The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler Page A

out.
    “Fiona’s been here three seasons.”
    “You have your own.”
    “Well, I’m not installing one for him.”
    “You installed one for Katrina.”
    “Katrina’s different,” fumed Lyle. “She’s an executive.”
    “Then how about sharing yours with him?” she asked.
    “What?!”
    “You won’t even see him,” she pressed. “He can use the outside door—it opens right out into the main office. He won’t have to go inside your dressing room at all.”
    “It’s my john!” Lyle raged. “Mine! I don’t want his germs all over it. Why would I want that, huh?” He shuddered. “No! I forbid it!”
    “Fine,” Leo said shortly. “I’ll tell him.”
    “Wait,” he commanded, glancing at the breakfast buffet. “Who sent that fruit basket?”
    “God did,” she replied.
    “Get rid of it—microbe city.”
    “Yes, Lyle.” She carried it off.
    Lyle shook his head in disgust. “Totally unreal. Where does it stop, huh? What next?” He shot me a cold look. “Remember what I told you, Hoagy. Don’t talk to him.”
    “What if we run into each other in the men’s room?”
    He didn’t answer me. Annabelle was right—whatever Lyle didn’t want to hear he didn’t hear. He wandered off.
    Katrina was busy playing hostess. Each and every person got a hug, a kiss; and a squeaky “We’re gonna have so much fun!” Randy, the art director, also got a paper napkin with a drawing on it. “My ideas for the set of Rob’s apartment,” she informed him. “Just in case we ever build one.” She left him staring at it in wide-eyed horror.
    When she got over to the writers she steered around Tommy, who was busy curling his lip at her. Not a major fan. Bobby, on the other hand, was a goner. He gaped at Katrina Tingle like a lovestruck fourteen-year-old. She dragged him to his feet and hugged him and squeaked, “God, you’re so cute!” All he could do was give her a feeble grin. And blush.
    “Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom,” Tommy muttered as she went ootsie-fooing off, hooters heaving. Then he turned to Bobby and said, “That a yardstick in your pocket, Bobster, or are you just glad to see me?”
    Bobby dove back into his script, blinking furiously.
    Katrina carefully sidestepped Leo Crimp, refusing to so much as make eye contact with her former boss. When she got to me she lit up and cried, “It’s Hoagy!”
    Hugging her was somewhat like running smack into a pair of leopard-skin water balloons. I practically bounced off the woman.
    “Lyle is so glad you’re here,” she whispered. “He’s incredibly nervous about this episode. It’s so personal.” She deposited a wet kiss on my neck. “And I’m glad you’re here, too.”
    There was another big cheer when The Munchkins, Casey and Caitlin, arrived with Amber. They were an impossibly cute little pair of moppets with soft blond hair, tiny noses, and huge brown eyes. Casey was six, his sister five. Both reacted with pure delight at the sight of Lulu. She let out a low moan when she spotted them scampering her way, and skittered under the table. They went under there with her, tugging at her ears and making a big fuss, all of which she suffered in stoic silence. Amber, a taut, toothy Park Avenue blonde in her early forties, came over, too. Amber wore her hair back in a ponytail and no makeup or nail polish. Her face and hands were weathered by the outdoors, nearly leathery. But it was good leather, the kind that ages well. And there were strong bones underneath. She was dressed in jodhpurs and gleaming black riding boots and a white silk blouse buttoned at the throat. I wasn’t sure if she was affecting the severe Claremont Riding Academy look or the severe Erich von Stroheim look. I do know she carried herself with great authority and confidence, and wore no monocle. And I felt quite certain she owned a Range Rover.
    “You used to play squash at the Racquet Club with Niles,” she informed me, gripping my hand. Hers was firm and a helluva lot drier