Take On Me

Both her friends were looking equally confused.

“Maybe they’re waiting on something,” Grace suggested.

Sadie bit her lip. A horrible, dark thought slithered into her mind and she tried not to look in its direction. It was useless, however—she worked on a daytime soap. She’d written or helped plot this scene too many times over the years. Happy bride, perfect day, laughter—then disaster. Dead groom. Groom gravely ill due to car accident. Revolt in groom’s far-off European principality—she’d done them all over the years.

“Can we go back, please?” she asked the driver anxiously. “I don’t want to do a lap of the church.”

“But—” the driver objected.

“You heard the bride. Turn the car around,” Claudia ordered, her producer’s voice firmly in place.

Sighing audibly, the driver spun the wheel and the car turned back toward the church.

As they approached from the opposite direction, Sadie could see her uncle had been joined by her pale-faced aunt, Martha. His shoulders were slumped and he shook his head as they discussed something intently.

“Oh shit,” she whispered under her breath. Another series of worst-case scenarios flitted across her mind: groom runs off with best friend. Bomb threat on church. Groom turns out to be bride’s secret brother.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I know it’s hard to rein in that imagination of yours because of what we do for a living, but this is not Ocean Boulevard,” Grace said firmly. “It’s probably something lame like the priest has had too much altar wine, or Greg’s allergic to his boutonniere.”

Sadie took a deep breath and forced herself to let go of the awful, over-the-top scenarios racing across her mind. Grace was right. She was overreacting. She wouldn’t go borrowing trouble—she’d simply face whatever was wrong and deal with it.

Her uncle must have heard the car, because he turned and frowned as the limo came to a halt.

Despite her vow to herself, Sadie leaned across Claudia to push the door open, unable to wait for the chauffeur to do it. Claudia slid out instantly, turning to help Sadie drag herself and her silk train from the car. The click of heels on the pavement told her that Grace was circling the car from the other side, but all Sadie’s attention was on Gus.

“What’s going on?” she asked. She was clutching her bouquet in a death grip, her knuckles white.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Gus said, and Sadie knew then, without a doubt, that she was about to have a Soap Wedding.

Behind her, she heard Grace’s swift, shocked intake of breath, and Claudia muttered a four-letter word.

“He’s not here?” Sadie guessed, taking a stab at which soap cliché she was about to get sucked into. Of course, she could rule out a few right from the start. To her knowledge, Greg was not the prince of some far-flung European country. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t her brother, given that he was the spitting image of his father. Also, her two best friends in all the world were standing behind her, so neither of them had run off with him.

“He had a note delivered,” Martha said, handing over a plain letter-size envelope.

Sadie stared down at it for a long moment before passing her bouquet to Grace. Her hands were trembling as she slid a finger beneath the seal and tore the envelope open. There was a single piece of paper inside. Greg had gone to the trouble of printing it, she saw, rather than writing it by hand. She had a flash of him mulling over the composition of the letter on his notebook computer, adding and deleting words as he pondered how best to break it to her. He obviously hadn’t mulled for too long, however. The note was devastatingly short.

Dear Sadie,

I know I’m the one who wanted to hurry, but you were right. It’s too soon to get married. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for everything. I just need some time to get my head together. Forward the bills as they come.

Yours, Greg

Her hand dropped to her side and she blinked back the storm of tears that was pressing against the backs of her eyes. That was it? He was dumping her at the altar, and she only got a handful of words?

“What did he say?” Claudia asked.

Sadie held out the letter. There was a short silence as Claudia and Grace read the note then passed it to her aunt and uncle.

“He never said anything, hinted at anything…?” Martha asked, bewildered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Claudia’s head come up.

“You mean like, ‘Sadie, I don’t think I’m going to turn up tomorrow’? That kind of thing?” Claudia asked in a dangerously calm voice.

Sadie laid a hand on her arm. “Claud,” she said. This was not her aunt’s fault. She was a good woman who’d done her best to fill in the gaps in Sadie’s life when her parents were killed in a car accident seven years ago. Martha was blown away—as they all were.

“I can’t believe this,” Grace said, her eyes scanning over and over the few words on the note. “This is…unbelievable.”

Sadie lifted her eyes to contemplate the stately church in front of her.

Inside, more than two hundred of her and Greg’s friends and relatives were waiting to celebrate their wedding. The men would be in suits, the women in gorgeous-but-deadly designer high heels that they knew they’d regret by the time the reception was over. In their cars, presents would be sitting, wrapped and ready to put on the gift table once they arrived at the reception. Toasters, kettles, towels, glassware. The wherewithal to set up a new home. Her and Greg’s new home.

She hoped they’d all kept their receipts.

She clenched her hands together as a wave of humiliation and hurt threatened to descend. She wanted nothing more than to turn on her heel and get the hell out of here. To pretend that she had never been so foolish as to believe the words of handsome Greg Sinclair when he’d looked into her eyes and told her he adored her. That he wanted to marry her, as soon as possible. That he’d never felt more sure of anything in his life.

“Let’s go,” Claudia said decisively. She gestured toward the waiting car where the chauffeur was doing his best not to look too interested in what was going on. This would be a bit of a treat for him, Sadie reflected distractedly. A twist on the usual.

“Yes, your friend is right, sweetheart,” Gus said. “You go, and we’ll let everyone know that there’s been an incident, and the wedding’s been postponed.”

Sadie winced at her uncle’s choice of words. She knew he thought they’d save her face, but everyone in the church would know the truth. It was pretty damned obvious what had happened—the groom hadn’t shown up.

She could imagine them all whispering behind their order-of-service booklets while she stood outside trying to work out what to do. Why is it all taking so long? Where’s the groom? Shouldn’t he be waiting at the altar?

Suddenly it all felt suffocatingly familiar. The refrain from Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” tinkled its way through her mind, and for a horrible moment she was standing in the middle of the gym again as her classmates mocked and pitied her.

“No!” she said suddenly, determined to shake the past off.

Everyone stared at her.

“No, what?” Grace asked.

“No, I’m not going,” Sadie said. She turned toward the church and started walking before her courage failed her.

The others scrambled to keep up.

“You don’t have to do this, Sadie,” Claudia said, trying to hustle in her ankle-length sheath and high heels.

“Yeah, I do. They’re my friends and family. I invited them all here,” Sadie said with determination.

“We can do it,” Grace said, dodging in front of her. “Let us do it. Please.”

“I want to do it,” Sadie said through gritted teeth. “I need to do it.”

It was true. She knew they’d all feel sorry for her, and she didn’t want or need their pity. Would do anything to avoid it, in fact.

Grace slowly stepped aside, and Sadie continued her headlong march toward the church door. The coolness of the vestibule enveloped her as she pushed open the ornate double doors. She almost tripped on her voluminous skirts, and she looked down to see her train had gotten caught in the door. She felt tears looming again as she tugged her dress loose, as though the act of pausing had allowed the shame and hurt to catch up with her.

God, she couldn’t do this. But she had to. For herself. She took a step forward.

“Wait,” Grace said.

Sadie steeled herself to be firm again, but Grace pointed at her mouth.

“You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” she said quietly.

Sadie rubbed her thumb across her incisors and smiled for her friends.

“How’s that?”

“Good,” Grace said tightly.

Nodding her thanks, Sadie grabbed a big fistful of silk and lifted it to her waist so she could walk more freely. Claudia and Grace stepped ahead of her, their expressions tortured as they shoved the inner doors open for her.

An abrupt silence fell as two hundred and twelve people swiveled in their seats to stare at her as she stood at the top of the aisle. At the front of the church, the organist gasped with surprise and automatically dropped her hands down onto the keyboard. The first few notes of “Here Comes The Bride” sounded before the woman snatched her hands away, blushing furiously.

Humiliated heat rushed to Sadie’s cheeks as the echoes died. Eyes straight ahead, she strode briskly up the aisle toward the altar where the priest, Father Baker, was eyeing her sympathetically.

Claudia and Grace flanked her, their faces set. Sadie had no idea what her own face was doing. She was just concentrating on not crying, not throwing up and walking. That was about all she could handle at the moment.

The priest came down off his three-step elevation to meet her.

“Sadie, my dear,” he said, reaching out a hand.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time, Father,” she said stiffly. “If you’ll give me a moment, we’ll get out of your hair.”

He looked surprised when she swept past him and stepped up to the microphone on the pulpit. Flicking the switch on the microphone’s side, she took a deep breath and lifted her gaze at last to confront her waiting audience.

Every last person was holding their breath. Some of them were even leaning forward in anticipation. It was almost funny. Almost.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” she said. Her voice broke on the last word, and she cleared her throat and blinked back the tears that had rushed to her eyes. She was not going to cry. Not yet.

She felt Grace’s hand on her back as her friend moved behind her. The warm knowledge that Grace and Claudia were here helped her focus.

“As you might have noticed, we seem to be short a groom. Don’t you hate that?” she said wryly.

Her audience stirred, and a few people tittered. They hadn’t expected wise-cracking, but it was all she had to offer at the moment.

“I don’t suppose anyone wants to volunteer on short notice?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and looking around, pretending she was waiting for someone to step up to the plate. More embarrassed laughter and uncertainty from her audience. “Can’t be tempted? Bummer. I guess it’s party time, then. And I expect to see each and every one of you at the reception—Greg has assured me he’s paying, so let’s make sure we blow out the bar tab.”

Pinning a bright, confident smile on her face, Sadie stepped back from the mike.

Claudia’s face was pale as she helped gather up Sadie’s skirts so she could march back up the aisle.

“Are you sure…?” Claudia asked in an undertone. “I mean, the reception…?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Sadie had no idea how she was going to get through finger food plus three courses, but somehow she had to.

There was a muted murmur as she strode up the aisle, head high.

Then she was outside, heading toward the limo. The chauffeur hastily butted out his cigarette and leaped to open the door for her. She practically dove into the rear of the car, one hand reaching for the half-full champagne bottle before her dress train had even made it through the door. All pretense at grace or composure gone, she lifted the bottle to her mouth and guzzled greedily. A small rivulet of golden champagne trickled over her chin and down between her breasts. She didn’t give a hoot.

Claudia and Grace wedged themselves in beside her, and Claudia reached over to secure the seat belt over the scrunched-up folds of Sadie’s dress.

Sadie took another hearty slug of champagne before speaking.

“I hope you’ve broken those shoes in, ladies, because tonight we are dancing,” she announced bravely.

DYLAN ANDERSON SMILED to himself as he pulled down the last photo from the corkboard in his office. It had been taken using a Polaroid camera during a long, crazy afternoon in the story room when everyone had been banging their heads against the wall, trying to come up with something to fill sixty minutes of commercial television for Box-Office Cable’s hit drama, The Boardroom. The smile turned into a grin as he studied the shot—six grown, adult people crowded together, their features hopelessly distorted by the adhesive tape they’d used to fix their faces into weird, strange configurations. It was puerile, adolescent—and that was being generous. Particularly given the net total of their salaries. But sometimes the pressure cooker of the writers’ room had to blow. And, in his experience, something strange, funny and wonderful always came out of it.

Okay, maybe the day of the taped faces wasn’t the best example of the phenomena—but it was a great memory, which was why he was taking all his Polaroid shots with him. Each one represented a moment he wanted to remember. The Boardroom had been his best TV writing experience to date, a rare convergence of inspired creator, simpatico writing team and talented directors, cast and crew. An absolute gift, from beginning to end. But Dylan had still opted not to renew his contract with the show for another year.

He’d been tempted. It was always tempting to stay where you knew you were appreciated, and your work was consistently affirmed by the television industry in the form of award nominations, stellar reviews and high ratings. But Dylan had never been the kind of guy to rest on his laurels. Despite what certain people in his past might think. He had goals, and nothing short of the extinction of the entire human race was going to stop him from achieving them.

His hand dropped to the thick envelope sitting on his desk, already addressed and ready for the courier to pick up. His feature screenplay, finished at last. The first of many, he hoped. Ready to send off to his agent so she could begin shopping it around. He patted the envelope, thinking of all the long hours he’d spent plotting the damned thing, writing, rewriting, then rewriting again to get it where he wanted it.

He allowed himself to feel a small moment of pride as he contemplated the achievement on the very simplest of scales—he, personally, had written over ninety pages of screenplay. Spelled the words correctly. Even got the grammar and punctuation right, give or take a few colloquial exceptions. The man—boy, really—he’d been fourteen years ago would have been astonished. But that boy hadn’t known that he had dyslexia. That boy had whipped himself daily for being an ignorant half-wit who couldn’t understand even the basics of stuff that other kids seemed to take in as easily as air. He’d been on a road to self-destruction, spiraling out of control, furious at himself for being kicked out of school, looking for some way to ease the pain…

Realizing that he was standing in his almost-empty office dwelling on his misspent youth, Dylan gave his head a brief, impatient shake. All that stuff was history, water under the bridge. Long gone, done and dusted. Unimportant in the world of here and now.

Stacking the screenplay on top of the carton of personal effects to take out to his car, Dylan spent the next few minutes checking his desk drawers for anything he’d forgotten. Apart from stray paper clips and Post-it notes, he was home free.

His heart felt lighter as he grabbed the box. The Boardroom team were holding a goodbye dinner for him tonight at his favorite Mexican restaurant in Hollywood, and he’d say his final goodbyes then. For now, he was content—happy, even—to be moving on from this stage in his life.

He’d made it to the office door and was balancing the carton on his knee to flick the light off when his phone rang. Frowning, he contemplated not answering it, but his conscience wouldn’t let him walk away without picking up. Sighing, he dumped the box on his visitor’s chair and scooped up the phone.

“Anderson, here,” he said.

“Dylan, it’s Ruby. You got a sec?” his agent asked rhetorically. Rhetorically because, no matter what his response, she always kept talking. She could talk under wet cement, his agent. One of the reasons he paid her a small fortune every year.

“I know you’re keen to put your feet up for a while and give that enormous brain of yours a break, but I’ve just had a very interesting call,” Ruby said. Dylan smiled to himself, recognizing the enormous brain reference as Ruby’s way of softening him up.

“Forget it,” he said firmly. “No. Negative. Non. Not interested. I officially do not exist for the next two months. Then you can start fielding job offers for me again.”

“Dylan, baby, you haven’t even heard what the offer is!” Ruby wailed.

Dylan rested his hip against his desk. Ruby was only getting warmed up, he could tell.

“You’re going to have the screenplay on your desk tomorrow morning. That should keep you busy enough.”

“So you don’t even want to know who’s desperate for a story editor on short notice? Not even a tiny inkling of curiosity?” Ruby asked.

“Nope. Not interested,” Dylan said smugly. He had the next two months of his life planned down to the second—three concepts to develop further for network pitches, and several more screenplays in various stages of plotting. Only when he’d laid the groundwork for the next step in his career would he start looking at in-house jobs again.

“Fine. I’ll ask around the traps, see if anyone else good is available.”

Off the hook, Dylan felt free to be helpful. “Try Olly Jones. I know he was keen to stop freelancing and go back in-house.”

“Yeah, I know. They signed him to Crime Scene last week.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Dylan said, pleased for his friend and making a mental note to give Olly a call. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full weekend to himself or caught up with his friends.

“You got your big goodbye bash tonight?” Ruby asked.

“Yep. Gotta go home and stock up on the tissue,” Dylan said.

“Yeah, right, because you’re so sentimental,” Ruby scoffed.

“I’m an emotional guy,” Dylan defended.

Ruby made a rude noise. “Anyway, I’ll call you once I’ve read the script,” she said.

“Sure. See you.”

Before he could put the phone down, Ruby spoke up again, her tone exasperated. “You’re really going to let me hang up without even asking which show it was? You could really do that?”

“Yep.”

“And you call yourself a writer! Where’s your natural-born curiosity and nosiness?”

“It’s not going to work, Ruby,” he said good-naturedly. “I’ve got too much to work on to even consider it.”

“Fine. It’s just I know you like the show, I thought you’d be tickled to work on it,” Ruby said. He could almost see her shrugging her big shoulder pads.

“Ruby…”

“Fine. Don’t work on America’s number-one daytime soap. See if I care.”

He was about to end the call, but he hesitated for a beat, his interest well and truly caught.

“You mean, Ocean Boulevard?”

“The one and same,” Ruby said smugly. “Apparently, their story ed’s written himself off for six months or so in a car accident.”

“Yeah?” Dylan said, his mind ticking over at about a million miles a minute. Sadie Post worked on Ocean Boulevard, had done for the past four years. He’d have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know that in the small industry they worked in.

He couldn’t even think her name without feeling a burning resentment. A series of images flashed across his mind’s eye—Sadie staring at him with burning intensity as she humiliated him in class by peppering him with questions she knew he couldn’t answer; the impatient disgust on his guidance counselor’s face as he kicked him out of school; his father’s contemptuous acceptance that flipping burgers was all his ignorant son was good for.

“Dylan. You still there? Hello?” Ruby said.

“Keep talking,” he said after a long moment.

Maybe he wasn’t as busy as he’d thought.

TEN DAYS LATER Sadie drove into her assigned parking spot at the Ocean Boulevard production offices in Santa Monica and pressed the button to bring the roof down on her Audi TT convertible. She checked her appearance. Her hair looked windblown, but it matched the tan she’d gained on her honeymoon-for-one in the Caribbean and she figured it was the least of her problems. It was amazing how things like convertible-hair suddenly gained perspective when you had a real crisis to deal with. Nothing like being stood up at the altar to give a girl a reality check.

Grabbing her satchel, she swung her legs out of her low-slung car and pushed herself to her feet. She couldn’t wait to get into work. She imagined her desk, overloaded with scripts and story lines for her to read, and felt pathetically grateful. Ocean Boulevard was her sanctuary, her solace. She knew it would take all her energy and focus, and then some. Its comforting embrace would get her through the next few months. She was banking on it.

Not that she was a basket case. Far from it. She was good, solid.

Okay, she wasn’t about to kick up her heels and dance a jig, but she wasn’t a sniveling wreck, either. After ten days of self-pity in the Caribbean, she’d picked herself up and dusted herself off. Life went on, and so would she. It was that simple.

Recovering was a little easier given that she still hadn’t heard from Greg. She told herself she liked it that way. If she never spoke to him again, she could pretend the whole six months she’d thought she was in love with him had been a hallucination.

Striding toward the building, she switched her focus firmly to work. She hadn’t had a chance to download any of the story lines that had been written while she was away, but she could spend the day catching up before the team pitched her their ideas for the week’s episodes on Tuesday morning.

She mentally reviewed the show’s story strands from a week and a half ago as she breezed past the receptionist and into the open-plan office. Set in Santa Monica, Ocean Boulevard centered around a group of people living in a Spanish mission-style apartment block on the street of the same name. The show ran an hour a day, five days a week, so there was always plenty of work to keep her busy.

A couple of heads came up as they spotted her, but she waved and flashed a bright, confident smile. Nothing to see here, her expression said. No tragedy to pick over. Please, move on.

Her office looked exactly the same as when she’d left it, except for a vase full of fresh tiger lilies on her desk return. Claudia being thoughtful, she guessed.

Slinging her satchel on top of her filing cabinet, she hit the power button on her computer and waited for it to boot up. She was typing in her password when Claudia appeared in her office doorway.

“I knew you’d be in early, you workaholic,” Claudia said. Her tiny frame was encased from head to toe in black, her signature color.

“Holiday’s over,” Sadie said, clicking through to her e-mail program.

“Hmm. I don’t suppose the gutless wonder has made contact yet?” Claudia asked, referring to Greg.