Plus One by Christopher Noxon

in a snit over a proposed substitute for her favorite chorizo appetizer. Figgy put the cell phone on the table and turned on the speakerphone, just in time to capture Sylvie’s tantrum revving up anew: “No chorizo blanco!” she hollered, fresh tears bursting from her face. “Nooooo chorizo blanco!”
    â€œFig, honey—get that girl whatever she wants,” came the voiceof Jess. “Get her some caviar! Pop that girlie some champagne!”
    Fig leaned forward, pulling her hair forward over her face. “She’s seven, Jess. It’s bad enough she knows from Spanish sausage.”
    â€œYou get the flowers?” he asked.
    â€œI did. Gorgeous. Nowhere to go but down from here. Now it’ll be all the more devastating when you send supermarket carnations after the backlash next year.”
    â€œOh please,” Jess said. “The approval cycle’s not that short. You’ve got at least two seasons before the honeymoon ends. Do you have any idea what we’re gonna do with this? As far as your deal? Serves the studio right for being so cheap last go-around. They got their three-year commitments from the cast, but your contract is wide open. You see the TV today? All the morning shows are running that ‘girl power’ clip. You’re the face of the show!”
    â€œNo thank you,” Figgy said. “That’s Kate’s job. I’m strictly behind the camera.”
    â€œSpeaking of, tiny talent issue,” he said. “Got a message from the studio this morning. They want to see outlines for the first three episodes ASAP. Herb’s taking a personal interest. Wants to have lunch next week. I’ll run interference, but they’re talking about pushing production up three weeks. Your star has a commitment. Something about a graduation?”
    Katherine Pool’s children had become a constantly evolving X-factor in production, every play date and pediatrician appointment throwing a wrench into the show’s schedule.
    â€œFor Christsakes, the kid’s graduating preschool ,” Figgy said. “We are not holding up production for Bingwen Pool’s glorious entry into kindergarten.”
    â€œWe’ll work it out,” Jess said. “I’m hearing they’re about to up their order from thirteen to twenty-three! No hiatus, but you’ll bang ’em out. You’re a superstar!”
    Figgy went quiet. For a second the only sound was the slurp of Sylvie devouring slices of Serrano ham like so many strips of fruit roll-ups.
    â€œTwenty-three episodes?” Figgy said. “Am I finally gonna get paid?”
    After a pause, Jess filled the silence with a sound: beep, beep, beep .
    â€œHear that?” he said. Then he did it again, with a fidelity that Alex found surprising, mimicked sound effects not being a talent Alex would expect to find in an Armani-clad TV agent: beep, beep, beep .
    â€œHear that? That’s the money truck, Figgy, backin’ on up.”
    â€¢ • •
    Alex knew enough not to believe anything that came out of the mouth of an agent. All that crazy beep-beep-beeping —that was just theatrics. Alex wasn’t even sure what it meant, precisely—tens of thousands of dollars? Hundreds? Millions? How much went to agents, lawyers, and taxes? Figgy certainly didn’t seem all that fazed, getting off the phone with a raised eyebrow and a shrug before returning to her ceviche.
    It was only later, while the kids worked off lunch inside the humid innards of an enormous indoor play structure, that Alex looked over and found Figgy crying. She was slumped over on a bench beside the snack bar, her shoulders rocking. Alex reached over and pulled her into a hug. She’d been so composed the night before, which Alex chalked up to the fact that big shows of emotion were rare in Figgy. (At the movies when everyone else was doubled over in hysterics, she’d stab out a finger and