Page 40 of Fauxmance in the City

“The oven isn’t on,” Natalie says in an exaggerated stage whisper from the stool she sits on out of shot. I kept tripping over her, so she moved.

We’ve been filming for over two hours. We’re on hold while Charles and Karen step aside to discuss the schedule since the filming has turned into an all-afternoon affair. Sam and Max sit in the breakfast nook, Sam with a smug look on his face and Max bemused at the chaos.

When I put the cakes down and open the oven door, everything turns to slow-motion. Inside the oven is the very big, very raw turkey staring back.

I throw my hand over my mouth, covering my squeal of panic. I stuffed it, basted it, and miraculously did everything correctly. How could I forget step number one? Turning on the damn oven.

“The turkey is raw,” I hiss in her ear.

Natalie claps her good hand on her knee as if I’ve just presented her with a new car or designer knife set. It would have been better if she’d left the kitchen entirely, but she refused. When I tried to push her out, she started making such a scene that I gave up.

I look to Sam for help, but he smiles the Cheshire cat grin he’s worn all day. Despite his assertions, he has been of no assistance. It’s as if he wants me to fail. Maybe that’s his new game. Watching me dig my own grave. He is a cruel, cruel man.

I whisper to Natalie, “How long does it take a turkey to cook?”

“A twenty-two-pound turkey…about four hours.”

“Four hours!” I scream, then lower my voice. “We’re meant to be eating this damn meal in the dining room any minute.”

Max’s voice interrupts us from across the room, Bailey perking up at his feet. “Is there a problem? Can I help?”

“No,” we both yell.

“Can’t we just turn the oven up really high?” I ask, keeping my voice down. Natalie bends in a fit of laughter in lieu of an answer. I’m glad someone thinks this is hysterical, because I’m about to Sylvia Plath myself right in that oven.

The kitchen door swings open, and Charles and Gillian walk in with grim faces. “The kitchen is wrapped. Bring the meal into the dining room. We’re losing daylight, and we need to shoot the meal.” Charles takes in my appearance. “Mandy!”

“Do you have your dress for the dinner shoot ready?” Mandy asks when she sees me.

“Yes.”

“Good. Change, then I’ll touch up your makeup.”

“We’re way over schedule, so the dinner is going to be the last staged shot of the day. It shouldn’t take long since there’s no audio. We only need hero shots of the food on display and Max, Catelyn, Sam, Gillian, and me at the table eating.” Karen hands me a new shot list and schedule. “That’s the schedule for next weekend when we shoot the ice-skating and game night.”

“But what if the meal brings back Max’s memories today?” I ask, not believing for a minute this food will trigger Max’s mind but needing a delay. “Don’t you need to set up sound?”

“We’ll have booms, and Max will be mic’d just in case,” Charles explains.

I nod, but my mind is frantic. What the hell am I going to do about the meal? There’s nothing edible in sight. The turkey is raw! The gravy looks great, but I kept it on the stove too long and burned it, and the soup was ruined when Natalie handed me sugar instead of salt. The only edible food is the bread rolls.

I look to Natalie, but she’s snoring from the bench of the breakfast nook, Bailey sitting by her side, his nose nuzzled into her ribs.

“I think the Energizer Bunny has finally run out of batteries,” Sam quips.

“Can you take her upstairs?” I ask.

Max scoops her up before Sam can respond. “I’ll take her.” Bailey bounds after him and bumps into me. I reach for the counter, accidentally knocking the entire breadbasket onto the floor.

“No!” I cry, and turn desperate eyes on the only person there: Sam. “And you were completely useless.”

“Don’t put this on me.” Sam kicks the basket, and it flies across the kitchen.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…I wasn’t blaming…I have a lot going on!”

After the outburst, all the wind goes out of my sails. I have no meal to serve for a dinner that’s meant to be on the table right now. My face is smeared with gravy, my dress is covered in oil, and my hair has gone limp from the heat of the lights. If they haven’t realized I have no idea about cooking by now, they will once I find Karen and tell her there’s nothing to eat.

There are a half-dozen serving platters laid out, but no food to put on them. I kick off my shoes, then pull over a half-empty bottle of Malbec. Hell, why not? It’s almost a relief to know it’s over. I just need a little liquid courage before I go in there and tell them.

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