Read Online Hot Dish by Connie Brockway - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Connie Brockway
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Think of Fawn Creek and me sort of like Charles and Diana. I’m the queen they never wanted, and believe me, they are definitely not who I saw spending the rest of my life with. But there you are. We’re locked in a mutually beneficial relationship and both of us—” She broke off, frowning. “Can you be a ‘both’ with a town?”
Nat shrugged. Jenn shrugged. She went on. “All of us would be idiots to mess with it. They pretend they like me. I pretend I like them.”
“I’m glad there’s no children involved,” Nat said dryly.
“Hey,” Jenn said lightly, her mood rising with each step. “It works. Especially—again like Chuck and Di—since we don’t have to livetogether. Which is something we need to discuss with Certain People who have overstepped their boundaries.”
She’d worked hard for this. She’d worked her ass off—she gave a metaphorical glance to said ass and amended—half her ass off. She was poised at the brink of national stardom and she felt terrific.
Dan Belker’s unexpected preemptive strike was the only blemish in the otherwise bright, sunny place that had become Jenn’s life. Her contract with AMS would assure her of the success she’d been pursuing for twenty years. Their people had come through on every single promise they’d made and the contracts had been signed. Her future looked secure.
All she needed to do was back out on Dan’s doubtless well-intentioned acceptance of Fawn Creek’s grand marshal gig.
“Let’s just remember the sweet voices of those thousand-dollar bills in your mattress when we’re talking to those Certain People, shall we? I’d hate to see your beauty rest disrupted.”
The advice was unnecessary. Jenn wasn’t going to do anything to rock the Good Ship AMS. “Since when am I a diva?”
“It’s not your fault. It’s your fate,” Nat said, unconvinced. “No one can make as much money as you’re going to make and not become a diva. And it’s already begun.”
The idea was unexpectedly appealing. Jenny Hallesby: Diva. Yup. She liked it. She looked down at her miniature agent. “Enlighten me as to when you saw the first signs.”
“Your little Hissy-That-Wasn’t when that chickie got huffy about New Yorkers not having time to do some of the stuff on the show? It was almost a Hissy-That-Was. Probably would have been if old Dwight hadn’t arrived.”
Jenn waved her hand in the air as if dispelling gnats. “Nah. I was just playing with her.”
“You were not.”
That was the problem with mixing friendships and work. Nat knew her too well. The criticism had rubbed. But it wouldn’t have rubbed so raw if it hadn’t already been a sore spot. Even in Minneapolis, the guys from the head office had been pushing a litany of faster, cheaper, and easier.
“Just remember, Jenn, AMS wants everything you demonstrate on the show doable within the average American woman’s time limits, personal capability, and financial means. Emphasis on
simple
.”
They’d reached the office where the boys from AMS waited to debrief her. “Well, hell, we’ll make phones out of empty soup cans and call it a goddamn day then, shall we?”
“Only you can screw this up, Jenn.”
Nat was right. “I’ll be good.”
She plastered her “Madonna of the Milk Cows” smile in place, opened the door, and sailed through, Nat drifting behind like a little black tugboat.
The gang was all there: small and exquisite Ron Patella, seated in a huge wingback chair sipping tea; crusty old Dan Belker; and the vice president of current programming, the scrumptious, ambitious, and young Bob Reynolds. There was something unsettling about Bob, something besides his movie-star good looks. He looked like an overfriendly puppy.
“That was wonderful, Jenn,” Ron said, putting down his cup and applauding lightly. “You did a fabulous job. And wasn’t it terrific of Mr. Davies to show up to support you?”
“Absolutely.” And may he hitherto absent himself from her
Nat shrugged. Jenn shrugged. She went on. “All of us would be idiots to mess with it. They pretend they like me. I pretend I like them.”
“I’m glad there’s no children involved,” Nat said dryly.
“Hey,” Jenn said lightly, her mood rising with each step. “It works. Especially—again like Chuck and Di—since we don’t have to livetogether. Which is something we need to discuss with Certain People who have overstepped their boundaries.”
She’d worked hard for this. She’d worked her ass off—she gave a metaphorical glance to said ass and amended—half her ass off. She was poised at the brink of national stardom and she felt terrific.
Dan Belker’s unexpected preemptive strike was the only blemish in the otherwise bright, sunny place that had become Jenn’s life. Her contract with AMS would assure her of the success she’d been pursuing for twenty years. Their people had come through on every single promise they’d made and the contracts had been signed. Her future looked secure.
All she needed to do was back out on Dan’s doubtless well-intentioned acceptance of Fawn Creek’s grand marshal gig.
“Let’s just remember the sweet voices of those thousand-dollar bills in your mattress when we’re talking to those Certain People, shall we? I’d hate to see your beauty rest disrupted.”
The advice was unnecessary. Jenn wasn’t going to do anything to rock the Good Ship AMS. “Since when am I a diva?”
“It’s not your fault. It’s your fate,” Nat said, unconvinced. “No one can make as much money as you’re going to make and not become a diva. And it’s already begun.”
The idea was unexpectedly appealing. Jenny Hallesby: Diva. Yup. She liked it. She looked down at her miniature agent. “Enlighten me as to when you saw the first signs.”
“Your little Hissy-That-Wasn’t when that chickie got huffy about New Yorkers not having time to do some of the stuff on the show? It was almost a Hissy-That-Was. Probably would have been if old Dwight hadn’t arrived.”
Jenn waved her hand in the air as if dispelling gnats. “Nah. I was just playing with her.”
“You were not.”
That was the problem with mixing friendships and work. Nat knew her too well. The criticism had rubbed. But it wouldn’t have rubbed so raw if it hadn’t already been a sore spot. Even in Minneapolis, the guys from the head office had been pushing a litany of faster, cheaper, and easier.
“Just remember, Jenn, AMS wants everything you demonstrate on the show doable within the average American woman’s time limits, personal capability, and financial means. Emphasis on
simple
.”
They’d reached the office where the boys from AMS waited to debrief her. “Well, hell, we’ll make phones out of empty soup cans and call it a goddamn day then, shall we?”
“Only you can screw this up, Jenn.”
Nat was right. “I’ll be good.”
She plastered her “Madonna of the Milk Cows” smile in place, opened the door, and sailed through, Nat drifting behind like a little black tugboat.
The gang was all there: small and exquisite Ron Patella, seated in a huge wingback chair sipping tea; crusty old Dan Belker; and the vice president of current programming, the scrumptious, ambitious, and young Bob Reynolds. There was something unsettling about Bob, something besides his movie-star good looks. He looked like an overfriendly puppy.
“That was wonderful, Jenn,” Ron said, putting down his cup and applauding lightly. “You did a fabulous job. And wasn’t it terrific of Mr. Davies to show up to support you?”
“Absolutely.” And may he hitherto absent himself from her
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