Read Online The Next Best Thing by Jennifer Weiner - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Weiner
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shoes instead of sneakers, and a sportscoat instead of a fleece. True, there was an ink stain on his cuff, but he was here and he was trying, and I felt lucky, loved and lucky, with him at my side. I had a show. I had a great guy. What more could I, could any woman, want?
“The timeline for tonight or the timeline for the show?” I asked. The light turned green. Gary dropped my hand and started walking, so that I had to half run to catch up.
“Show,” he said.
“Okay. Well, let’s see. We start pre-production next week, and for the next eight weeks I’ll be working on the pilot. I’ll haveto cast it, of course, and hire a director, and a DP—a director of photography—and a line producer . . .” I paused, waiting for him to ask what a line producer did, so I could tell him that a line producer handled all the details related to the business side of shooting a show, but Gary didn’t ask. My voice was high and chirpy, slightly breathless from hurrying, as I kept talking. “So. We’ll hire people, and build the sets, and rewrite and rehearse, and then we’ll shoot it over two days, and edit it, and turn it in to the network, and wait for them to decide if they’re going to pick it up and order it to series . . . and if they do, we’ll make more.”
“How long will all that take?” he asked as we walked across Beverly. The dinner was at a steakhouse called Mastro’s, a few blocks from Rodeo Drive, with its boutiques and jewelry stores, close to where Grandma and I had stayed when we’d first come to town.
“Depends. Six weeks, eight weeks, something like that.” The wind gusted, threatening to blow open my wrap dress and dislodge my hat. I clamped one hand down on top of my head, and struggled with my skirt with the other.
“So you’re going to be waiting all over again?”
“Yup,” I said, trying to sound cheerful about the prospect. “The network will make holding deals with the actors, so they can’t go off and work on something else. Say we get picked up in May. I’ll hire writers and bring back everyone I worked with on the pilot, assuming I liked them and the network or studio doesn’t want to replace them. We’ll start shooting in June and shoot all summer, depending on the order: if they want nine episodes, or eleven, or thirteen. The new shows premiere in September, unless we’re a midseason replacement, in which case January. And . . . that’s it.”
“That’s it?” His voice was flat, his tone uninterested, his expression impossible to read in the darkness as he walked with hishands jammed in his pockets and his head down. He looked like a guy being led to the guillotine instead of to a party.
“That’s it. Then you have to wait to see if you get good reviews, and if you find an audience, and if you get renewed.”
“It’s a lot of waiting,” Gary observed.
“It’s not so bad,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. All I wanted was for Gary to be happy for me, to be as thrilled as I’d felt since I’d gotten the pickup, and all he’d done was ask picky questions, pointing out the problems, prodding at the soft spots, how long it would take to hear from the network or the audience, and how brutally the odds were stacked against me.
It was January in Los Angeles, still warm enough to go out at night with only a light wrap. After a childhood in New England, I missed the seasons—the crisp fall air, the showers of dogwood and magnolia blossoms in May—but I’d grown to love L.A.’s weather—the warm winter days, the cool desert nights, the weeks that could pass without a cloud in the sky (except for the ever-present smog). Gary handed his leather jacket to the coat-check girl, I tucked my cashmere wrap into my bag, and we followed a hostess up the stairs covered in carpeting the color of rare prime rib, past a man playing Cole Porter on the piano and a line of beautiful women—escorts, I guessed—who were sitting at the bar, long legs crossed, glossy
“The timeline for tonight or the timeline for the show?” I asked. The light turned green. Gary dropped my hand and started walking, so that I had to half run to catch up.
“Show,” he said.
“Okay. Well, let’s see. We start pre-production next week, and for the next eight weeks I’ll be working on the pilot. I’ll haveto cast it, of course, and hire a director, and a DP—a director of photography—and a line producer . . .” I paused, waiting for him to ask what a line producer did, so I could tell him that a line producer handled all the details related to the business side of shooting a show, but Gary didn’t ask. My voice was high and chirpy, slightly breathless from hurrying, as I kept talking. “So. We’ll hire people, and build the sets, and rewrite and rehearse, and then we’ll shoot it over two days, and edit it, and turn it in to the network, and wait for them to decide if they’re going to pick it up and order it to series . . . and if they do, we’ll make more.”
“How long will all that take?” he asked as we walked across Beverly. The dinner was at a steakhouse called Mastro’s, a few blocks from Rodeo Drive, with its boutiques and jewelry stores, close to where Grandma and I had stayed when we’d first come to town.
“Depends. Six weeks, eight weeks, something like that.” The wind gusted, threatening to blow open my wrap dress and dislodge my hat. I clamped one hand down on top of my head, and struggled with my skirt with the other.
“So you’re going to be waiting all over again?”
“Yup,” I said, trying to sound cheerful about the prospect. “The network will make holding deals with the actors, so they can’t go off and work on something else. Say we get picked up in May. I’ll hire writers and bring back everyone I worked with on the pilot, assuming I liked them and the network or studio doesn’t want to replace them. We’ll start shooting in June and shoot all summer, depending on the order: if they want nine episodes, or eleven, or thirteen. The new shows premiere in September, unless we’re a midseason replacement, in which case January. And . . . that’s it.”
“That’s it?” His voice was flat, his tone uninterested, his expression impossible to read in the darkness as he walked with hishands jammed in his pockets and his head down. He looked like a guy being led to the guillotine instead of to a party.
“That’s it. Then you have to wait to see if you get good reviews, and if you find an audience, and if you get renewed.”
“It’s a lot of waiting,” Gary observed.
“It’s not so bad,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. All I wanted was for Gary to be happy for me, to be as thrilled as I’d felt since I’d gotten the pickup, and all he’d done was ask picky questions, pointing out the problems, prodding at the soft spots, how long it would take to hear from the network or the audience, and how brutally the odds were stacked against me.
It was January in Los Angeles, still warm enough to go out at night with only a light wrap. After a childhood in New England, I missed the seasons—the crisp fall air, the showers of dogwood and magnolia blossoms in May—but I’d grown to love L.A.’s weather—the warm winter days, the cool desert nights, the weeks that could pass without a cloud in the sky (except for the ever-present smog). Gary handed his leather jacket to the coat-check girl, I tucked my cashmere wrap into my bag, and we followed a hostess up the stairs covered in carpeting the color of rare prime rib, past a man playing Cole Porter on the piano and a line of beautiful women—escorts, I guessed—who were sitting at the bar, long legs crossed, glossy
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