“Did I ever tell you my Jackie Gleason story?”
Sewanee smiled. She loved that story. “No.”
Blah told it. Then asked, “Are you coming to happy hour this week?”
“Not sure yet. But we’d already decided I’d get ready for the Audies at your place. Does that still work? The venue is around the corner.”
“Ooh, when is it?”
“Wednesday night.”
“What’s today?”
“Sunday.”
“And when’s the event?”
“In three days. Wednesday night.”
“Bet you’ve told me that.”
“A few hundred times.”
“Is that all? Maybe I’m getting better. Talk tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you to death.”
“Hey, don’t rush me.”
They both laughed and Sewanee remembered something. “Wait, what did you want to tell me about Birdie?”
“Huh?”
“You’d said you wanted to talk about Birdie.”
Blah clucked her tongue. “Oh, right. She died.”
“What?!”
“Bless her heart.”
Sewanee didn’t want to doubt her, but, “Are you sure?”
“My mind brings dead people back to life, Dollface, not the other way around.”
“Birdie, not Mitzi?”
“Mitzi? Mitzi will outlive the earth.”
“When?”
“Oh, Christ, what’s today? Yesterday maybe.”
“How?”
“Went in her sleep, apparently. Lucky lady.”
“Oh my God.”
“Well, she was old.”
“She wasn’t that old!”
“Don’t be fooled, she’d had a lot of work done. Doll, that new girl is here, I’ve got to go to dinner.”
“Okay, okay, go, I love you.”
“Love you.” She made kissing noises into the receiver and hung up.
Sewanee continued to sit there, on the floor, leaning against the booth.
Then she began crying again. Crying for herself, sure, for Blah, of course, but mostly, it seemed, for a woman whose greatest accomplishment was a two-ingredient dip her boys liked forty years ago. Why had this sunk its claws so deeply into Sewanee? The utter callousness of an unremarkable life unceremoniously ended.
She had to stop. She made herself stop. She couldn’t cry; she had to record. If she continued crying, she’d have to wait an hour for her voice to clear. She didn’t have an hour. She didn’t have any time to waste.
She stood shakily and took up her phone. She went to her messages, scrolled down to Brock, second only to Adaku, because Adaku had texted while she’d been on the phone: ADAKU:
OK update: they’re focused on wrapping up the deal with the male lead. Surprise surprise. But then they’ll get to your role and hopefully send an offer early next week. Okay to let Manse handle it for you?
Sewanee gave the message a thumbs-up and went to her chain with Brock.
SEWANEE:
So . . . I got your menu. Sorry, email.
When exactly are you going to be in LA?
BROCK:
Ah, yes, would’ve been good info to include.
Arrive early morning on the 10th, leave late morning of the 11th
SEWANEE:
???
BROCK:
I know. Wish I could stick around, but my recording schedule back here is punishing. I have two priorities in L.A.: Meetings on the 10th （sadly including dinner） and meeting you any time after that.
Oops. Also have a breakfast meeting on the 11th.
SEWANEE:
????
So what, we’re meeting at midnight? Who am I, Cinderella?
BROCK:
Let’s make it 11. Don’t want any Prince Charming expectations.
For real, I’m SO sorry.
SEWANEE:
It’s okay. It was a last minute idea. Meet me at Miguel’s in Burbank at 11 pm on the 10th.
BROCK:
Lemme check my schedule.
SEWANEE:
I swear to Pete.
BROCK:
Jk jk I’ll be there.
SEWANEE:
I’ll be coming from the Audies so might be a little late.
BROCK:
Bring all my awards with you.
SEWANEE:
Sorry, I’ll have my hands full with my own.
I’ll be the one in the ballgown.
BROCK:
That makes two of us.
Forty-seven minutes later:
SEWANEE:
Are we really doing this?
BROCK:
We’re really doing this.
SHE WAS RUNNING late. The dishwasher in the studio had inevitably decided to stop working that afternoon and traffic had been unusually bad. Her intention had been to have an early dinner with Blah before getting ready for the event, but she’d missed dinner and arrived with less than an hour to make herself presentable. She was frazzled, rushed, and could not stop thinking about the fact that, in five hours, she was going to meet Brock.