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  “Grill protector?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “Well, I did just get a lead on an amazing nanny who comes highly recommended from the Scientology Celebrity Centre International. I’m just waiting for a call back from her agent.”

  Max was overjoyed. “A nanny with an agent? Endorsed by L. Ron Hubbard? She sounds perfect!”

  “Fingers crossed,” said Corliss. “While I’m waiting for the call, do you mind if I hang out and watch the scene?”

  “Not at all, you know your presence is usually a comfort to me.”

  “Thanks. I think . . .”

  “Okay, people,” Max said, seeing that the grips had finally bathed the cast in a perfectly golden otherworldly glow. “Let’s have a look at you.” They looked, in a word, dazzling. Especially Anushka. Bald and hennaed, she cut a striking figure in an off-the-shoulder Michael Kors midnight black cocktail dress. Lately she’d been looking less and less like America’s Naughty Sweetheart, and more and more like a sophisticated woman of the world.

  “Anushka,” said Max, marveling at her transformation, “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but someone should have put you in a bald cap a long time ago. You look simply amazing.”

  “Right?” she said. “I am owning this chrome dome!”

  “It looks so good on you, you might even consider going hairless to the Emmys,” said Max, circling her approvingly.

  “Uh, don’t think so, Max—but good try. I’m featuring full hairification for the Emmys, thank you very much.”

  “That reminds me, people,” said Max, consulting the tickler file on his iPhone. “Everyone needs to submit the name of their Emmy date to Michael Rothstein’s office by Friday for security clearance.”

  “I submit Trent!” yelped Tanya.

  “And I submit her,” said Trent, pointing deliriously at Tanya.

  “Ha!” said Anushka. “Big surprise. As for little ol’ bald me, I’m probably going to bring that pretty stoner model Tyler. He’s always good for a few laughs.”

  “I’m bringing my cousin Patrizio,” said Rocco, “who will be visiting from Italy. He’s fascinated by American pop culture, so the evening should be interesting for him.”

  “JB?” said Max. “Have you asked someone yet?”

  “Me?” said JB, looking helpless. “Good one! Naw, no girly yet. How’s ’bout you, Cor? You figured out who you’re going to ask?”

  “Jeez, no,” she said, “I’m still getting over the shock of being invited.”

  Was it Max’s imagination or was Corliss batting her eyelashes at JB?

  “Okay,” Max said, banishing the thought from his head as he saw that the camerawoman was ready. “We’ll begin momentarily, but an announcement before we do. I have decreed, with the support of the front office, that there is to be no dating among anyone involved in the production of The ’Bu.” Tanya opened her mouth to protest, but Max cut her off before she had the chance. “Tanya, you and Trent got in under the wire. There’s nothing we can do about your, er, relationship now.”

  “Thanks, Max!” she said, clapping.

  “But everyone else will have to look elsewhere for any romance. It’s too disruptive and potentially damaging to morale to date the people you work with. Do we all understand one another?”

  Everyone nodded—except for Anushka, who exploded in her signature, “Ha!”

  “What is it, Anushka? Will this rule be hard for you to comply with?”

  “Uh, don’t worry, Max. There’s a total lack of sexual tension among this group, that’s for sure.”

  “Exactly what I want to hear,” said Max. “Now please get in your places. We’re ready to shoot. I want you to put yourself in the emotional states of these characters. Anushka’s character Alecia has survived the Malibu Canyon fire, recovered from amnesia, and just returned from an ashram in Mumbai to find her parents have been killed in a plane crash. The rest of you are here to comfort her and encourage her to go on with her life.”

  The cast nodded thoughtfully. The camerawoman took her place behind the camera. The sound was rolling. The slate was prepped.

  Max still had absolutely no idea how the scene would go. So he did the only thing he knew how to do: He creatively visualized general fabulousness and called out, “Action!”

  The ’Bu

  Script Insert #1

  INT. A PALATIAL ESTATE HIGH IN THE CANYON

  ALECIA, her grief on gorgeous display in a drop-dead black cocktail dress, lounges on a gold brocade CHAISE. Her eyes are puffy from weeping. She looks wan and helpless. As the surf crashes beneath her family’s MALIBU VILLA, she gazes into the distance.

  A VOICE

  Alecia . . . ?

  She turns to find TRAVIS and RAMONE coming into the sunken living room.

  ALECIA

  You’re here!

  RAMONE

  Of course. Our differences are all in the past.

  ALECIA

  And Travis . . . ? It’s beautiful out, the surf’s high—you gave that up to visit me?

  TRAVIS

  Yeah.

  Travis moves toward her. Alecia covers her head.

  ALECIA

  But I don’t want you to see me like this . . .

  TRAVIS

  It doesn’t matter, Alecia . . . you’re alive.

  RAMONE

  And we’re all friends . . . that’s all that matters.

  A FIGURE IN A DARK ROBE enters the room. Alecia cowers.

  ALECIA

  Ahh!

  THE FIGURE

  Don’t be scared. It’s me—Tessa.

  (She kneels at Alecia’s side.)

  I’ve been upstairs, staying here

  in the house this whole time,

  looking out for you. Waiting

  until you were strong enough to

  face the world again. I guess

  all the stress—the fire, what’s

  happened to you—has worn me

  down. I put on this robe because

  I think I may have caught a chill . . .

  Alecia searches their faces for the antagonism they’d all felt for her just before the fire—but she doesn’t find it.

  ALECIA

  Looking out for me? Putting your

  health in danger because you’re

  worried . . . about me? It’s

  unbelievable. I really do have

  friends!

  END OF SCENE.

  Three

  Uncle Ross’s House—6:46 P.M.

  “What is it, my darling?” asked Uncle Ross as he searched the depths of his fridge for a missing jar of olives. “I haven’t seen you this blue since I told you it wasn’t a good idea to wear stripes with plaid.”

  Corliss sighed as she prepared Uncle Ross’s third martini. She was spent. Beat. Wiped out. The last thing she needed was Uncle Ross’s sarcasm. Her day had been filled with Legend’s nanny search—and by the end of it there was still no nanny in sight. “I’m just really down in the proverbial dumps, Uncle Ross. I mean, I deferred a full scholarship to study psychology—at Columbia University, no less!—to work in television. Television!”

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Uncle Ross replied, finding the jar of olives behind some leftover diver scallops from the Hungry Cat.

  “No! That is exactly not what I am doing, Uncle Ross. What I’m doing is interviewing ex-cons and debilitated members of society to see if they want to be Legend’s nanny!” She was so riled up she was shaking Uncle Ross’s martini furiously.

  Uncle Ross frowned and rescued the martini shaker from Corliss. “Dearest niece, I asked you to shake my martini, not choke it to death.” He poured the martini out, plunked two plump olives in the liquid, and took a long sip. “Ah, my evening is now complete.”

  Corliss shook her head and threw her hands in the air. “Uncle Ross, you’re impossible. You think the answer to all life’s problems can be found in the perfect martini!” She stormed out of the room.

>   “Excuse me, where are you going, young lady?”

  “I’m giving up,” she called from down the hall. “I’m going to take to my bed with a stack of CosmoGirls, regret every decision I’ve made in my life, and maybe come down in an hour to eat a pint of Chunky Monkey.”

  “Corliss, that sounds like a terrible idea. Especially when I just had the Bentley detailed.” Uncle Ross smiled his devilish smile. The one that said, Let’s be naughty.

  Uncle Ross’s Bentley was the most gorgeous car Corliss had ever seen: cream-colored with a classic chrome grill and a sinfully soft buttermilk leather interior. It was only taken out for the specialest of special occasions, and Corliss had been allowed to ride in it exactly once—when Uncle Ross had taken her to see Justin Timberlake in concert at the Staples Center. “What do you say, Corliss? She’s sitting out front. We can hit Beverly Hills, window-shop for things only rich people like me can afford, then get a Kobe steak at that fabulous restaurant Cut?”

  Corliss’s eyes opened wide. She hadn’t had an “Uncle Ross” date in weeks. She was supposed to read over the latest ’Bu draft and tell Max what was in it first thing tomorrow morning, but she thought a night on the town might do her a world of good . . . change up her attitude. Which is exactly what she needed. She couldn’t help but smile a naughty smile back. “Uncle Ross, you totally know how to fly with style.”

  “Is that a yes?” he said with a hopeful look as he downed the dregs of his martini and dangled the keys of the Bentley in front of her.

  “Is this the face of a girl saying no?” said Corliss as she reached for the keys to the Bentley.

  Beverly Hills—Wolfgang Puck’s Cut—8:45 P.M.

  Corliss beheld the sleek Richard Meier interior in awe. The curved wall of windows that looked out to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The long blond teak bar. The soaring ceiling. And the celebrities! Across the room Leighton Meester was digging into a sirloin the size of her head. To Leighton’s left were Victoria and David Beckham, feeding each other Austrian oxtail. Inches from the stunning couple sat Eva Mendes, polishing off a porterhouse. Corliss had had some glam experiences since arriving in L.A., but sitting in this white-hot restaurant watching big stars chow down on cow ranked at the very top of the list.

  “Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, perusing the menu, “shall we order the bone marrow flan as an appetizer?”

  “What?!” Corliss was not about to eat anything that had the words bone or marrow in it. Especially if the word flan was anywhere nearby. “Um, I think I’ll pass, Uncle Ross. You keep forgetting, I’m kind of a meat and potatoes girl.”

  Uncle Ross wagged his finger. “Corliss, when in Rome . . .”

  No way, thought Corliss, who was still recovering from the strange poached egg pizza he’d made her eat at Mozza. “Yes, Uncle Ross, but we’re not in Rome. This is Beverly Hills, remember? What about a good old-fashioned sirloin? Trimmed of fat, of course. I’m still trying to get down to my fighting weight.” She momentarily put down the breadstick she’d been chomping on. She didn’t want to look less than chic in this place—especially with all the superskinny women slathered in bling and couture sitting near her.

  “Corliss, there’s nothing wrong with your weight. Besides, you look adorable lately. You’ve somehow managed to combine a kind of down-market Indiana chic with a kind of up-and-coming west coast aplomb.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Ross!” she said, beaming at one of his rare—if not backhanded—compliments. “I knew there was a reason I accepted this date with you.”

  Uncle Ross cleared his throat. “Which reminds me, Corliss. Just exactly when is the last time my adorable, accomplished niece had a date.”

  Corliss immediately grabbed three breadsticks and crammed them in her mouth. “You know what? Maybe we should order that bloody bone pudding thingy,” she said, trying to get off the dreaded dating topic. “Bone and blood is always a good combination,” she continued, hearing how ridiculous she sounded but unable to stop her babble. “I mean, two great tastes that go great together, right? And then there’s the pudding aspect, which sounds so yummy and—”

  “Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, leaning in to whisper, “you’re blathering. Is dating a topic you’d rather not discuss?”

  “No, not at all,” she said, trying to swallow a mouthful of bread carbs. “But what’s to discuss? Everyone dates, you win some, you lose some, blah, blah—dating, right?”

  “Corliss, this is Uncle Ross you’re talking to. I understand all. Which is how I’ve been able to put up with Jurgen’s shenanigans all these years. You don’t have to be evasive around me. I have a sense it’s been a rather long time since you’ve had a proper date. Is that right?”

  Uncle Ross was practically licking his lips. Corliss had to be careful. She knew whatever info she conveyed to him about her personal life might come back to haunt her later. The fact was—she’d never been on a date. Ever. In her whole life. And while she was just dying to unload about all of this to someone, she was reluctant to choose loose-lips Uncle Ross. “Come on,” he said, devilishly. “If you can’t trust your relatives . . .”

  Corliss was so tempted. Her quandary was not something she could discuss with, for instance, Anushka—she’d just laugh. Max, of course, was out for professional reasons. And the only other prominent person in her life at the moment was Legend, the nannyless pygmy.

  Corliss sighed and decided—against her better judgment—that honesty was the best policy. She’d give Uncle Ross a chance. Maybe he might be able to help her, even. And with the Emmys coming up, she needed all the help she could get. The thought of going dateless to that event was too painful to bear.

  “Uncle Ross, your niece, Corliss Meyers, the girl who sits before you, has a big secret.”

  Uncle Ross nearly leaped out of his seat. He lived for secrets.

  She motioned for him to sit back down. Victoria Beckham was giving him a weird look. “Calm down, Uncle Ross. It’s a secret you’re not going to like. The truth is . . . I’ve never had a date. Not ever. Not in Indiana-no-place and not in Hollyweird. Not here, not there, and in all likelihood, not to the Emmys, either. There, I said it.” She felt a wave of relief once it was out in the open.

  Uncle Ross responded with the strangest look. He cocked his head right, then left. Then right, then left, then right, then left, really fast. “Corliss, I’m—I’m—I’m—cocking my head . . .”

  “I can see that, Uncle Ross. Are you okay? Maybe you have a brain disorder? Something neurological?”

  “Corliss, no, it’s not my brain. It’s your confession! It—it can’t be true . . . What’s happened to you? Never had a date? That’s like saying you’ve never taken a breath, drunk a glass of water, peed standing up!”

  “Um—”

  “Sorry—take back that last one. But never a date?! And you’re considering going to the Emmys stag? How can this catastrophe be happening to us?” He slumped in his chair like one of her mother’s overcooked carrots.

  “To us, Uncle Ross? I kinda think my lack of a dating life has really nothing to do with you.”

  “But it does! It brings our entire family’s dating juju way, way down. I mean, I’m lucky I’m in a relationship—but you never know what life holds in store for me down the road.”

  “Um—weren’t we talking about me?”

  “I mean,” he plowed on, “what if I one day find myself single again—and afflicted with whatever it is you have?” Uncle Ross clutched the piping of his Evan Pique polo and swooned. “We absolutely have to fix this, Corliss. Ideally before we order dinner . . .”

  “Too late,” said Corliss, hugely relieved as the waiter arrived in a starched white apron and spiky black hair. She smiled up at him, trying to pretend everything was okay. “I’ll have the twenty-one-day-aged rib eye and my uncle will have the pink Nebraskan sirloin.” The waiter nodded and went away.

  “Corliss, I don’t know how I’m going to eat . . .”

  “You know what, Uncle Ross?” said Corliss
, now completely regretting ever embarking on a conversation about her absent love life. “I’m not so hungry myself.” The fact was, she suddenly felt so sad. What was she afflicted with? Would she ever be like the other girls? Sure, she’d managed to pull some kind of acceptable look together since coming to L.A. She’d also wrestled her skin condition to the ground, got some very flattering highlights, and the occasional pumpkin-colored tan. She was, in fact, looking pretty good! Still, she remained dateless and would remain dateless on one of Hollywood’s biggest nights—unless something happened soon. The thought cut into her like a steak knife.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “Would you be really upset with me if we just went home, Uncle Ross? This place is great, but I’ve got a lot of reading to do for Max.”

  Uncle Ross frowned and nodded. “I understand, Corliss.”

  Beverly Hills—The Sidewalk Outside Harry Winston Jewelers—Ten Minutes Later

  Corliss and Uncle Ross peered through the glass windows of the closed store. The awkwardness of their restaurant conversation had completely evaporated in the face of the spectacular case of diamond necklaces they beheld just beyond their reach. “I can’t believe people actually touch those things,” said Corliss, “let alone wear them around their necks!” Uncle Ross rapped his knuckle on the glass door. Corliss laughed. “As if they’d let us in after closing time . . . you’re too much, Uncle Ross.”

  A devastating blond gentleman in a crisp Armani three-button suit appeared inside the store and opened the door. “Mr. Meyers,” he said in the smoothest man-voice Corliss had ever heard. “Thank you for calling ahead.” He waved them in. Corliss looked back and forth between the two men in astonishment.