For the last three weeks, he’d been scrambling to find something else to take its place. He’d spent eight hours a day screening promo reels from countless would-be stars—magicians, advice givers, comedians, music instructors, science experts, etiquette mavens, puppeteers. Wading through it all, Walter couldn’t believe the drivel other people produced, nor could he believe they had the gall to commit it to film, put it in the mail, and send it to him. Had they no shame? Still, he had to find something fast: his career depended on it. His boss had made that abundantly clear.
On top of work woes, four times this month he’d been summoned in to see Mrs. Mudford, Amanda’s kindergarten teacher, who most recently had threatened to report him simply because, in a cloud of exhaustion and depression, he’d inadvertently packed his gin flask where Amanda’s milk thermos was supposed to go. He’d also sent a stapler instead of a sandwich, a script instead of a napkin, and some champagne truffles that time they were out of bread.
* * *
—
“Mr. Pine?” Elizabeth said, interrupting his thoughts. “I’ve had a long day. Is there something you wanted?”
“I want to create a cooking show for afternoon TV,” he said in a rush. “And I want you to host. It’s obvious to me that you can cook, Mrs. Zott, but I also think you would have a certain appeal.” He didn’t say it was because she was attractive. Plenty of good-looking people skated by on their looks, but something told him Elizabeth Zott was not one of those people. “This would be a fun show—woman to woman. You’d be singing to your people.” And when she didn’t respond right away, he added, “Housewives?”
From the other end of the phone, Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
The tone. Walter should have understood it and hung up right then. But he didn’t because he was desperate, and desperate people tend to overlook the most obvious signals. Elizabeth Zott belonged in front of a camera—he was sure of it—plus, she was exactly the kind of woman his boss would go nuts for.
“You’re nervous about the audience,” he said, “but there’s no reason. We use cue cards. All you have to do is read and be yourself.” He waited for a response, but when none came, he carried on. “You have presence, Mrs. Zott,” he pressed. “You’re exactly the kind of person people want to see on TV. You’re like a…” He tried hard to think of someone like her, but nothing came to mind.
“I’m a scientist,” she snapped.
“Right!”
“You’re saying the public wants to hear from more scientists.”
“Yes,” he said. “Who doesn’t?” Although he didn’t and he was fairly certain no one else did either. “Although this would be a cooking show, you understand.”
“Cooking is science, Mr. Pine. They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Uncanny. I was just about to say that.”
From her kitchen table, Elizabeth envisioned her unpaid utility bills. “How much does something like this pay?” she asked.
He named a figure that drew the slightest gasp from her end. Was she offended or astonished?
“The thing is,” he said defensively, “we’d be taking a risk. It’s not like you’ve been on TV before, correct?” Then he outlined the basic pilot-series contract, pointing out that the initial term was six months long. After that, if it wasn’t working, that was it. Finito.
“When would it start?”
“Immediately. We want the cooking show to go live as soon as possible—within the month.”
“You mean a science cooking show.”
“You said it yourself—they’re not mutually exclusive.” But a small bit of doubt regarding her viability as a hostess began to creep in. Surely, she understood that a cooking show was not actually science. Didn’t she? “We’re calling it Supper at Six,” he added, emphasizing the word “supper.”
On the other end of the line, Elizabeth stared into space. She absolutely hated the idea—making food on TV for housewives—but what choice did she have? She turned to look at Six-Thirty and Mad. They were lying on the floor together. Madeline was telling him about Tommy Dixon. Six-Thirty bared his teeth.
“Mrs. Zott?” Walter said, wary of the silence coming from the other end. “Hello? Mrs. Zott? Are you still there?”
Chapter 24
The Afternoon Depression Zone
“Completely unwearable,” Elizabeth said to Walter Pine as she emerged from KCTV’s wardrobe room. “Every dress was skintight. When your tailor measured me last week, I thought he’d done an accurate job, but perhaps not. He’s older. He might need reading glasses.”