Showbiz, A Novel (6 page)

             
“Do you need to get that?” He gestured to her phone on the bar. “Sounds like it might be urgent.”

             
Candace squinted down at the name on the caller ID, feeling for her reading glasses, which were never where they should be. Her drink sloshed onto the bar as she set it down abruptly. Her mind was starting to swim a little. Had she eaten that day? She couldn’t remember. She had to keep it together for her boss.

             
“Can you excuse me for just a second?” she said as she ungracefully dismounted from her bar stool, dropping her coat in the process.

             
“Sure. Are you okay, Candace?” He asked that last question to her back. She had already thrown her coat over her arm and was heading toward the door as she put her phone to her ear.

Scene 9

             
Scarlett couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt like she had a front-row seat at the best show in town as she waited for Lawrence to arrive at Bar Centrale. The eavesdropping opportunities at the bar were always promising, but she’d hit the mother lode tonight.

             
Doing her best to stay inconspicuous, she hung on every word issuing from the ever-more intoxicated middle-aged woman on the stool next to her.

             
Scarlett waited until she thought the conversation was winding down and slipped out to call Margolies. Though Margolies had a knack for always somehow having the inside scoop, she had a strong feeling that it would be news to him.

             
She shivered on the front stoop, having left her coat on her bar stool to save her spot.

             
“Hey, boss, I just got word on the new
Banner
critic.”

             
“I’m listening,” Margolies responded into the phone, his voice level.

             
Scarlett glanced around to make sure she wouldn’t be overheard, but the passersby, bundled against the chilly evening, were out of earshot.

             
She proudly filled him in on the plans she had overheard.

             
“Who did you hear this from?”

             
“I sort of overheard it, actually. From some woman at the
Banner
. I think her name was Candace—”

             
“I have to make a call,” he said tersely, and she heard the click that meant he had hung up on her. Classic. But what was she expecting. Praise? A pat on the back?

             
As she pulled open the large wooden door to get back to the warmth of the inner industry sanctum, the woman she’d just overheard, Candace, was stumbling out the door with her coat thrown over one arm and her cell phone to her ear.

             
Practically bumping into Scarlett, she slurred into the phone, “Well, look who holds all the cards now!” she cackled as she nearly fell down the stone steps. “And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

             
Scarlett waited to make sure the woman made it to the street in one piece, looking on in horror of seeing a train wreck in progress. She almost felt bad for her. Clearly an unhappy person, she thought as she made her way back to the bar.

             
Lawrence arrived seconds later.

             
“Hello, Gorgeous. Am I late?” He kissed Scarlett on the cheek. Turning to the, now-solo man from the
Banner
who had been left to settle the not-unsubstantial bill, he asked, “This seat available?” The man nodded, and Lawrence hopped onto the elegant bar stool that the
Banner
woman had recently vacated.

             
“You’re right on time,” Scarlett
said
with a wide grin.

             
“It looks like someone’s had a good day,” Lawrence
said
, picking up on her good mood. “Or are you just happy to see me?”

             
“I’m always happy to see you,” Scarlett
said
. “And this is the perfect way to end the week.”

             
“I couldn’t agree more,” Lawrence
said
, flagging down the bartender and ordering a glass of champagne for each of them.

             
“Except you do this kind of thing every night,” Scarlett
said
.

             
“Not with you,” said Lawrence with a charming smile.

             
“Excuse me! Don’t you know it’s rude to bring up other women?” Scarlett teased. “You’re such a cad!”

             
Lawrence was momentarily taken aback. “Hey! That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I was trying to pay you a compliment.”

             
“I know. But I’m allowed to give you a hard time, every once in a while,” she said, squeezing his hand good-naturedly. “You know I couldn’t care less who you see.”

             
“I’ll never understand you...
women
!” Lawrence
said
in exasperation. “But that’s why I love you.”

             
“Cheers!” Scarlett
said
with a laugh, raising her glass.

             
“Cheers!” Lawrence
said
.

Scene 10

             
Reilly slid into a tall chair at a bistro table by the window at the Sardi’s second-floor bar, forgoing his normal bar stool. He had told himself that he was going to Sardi’s to try to seek out the breakthrough he needed to finish the exposé article that would be above and beyond his normal column material. And yet every flash of a black-and-white coat out the window on the street below caught his eye.

             
“You brought some work with you today,” the bartender
said
, making friendly conversation in the afternoon quiet of the bar while eyeing the papers in front of Reilly.

             
“My editor’s breathing down my neck.” It had been two days since Reilly had met Scarlett, and his initial attempts to discover who she was were unsuccessful. He needed some new gossip, and to get it he needed to keep his nose to the grindstone without being distracted by a beautiful face and witty personality. “I’m hoping to chat with a few friends here later. You expecting a good crowd?”

             
The bartender raised his eyebrows. “I expect so. You should stick around.” The bartender had overheard Reilly eliciting his fair share of gossip, much of which later made an appearance in Reilly’s column. Through the unspoken law of bartender-client confidentiality, Reilly knew his sources were safe.

             
“What’ll it be?”

             
“Will you be disappointed if I start with a club soda?”

             
“Not at all. This one’s on me,” he said, filling a tall glass from the bar.

             
“You’re a good man.” Reilly smiled as a flash of black and white caught his eye out the window. Not her.

             
“And you’re a good customer.” The bartender winked at Reilly before he turned his attention to a couple of well put-together elderly women who were sidling up to the bar in their politically incorrect winter furs.

             
Reilly forced himself to focus on the pages in front of him on the bistro table—his notebook of unanswered questions. He was still chipping away at his exposé. If he got it right, it could mean a big break for him, and he could potentially rise above the gossip columnist post to a more serious position. He was still working on the proper headline, given Kanter’s demise:

“
Corrupt Critic Gets His Due.” Or maybe “Broadway Bribery Scandal.”

             
Another flash of black and white caught his eye. That time he was sure it was that zebra coat he had been scanning the New York City sidewalk crowds to spot. There she was—Scarlett. She was deep in conversation, threading through the mid-block 44
th
street traffic, a stack of files in her arms. Reilly was so distracted by the fact that he was finally seeing her that he almost didn’t notice who she was walking and talking
with
so intently.

             
Reilly froze as recognition hit. Margolies. She worked for Margolies. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Scene 11

             
Scarlett took a deep breath. It was going to be a tricky meeting, and the players would arrive at the theater any moment.

             
The writers of the
Olympus
musical were major celebrities—a rock-star couple who fronted the British pop band Cupid and Psyche. Margolies had convinced them to tackle a musical. Though publicly an “item,” their relationship had long ago become a working, if rocky, partnership, rather than a romantic one. Margolies and Scarlett were plenty used to wrangling celebrities through the artistic process of a Broadway musical, but the couple’s interpersonal challenges were proving to be particularly difficult.

             
Cupid and Psyche (real names: Carl and Phoebe) weren’t used to taking direction, much less revising their work. Paired with Margolies, a producing genius with a severe deficit in the tact department, Scarlett could already picture the inevitable carnage between now and opening night.

             
“The talent has arrived, loves!” Cupid
said
in his thick Liverpool accent, referring to himself, as he made a grand entrance, striding down the aisle into the theater. Scarlett could see Margolies cringe at his over-the-top theatrics. Psyche, close on his heels, just rolled her eyes.

             
Cupid bounded up onto the stage on skinny, tight-jean clad legs and a t-shirt that appeared to be made out of an actual British flag. He took a seat at the long folding table that had been set up, center stage, for the purpose of that meeting. Normally, meetings and the first few weeks of rehearsals would not be held at the theater. However, the extreme technical requirements of the show had resulted in Margolies’ moving the show into the theater for the entire rehearsal period, at no small expense. Scarlett had been present for several of the negotiations with the theater owner to discuss the structural changes that Margolies was making to the inside of the theater to accommodate the unique requirements of the huge show—also not cheap.

             
Psyche grabbed the furthest seat from Cupid and sullenly picked at her chipped cotton-candy pink nail polish, which was a perfect match to her hair color. They were both in their early thirties, but to look at them you’d think they were eighteen. Personalities aside, Scarlett was the first to admit that they had talent—both musically and at capturing a worldwide fan base that spanned generations. The fact that they were starring in the musical as the married Greek gods, Zeus and Hera, was a major coup for the production. Cupid and Psyche were the show’s biggest asset and biggest liability, all at the same time.

             
Next to jump into the fray were the director and co-writer; the former was a well-known Broadway stalwart, and one of the few who could garner enough respect from Margolies to hold his own with the overbearing producer. He was used to Margolies’ exceedingly hands-on producing style that often irked other directors who didn’t appreciate Margolies’ micro-managing approach to the artistic process.

             
“Good to see everyone,” the director
said
as he took a seat. He smiled pleasantly, pretending everyone was getting along, though he knew full well that it would be a meeting fraught with tension.

             
Margolies had yet to utter a word. He simply glowered from the head of the table. Scarlett enjoyed observing Margolies in action at these meetings. It was highly informative to watch his masterful work, every gesture and every word carefully executed to propel each show, from inception to hit status.

             
As the rest of the meeting’s attendees—set and lighting designer, costume designer, stage managers, flying and special effects designers, and other members of the technical team—made their way to the table, Scarlett handed out the revised budgets and schedules that she and the general management team had prepared for the meeting. Margolies had assembled the most innovative and creative designers for
Olympus
.
Throughout the development process, Scarlett had continually marveled at what they would be bringing to the live stage for the production.

             
“Let’s begin,” Margolies
said
.

             
Abruptly, the various conversations that had been going on around the table went silent. Scarlett took her usual seat to Margolies’ right.