I'm Glad About You(50)

“What are you up to, Alison?” Schaeffer asked her.

“Show’s on hiatus, so I’m out and about,” she shrugged.

“You think you’ll get an Emmy nod this year?”

“Absolutely. Best sex on camera, they’re giving me a special award.” Schaeffer was a puddle of adoration.

“What show is this?” Seth asked.

She shot him a glance which scorched his eyeballs. “No, seriously, I’m not trying to be an *,” he protested. “I just don’t watch much television. I’m out most nights.”

“Yes, I see that, you clearly have much more serious things to do with your time.” That got tossed off with a throaty laugh. She had gotten somewhat better at hiding it—the laugh was fantastic—but she was still trigger happy. He remembered that temper, how easy it was to wound her. He also remembered how great she was in the sack.

“It’s the best show on television,” Schaeffer gushed.

“Thanks, Schaeffer.”

“I was so relieved when you got your pickup for next season.”

“Yeah, we were on the bubble a little bit this spring.”

“Until you and Rob got back together. You are holding that whole show together.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she warned him.

“All the chat rooms are saying the same thing, that you absolutely saved the show,” Schaeffer continued, with an OCD insistence. “I know you don’t read what they’re writing about you, but you really should check it out, the past few months you have been on fire. Seriously, this is a total breakout year for you.”

Schaeffer was notoriously unabashed in his star worship, but this was whole new territory for him. The poor guy’s fat cheeks were positive pink with excitement. It wasn’t just the heat. “Why don’t you get a selfie and make it your background photo, fan boy,” he observeed, only half to himself. Schaeffer turned, surprised for a moment that Seth had intruded—it was an unspoken rule that you didn’t interrupt; everybody got their thirty seconds to ask a question, no matter how inane. The idea that you would make fun of a fellow reporter? Schaeffer’s bewilderment was innocent, then confused, and then the pure understanding of Seth’s careless dig landed. A lumbering embarrassment rose to his face. He turned back to Alison, sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said, trying to laugh. “I just like your work.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Alison told him, firm. “Your friend’s a know-nothing *.”

“Hey,” Seth started, but she was taking no prisoners.

“Excuse me, prick. Know-nothing prick.” The PR reps were starting to turn their way. And why not; Alison was speaking loudly enough for everyone within a square block to hear.

“Come on, Alison.” Seth glanced around, aiming for the merest shred of discretion. But Schaeffer was already starting to put two and two together. Like everyone else.

“Lou Schaeffer is a fantastic journalist,” Alison continued, certifiably pissed. “And if he is kind enough to say a few words of support for my work, then who the f*ck are you to tell him to shut up?” This was getting the attention of every reporter in shooting distance.

“Whoa, wait a minute.” The eyes and ears of the blogosphere were turning their way. But Alison was just getting tuned up.

“You didn’t even show up for the f*cking press line. Which gives you, I would say, no rights at all in this situation. You arrogant f*ck.” Someone actually clapped at that. It was because he worked for the Times. They were all jealous. And now those press reps were all pouncing, handling her ruffled feathers with crispy finesse.

A short skinny guy in a nice suit descended, apparently her personal PR handler. “That’s it, guys. Thanks. Alison, this way.” Alison swiveled and stalked off. For a second, she wobbled. Was she drunk? No. She’s just not so good at walking on those f*cking heels. Beside him, Schaeffer exhaled softly. “Va-voom,” he whispered.

And not two hours later, thanks to the magic of the Twittersphere, their idiotic exchange had made it into every major New York gossip blog. “The press line at Bryant Park provided its own drama Tuesday night, when New York Times reporter Seth Fraden traded words with television actress Alison Moore. Fraden, who apparently was annoyed that he had missed the chance to interview some of the night’s biggest celebs, was on a rampage about the ‘B-list’ stars, such as Moore. Moore didn’t seem to care, calling the reporter several choice and unprintable names.” When did the coverage become more real than the thing being covered? His cell phone was blinking and buzzing furiously, as everyone in the known universe texted him about his moment in the sun. It was a disaster. And over what? How had it exploded so fast? The sullen realization that the whole needless mess was his own fault did not make the situation any easier. Sitting alone in the back of a shitty bar in the Garment District, downing Jameson on the rocks, didn’t make the situation easier either. The clipped text from his editor—call pls—also didn’t help.

“It’s a complete misunderstanding,” he said, as soon as Eric picked up.

“Okay, just tell me one thing: Did you sleep with her?”

This caught him so unawares he felt his brain do a half step. “Whoa, what?” he said.

“Oh, God.”