Page 78 of Heating Up (Nugget)
Chapter 15
Gia sat across from her agent in a midtown Manhattan restaurant, watching out the window as a cab driver and a motorist jockeyed for the same narrow lane. The cabbie honked his horn as the other driver tried to cut him off. Even from inside, over the chef’s insipid playlist, she could hear the screeching of metal scraping metal.
“They’re going to kill each other,” Gia said, unable to take her eyes off the scene of the two men yelling, smashing into each other like bumper cars in Coney Island. “Seriously, they’re willing to die to shave a fraction of a second off their commute. It’s crazy.”
“It’s New York City in rush hour.” Marci tapped her acrylic nail on the menu. “You know what you want?”
Yeah, Gia thought, to get out of this hell hole. To pack up her car and drive west, where the roads were safe and people didn’t move at warp speed. Where she could breathe.
The waiter came and Marci turned to Gia. “I suggest you get a drink. Make it a double.”
“That bad, huh?”
Marci let out a sigh. “It depends on how you look at it.”
The waiter, who spoke with an accent Gia didn’t recognize, tapped his toe impatiently.
“I’ll have a Lemon Drop,” she said, and Marci got a Negroni. When the server left, Gia asked, “Where do you think he’s from? I couldn’t place the accent.”
“The Island of Pretensia.” Marci always had a snappy comeback, probably why she was one of the most coveted agents in the country.
Gia laughed. “What did they say?”
“That they’ll buy you out of your contract.”
It was more than Gia had expected. She figured the network would use something in the fine print, like, say, violating a morals clause by having a thief for a boyfriend. Then they could’ve pulled out without having to pay her.
“That works,” she told Marci.
“They want to retain the rights to the name of the show.”
“It’s my name, for God’s sake.”The Treadwell Hour: Financial Advice that will set you free.“Why would anyone want a show with someone else’s name? It’s ridiculous.”
“They don’t want to use it,” Marci said. “They just don’t wantyouto use it.”
“But it’s my brand, albeit not a very good brand because no one wants to touch it with a ten-foot pole. But it’s mine!”
“That’s the thing; when your brand has weathered the storm, which it will, they don’t want you taking your show on the road.”
“In other words, they want to own me.”
Their drinks came and Marci took a fortifying sip. Clearly she was not enjoying this. To the waiter from the Island of Pretensia, who by now knew exactly who Gia was and was lingering to eavesdrop, Marci said, “We could use some nibbles.”
He propped his hip against the table. “Allow me to make a few suggestions.”
“Just bring us out some of those dumplings . . . the ones with the pork . . . the quail eggs, and the house-made potato chips.” Marci stared daggers at him, her message transparent: FO, pretty boy.
When he disappeared to the other side of the restaurant, Marci said, “Yeah, they want to own you.”
“I don’t want to give them my name.”
“We could try to play hardball, but then they may just keep you, put your show on at midnight, and make you tape at four in the morning. There really isn’t any way to stop them.” She paused and let out another sigh. “They want you to announce that you’re resigning.”
“But I’m not. They’re firing me. A resignation is the same as an admission that I did something wrong. The only thing I’m guilty of is dating an asshole.” An asshole who bilked people out of their life savings.
“We’ll leak it to the press that the network fired you. The American public isn’t stupid, Gia; they’ll know what’s really going on here.”
No, it would make her look weak and feed more fuel to the tabloids. The headlines had already been damning: “Grand Jury Convened to Look at Treadwell’s Complicity in Ponzi Scheme.” “Treadwell on the Treadmill to Prison.” All lies.
