Plus One by Christopher Noxon Page A

declare, “That’s funny.”) But now, eighteen hours later on a moist vinyl cushion at the Little Critters Indoor Playground, it was all crashing down.
    â€œI’m so fucked,” she said, going limp in his embrace. “I’m utterly and completely fucked.”
    Alex held her tight and stroked her hair. They sat like that for a while, until the sobs subsided and she looked up, her face splotchy and wide open.
    â€œThat call?” she said. “The network and the pickup and the notes? Twenty-three episodes? In six months? There’s no way. I’ll die. I’ll never make it. I’ll strangle Kate by her skinny long swan neck. Or she’ll kill me first. Last year was bad enough, and no one was paying any attention. We were just this weird cable show. Now everyone is expecting it to be, like, great . And not just great in the same way—better.”
    Her eyes went glassy again.
    â€œAw Fig.” Alex ran his hand down her back. “This is nothing but good. Forget all that agent business. Just make your show.”
    â€œThis isn’t like before. I’m looking at twenty-three episodes in six months with the network up my ass and a star who hates my guts. It’s the real fucking thing. I’m not gonna have time for you or the kids or days like this or anything but… feeding the beast. I’m about to get swallowed up whole.”
    â€œStop. You’ve got this. You’ve done it before—this is just a slightly higher level. How different could it be, really?”
    The question hung there. The truth was, Alex had no idea how different it would be—for the show, for her, for him. Could she keep it together? He’d help, of course. But what did that mean, exactly?
    â€œIt’s like the trophy—the Emmy,” he said. “You’re the atom. I’ll hold you up. You do the wild spinning thing. I’ll keep you steady.”
    Figgy wiped her nose and smiled. “So you’re what? The lady holding the atom? With the tits?”
    â€œI guess so—yeah,” he said. “Don’t forget, though—I’ve got those lightning bolts. So don’t even fuck with me.”
    A long moment passed. He bumped her with his shoulder.“And what about that money truck? We can start looking for a house, maybe a nanny? And maybe you should buy something, just for yourself. Anything. What do want?”
    Figgy wiped her nose and thought it over. “A castle,” she finally said. “David Chase got a castle in France for The Sopranos . I want a castle.”

Three

    B estSelf operated out of an unglamorous Culver City office suite with four full-time staffers: Erin the receptionist, Linda the business manager, Alex the account exec, and BestSelf’s president and creative director, Jeff Kanter. As usual on Monday mornings, Alex was first to arrive; alone at his desk, he sat with a giant chai and a stack of cookbook proofs, soaking up the sweet silence. After the excitement of the awards and a weekend of family adventuring, a couple of hours alone in the empty office felt positively luxurious. By the time Kanter came in, Alex felt restored and energized, like a grownup again.
    â€œHey!” Kanter said, hustling past Alex’s desk. “Saw you on the tee-vee Saturday! Ready for your close-up? Everything set for later?”
    â€œAlmost,” Alex said. “We can prep whenever you’re ready.”
    â€œTwo clicks,” Kanter said, snapping his fingers and clapping his fist against his palm. Kanter was a snapper. Also a back slapper.And a hugger—he was famous for never ending a meeting without a full, wraparound embrace. Alex had long ago made peace with his boss’s deep and profound cheesiness.
    That was the Jeff Kanter mystique—how much he cared. About his business, his clients, his causes, and the fact that everyone knew that he cared. He was known to weep in pitch meetings. He