“What the—” cries Christopher.
“I thought that take was really good,” Jordan says, commenting on his own performance in front of the camera. “Are you guys going to be able to use any of it?”
No one is paying any attention to him. Everyone is running around, trying to figure out what happened. The production assistant is swearing at the camera operator.
“I told you we should’ve gone with the softbox,” she says. “These light banks throw a fuse every time in these crappy old buildings.”
“Excuse me,” I say, again and again, my voice rising in pitch and volume until finally I have the full attention of everyone present. Then I hold up the extension cord I’ve pulled from the wall outlet. “It wasn’t the fuse. It was me. I believe the appropriate phrase is . . . cut.”
Chapter 4
Tania Be Me
I ain’t Christina, wagging my thing
I ain’t Beyoncé, flashing my ring
Who am I? You want to know?
Who am I? Just watch the show
I ain’t no Katy, bouncing my bling
I ain’t no Fergie, flinging my fling
Who am I? You want to know?
Who am I? Just watch the show
Who am I? Just wait and see
Who am I?
Tania be me
“Tania Be Me”
Written by Larson/Sohn
Cartwright Records Television
Theme song to Jordan Loves Tania
“In order to ensure the safety and privacy of all residents,” I say, “filming is not permitted in any New York College residence hall without proper authorization.”
Surprisingly, this is a sentence I utter several times a week, most often to Gavin, who is an aspiring Quentin Tarantino. But the policy on not filming in the building has nothing to do with privacy issues. I’ve actually been called to more smoke-filled floors because of gel filters left on too long over onboard flashes (whatever those are) than I can count. And don’t even get me started on the number of students trying to pay their way through college making amateur pornography films.
“Well?” I ask when everyone simply stares at me. “Does anyone here have proper authorization? Because I didn’t see any paperwork about this . . . this . . . what is this exactly?”
Everyone begins speaking at once—everyone except Tania, who’s lowered her arm now that no more lights are glaring into her face and is looking at me as if she’s never seen me before . . . which is ironic, since I walked in on her once with her face in my ex-boyfriend’s crotch.
Hard as it was after that—having to move out, find a new place to live, and start over, not to mention the endless sleepless nights questioning how I could ever have been so stupid since, after all, I was with Jordan for ten years—Tania actually did me a big favor that day: she freed me to find my new life . . . and Cooper.
Of course, neither she nor Jordan knows this, because Cooper and I haven’t exactly announced to his family the fact that we’re dating, much less getting married.
Now doesn’t seem like the best time.
“Hold it,” Cooper shouts over the general din, glaring from his brother to Christopher and back again. “How do you two even know each other? Who’s the ambulance for? Who got shot?”
It’s the woman with the expensive gold wristwatch who answers, letting out an extremely colorful expletive as she comes striding toward us, her Louboutins clicking noisily on the parquet.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” she demands, her eyes shooting angry sparks at us. “I’ll have you know you’re interrupting a very important shoot for CRT—”
“Stephanie, it’s all right,” Christopher says, seeming resigned to the situation. “This is Jordan’s brother.”
The woman in the gold Rolex halts in her tracks. “His brother?” Her eyes widen as she stares at Cooper. “Wait . . . you can’t be Cooper Cartwright?”
“The one who wouldn’t join Easy Street,” Cooper says. He’s looking extremely annoyed. “Yes, I am. I don’t do pimple cure commercials or teen mass hysteria. So maybe now someone can explain to me how exactly my brother got someone else’s blood all over him? And what the hell is CRT?”
“Oh my God,” Stephanie says, her demeanor completely changing. Besides the wristwatch—which looks enormous because her wrist, like Tania’s, is so bony—and the Louboutins, she has on a sleeveless red sheath dress that is so tight in the skirt that she hobbles awkwardly over the cables strung across the floor to get to us. Still, she manages, every inch of her being the harried television exec, from the vein that’s begun suddenly to throb in the middle of her forehead (her chin-length bob has been swept back with a tortoiseshell barrette, so the vein’s easy to spot) to the BlackBerry she has clutched in her left hand.
“Stephanie Brewer,” she says, holding out her right hand to shake Cooper’s. “Executive producer, Cartwright Records Television. I can’t tell you what an honor this is. Cooper Cartwright, the one Cartwright I haven’t met! I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I can only imagine.” Cooper barely glances at Stephanie as she pumps his hand. “Dad bought a television network?” he asks Jordan.
“Cable,” Jordan says with a shrug. “We didn’t sign either Adele or Gaga, so Mom told him we needed to do something.”
“Mom’s idea,” Cooper says, with an eye roll. “Figures.”
“I want you to know how much I adore working with your father,” Stephanie Brewer is gushing. “He’s one of the reasons I chose Harvard for my MBA. I wanted to walk in the footsteps of the great Grant Cartwright.”
“I’ll try not to hold it against you,” Cooper says drily.
Stephanie’s smile wavers only slightly. “Thanks,” she says, blinking with confusion.
“So who got shot?” Cooper asks.
“Oh, of course,” Stephanie says, finally dropping his hand. “I’m so sorry. It was Tania’s bodyguard. He was taken to Beth Israel for stitches and X-rays after he was struck by a bullet earlier this evening—completely at random—as we were filming in front of Christopher’s club on Varick Street. He’s expected to make a full and complete recovery—”
“And the cops let all of you leave? They didn’t hold any of you for questioning?” Cooper is shocked.