Page 35 of How To Plot a Payback

Because who better to play a group of hysterically different but loyal-to-the-core best friends than a group of hysterically different but loyal-to-the-core best friends?

I cast one look at the huddle of writers, talking in a rush and snapping their papers, while the audience members crane their necks for an eyeful. They’re all so preoccupied by what’s happened that the stage manager, Phil, is currently pushing them off to the side like a sheepdog herding a bunch of wayward cows. A woman has overtaken the mic and is doing her best to draw attention elsewhere via half-baked jokes.

Oh, and now there’s background music.

And lookee there, apparently juggling.

Attendants start walking down the aisles, handing out sandwiches.

Standard efforts during standard shootings to draw attention elsewhere during breaks.

My stomach churns, reminding me that it’s—my eyes scoot over to the large clock on the wall—already three fifteen. We’ve been at this for four hours and I haven’t had a decent bite yet.

I move to the employees’ snack table and run my eyes over the spread of breads and cheeses. It’s quite impressive today.

Swirls of nuts and cheeses and every fruit color in the rainbow decorate the longest charcuterie board I have ever laid eyes on. Two girls from props stand at the end of the table, engrossed in hushed conversation, though I hear “That set took months to make” and “If they dare want to change sets on us one more time, that’s it, Stella. I quit.”

Meanwhile, another girl, Goodwin’s niece, Kye’s new PA—oh, what’s her name? Maddie? Maggie?—is rather obviously keeping her eyes on Finn, to the point that as she reaches toward the spread, she misses the carrots and dips her fingers in ranch dressing.

As she does, I hear a little intake of breath from the shadows.

As Maggie moves along, a woman swiftly steps in from the shadows, replaces a sausage on the board, and swaps out the bowl of dressing for a fresh one.

Fascinating.

So this is how they keep the board looking immaculate. I wonder if she’s one of Janie Lane’s If It’s Not Perfect, Fix It! superfans—like Sonya.

“I love the board,” I say as I pick up a plate.

The woman gives a startled jump like a mouse caught sneaking into somebody’s kitchen. Which is especially on point given her mint-green employee T-shirt that reads “The Miceateers Catering Co.” Plus she’s currently frozen, holding a toothpick stab of white cheddar.

“Hello, Lavender,” a voice behind me says.

I turn.

Finn Masters stands before me looking very much like a man who wishes not to be somewhere but is somewhere, and wishes not to talk but must. “I’ve been told to tell you that Goodwin would like to see you.”

I hear an accusation in his tone. Or possibly frustration that on day one as a producer, he’s been demoted to errand boy.

“Really?” I say, raising my brows. I set a carrot on my plate, my stomach knotting. “Good news or bad news?”

“About your little stunt? Jury’s still out, but I believe they are deciding to be thrilled. They’re just trying to sort out what to do about the last eight minutes of the episode now that the script’s been thrown in the river. And apparently,” he adds after a pause, “you are just the person they need.”

There it is again. A most definite slant on the word you.

It’s plain as day now. This man has been expelled from the group.

Well. I can fix that.

Awash in relief, I plop another carrot onto my plate with more gusto. “No, you just tell them you can take over from here. This was all your doing after all.”

“Me?” His expression is a tangle of pleasure and shock. “I didn’t tell you to put up a marriage proposal.”

“You most certainly did,” I say. “All this talk about Ashley standing up for herself. Growing. Telling Lance to tie the knot or shove off. Of course, shoving off is just much too rude for my character, so I did the only other thing you suggested that made sense: matrimony. The great big bicycle built for two. It’ll be much more fun to see them quarrel over wedding registries than see her off weeping into a pillow, don’t you think?” I eye the bowl of sun-dried tomatoes surrounded by everything-seasoned pretzels that, quite unbelievably, are all so misshapen I daresay they may well be homemade. I bite into one, and an explosion of garlic, onion, butter, and even—what is that? Paprika? Curry?—floods the senses in the best way.

Amazing.

I’m practically weak in the knees as I begin to load up my plate.