Page 28 of How To Plot a Payback
“Impossible,” a man jumps in, as though his point will cut this whole conversation off at the knees. “The apartment is iconic. The show itself is called Neighbors. To pull on that thread is to unravel the whole thing.”
Several heads begin to nod.
Honestly. Is everybody here new to writing? How often does Goodwin replace these people?
“I’m not saying she does move,” I toss out. “I’m just saying . . .” I pause, then say airily, “she shops. Takes a step back from this group of hers and assesses the toxic environment she’s in.”
Which, let’s be candid here, it is. Toxic. In the show’s ten years, the three best friends have lost twenty-eight jobs and become ultimately credit-card-strapped and penniless. Which is really curious, considering they live in a flat that would let for ten grand a month, easy. They have never managed to land a long-term relationship (which they all so unitedly yearn for) because they cast off perfectly wonderful suitors by the dozens for reasons like “He has this laugh like a hyena” or “Did you see how long he keeps his toenails?” They are so devoted to loyally supporting each other and only each other that they are essentially the bullies of the block.
“Toxic?” the woman pipes up. “They’re in a sitcom! Of course everything they do is toxic!”
“Ashley slams the door in Lance’s face,” Mr. Goodwin says under his breath. Then, “‘I hope you choke on them.’”
Clouds part in his eyes.
“They’d never see it coming,” he says, with an air of It’s just what we need. “A whole personality shift. It’d be daring, but—”
He puts on his glasses and peers at me, with an even more welcome air of And you are just what we need too.
The coffee spill down my shirt feels all dried up.
Several faces turn to me with expressions that say, Now tell us again, who are you?
I have taken a risk to outshine the disaster of my entrance, to overshadow the mess and chaos of this morning and make it clear who I am. And as clear as the shine of the mahogany table beneath the fluorescent lights’ glow, I know it was the right decision.
Mr. Goodwin is scooping up the idea of not just a line but an entire story arc, and is about to welcome a break in the monotony of the show’s narrative.
Everything that has gone wrong so far this morning is forgotten, swallowed in this giant thing that has gone right.
For what feels like the first time since Saturday evening, I exhale.
There’s a tiny rap on the partially open door and, without looking up from the script, Goodwin grunts, “Busy.”
“Sorry, Mr. Goodwin, I’ll come back—”
The group unanimously turns at the sound of her voice and gives a collective roar. “No!”
They begin calling out left and right.
Beckoning her.
Telling her that of course she is invited in, always.
That of course none of us is so busy as to exclude her.
No, that was just a comment for common folk. PAs. Fellow writers. CEOs. Network presidents. Those types of people.
“Are you sure?” Lavender bounces on her toes in the open doorway as if weighing whether to intrude. Her hair is halfway up in rollers, the strands absurdly yellow and roller-skate-floor shiny under the fluorescent lights. Enormous purple rolls cover the left side of her head, where a stylist stands hastily unrolling and spraying at the same time. Her makeup is gaudy. She smells strongly of tropical punch. I’m sure with each blink she loses a dozen of those ridiculous false lashes. Her long, spindly legs look like they belong to an oversized spider, particularly in those black skinny jeans and black flats. In fact, really, she looks like a spider altogether.
“Oh, Lavender. You look especially beautiful today,” someone breathes across the room.
My eyes cast to Paula. She’s nodding like a puppy along with whoever said it. In fact, just about everyone is nodding.
I grab the Rubik’s Cube and set the colors flying in my hands.
“Thanks, Chloe,” she says, giving her makeup artist a good-natured pat—which pushes the stylist’s arm just as she presses the nozzle on her can. And blinds me with hairspray.
All of which nobody notices, or cares.
