that show.”
“We’ll know in the morning.” Lanessa kicked off her pumps and tucked her legs under her on the sofa. “A lot of the trades list the overnights on-line.”
Kate and I exchanged a look of surprise. “Nessa, how do you know these things? You work for the dairy lobby, not a TV producer.”
“Are you kidding? I spend half my morning reading on-line magazines. People, In Style, Variety, Time … not to mention the Times and the Wall Street Journal. A big part of my job is staying in touch with the social climate.”
“I don’t think those papers will even pay attention to The Nutcracker ,” Bonnie said as she handed Lanessa a plate of cake. “It had its moments, but new shows take a while to build a following. And it’s not a reality show. Who’s going to care?”
Kate nodded, licking cheesecake from a fork. “It’s just a cable access show. How popular could it be?”
8
“T wenty million viewers.” Lanessa sounded excited, asif she’d discovered a hidden treasure in one of her file cabinets.
“No!” It was as much a protest as a gasp of disbelief and shock at the cold since I’d just opened the front door. “Hold on a sec.” I momentarily moved the phone away from my ear so that I could wrap my scarf around my head. A brutal winter morning, unusually cold for a November in the city without pity.
I was navigating around Mrs. Scholinsky’s Christmas figurines when the window behind me creaked open. “Don’t forget what I told you last night, Olivia,” she barked at me. She’d seen the show and refused to believe that I was not the ruthless title character. “Show some compassion.”
I raised one gloved hand to her. “Merry Christmas, Mrs.S.”
Lanessa was still going on about ratings and time slots. “Twenty million for the first episode. That’s exposure for you. If my bosses could get that kind of free airtime, they’d be in cow heaven.”
“But I don’t need exposure, especially not bad press.”
“It’s not about you, remember?” Lanessa reminded me. “I doubt that anyone else will make the connection. So you have the same name as a character on a show. No one is going to put that all together.”
No one but Mr. Watch Cap, my bus-stop buddy.
As I moved to the back of the queue for the bus, he turned back to grumble something in my direction. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I thought he said, “Saw you on TV last night.” Or maybe it was “So yon be a sight.” Shakespearean? From the scruff of beard under his watch cap, I thought not.
“Nessa, I gotta go. I’m just getting on the bus, and I’m sensing hostility.”
“Later, honey!” she sang.
I flipped my phone closed and shuffled up with the line. When I lifted my boot to board, the door of the bus slammed shut, nearly snatching my foot in its fold.
“Hey!” I banged on the Plexiglas. “Hold on!”
The door whooshed open, the driver staring down at me with a deadpan expression. “Back off, Olivia. I can’t let you board if you’re armed with shaving cream.” He glanced back at two passengers sitting near the door, and they shared a hearty chuckle.
“That show is not about me,” I protested, mounting the stairs.
“What’s that?” The driver folded his arms. “You telling me you’re not Olivia?”
“I am. Just not that Olivia. Not the Nutcracker .”
“Uh-huh.” The driver smiled at me in his rearview mirror. “And I’m not really driving a metro bus in the city without pity.”
That brought another round of laughs at my expense, which I tried to ignore as I found a seat in the rear of the bus, a quiet spot to begin plotting my revenge against Bobby Tharp.
Without my morning caffeine my plans were lackluster, consisting of slapping Bobby and the BigTime Channel with a lawsuit or dipping Bobby into the shark tank at the aquarium. Leaning toward shark bait, I stopped into the coffee shop across from Rossman’s and asked for my usual—coffee with milk and a toasted
“We’ll know in the morning.” Lanessa kicked off her pumps and tucked her legs under her on the sofa. “A lot of the trades list the overnights on-line.”
Kate and I exchanged a look of surprise. “Nessa, how do you know these things? You work for the dairy lobby, not a TV producer.”
“Are you kidding? I spend half my morning reading on-line magazines. People, In Style, Variety, Time … not to mention the Times and the Wall Street Journal. A big part of my job is staying in touch with the social climate.”
“I don’t think those papers will even pay attention to The Nutcracker ,” Bonnie said as she handed Lanessa a plate of cake. “It had its moments, but new shows take a while to build a following. And it’s not a reality show. Who’s going to care?”
Kate nodded, licking cheesecake from a fork. “It’s just a cable access show. How popular could it be?”
8
“T wenty million viewers.” Lanessa sounded excited, asif she’d discovered a hidden treasure in one of her file cabinets.
“No!” It was as much a protest as a gasp of disbelief and shock at the cold since I’d just opened the front door. “Hold on a sec.” I momentarily moved the phone away from my ear so that I could wrap my scarf around my head. A brutal winter morning, unusually cold for a November in the city without pity.
I was navigating around Mrs. Scholinsky’s Christmas figurines when the window behind me creaked open. “Don’t forget what I told you last night, Olivia,” she barked at me. She’d seen the show and refused to believe that I was not the ruthless title character. “Show some compassion.”
I raised one gloved hand to her. “Merry Christmas, Mrs.S.”
Lanessa was still going on about ratings and time slots. “Twenty million for the first episode. That’s exposure for you. If my bosses could get that kind of free airtime, they’d be in cow heaven.”
“But I don’t need exposure, especially not bad press.”
“It’s not about you, remember?” Lanessa reminded me. “I doubt that anyone else will make the connection. So you have the same name as a character on a show. No one is going to put that all together.”
No one but Mr. Watch Cap, my bus-stop buddy.
As I moved to the back of the queue for the bus, he turned back to grumble something in my direction. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I thought he said, “Saw you on TV last night.” Or maybe it was “So yon be a sight.” Shakespearean? From the scruff of beard under his watch cap, I thought not.
“Nessa, I gotta go. I’m just getting on the bus, and I’m sensing hostility.”
“Later, honey!” she sang.
I flipped my phone closed and shuffled up with the line. When I lifted my boot to board, the door of the bus slammed shut, nearly snatching my foot in its fold.
“Hey!” I banged on the Plexiglas. “Hold on!”
The door whooshed open, the driver staring down at me with a deadpan expression. “Back off, Olivia. I can’t let you board if you’re armed with shaving cream.” He glanced back at two passengers sitting near the door, and they shared a hearty chuckle.
“That show is not about me,” I protested, mounting the stairs.
“What’s that?” The driver folded his arms. “You telling me you’re not Olivia?”
“I am. Just not that Olivia. Not the Nutcracker .”
“Uh-huh.” The driver smiled at me in his rearview mirror. “And I’m not really driving a metro bus in the city without pity.”
That brought another round of laughs at my expense, which I tried to ignore as I found a seat in the rear of the bus, a quiet spot to begin plotting my revenge against Bobby Tharp.
Without my morning caffeine my plans were lackluster, consisting of slapping Bobby and the BigTime Channel with a lawsuit or dipping Bobby into the shark tank at the aquarium. Leaning toward shark bait, I stopped into the coffee shop across from Rossman’s and asked for my usual—coffee with milk and a toasted
Similar Books
