Adulation (6 page)

“And you find him attractive,” Theo pointed out.

“I find lots of men attractive.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you admitting that you like a guy,” she pressed.

“There’s a big difference between liking a guy and having a crush on someone you’ve only seen on TV or in a magazine or whatever. The first behavior is real. The second is juvenile.”

I knew whom I was really trying to convince.

“Thing is, Sunny. I don’t think it’s just a crush for you. Call me crazy, but I think you genuinely like this guy. I don’t think he’s superhuman, and I think if he met you, he’d genuinely like you too.”

Damn Theo and her sharing of my brain.

I persisted. “This is someone who has rubbed elbows with everyone from Robert Redford to Paul McCartney  to Barack Obama. He’s made something of his life. He travels the world. He probably spends in a week what I make in a year.” I sneezed before continuing. “And as you so aptly pointed out, anything I’ve learned about him via the Internet and the corporate media is highly suspect. So how can I make any kind of assessment as to whether this is someone I’d actually like to date or could be compatible with?”

“Sunny, if Danny Masters ever got a look at you, I’m sure he’d want to get to know you, provided you’re wearing the sweater we just bought you and not dressed for work,” said Georgie. “Besides, at one time he was just another fucked-up Long Islander like you and me.”

I shook my head rapidly, as if trying to shake off the wish for it to be so. “It’s never gonna happen.”

“Why?” they both asked.

“Under what circumstances would we be anywhere near each other?”

Georgie waved his hand in front of my eyes. “Hello? Tickets to the premiere? Q and A afterward?”

“Yeah, right. Like he’s going to see me in the audience. I’m going to have some aura glowing that makes me stand out from hundreds of people. And he’s going to immediately forget about Charlene Dumont or whoever else he happens to be fucking at the moment.”

“You know, someone with a name as perky as yours shouldn’t be so pessimistic. Besides, you’re getting a makeover.” He tapped on the pad with the pen. “On the list. I say we schedule it before the premiere. In fact, let’s make a weekend of it in the city. We’ll book a room, get makeovers, go shopping, the whole nine yards. Hell, if Danny  Masters doesn’t notice you, at least a hundred other guys will. Either way, you can’t lose.”

“So you’re saying no one will notice me if I don’t have a makeover?”

Georgie rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t it by your design to go unnoticed, Sunny? Your solitary confinement is over. Get your ass back in gear. It’s time.”

He had a point.

CHAPTER THREE

Danny Masters

H
ER PARTING WORDS
 
to him were simply, “Call me.”

Charlene left just after eight a.m. to fly back to New York to resume her film obligations, and Danny decided to go to the office early rather than linger in the cavernous house by himself. They hadn’ttalked much during her brief visit; rather, they mostly had sex until they fell asleep, exhausted.

“What does that mean?” he had asked three years ago, the first time she had spent the night and leftwith those same parting words.

“What do you mean, what does that mean? It means
 
call me
. On the phone.”

“Yeah, but do you expect me to call you at a certain time of the day or a certain day of the week? Is this a courtesy call? An about-last-night call? Am I calling as a friend or as your lover? I need thesethings spelled out for me.”

Charlene had given Danny a patronizing look. “Why do these things always have to be socomplicated?” It was a question that seemed not to be directed at him, but rhetorical in nature. “It meansthat I had a wonderful time last night, that I like the sound of your voice to keep me  company when wecan’t be in the same room together, and if you feel so inclined, you can pick up your phone and talk so that I can hear it. And since when are friends and lovers an either-or? Why can’t you be representing yourselfas both when you call me?”

“I just want to make sure I know where I stand,” he had responded. “Guys are afraid of fucking up,you know.”

“No,
 
you’re
 
afraid of fucking up.” They’d been on two dates, and already she knew him so well.

“So be it. You know,” he said after a quick beat, “you can call me too. You don’t have to waitaround for me.”

“First of all, I don’t wait around for any man. Second, I don’t chase men, and I don’t make the firstcall. It’s just a little personal insurance for my peace of mind.”

“It’s a power play,” said Danny.

He’d watched Charlene study him intently at that moment. “Do you write such fantastic argumentsbecause of your need to instigate one yourself?”

He had often wondered this same thing. But he also knew that with Charlene Dumont he was goingto be constantly battling for power, and he had already wished it wasn’t the case. And it wasn’t even thathe wanted power over her—no, he just wanted to be on the same level.

So when Charlene left him with those very same words this morning, those two words that definedtheir relationship as nothing more than a never-ending game of “chicken,” he felt weary. And they were asunclear to him this morning as they were the very first time she’d said them to him.

When Danny got to the office, Dez was already at her desk sorting his mail, wearing her phoneheadset and  talking. The image always conjured a switchboard operator from the fifties and sixties—andyet the twenty-eight-year-old always sported the trendiest fashions to go with a neon-pink, pageboyhairstyle. Ajealous ex-girlfriend of his had once accused Danny of sleeping with Dez, and when he denied

the notion as absurd because he was pretty sure she was a lesbian (or perhaps bisexual), the ex then accused him of wanting to. He had laughed in response, but wondered if perhaps his body language was revealing some unconscious desire.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asked.

She gave him an exasperated look. “You’ve got a schedule of interviews a mile long, not to mention the meeting you have with Ken Congdon about the new show.” Her words always shot out of her mouth rapid-fire.

“Yeah, I know. I’m way behind on it. It’s been kinda hard to concentrate on writing what with all the premiere week nonsense.”

“You got calls from Paul, Joannie from Kingsmen casting, Steven Spielberg wants you to rescue a script for a project he’s slated to direct, and there’s a charity dinner that you agreed to attend but for which you haven’t sent in your seating chart yet.”

Danny frowned. “There’s a seating chart?”

“You bought the table, remember?”

He moved on. “That was all since you got in this morning?”

“The charity thing and Spielberg were voice mails from last night. Plus more birthday messages.”

He opened the door to his office and headed for his desk, passing the already-wilting bouquets of flowers and  opening his laptop as he sat down. “Get Spielberg back first. We’ll deal with the rest after that.”

Dez followed him inside. “How was your birthday celebration last night?”

He avoided eye contact with her and pretended to be occupied with papers on his desk. “I justwent home was all.”

“Charlene left this morning?”

He looked up and found her patiently waiting for an answer, seemingly unfazed by his baffledexpression. “How—what—did she call you before I got here?”

“I can smell her perfume on you.”

Danny inspected himself, as if the scent was visible. “Oh.” His brow furrowed. “It’s a clean shirt,though. And I showered.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. So was this just birthday sex, or are you two official again?”

Although Dez rarely, if ever, shared any hint of her own love life (not that he would have the firstclue how to advise her if she had asked for it), she never hesitated to offer her unsolicited two cents whenit came to his.

Rather than tell her to mind her own business, he raised his eyes above the laptop and peered ather.

“OK, so I’ll get Spielberg on the phone,” she said, and went back to her desk.

Danny returned calls. He read e-mails. He did three back-to-back phone interviews. He tried to work on the pilot script, staring at the screen and tapping on the keyboard without actually typing, but just couldn’t find the motivation for the characters. They had to have a reason for existing, a purpose besides the obvious. They had to
 
want
 
something. Who gave a crap about a couple of  married radio talk show hosts? At the moment, he didn’t. Maybe this wasn’t the right angle for a show. Maybe political thrillers and courtroom dramas were all he was good at. And what did
 
he
 
want? He stared out the window and waited for an answer, but none came.

At around two thirty Danny left his office and drove to a bistro where Ken Congdon, his executiveproducer for
 
Winters in Hyannis
 
, was already seated at a table on the patio and talking on his BlackBerry. He approached the table and extended his hand to Ken, who stood up and shook it heartily. “Good to see you,” said Ken. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“What are you, fifty, sixty years old now?”

“Feels like it some days.”

“I was feeling fine until AARP started sending me junk mail.”

Seconds after the server took their drink orders (an aspiring actor, Danny could tell—after somany years in LA, he could spot them as if they wore an insignia), Ken brought up
 
Exposed
.

“I saw the advanced screening the other day. That is one fucking great movie, Danny. I think it’syour best.”

“Thanks, Ken. Paul and the cast really get the credit.”

“They’re only as good as the material they have to work with. Start writing your acceptancespeeches now.”

The drinks arrived, and Danny was equal parts grateful and disappointed that the server didn’t mixthem up.

“Let’s talk about the new show,” said Ken, perusing the appetizer menu.

Danny took a sip of his Diet Coke and fidgeted with the lemon wedge that had been perched on topof the glass. “Yeah, about that. I’m having a little trouble with the angle.”

“What have you got so far?”

He could feel his face turn hot. “About thirty minutes of shit.”

Ken didn’t even bat an eye. “What’s the premise?”

“That’s just it. Right now there isn’t any. All I’ve got is this married couple who are radio talkshow hosts, and no obstacle other than themselves.”

The server came back to take their food orders.

“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Ken.

Danny nodded and gestured a signal of permission to proceed.

“You’re writing about a public radio station, aren’t you? So make it about the ups and downs of running a public radio station in a corporate, partisan world.”

“In other words,
 
Winters in Hyannis
 
meets NPR? I don’t want to repeat myself, Ken. Worse still, I don’t want to be accused of repeating myself by the critics.”

“David Kelley’s had what—four, five shows about law firms?”