Lessons in Chemistry(71)

“We are? Well, we can’t be. The set doesn’t work.”

“Everything works, the stove, the sink, it’s all been tested, now get back up there,” he said, shooing her back with his hands.

“I meant it doesn’t work for me.”

“Look,” he said. “You’re nervous. That’s why we’re taping without a live audience today—to give you a chance to settle in. But you’re still on—as in on the air—and you have a job to do. This is our pilot; things can be tweaked later.”

“So, you’re saying changes are possible,” she said, putting her hands back on her hips as she surveyed the set again. “We’ll need to make a lot of changes.”

“Okay, wait, no,” he said, worried. “To be clear, set changes are not possible. What you see represents weeks of solid research by our set designer. This kitchen is exactly what today’s woman wants.”

“Well I’m a woman, and I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t mean you,” Walter said. “I meant the average Jane.”

“Average.”

“You know what I mean. The normal housewife.”

She made a sound like a whale spouting.

“Okay,” Walter said in a lower voice, his hand waving fruitlessly at his side. “Okay, okay, look, I understand, but remember, this isn’t just our show, Elizabeth, it’s also the station’s show, and since they pay us, it’s usually considered good form to do what they ask. You know how this works; you’ve had a job before.”

“But ultimately,” she argued, “it’s the audience for whom we all work.”

“Right,” he pleaded. “Sort of. No wait—not really. It’s our job to give people what they want even if they don’t know they want it. I explained this: it’s the afternoon programming model. Half dead, now awake, you know!”

“Another ad?” the cameraman whispered.

“Unnecessary,” she said quickly. “Sorry everyone. I’m ready now.”

“We are on the same page, aren’t we?” Walter called as she made her way back onstage.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “You want me to speak to the average Jane. The normal housewife.”

He didn’t like the way she said it.

“In five—” the cameraman said.

“Elizabeth,” he warned.

“Four—”

“It’s all written out for you.”

“Three—”

“Just read the cue cards.”

“Two—”

“Please,” he begged. “It’s a great script!”

“One…and action!”



* * *



—

“Hello,” Elizabeth said directly into the camera. “My name is Elizabeth Zott and this is Supper at Six.”

“So far so good,” Walter whispered to himself. SMILE, he mimed at her, pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“And welcome to my kitchen,” she said sternly as a disappointed Jesus peered over her left shoulder. “Today we’re going to have so much—”

She stopped when she got to the word “fun.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. The cameraman turned to look at Walter. “Go to commercial again?” he motioned.

“NO,” Walter mouthed. “NO! GODDAMMIT. SHE HAS TO DO THIS! GODDAMMIT ELIZABETH,” he continued soundlessly as he waved his hands.

But Elizabeth seemed to be in a trance and nothing—not Walter waving his hands, or the cameraman preparing for commercial, or the makeup person mopping her own face with the sponge reserved for Elizabeth’s—could break her spell. What was wrong with her?

“MUSIC,” Walter finally mouthed to the soundman. “MUSIC.”

But before the music could start, Elizabeth’s ticking watch caught her attention and she came back to life. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Now, where were we?” She glanced at the cue cards, paused a moment more, and then suddenly pointed at the large clock above her head. “Before I get started, I’d like to advise you to please ignore the clock. It doesn’t work.”

From the producer’s chair, Walter let out a short, sharp exhale.

“I take cooking seriously,” Elizabeth continued, completely ignoring the cue cards, “and I know you do, too.” Then she pushed the sewing basket off the countertop and into an open drawer. “I also know,” she said, looking directly into the few households that had accidentally tuned her in that day, “that your time is precious. Well, so is mine. So let’s make a pact, you and I—”

“Mom,” a little boy called in a bored way from the TV room in Van Nuys, California, “there’s nothing on.”

“Shut it off, then,” the little boy’s mother yelled from the kitchen. “I’m busy! Play outside—”

“Mmoomm…Mmoomm…,” the little boy called again.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Petey,” a harried woman said coming into the room, her wet hands holding a half-peeled potato, the baby crying in the high chair in the kitchen, “do I have to do everything for you?” But as she reached to turn Elizabeth off, Elizabeth spoke to her.