“Really?” What she said next made me recall telling Noah that I wasn’t an asshole and then telling him that I was. “Because I was sure you’d get a kick out of it.”
SATURDAY, 1:55 P.M.
At first, I assumed that Annabel was merely late. The run-through was both the first time anyone at TNO experienced the week’s show as a coherent whole, albeit without makeup or some final costumes and special effects, and also the last rehearsal before the dress rehearsal. Dress would occur at 8 P.M. in front of an audience who would then be switched out for a different audience for the 11:30 P.M. live show.
As the cold open started on Home Base, with Oliver playing Comey, I hurried from the cue cards room, where I’d been checking changes, to Stage 1, where the Cheesemonger was fourth in the lineup. In the hall, I passed Danny in his police officer costume and said, “Hey, is Annabel in your dressing room?”
“Her team was gonna check in with Autumn when they got here.”
As I entered the studio, I looked around and didn’t see Autumn; it was likely she was in the narrow space behind Home Base with Noah, waiting with him before he went on for his monologue. I started to text her, realized I didn’t have her number, and opened an email. I typed Autumn’s address and one sentence in the subject line—I need Annabel on Stage 3 for 5 slot—and hit Send. Then I asked a production assistant to find out where Annabel was, and he briskly walked away. The cold open segued into the house band playing the sax-heavy theme song over what would at dress and live be the announcer, whose name was Rusty, reciting the opening credits. But Rusty didn’t appear until dress, and it was the assistant director Penelope exclaiming, “And your host, Noah Brewster. Ladies and gentlemen, Noah Brewster!” Noah walked out the door onto the stage in a tuxedo and fist-pumped in time to the house band’s introductory crescendo, and I tried not to notice, yet again, how outrageously handsome he was. Then I thought, Wait, really, that’s a wig?
As he began his monologue by saying, “I’m completely thrilled to be hosting TNO tonight,” I scrutinized his hairline and the blond layers that framed his face, the chunks tucked behind his ears. Truly, I’d never have known. I wondered if Henrietta could have misunderstood, but it seemed unlikely. And then Elliot appeared onstage, and I thought, Elliot? What the hell? Like me, Elliot wasn’t on camera from one year to the next; in his bones, he, too, was a writer as opposed to a performer. But it turned out the premise of the monologue was that TNO’s head writer thought Noah was there to be the musical guest and not the host, and Noah was trying to explain that he was both. I wasn’t sure why Nigel wasn’t the one filling Elliot’s role. Had Noah and Elliot developed some friendship in the last week that needed to be conspicuously celebrated?
After Noah’s monologue, a rough cut of the white women’s recipes digital short aired on the many monitors hanging throughout the studio, then it was time for the Cheesemonger sketch on Stage 1, which would be followed directly by the Danny Horst Rule sketch on Stage 3. As the Cheesemonger started, I stood just off set, holding my script open against my left forearm and gripping a pencil in my right hand. I used my left hand to quickly check my email and see if Autumn had responded; she hadn’t.
The run-through was more relaxed than the dress rehearsal in the sense that there were pauses and do-overs—some sketches happened twice in a row—and I could still make changes based on my own judgment. For the dress rehearsal, each writer watched their sketch with Nigel in a little space set up for him under the balcony seats, a kind of cave in which he sat in a director’s chair drinking rosé, his eyes trained on the feed on a monitor so that he saw the sketches as viewers at home would. Also present, watching with Nigel, would be one or two of his assistants, a couple senior producers, Autumn, and sometimes one of Nigel’s very closest celebrity friends （his less close celebrity friends were invited to watch the live show from his studio office）。 This meant that these were the people who overheard Nigel give feedback to the writer, which meant the septuagenarian rocker from one of the world’s most famous bands had once been privy to Nigel matter-of-factly saying to me, “When Viv tells Henrietta to treat her yeast infection with a garlic clove, I take it Viv means inserting it vaginally, but the current language is unclear.” Before dress, I always applied the deodorant I kept in my desk toiletries bag because I never sweated more than when watching one of my own sketches with Nigel.
At the run-through for the Cheesemonger, as in the previous rehearsal, Noah threw himself into the role, and a green screen behind him made the image on the monitors show rats festively running around in the shop. But even as his duet with Henrietta landed perfectly, I kept turning around and scanning the studio for Annabel. The sketch finished, and Bob O’Leary, who’d been watching from a few feet away, said to me, “Any notes or are we good to go?”
I looked at the cast members and said, “Wes and Viv, can you stand closer to Bailey? You’re all too far apart. Otherwise, do it exactly like that at dress and air.” I glanced back at Bob. “But Annabel Lily is supposed to be in the next sketch, and I’m not even sure she’s here yet.”
Bob said into his headset, “Can anyone tell me if Annabel Lily is in the studio? Looking for Annabel Lily for The Danny Horst Rule on Stage 3.” His voice was audible via speakers throughout the studio, including, I knew, in the dressing rooms.
Noah was literally being led away by the hand by a member of the wardrobe department named Peggy who always escorted the host during performances. He wordlessly held out his free right hand for a fist bump, and I brought mine up to his. Given how overwrought I was about him, I might have expected sparks to fly at the point of contact; they did not, and then he was gone, off to wherever Peggy was taking him next.
As Bob and I walked toward Stage 3, I could tell when he got a response on his headset, though I couldn’t hear it. He turned to me and said, “Annabel’s not here. How about if Lynette or Bianca stands in for her?”
What a flake, I thought, and said, “Bianca.” Bianca was a first-year cast member in her early twenties, meaning Annabel’s age or even younger.
Bob said into his headset, “Sally says Bianca. You know where she is?” After a pause, he said, “Great, send her out.”
And then The Danny Horst Rule started: Gregor and Viv on their date at the restaurant, smiling and laughing, Josh in his cop uniform appearing to arrest them. My preoccupation with Annabel’s absence made it hard to evaluate how it was going, especially when Danny entered. About thirty seconds later, Bianca walked on wearing Crocs, jeans, and a black crop top and announced that she was Susan B. Anthony, reading the cue cards so smoothly that I doubted an outsider would know she’d been informed of her participation in this role in the last five minutes. When the sketch ended, I said, “Thanks so much for pinch-hitting, Bianca.” I made quick eye contact with Danny. “That was solid overall,” I continued, “although, Josh, you came in a little late. Don’t wait for Viv and Gregor to get through their lines. Just charge in and interrupt them.”
“Got it,” Josh said.