Unscripted (36 page)

“Let’s review, Mom—you, hospital, phone call. I think teaching is secondary at this moment, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, then, you’re wrong.”

“I’ll be fine. Go teach.”

Shaking my head, I sat back down. “No.”

“Stubborn girl.” She settled her head again and closed her eyes.

I fidgeted for a moment, then managed to say, haltingly, “Mom? I’m . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you. For your surgery.”

“That’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. You asked me to help you, and I could have, but I . . . didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

Mona’s head shifted on the pillow, and she turned her pale eyes to me. “Well, now. I haven’t been there for you very often either, have I? I suppose it’s . . . only fair. Chickens coming home to roost, as they say.”

“It’s all right.”

Mona made a face that expressed her doubt.

“Hey, I turned out just fine, didn’t I? You must have done something right.”

“Or you turned out the way you are in spite of me.”

I thought about all the times I did something just because it was the opposite of what Mona would have done, like the way I treated my cast and crew, and I couldn’t say she was wrong on that count. Funny how we learn from our parents—not just how to do things, but also how
not
to do things. Still, I now knew she’d loved me the whole time, and that sure counted for something.

“You’re a good mom, Mona.”

“I did . . . my best. I helped you when I could. That show of yours . . . I’m glad it worked out. Glad I . . .”

She looked like she was drifting off to sleep again, but I asked, “Glad you what, Mom?”

“Randy owed me . . . got him to . . . greenlight . . . a good . . . day’s work, I think.”

And Mona was asleep again. I sat back.
What?
I wanted to shake her, wake her back up. Did she just say
she’d
gotten Randy to greenlight
Modern Women?
I looked over my shoulder at Jamie, to see if he’d witnessed this, but he was asleep sideways in his chair, his fist propping up his head, light snores issuing from his slack mouth.

My head was spinning, and it wasn’t just from stress and lack of sleep. The one thing—the
one
thing—I had always been immensely proud of was the fact that I’d beaten impossible odds and gotten
Modern Women
through the entire birthing process, from creation to screen, by myself. And now . . . I felt absolutely numb. For a few minutes. And then my skin started prickling. Restless, I paced in the small spot of open floor in the room. It wasn’t enough. I wanted to run somewhere, throw things. I had been going around for more than three years acting like I was some sort of wunderkind, heir to the Shonda Rhimes throne, and the whole time my show’s success was thanks to my
mommy’s
connections—exactly what I’d fought against all my life—and I’d had no idea. Had the network execs—not to mention Bea, contemptuous toad that she was—all been laughing behind my back the entire time? I
was
just another spoiled Hollywood brat, getting the breaks because of who my parent was, instead of getting ahead on talent alone.

I stopped pacing abruptly. No. Even though my reality had been upended just now, I was still dimly aware that no matter how the show had gotten started, it was all me from there on out.

. . . Wasn’t it?

Sure it was. All the episodes I wrote, all the ones I directed . . . all the fires I had put out as exec producer . . . my happy cast and crew (well, except for Alex, but he was just a douche) . . . that was all me. I made it what it was. And dammit, I was going to continue to prove it.

Which brought me right back to the argument I’d had with Mason the night before. His accusation of my caring only about the show still stung, but he didn’t understand. It truly was my life. I couldn’t let it go now.

Oh. Mason. I desperately wanted to call him. I wanted to hear his voice, especially if he was going to tell me he loved me again. And I wanted to tell him all about Mona. And this latest news. He’d understand. He’d listen, and he’d know just what to say to talk me off the ledge.

I pulled my phone from my pocket, my thumb hovering over the screen. I looked at the time. He’d be in class. I couldn’t disturb him. He had enough to deal with; he didn’t need me whining about my personal dramas. As I stood there, a nurse came in and checked my mother’s vitals.

“How’s she doing?” I asked.

“Improving, slowly.”

“She’s going to be all right?”

The harried nurse actually took a moment to look at me. “Well, the doctor should make that determination, but . . . I’d say she’s heading that way.”

My gut felt a whole lot lighter all of a sudden. “Thank you.” I glanced at the still-sleeping Jamie, who was now drooling, then back at Mona. “Can you, uh, tell my stepbrother that I went home to take a shower? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* * *

My head was in a dozen different places on the drive home, so I was grateful when I reached the canyon roads. They forced me to focus on only one thing: navigating the tight twists and turns without driving into a ditch or hitting a parked car. Like all the ones lining my street near my house . . . and in my driveway.

Either I was the victim of a flashmob home invasion, or it had something to do with Jamie. I was pretty sure it was the latter, but I wished it were the former. That’d be easier to deal with.

I got out of my car and dodged between the vehicles blocking my way into the house. Someone had rolled over a good chunk of my landscaping, flattening some flowers and mashing a solar light into the ground, which seriously irked me.

The foyer was empty, but the living room was a hive of activity. At least a dozen people were milling around. My furniture was moved again. Wires and cables were everywhere. And then someone shouted, “Okay, let’s go!” and
blam
—lights on C stands positioned around the room all came to life at the same time, and suddenly my living room could have doubled as the surface of the sun.

Somebody was using my house as a film set.

Oh my God,Jamie really
was
making a porn movie?

“What the
fuck
is going on here?” I demanded, charging into the room and nearly walking right into a tall, gangly guy with his hands on his hips.

“What the—
shut up!
” He spun toward me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I got in his face. “I fucking own this house. Who the fuck are
you?
”

“Oh shit.” That was some other person, who came flying between us, his hands raised as if to restrain the angry dude. “Trev, Trev. This is Faith Sinclair. She lives here.”

“‘
Lives
here’? It’s
my fucking house
. Now, I want to know what—” Then I recognized the white-boy ’fro blocking my view.
“Evan?”

“Hey . . . Faith. How’s it going?”

This made no sense. I hadn’t seen this guy, or his cohort Sean, since they booted me from their Web site, months ago. And now he—and an entire film crew—were in my house?

“Jamie,” I hissed to no one in particular.

“He—he said it was okay!” Evan squeaked.

“Oh he did, did he? ‘Okay’? To film in my house?”

“He didn’t . . . didn’t check with you?”

“Do you know Jamie
at all?
”I gave Evan my best hairy eyeball, and included Trev the angry dude as well. It didn’t seem to faze Trev; he stayed angry, probably because I was cutting into his shooting schedule. I could relate. But I wasn’t about to accommodate him.

“Aw, Faith, I’m sorry, man. Really. I thought—”

“You thought wrong. Now gather up all your toys and clear out of here.”

“But—”

“I have a show to shoot!” Trev griped.

Trev had picked the wrong day to argue with me. I was sleep-deprived, I was stressed, I was full of beans. “Boo fucking hoo. Shoot it somewhere else. Does this look like fucking Paramount Pictures to you?”

“Faith, can I talk to you in private?” Evan ventured nervously.

“In private? Sure, if there’s one square inch of this house that’s still private.”

That square inch turned out to be the bathroom off my bedroom. Evan backed up against the sink, trying to keep as far away from me as possible. Wise move.

“So okay, Faith, remember when you were hanging out with us—”

“I was
helping you out,
yes.”

“And then MTV said they wanted a reality Web show?”

“When you fired my ass because I was too old for MTV? Yes, I remember that quite clearly.”

“Well . . . the webisodes got
really
great ratings. MTV picked us up for a series. On the network, not on the Web!”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to massage away an encroaching headache and smooth out the lines deepening between my eyebrows. “Get to the point, Evan. Why are you shooting it in my house?”

“Well, be–because . . . the show’s about Jamie.”

I’d like to say that I was shocked by this, but my shock-o-meter had broken long ago. Now all I could muster was a half-raised eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Jamie living in his stepsister’s house? Jamie sponging off her and eating everything in her fridge?
That’s
a premise for a reality show? I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised—we have the Kardashians, after all—but isn’t MTV scraping the bottom of the barrel here?”

Evan looked at me like I’d been asleep for a hundred years. “Faith, Jamie’s got a
huge
fan base. His whole thing—it’s like a real-life
Entourage.
In fact, that’s how we pitched it. Good-looking guy, great accent, in L.A., partying, hanging with the hottest celebrities, inside scoop on the glam lifestyle, never know who he’s going to run into—get it?”

“Ah.” I hated to admit it, but it actually made sense. A reality show like that would sell in a heartbeat—and get a huge following.

“See?” Evan looked relieved that I was finally tweaking to the whole concept.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Okay, so—”

“Now get the fuck out of my house.”

“Aw,
Faith.
” He thought a moment. “Hey, we’d love to have you on the show. Great exposure—”

“OUT!”

Chapter 22

Well, now I knew where my money had gone. And I knew why Jamie had been avoiding my calls. He was hiding from me because of the money, sure, but he was also busy starring in his own reality show. Which, evidently, I had financed. He had a lot of ’splainin’ to do.

Once I had evicted the crew, their equipment, and the “actors” for today’s shoot—apparently their sole purpose today was to talk about Jamie while he wasn’t around (gotta love those top-notch reality story lines, but at least the cameras hadn’t followed him into Mona’s hospital room)—I allowed myself a good cry for a few minutes.

My money was gone. I had hoped that maybe there was a better, more reassuring answer for why my credit cards had been maxed out and my bank account emptied—some way the situation would wrap up like a happy-ending TV movie, with Jamie handing over a bag full of cash, saying, “It’s all here, Faith. I was keeping it safe for you.” But no. Every last penny had been spent on production costs, equipment, salaries for the cast and crew. And probably those brand-spankin’-new servers Sean was always moaning he needed. I could sue them to get my money back, I supposed, but I’d probably just end up with a garage full of their equipment, stuff that I didn’t want or need, for my trouble. But my actual cash was long gone.

Drained, I dragged myself toward my bathroom—stepping on a left-behind clamp in my bare feet on the way, which got me cursing and crying anew—and huddled in the shower. I sat down in the tub, my forehead on my knees, and let the water course over my hunched back. I had to get back to the hospital, but I just needed to sit for a moment. And maybe rock back and forth a little. And gather my strength. Because I decided that whatever method I chose for murdering Jamie was going to require the use of a very large, very heavy weapon.

* * *

Once I was showered and dressed, I felt better—at least on the outside. I checked my phone; I had two texts, one from Mason asking about Mona, which made my heart flutter, and the other from Jaya: “It is ON! Randy = YES” and a “thumbs up” emoticon. Well, that was something. I started to text her back, but then I heard rustling coming from the kitchen. I charged in there, guns blazing.

“I
told
you to get the fuck out of my house!” I roared.

Jamie stood up from his usual position—rooting around in the fridge—holding an open takeout container and munching on something that looked like an old, soggy taquito. Blech.