Showbiz, A Novel (4 page)

             
“Well, thank you, Reilly Mitchell, the Walter Cronkite of Broadway,” Scarlett
quipped
sarcastically.

             
This girl has some attitude and isn’t falling for my charms, thought Reilly. It’s rare that someone has the nerve to talk to me like this. But he had to admit he was intrigued. He guessed she was an actress, from the looks of her, but that didn’t explain her confidence.

             
Never one to shrink from a challenge and eager to spend more time with those beautiful lips and eyes, Reilly decided to up his game. He signaled to the bartender for another round for both of them. His glass was empty and hers barely touched. He'd better slow down. Then again, he was having fun, and his articles for the week were already turned in. He figured he deserved a break.

             
“As it happens, I’m working on a big story right now. It’s going to be huge when it breaks.”

             
“Jealous that Kanter stole your spotlight, huh? I hope you don’t try to top that,” she said. Reilly sensed a hint of flirtation in her voice. “May I ask what this ‘huge story’ is about?”

             
“I would tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he said as he aimed his most charming smile in her direction.

             
He was saved from revealing anything further by the bartender, who, probably having heard the potential for good gossip about the previous night’s suicide, broke with tradition and came out from behind the bar to refill their glasses.

             
Reilly raised his newly filled glass to Scarlett. “Here’s to drinking in the afternoon.”

             
They clinked glasses and their eyes met.

             
“So,” Reilly changed the subject, “Are you celebrating or drowning your sorrows this afternoon?”

             
“A little of both, I guess. But I like the sound of celebrating better. I’m working on a new musical.”

             
“Congratulations. You’re an actress?”

             
“Producer, actually.”

             
“Aren’t you a little young to be a producer?”

             
“Aren’t you a little old to be New York’s premier investigative journalist?” She said those last two words with more than a little sarcasm.

             
“Touché,” he said and raised his glass for another toast, to which she acquiesced. “But if you’re a producer, why haven’t we met before? I make it my business to know the movers and shakers around town.”

             
“Then it’s a good thing we’ve finally met,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Are you going to investigate me now and uncover dark deeds and scandal around my new musical endeavors?”

             
“But of course,” he responded with a playful glint in his eye. “I’m writing the article in my head right now. ‘Beautiful young producer has passionate affair with New York’s premiere investigative journalist.’”

             
That got the laugh he was going for and an encouraging comment from her: “No such thing as bad publicity.”

             
The wine was clearly beginning to loosen her up, and they were both having a good time. People were starting to filter into the bar. A few of the new arrivals recognized Reilly but also who knew enough not to interrupt his conversation with a beautiful woman. There’ll be time to catch up with them later, thought Reilly, unless I can talk Scarlett into dinner. He might have been moving fast, even for him, but it had been a while since he had found a woman who really caught his eye. So many women he met rolled over at the first hint of his charm and celebrity, or they occasionally tried to work him for a positive mention in his column. At thirty-five, he was beginning to give up on the idea of finding his match, although looking had proven to have its own rewards, if the beautiful if sometimes vapid women on his speed dial were any indication.

             
Having finished his second glass of wine, he decided to be bold.

             
“What do you say we go grab dinner somewhere we can talk a little more freely?” he asked, glancing over to the bartender, who had clearly been keeping one ear on whatever he could catch of their conversation over the rising din as the bar continued to fill up.

             
“Wish I could.” She sounded sincere. “But I actually have to check in at the office. I’ve stayed too long as it is.” She dug in her purse for her wallet.

             
“This one’s on me,” Reilly said. “Where do you work?”

             
She left $20 on the table as she got up.

             
“Upstairs,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling. “Pleasure to meet you, Reilly Mitchell.”

             
With a smile, she turned on the heel of her black boots. The last he saw was her black and white zebra coat as she headed downstairs to the street and into the corporate office entrance, leaving Reilly to wonder if she was being elusive on purpose or just in a hurry to get back. Upstairs? That narrowed it down to several dozen possible offices. Did she work in one of the major producing offices? That seemed like the kind of thing she would have bragged about. Well, he was an investigative journalist, after all—he’d just have to find her.

             
Until then, he turned his attention to the bar. Inevitably someone would be there to supply him with a healthy dose of gossip for a future column. It would only be a matter of minutes before one colleague or other would fill the now-vacant stool across from him.

             
Minutes later, as Scarlett made her way back up to her office, she caught herself smiling. She had to admit that she felt flattered by Reilly Mitchell’s attention. Despite his much-maligned column, he was a key part of the fabric of Broadway. She was glad she hadn’t let it slip that, in fact, she had been reading his column since before she had even moved to New York, eagerly devouring his insider views on everything from which shows would make it to which producers and stars were misbehaving in the boardrooms or the bedrooms.

             
Though she didn’t really trust a man who made a living divulging the deepest and darkest secrets of her colleagues and, on more than one occasion, her boss, she found him to be surprisingly nice and refreshingly fun to talk to.

             
Scarlett knew that a friendship with Reilly would be a bad idea, yet she found herself wondering if she’d see him again. Both Margolies’ personal antics and his productions were a frequent topic of Reilly’s column—and often presented in a less-than-flattering light. Even if she could keep her mouth shut around Reilly, it wouldn’t look good. She’d be smart to keep her distance, if she valued her job.

             
Maybe it was the two glasses of wine or the fact that he was a celebrity, but she couldn’t ignore the unmistakable spark she’d felt with him. As the elevator doors opened and she headed back to her desk, she replayed their conversation in her head. She felt herself blushing, remembering how forward she’d been with him. What gave me so much nerve, she thought. She didn’t even know the guy, and yet something about his snarky column made her feel comfortable being a tad snarky herself.

             
As she sat back down at her computer to finish typing up the notes from the morning meeting, she had trouble keeping her mind on the job. Note to self, she thought: Two glasses of wine in the afternoon, mixed with the company of a cute columnist, is a bad idea. And yet, overall, she thought, it was not an unwelcome turn of events.

Scene 7

             
Scarlett slid into the cracked vinyl booth at the little diner on 9th that served as the favored breakfast place for theater folks when they were meeting and didn’t need to impress each other. The waiter barely slowed down as he plunked three cups of coffee on the table in front of Scarlett and her breakfast companions, Jeremy and Jeremy.

             
“Cheers.” Jeremy raised his coffee cup for a toast. “To a bright future for our collective baby,
Swan Song
,
The Musical
.
”

             
They clinked coffee cups, and Scarlett smiled warmly at the up-and-coming composer and lyricist of her first solo producing project.

             
“I want to hear everything about your experience at Pinter. I love the new draft of the
Swan Song
script and score, obviously. I know you’re sick of hearing it, but you two are brilliant,” Scarlett
said
.

             
“Oh, stop,” Jeremy
replied
, preening himself in mock modesty.

             
“What would you like to know, Miss Producer?” teased the other Jeremy.

             
Knowing that she’d need to develop some musicals of her own if she ever wanted to be a true producer, Scarlett had Margolies’ blessing to maintain her very own pet producing project, as long as it didn’t keep her from doing her job. She was thrilled to have come across the Jeremys and their concept for an original musical based on
S
wan Lake
. It hit the sweet spot for original musical theater, since it had the
Swan Lake
branding, which was vital in a day and age where audiences needed name recognition before they’d buy a ticket. But it was also a completely new and original retelling, similar to what
West Side Story
did so successfully with
Romeo and Juliet
or
My Fair Lady
did for
Pygmalion
.

             
“What kind of feedback did you get from the dramaturges on the final draft?” asked Scarlett. “I’m feeling like we have something solid.”

             
Jeremy and Jeremy were writing partners and life partners with the unfortunate coincidence of sharing the same name. Pity the soul who tried to convince either of them to change their name to cut down on the constant confusion.

             
They had just spent two weeks developing their new musical at the prestigious Pinter Theater Center in Connecticut, away from the distractions of real life. Jeremy and Jeremy had been thrilled to have
Swan Song
chosen by the discerning selection committee for this opportunity. Getting selected was not only key for the writing of the show but also gave them cache in the industry.

             
Jeremy considered her question. “I think we finally solved the second act.”

             
“We sure did. Jeremy wrote a kick-ass duet for the white and black ‘swans.’ You’re going to die when you hear it!” bragged Jeremy.

             
Scarlett had mentally renamed Jeremy and Jeremy for her own convenience.

“
Jersey Jeremy” was the composer of the couple. Though claiming to be a native Manhattanite, he was actually from New Jersey. He had been a gawky carrot-topped band geek in high school. Fortunately, he moved into the city to go to grad school at NYU Tisch for musical theater writing, and there reinvented himself as a musical genius whose smile and proclivity for writing beautiful love songs on the piano had transformed him from geek to god among his classmates. By graduation, however, he was writing love songs for only one person...

             
“Buff Jeremy,” was a lyricist extraordinaire. His words had been a perfect fit for Jersey Jeremy's music, for the past five years. Buff Jeremy did his best brainstorming at the gym. Upon first glance, he looked like he might be more at home on a fashion runway than huddled over sheet music in a black box theater.

             
Scarlett had discovered
Swan Song
and its creators several months earlier at a reading at a tiny theater near Union Square, where actors had read and sung through the show standing on stage with their scripts and scores in hand. Scarlett had been there since part of her job was scoping out future Margolies projects by attending readings like those.

             
Of the several new musical readings she went to in a week, the vast majority failed to impress her. Writing a musical was deceptively easy, and very few did it well. However,
Swan Song
appealed to her instantly. If she’d learned anything from Margolies about picking a show, it was that you had to go with your gut. If a show grabbed you the first time, even if it was just a musical reading, then there was something there that would also grab your audience. If you didn’t have a visceral reaction to at least some aspect of the material that first time, it was unlikely you or your future audiences would ever fall in the love with the show. Producing 101.

             
Scarlett had had to offer the piece to Margolies first, since she had been scouting shows on his dime when she discovered it. But with unknown writers and the particular subject matter, he wasn’t interested.