the concept of an understudy, thought Scarlett. He treats his understudy like a film stand-in who does the dirty work so the star can waltz in for the final take. Such was not the case for theater understudies, who usually stayed out of the way during rehearsals and observed, so the star could have the maximum time to settle into their role.

  Psyche piped in: “Maybe the understudy should just do the role for you, Cupid.”

  “He is certainly doing something of mine these days.”

  “Shut your face. At least I haven’t heard him complain once about my lyrics, which is a nice change.”

  “Well, now,” Cupid said, “I wonder why that would be.” He made a lewd sexual gesture with his hands.

  Margolies cut them off. “Enough. We’ll meet again next week. Scarlett will be checking in with you in the meantime. ” He pushed back from the table, and the rest of the group began collecting their papers. He leaned over to Scarlett. “Go with them to the photo shoot. We can’t have them ripping each other’s heads off in front of the press.”

  Scarlett had hoped to make a quick escape back to the office. Instead, she would be babysitting a grown man and his wife.

  Cupid leered at her. “My driver’s out front. Care for a ride?” he said ride in a way that made it clear he wasn’t talking about carpooling.

  “No, thanks,” she said quickly as she got up from the table. She checked her phone. She really didn’t have time for his rock-star antics.

  A text had come in from the intern: A delivery came in for you. You back in the office today?

  She shot a text back: Prob not. Can it wait?

  The response: Perishable.

  She couldn’t imagine what it could be, but she figured if she was quick, she could run back to her office and still get to the photo shoot. She glanced around to see where Margolies had gone. She saw him in the back of the house talking intently to someone. He didn’t look like one of the designers. In fact, he wasn’t anyone she recognized. Strange, since she knew everyone involved, and they didn’t let just anyone into the theater during rehearsals.

  On her way out, she walked that way to get a better look. She caught only a second of their whispered conversation.

  “...taking your word for it, Margolies,” the stranger was saying as he handed Margolies an envelope.

  “You won’t be disappointed,” responded Margolies before Scarlett moved out of earshot.

  She ran across the street and up to her office. On her desk was a single red rose and an envelope.

  “Who delivered this?” Scarlett asked the intern.

  “It was a courier. Looks like you have an admirer,” he teased.

  She couldn’t imagine who it would be from. She opened the note and read its contents.

  Headline: “Gossip columnist seen dining with beautiful up-and-coming producer this Friday night at 8:00 p.m.”

  Scarlett felt her pulse quicken, and a smile played at her lips.

  Scene 12

  Scarlett didn’t have occasion to spend much time in the Murray Hill area of Manhattan. It was just a few blocks southeast of the theater district, and yet, like all Manhattan neighborhoods, it felt like a different world from the hive of theater activity. But maybe that’s why Reilly had suggested they meet there. She felt nervous, but not unpleasantly.

  The taxi dropped her off at Artisanal Bistro. She had splurged on a cab since she wasn’t entirely sure where the restaurant was, and she was wearing new black heels. Though fashion wasn’t her forte, she felt good. It had been a while since she had been on a true date, and it was nice to get some welcome attention from a man for a change—even if it was a man she probably would be smart to avoid.

  She was right on time but was pleased to see he was already waiting for her at the table.

  “You look fantastic,” he said as he stood and kissed her cheek.

  “Thanks.” She actually blushed. Why she had turned into a silly school girl that night, she didn’t know. She hardly knew him. His columns, though clever and witty, could also be so biting and heartless. They made it hard for her to believe he could really be a good guy. Nice looking, yes, but nice?

  They exchanged pleasantries and got the initial ordering out of the way—two glasses of the house champagne and Artisanal’s signature cheese fondue.

  “I must admit, I was surprised by your invitation,” said Scarlett.

  “Really? I assumed a girl like you would be turning men away right and left.”

  She waved off the compliment. “I mean, I sort of gave you a hard time when we met the other day.”

  “I deserved it. It was nice to have an honest conversation,” he said sincerely. “You certainly weren’t easy to track down.”

  “How did you find me, by the way?”

  “I never reveal my sources,” he said with a wink and then continued, casually, “You didn’t mention when we met that you are Margolies’ associate producer. That’s a big job. I’m impressed.”

  “I don’t like to broadcast my job around industry people. When I do, they either want to give me the script to their new un-produced musical or regale me with horror stories about Margolies. Believe me, I don’t need to hear them.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. You probably know him better than anyone these days.”

  “Unfortunately for me, that’s probably true,” she said as their champagne arrived.

  “Cheers to the girl with the best and worst job on Broadway.” He raised his champagne flute.

  “And to the columnist with all the dirt.” She raised hers in return.

  She eyed Reilly over the rim of the glass as she sipped her champagne. It was nice to meet a guy who asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say. She figured it was probably due to that fact that he was a journalist and made his living interviewing people for gossip column fodder. A thought suddenly occurred to her.

  “Is it safe to assume this evening is strictly off the record?” she asked.

  “I never kiss and tell.” He was nothing if not charming.

  “Seriously, though,” she said, “I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you, much less having dinner.”

  “Look—I like you. I’m not going to screw this up by betraying your trust after our first date.”

  Just then their fondue arrived. It smelled amazing. This evening has the potential to be the perfect date, thought Scarlett.

  She changed the subject. “So, did you always want to be a journalist when you grew up?”

  “Something like that. I liked writing in school and have always been curious and interested in getting to the bottom of things.”

  “Well, i
t’s impressive what you’ve managed to do with your career so far. Your own column. A name in the business.”

  He seemed pleased by the compliment. “Thanks, but I don’t see myself being a ‘gossip columnist,’ as you say, forever.”

  “It sounds like a pretty good gig. And you certainly keep the rest of us on our toes.”

  “It’s been fun,” Reilly said.

  That was an understatement, Scarlett figured. You didn’t land a job like his without some major effort and a lot of politics.

  He turned the conversation back to her. “Do you see yourself producing with Margolies until he drives you into the ground?”

  “Not a chance!” she said, a little too emphatically.

  “I see I struck a nerve.”

  “As producers go, I’m glad I’m learning from the best. No one else has his track record of rave reviews and hits, as I’m sure you know. But as soon as I can get a project of my own off the ground, I’d love to have my own producing office.”

  Their second round of champagne arrived.

  “As you should. Cheers!” They clinked glasses for the second time.

  “Rumor has it they’re taking applications for the critic position at the Banner,” Scarlett said. By now, news of the contest had circulated the Broadway backrooms. There was no way Reilly hadn’t heard, but she was curious to know his thoughts as a journalist himself.

  “Can I be honest with you?” he said.

  “I assumed you were,” she said with a wry smile.

  “You know what I mean,” he said. “I haven’t told anyone this, but I actually threw my hat in the ring for the position.”

  “Really?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Hey, don’t sound so surprised. I’ve been around the block.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you’re more than qualified. It’s just that it seems like such a lonely job.” She thought about it. “But I guess in your world, it’s probably the top spot.”

  “I’d just love to see some things change. I think it’s time Broadway had a less…How shall I put it?...biased reviewer. Let the shows stand on their own merits.”

  She shot him a puzzled look.

  He paused, seeming to consider how he’d frame what he was about to say. “Does it ever feel like it’s not entirely logical why some shows get panned and others get raves?”

  “That’s showbiz, I guess,” she said. She took a sip of her champagne as he continued to look at her intently. “Wait...are you saying you think it’s rigged? That’s not possible! Margolies, for one, would have put an end to that.”

  “Or would he?” Reilly said cryptically.

  “What are you implying?” She was getting agitated. She pushed her champagne away.

  “Hold on. I’m not implying anything—it’s just something I’m looking into.”

  “The article you mentioned last week...”

  “Look, just forget it. It doesn’t matter.” He seemed suddenly in a hurry to change the subject.

  “But the implications…! Reviews can make or break careers and fortunes, put hundreds of people out of work or make people stars. Kanter closed our last musical with his review—”

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it. I’m sure it’s just me looking for a story where there isn’t one.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “Now, don’t tell me you showed up tonight, looking like that, to talk about work.”

  Scene 13

  Candace walked in the door to her Greenwich Village brownstone where she had lived alone since the divorce. She poured herself a bourbon on the rocks before even taking off her coat. There was a knock on the door. She rarely had company and wasn’t expecting anyone that night. She tossed back half her drink before answering the door.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, leaving the door hanging open and walking back into the small living room to retrieve her drink.

  Margolies didn’t need an invitation to enter the house he had once called home. He had lived there with Candace a lifetime ago. It had been nearly twenty years since he’d been back, but not much had changed. Candace’s drinking certainly hadn’t changed, either, he thought, eyeing the drink in her hand. But she had a hardness about her now that was new to him.

  “How many have you had?” Margolies asked, holding up the bottle of bourbon to gauge how lucid she’d be that evening. He wondered for the millionth time why he’d ever actually married the pathetic woman.

  “Grab a glass for yourself. Oh, that’s right. Never touch the stuff. You really should try it sometime.”

  “Because you make it look like such a good idea.” He regretted the insult. He hadn’t come there to fight.

  Candace sat down heavily on the couch. “What the hell are you doing here? Just wanted to come by and insult me? Thanks, but I’m not in the mood.”

  She had never been “in the mood” thought Margolies, remembering their frigid marriage. There were exactly two things they had had in common when they’d met—a hunger for power and the ill-advised infatuation of young lust—neither of which made for a happy marriage.

  “I just thought I’d check in on you. Figured you’ve been having a rough time of it,” he said, making his best effort to convey sincerity. Candace wasn’t fooled.

  “Cut the crap. We had a deal. Now Kanter’s dead. Game over. I don’t need you anymore.” She finished off her drink and slammed the glass onto the coffee table.

  “You wouldn’t even be there if it weren’t for me,” Margolies said, stepping in front of the bourbon bottle as she got up to pour herself a refill. He could see the web of wrinkles across her once-smooth face. The circles under her eyes not quite disguised by makeup. Her once-thick blonde hair was thinning and flat, these days. She had been so beautiful, he thought.

  “And you wouldn’t be the Great and Wondrous Margolies,” she said sarcastically, “if it weren’t for me and that idiot of yours, Kanter. But apparently he couldn’t take it anymore. Now, thanks to his grand gesture, I’m practically getting a promotion, and you’re screwed.”

  She pushed past him, grabbed the bourbon off the counter, and took a defiant swig directly from the bottle.

  “You say I’m screwed?” Margolies turned to face her and pressed her up against the counter. He could see the look of lust that flashed in her eyes. A little late for her to decide she wanted him that way. She always was so easy to manipulate.

  He cooed to her, “We’ve done okay for ourselves these past few years. We’ve made it to the top like, we always said we would, haven’t we, Candy?” She flinched at the nickname that she had banned as she ascended the ranks at the paper.

  “We’ve talked more in the past few days than we have in twenty years,” she said, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. She was tall but he was taller.

  “I think it’s time we discussed a new deal.” He returned her gaze.

  The moment passed, and she slid out from the counter and got a fresh glass before taking the bottle back to the couch.

  “Why should I do anything for you?” she asked. “I could ruin you. I’m sure more than a few people would love to know that you were paying off Kanter.” She smiled just a little. “Now it looks like I’m the only one in the world who knows your dirty little secret.”

  “Our dirty little secret, you mean. I see you have a selective memory these days, Candace. Must be the booze. If I hadn’t pulled strings at the Banner, you’d still be a two-bit assistant editor. And it was you, need I remind you, Ms. Arts and Culture Editor, who’s on record for hiring Kanter.”

  “We had a deal then. I don’t need you this time around. No blackmail. No pay offs. This time the public gets to pick the theater critic.”

  Margolies changed tactics. She was so damned combative, and he desperately needed to get her to cooper
ate.

  “I actually think your critic contest is a great idea, Candace. You did good.”

  She stared at him, slacked jawed. Already through her second drink. Her bourbon-soaked brain was unable to process the compliment. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. You’ll get public support of your guy. The new critic will take back the power of that position.”

  “What’s the catch?” she asked suspiciously.

  He went over to the couch and sat down facing her. He was getting somewhere now. So close, the smell of bourbon on her breath disgusted him. “You can still make sure the right guy gets the gig.”

  She started to protest. He refilled her glass.

  “I’ve done well these past few years. I can cut you in this time. Think about it. Put it away for retirement. Maybe get a place in Florida.”

  He could see her considering the proposal.

  “I don’t see how it could work. The public will vote.”

  He always did have to spell things out for her. How she held onto her editor position, he had no idea—sheer force of will with a healthy dose of longevity, he imagined. The spark and drive she once had was now dulled by years of drinking.

  “But who is selecting the top candidates?”

  “I am.”

  “And who is collecting the votes?”

  “Me and my staff.”

  He could see that his point was finally sinking in. “Bingo.”

  She stood up and paced the room.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Now you have a conscience? This is a win-win, Candace.” He stood up, set her drink on the coffee table, and took both her hands. He needed to convince her. He hadn’t sacrificed everything to get where he was only to have it all fall apart now. “Just do this one last thing for me, and I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life. Don’t you want that?”