Page 85 of How To Plot a Payback

“You’re grinning like a madman.”

“No, I’m not.”

But then I feel it. My face, without my permission, grinning so hard it feels like my cheeks have been cranked to this extreme position. They’re actually aching, now that I think of it.

“Don’t play dumb,” Paula says, looking into my face from an inch away. “You’ve worn that clown-face-behind-the-curtains smile all morning. Clutching your coffee and holding your clipboard, laughing darkly. It’s creeping the heck out of the caterers. You remind me of that serial killer we had the hardest time nailing down personality-wise, season 4. What was his name?”

“Gary,” I reply without looking away. “And I’m not laughing darkly. That’s an exaggeration. Darkly chuckling at best. And frankly, if you’re going to compare me to any of the serial killers on Higher Stakes, Gary is the one to beat. Thanks for the compliment.”

“Spill.”

I take a breath.

It’s Friday afternoon.

I’ve been emotionally prepping for this moment all week, eager to see how it plays out. Adam hasn’t shown up yet, which, given his generosity in agreeing to show up last-minute when he had his own packed week of shooting, is understandable. I personally tasked myself with all but begging his publicist to get Adam to come on the show, arguing from every possible angle how good this would be for him: The money. The very, very little time required of him on set, with just three lines. The boon this would be to his upcoming movie. I even agreed to write in a line or two—they are mediocre at best—promoting Ships at Apple Bay. And for the record, it was no small feat to convince the network to accommodate an ad for a historical drama regarding sailors of the seventeenth century in an episode about three modern city dwellers dealing with a gum-on-the-metro crisis and the bumbling construction of a rooftop garden.

But at long last, he agreed.

Adam Glassner is coming. The celebrated ex-boyfriend of Lavender Rhodes. Ties snipped last year. The nation’s heart collectively broken when he deserted her for a newer, younger, fresher model.

Payback in motion.

My first successful dabble in payback started this week with coffee. Driving twenty minutes out of the way and spending a small fortune to bring everyone associated with Neighbors a special cinnamon latte (something I’ve heard her order on no fewer than three occasions). And then, when I got to her, poof. Oh dear. Where were all the cinnamon lattes? Did we just run out? Of her favorite drink?

It was small. Tiny. But mighty.

Well, until everybody chipped in portions of their lattes and she ended up with forty-eight ounces and appreciative tears welling in her eyes, followed by a spontaneous group-karaoke moment from You’ve Got Mail’s opening scene, “The Puppy Song.” I overheard one of the writers saying as we left for the day that it was a highlight of their career.

But for a good four minutes, Lavender was left out.

And that is the moment we are going to focus on here.

Then there was the little mix-up with her dressing room. Silly me, somehow that three-tiered cake I sent congratulating her on the news that she’d been inducted into Welling School’s Alumni Hall of Fame (I don’t want to talk about it) was delivered right on top of her vanity. Wouldn’t you know, it was an ice cream cake that (with a little help from a hair dryer) left a puddle of strawberry all over the scattered mishmash of beloved cosmetics.

Of course, her response was to hug me around the neck, make a speech about how thoughtful I was, and then force me to lick a dripping mascara tube because the strawberry cake was just “all so, so good.”

I ended up in a photo on her wall for that one. Me with a startled look as she scrunched our faces together while holding up a handful of dripping cosmetics with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on any face. Like this was the time of our lives.

Needless to explain further, I’m zero for three here.

But. Today is the day.

I check over my shoulder. Nobody is around (possibly because I’m frightening people—I see this now). Just a bunch of unused camera equipment under a thick layer of dust.

Paula, meanwhile, hasn’t budged.

“You won’t leave it, will you?” I say.

She raises a brow.

My eyes move back to the set, where Lavender is circling Sonya’s apartment chair. She’s visibly nervous. Her friends aren’t being the world’s best supporters about all this, and frankly, were I not the one putting up this whole charade, I’d care. I mean, Sonya has actually gotten herself a little bag of popcorn from the snack station and is sitting while Lavender circles her. Kye isn’t much better; he’s playing on his phone in his chair, merely lifting his leg to let Lavender pass every time she circles him. Regarding that, I’m a little surprised. It’s evident he has a bit of a crush on her—given what all the gossip rags have declared for the past decade and how obviously close the two are. I expected more concern on his part.

“You might as well tell me,” Paula huffs. “I already have my suspicions. They don’t do you any favors.”

“Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But remember that one time I got you this gig?”

“And remember that one time I dragged you to the party that got you this gig? What’s your point?”