Chapter Eleven
“It went well, I thought,” Troy said. She settled back into her chair and glanced at Carlotta over the rim of her margarita. “Carlotta, you were great.”
“Thanks. So were you. It was a fun day.”
The three nestled into a corner table at a trendy Mexican bar down the street from the production facility. Carlotta had the only chair; Vish and Troy shared an upholstered bench that ran along the wall beneath a stylized mosaic of the Virgin Mary done in shiny bottle caps. A basket of multicolored tortilla chips and chunky guacamole sat on the table in front of them, but no one had touched it, Troy and Carlotta because working actresses didn’t eat, and Vish because he’d grazed his way across the craft services table during the tedious evening of taping.
It was nice to unwind now with light conversation and margaritas that came in glasses the size of a human skull. Vish hadn’t thought the day was fun. He’d thought it had been murderously long. But Troy appeared to think things were great, and whether her enthusiasm was real or feigned, it was infectious. Troy held her glass in one hand and kept her free hand on the small of his back. Vish could feel the angsty coil of stress in his spine unwind at her touch, and his dour mood lightened.
“How long have you two been together?” Carlotta asked. “You’re a couple, right?”
“We are,” Troy said. She broke into a huge smile, and Vish felt giddy. “It’s been fast. We only met a couple weeks ago, but…” She widened her eyes. “It was obvious from the start that Vish and I had so much in common.”
She told the story of their relationship from her perspective, about seeing Vish at the shop and realizing he was injured and marching him straight to the hospital. Maybe there was some Nightingale syndrome at work—maybe Troy had fallen for him because she could fuss over him and fix his life—but she certainly seemed to feel genuine affection toward him. Love, even. Maybe.
“That’s so sweet,” Carlotta said. “You two look great together.” Her expression was wistful as she looked at them, and Vish understood that. He understood being alone and feeling purposeless and adrift. And now, with Troy, that was all behind him, and all he could do was smile at Carlotta in sympathy and hope things worked out for her.
Carlotta didn’t show up on set the next day, which was odd. She’d seemed thrilled about the role; she’d left the restaurant sober and at a reasonable hour. Hard to imagine why she’d blown off the shoot.
When Freddie’s office tried to reach her, she didn’t answer her phone. One of the PAs drove out to her apartment in the Valley and pounded on her door, to no avail. Eventually, the scene she’d done with Troy was hastily re-shot with a replacement, summoned via a casting agent at the last second.
In the end, though, it hardly mattered, because the show went on an unexpected hiatus at the end of the week, with filming on the current episode unfinished.
In this case, “hiatus” was almost certainly a polite way of saying “canceled.” The word was never spoken outright, but everyone knew the network was unhappy with the soggy ratings and thus had ordered production to cease for a month while the scripts for upcoming episodes were retooled and revised. After that, the network would make a decision as to whether to finish out the season, or cut their losses and scrap it.
Vish thought this meant he’d be called upon to work with the other writers during the hiatus. Freddie soon disabused him of this notion.
“It’s just going to be me, and Bob, and Ken,” Freddie said. “I think we’ll be able to work more efficiently. The network says the recent episodes have seemed inconsistent. I don’t really think that’s the problem, I think viewers just weren’t prepared to evolve with the show as it developed. Still…” He shrugged. “We’ve brought in too many new hires lately, and that’s probably why some people think we’ve drifted off course. Things will be more cohesive if the writing is only handled by the core group.”
This was announced during Friday’s meeting in the writers room. It was Vish’s fifth such meeting and, as seemed likely, his final one. His career as a television writer had lasted one business week.
Troy took the news well when Vish went to check on her in her trailer. “We’ll be back,” she said. “It’s just a month. I know the ratings have dipped, but we still have a lot of supporters.” She leaned forward in her chair and squinted at her reflection in the mirror. She was already out of her wardrobe and in her street clothes; her face was bare of makeup and shiny with moisturizer. “And if it doesn’t come back, then it wasn’t meant to be. Something better will come along for us.”
Her eyes met his in the mirror. “I’m mostly just sorry for you. You barely had a chance to get started here.”
“It’s okay.” It was. It totally was. He felt bad for Troy, who had far more emotional investment in the show than he did, but for his part, it was a bit of a relief.
“Ridpath is throwing a barbecue at his house tomorrow to… well, I guess ‘celebrate’ isn’t the right term, is it?” Troy laughed. “I told him I’d check with you if we want to go.”
“That sounds like fun. Sure.”
“I’ll let him know we’ll be there,” Troy said. “You sure you’re okay with everything? You look a little… off or something.”
“I’m fine. Maybe a little tired. It’s an odd end to an odd week.”
“I’m sure you’re disappointed by all this. You’ve got to be.”
“I don’t think I am. Not yet, at least. Probably I will be once the news sinks in, but I don’t know if I was a good fit with the other writers anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Troy asked. “Because you didn’t like their ideas?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Ever consider that it might be your problem, too?” she asked. She turned in her chair to look at him. “I hear some people get good results from actually, like, going after things they want instead of waiting for stuff to magically happen to them.”
There was an edge to it. “Are you mad at me?” he asked.
“No, of course not. But you’re so damn passive sometimes. It’d be nice to see you get passionate and really go after something for once.”
It stung, probably because it was true. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Troy laughed. “And that’s the perfect passive response.” She waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Sorry. I’m a little cranky about Freddie’s announcement, and I’m picking a fight. Forgive me?”
“Always,” Vish said.
Troy pulled him down onto the chair beside her, scooting over to give him room, and slipped her arm around his waist. He leaned against her and rested his head on her shoulder. In the mirror, they looked like a cute couple—clean-cut, attractive, affectionate with each other. For the first time, it felt like they matched.
So now Vish was unemployed. Easy come, easy go. He was in limbo since the show hadn’t been formally canceled and he was still drawing a paycheck, but as soon as it was official, he’d go back and work for Jamie. Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
Troy moved in with him in an informal kind of way. She spent all her time at his apartment, which made a certain amount of sense. Since she had a roommate, it’d be inconvenient for him to stay at her place, and besides, he still didn’t have a car. Much easier for Troy to zip up to Venice in her cute little two-seater than for him to trek down to Hermosa on the bus.
They had a good time together. They went to Ridpath’s barbecue, held in the immaculate green backyard of the house he shared in Tarzana with Brad, his impossibly preppy boyfriend. They splashed around in the courtyard pool, which Silas had finally cleaned and filled, even though the days were growing colder. They received, via courier, a big lavender envelope stuffed with a ribbon-festooned invitation to Kelsey’s birthday party.
They strolled through the grid of the Venice canals, with the rows of pretty houses lining both sides of the water and the tall palms swaying overhead. Nice, though it didn’t look much like Venice, the real Venice. Th
e houses were contemporary, and the only boats on the water were kayaks and rowboats. Nary a gondola in sight.
They wandered down Ocean Front Walk, the paved path that ran along the sandy beachfront, past the shacks selling t-shirts and knockoff designer sunglasses, the food stalls selling ice cream and fried fish. Street performers, painters, panhandlers. Loud reggae blasted from a speaker somewhere. Plenty of weed, the smell always heavy in the air in the afternoon.
Troy liked the area more than Vish did. She dragged him into dingy, cluttered shops and stood elbow to elbow with tourists while she admired shell necklaces and cheap bangle bracelets. Vish, who had a limited tolerance for shopping, often opted to loiter outside on the pavement while she browsed. He stared at the glistening, muscle-bound specimens working out on the fitness equipment at Muscle Beach and wondered, not for the first time, about Kelsey’s claim that Troy usually preferred beefheads.
At one of the shops, Vish bought a necklace for Troy, a blown glass bauble shaped like a tiny bottle. It cost him seven bucks. Troy hugged him and slipped the cheap aluminum chain around her neck, fingering the bottle with as much admiration as if it’d been a diamond pendant.
When they were heading home, when the sun was low and red in the sky above the water, he saw the surfers again, the same pack in Hawaiian shirts and board shorts they’d spotted in Hermosa, loitering around a drinking fountain at the side of the path. Vish paused.
“Maybe we should walk on the sand,” he said. He tried to sound nonchalant.
Troy glanced at him, confused, then noticed the surfers. “Why? Because of them?”
“They’re the same ones from before, aren’t they?”
“Could be. I don’t remember what they looked like.” Troy looked a little exasperated. “Vish, they’re harmless. They’re surfers. At worst, they’ll say something nasty, which… big deal, right?”
She was right, of course. He forced himself to smile at her. “Yeah. Sorry.”
They walked past. The surfers didn’t say anything this time, but their conversation stopped. Even though their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, Vish somehow knew, knew they were staring after them. And it frightened him.