Chapter Nine
Freddie Halterman, the lauded creator of Interstellar Boys, was in his late thirties, early forties maybe. He was quiet and contained, almost bashful. He wore a striped button-down shirt over stiff, dark jeans that somehow looked wrong on him: too new, maybe, or too high at the waist, or maybe Freddie just felt uncomfortable and unnatural in them, the way Vish felt whenever he wore a suit. Which is what he was wearing today, because this was a job interview, or something like it, and he wanted to look professional.
Freddie had a receding chin and a thick mustache that swamped his upper lip. When he smiled at Vish, the mustache moved up to smother his nostrils in brown fuzz.
“Troy really talked you up and down, and I have to say, I think she picked a winner.” He pawed through a mess of loose papers on his desk, picked up a script, squinted at it, tossed it aside. “I thought I had your book here…”
There was nothing on his desk that could possibly be his book, which ran to about six hundred pages. Vish waited, smiling politely.
Freddie gave up the search with a shrug. He smiled at Vish again. “I thought it was really, really neat. Really… thick. So I guess you’re from India, huh?”
“Born in Detroit,” Vish said. “I’ve actually never been to India.”
“That explains why you don’t have an accent.” Another smile, somewhat nervous. “You’re a good writer. You don’t have any television experience?”
“No. I just moved here at the start of the year. From New York. I’ve been trying to get a foothold into the industry, but I haven’t had much luck.”
“We can set you up on a trial basis.” Freddie folded his hands together on top of one of the piles of paper. “We could use another staff writer. I don’t think it’d take you long to get the hang of our format. Are you familiar with Interstellar Boys?”
“Yes, I am. I think it’s an amazing show,” Vish said. This was only half a lie. He’d watched the entire series over the past week, streaming it online on his laptop in preparation for this meeting. They were currently in the middle of the third season, and the first season, if not quite amazing, had been fun and trashy in a cheerful and mostly inoffensive way. Troy was great in it, even though her role as a spaceship commander-slash-astrophysicist wasn’t a meaty one. She was sexy yet practical, managing to seem plausibly brainy even while scampering about a spaceship in silver hotpants and matching knee-high boots. The show was undeniably cheesy, but it was knowing, deliberate cheese with some wit behind it.
In the second and third seasons, though, it had derailed. Vish continued watching with a sinking sensation as interesting characters stagnated or vanished, as promising plotlines were abandoned or burdened with nonsensical complications. He’d slogged his way through the most recent episodes, because of course he’d need to be familiar with those, but it had been a struggle.
Season Two was when the bumblebee girl joined the cast. Kelsey Kirkpatrick, the girl who’d teetered on the patio railing at that party in the hills the night of the earthquake. She’d come on the show, bringing her cachet as the star of a number of tween-oriented films, playing a nubile young stowaway with psychic powers, and as soon as she appeared, the focus shifted further away from Troy.
Still, though, he could write for it, warts and all. Maybe he’d have some positive effect. He could provide a fresh outside perspective. He’d already scribbled down a handful of ideas to help nudge the characters back in the direction of the roles that had been originally established for them.
“Well, then.” Freddie smiled at him. “I’m excited about this. Start on Monday?”
A quick pang of guilt. Jamie had always been good to him, signing him up for extra hours whenever he needed them; he should return the favor by giving her more than a couple days’ notice. “Absolutely.”
Freddie rose to his feet and extended a hand. Vish shook it. “Welcome to Interstellar Boys, Vish. Good to have you with us.”
When Vish emerged from Freddie’s office, Troy was waiting for him in the reception area. She sat cross-legged in an overstuffed chair, leafing through her script, oblivious to the gigantic framed promotional poster of herself looming above her head. She looked up, her face expectant. “Well?”
“He hired me,” Vish said. He sounded dazed.
“Fantastic!” Troy unfolded herself from the chair and stood up. She hugged him and gave him a peck on the chin. “I knew he would. I didn’t want to tip my hand too much, but I knew Freddie wanted you. Congratulations.”
“It’s all thanks to you. I wouldn’t have been able to get in the door without your help,” he said.
Troy waved this aside. “You got this on your own. You’re an amazing writer. We could really use you right now.” She had never spoken about Interstellar Boys with anything other than high praise, bordering on hyperbole. This was the closest she’d come to acknowledging the current troubles.
She took his hand. “Come on. I want you to meet everyone.”
The production offices and the stages were located in the same facility on the dingy southeast end of Hollywood. Troy had been due on set at six that morning, so Vish had shown up for his afternoon meeting with Freddie by himself, surprising the guard at the gate by approaching on foot instead of driving.
He and Troy crossed through the studio lot, which was vast and empty and silent. Vish had a mental image of what it should look like: costumers wheeling racks of clothes to and from trailers, stagehands hauling gigantic props and backdrops, construction workers hammering away at sets, production assistants fetching coffee for their high-powered bosses. This, however, was a ghost town.
“What else films here?” he asked. “Other television shows?”
Troy shrugged. “Back in our first season, there were three or four other series shooting here. Right now, there’s not much. Sometimes they do infomercials, stuff like that. I talked to a girl last week who was taping a pilot on the stage next to ours.” She glanced around the silent lot and frowned. “It comes in waves, I guess.”
She led him through the side door of a monstrous white windowless building with “STAGE 3” painted on the side in story-high block letters. Inside it was dark and cavernous. In the center of the room, plywood backdrops surrounded three sides of a set. It was the bridge of the starship, where most of the action on Interstellar Boys took place. On television, it looked sleek and airy and ethereal, with pale backlit monitors and sculpted chrome chairs and frosted translucent walls. Up close, vacant and unlit, it looked flimsy and silly, just painted plywood and acrylic sheeting.
Large men in work shirts and jeans bustled around the studio, coiling cables and setting up lights. “What’s happening today?” Vish asked Troy. He kept his voice hushed, even though it was obvious no cameras were rolling. “Are you going to be filming?”
Troy shook her head. “We did some location shooting in Riverside this morning, and now they’re setting up for the shoot later this afternoon, but I’m done for the day.” She wore street clothes, a long sweater over leggings, but there were dark smears in the corners of her eyes, lingering traces of the heavy makeup she wore while filming. She glanced around. “I don’t see anyone. Let’s try Ridpath’s trailer first.”
That must be Ridpath Washburn, who played the ship’s engineer, Dudge. Vish had boned up on the cast members and production staff before his meeting. He followed Troy outside and around to the back of the stage, where a half-dozen trailers were parked in two parallel rows. Troy climbed up the lightweight metal steps of the nearest trailer and rapped her knuckles on the screen door. “Hey, Ridpath? You in there?”
The door flew open. Ridpath, bare-chested and in track pants, ran a hand over his shaved head and squinted at her. “What’s up, doll?”
“Got someone I want you to meet.” She beckoned for Vish to step forward. “This is my friend Vish. Freddie just hired him as a writer. Vish, this is Ridpath.”
“Hey, man.” Ridpath held the door open and stood to the side. “Come in, y’a
ll. I was just lying down, so it’s kind of messy in here.”
Ridpath’s trailer was small and comfortable, with a kitchenette on one side and a built-in sofa running the length of the other. Ridpath scooped up a fleece blanket and a couple of throw pillows and stuffed them into a mesh overhead bin, then gestured at the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink… was your name Fish? Did I hear that right?”
“Vish. With a V.”
“Vish, sorry. Cool name. I’m going to make myself some coffee, want any? I’ve got bottled water, too.”
“Coffee would be great. Thank you.”
Ridpath ran water into an electric kettle and plugged it in, then measured grounds into a French press. His movements were precise and contained. He looked burly and bulky on television, with a thick neck and a powerful upper body, but in the flesh, he was surprisingly compact. He was an inch or so taller than Vish, which put him just under six feet, and his shoulders, while sculpted with well-defined musculature, were narrow. Petite, even.
“Is Kelsey still around?” Troy asked.
Ridpath shook his head. “I don’t know, doll. She left to tape an interview a while ago. I haven’t seen her come back.”
“I’m going to see if she’s here. I want her to meet Vish, too,” Troy said. She patted Vish on the wrist. “Keep Ridpath entertained, okay? You boys can swap gossip about me. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She gave Vish a kiss on the cheek, fast and affectionate, then left. Ridpath sat on the narrow couch beside Vish while waiting for the kettle to boil. “So you’re writing for us, huh?”
“So it seems. I just got the offer a few minutes ago, so it doesn’t quite seem real yet. I’m looking forward to it, though. The show’s great.”
“Yeah. Sure is.” Was Vish hearing things, or was there an undercurrent of sarcasm there? “So. You and my girl Troy are friends, huh?” Ridpath leaned over and ran a brown thumb lightly over Vish’s cheek where Troy had kissed him. “Good friends?”
Vish could feel himself blushing. “Yeah. Pretty good.” He’d better follow Troy’s lead on this. Maybe she wouldn’t want her costars and coworkers to know she’d snagged her under-credited and under-qualified new boyfriend a job as a writer.
Ridpath smiled. It was a nice smile, full of charm. He had very straight, very thick eyebrows and a strong, magnificent nose. “How long have you known her?” he asked.
“Just a couple weeks,” Vish said. It seemed ridiculous that so much could change in such a short time. “I met her the day after that earthquake.”
“She’s happy about you,” Ridpath said. He shrugged. “I’m assuming it’s you, at least. She’s been a different person over the past week or so. Much less neurotic. I mean, I love Troy, we all do, but most of the time, girlfriend needs to chill. Lately, though? She’s been a dream on set. If that’s thanks to you, we owe you one.”
Vish blinked. Troy was about the least neurotic person he’d ever met.
“Were you the one to get her to quit smoking?” Ridpath asked. He shook his head. “Cold turkey, man. That couldn’t have been easy.”
The kettle boiled; Ridpath got to his feet and dumped steaming water over the coffee grounds. Vish stared at his back.
“Troy doesn’t smoke,” he said. He frowned. “Does she?”
“Up until last week, she sure as hell did. After every single take, she’d scurry outside to light up, which kind of sucked for those of us who just wanted to finish our damn scene. Freddie sat her down last season and had a talk with her about it, and she ripped him a new one. ” Ridpath shrugged. “And then last week, she stopped. No fuss, no drama. Didn’t even mention it until I asked her what was up, and then she just said something about how it was time to clean up some bad habits.”
“I can’t take credit for that,” Vish said. “I’ve never seen her smoke before. I had no idea.” Huh. Maybe the interior of Troy’s car had smelled a bit like stale tobacco on the day they first met, now that he thought back on it.
Ridpath depressed the plunger on the French press in one slow, steady motion. “Maybe she did it on the sly because she thought you wouldn’t want to date a smoker. People do incredible things when they’re in love.”
Love. Maybe Ridpath was exaggerating, but Vish still felt a small tingle in his spine at the word and all it contained.
The trailer door burst open, and Troy came in, pulling Kelsey Kirkpatrick, minus the bumblebee dress, behind her. In an oversized t-shirt over sweatpants, Kelsey seemed an even more unlikely object of adult lust than she had at Maryanne’s party. With her crop of lemon-colored hair and her round cherub face, she looked tiny and fresh-scrubbed.
“Vish, this is Kelsey. Kels, meet Vish. He’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”
Kelsey gave Vish a friendly wave. “He’s cute,” she said to Troy. There was a faint note of surprise in her tone. She turned to Vish. “You’re so not like the guys Troy usually dates. And that’s a really good thing.”
“Kelsey…” Troy rolled her eyes.
“Seriously. She’s gone through this whole string of beefheads. They all blend together in my brain.”
Troy’s cheeks went pink. “I think that’s probably all Vish wants to hear about that particular subject,” she said.
“You’re bringing him to my birthday party, aren’t you?” Kelsey asked.
Troy frowned. “That’s, what, next month?”
“Yeah. The seventeenth. But I need to have the guest list in stone, so let me know for sure if you’re coming. The restaurant’s kind of small.”
Kelsey’s eighteenth birthday. Wasn’t that what Toby had been yammering about in a mildly salacious way at Maryanne’s party? A dark thought crept in, unwanted and unwarranted: Would he and Troy even still be together in a month, given the speed at which their relationship had developed?
In any case, they’d both be working on the show. They’d be spending lots of time together, one way or another. As Ridpath poured coffee for everyone, Troy caught Vish’s eye and winked. It was a wink filled with affection and promise, and it helped quiet the nagging doubts.