Royce Rolls Page 5

  She reached for Bent’s hand across the table, giving it a quick-clawed squeeze. “Sorry to keep you waiting, lovey. The paparazzi chased me all the way here. I swear they’re trying to kill me.”

  “Whatever,” Bad Bentley said, rolling her eyes per the script—though today’s write-up had been pretty sketchy, even for the RWTR writers’ room. Probably because: hiatus. What the hell were they even doing here on what should have been their time off? She hoped the crew was getting paid time and a half.

  Porsche kissed the air in Bach’s direction, as well. He waved her off lazily. “Kiss, kiss to you, too, big sister.”

  She tossed Bent her lip gloss. “New color. Lippies by Porsche, Summer Salmon.”

  “Ew.” Bent wrinkled her nose (which wasn’t in the script, but in fairness, Porsche’s endless product placements never were either). “Fish-gloss? Gross.”

  “It’s a color,” Porsche said, now irritated.

  “Plain iced tea,” the waiter said, putting a glass of murky brown liquid in front of Bach. He enunciated carefully as he spoke, which was always what happened when an extra landed a speaking part; they sounded like GPSs. “Muddled mint lemonade,” he continued, placing a glass of white-and-green fizz in front of Bent. The Diet Cokes he slid silently to Mercedes and Porsche, which meant Pam was paying by the line.

  Bent picked up her mint lemonade and waited for the latest salvo in the war between her mother and herself over the extra three (two? one?) pounds she carried on her bubble butt, which had become one of this year’s recurring story lines.

  Mercedes clucked. (It was her on-camera disapproving mother sound.) “Drink tea, not lemonade, Bentley.”

  Bent shrugged. “You know I don’t like plain tea. It tastes like wood.” She stuck out her tongue. Bach kicked her under the table, which he did every time she gave in and stuck out her tongue, as instructed by the Bentley Bible.

  “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” Mercedes said sternly. It was one of her favorite lines, and she had a habit of adding it to every script.

  “God, listen to yourself,” Bentley said, scooting her chair farther away from her mother in annoyance. (Another beloved on-camera #RWTR joke.)

  Bach drank from his glass. “Skinny doesn’t taste that bad. You get used to it.” This time, Bent kicked her brother beneath the table. Suck-up. He already was skinny—damn him and his Adderall.

  “Is that my Diet Coke? Did nobody order me extra ice?” Porsche ate like one of Satan’s hounds guarding the entrance to hell. Strips of flesh and Diet Coke or water, depending on whether she was on or off the soda—her own personal crack.

  Nothing else entered her body.

  “It’s the weather,” the fake waiter said apologetically, before disappearing in search of ice that could withstand a Santa Ana wind—and a possible second performance. (Bent doubted he would find either.)

  “So let’s cut to the chase. Why are we here, Mercedes?” Bach was already shuffling a deck of cards in one hand, beneath the tablecloth. He looked nervous, and Bent realized she was nervous too.

  Right from the start, when Mercedes had landed them the show, Porsche was the anointed alpha dog; Bent privately thought of her mother and sister as Thing One and Thing Two. Everything was about the two of them, and they were a fierce doubles act; if the Royce family was Under Mercedes, it was also About Porsche. Which was a pretty scary feeling for the other people in the family—for your own life to never be about, well, you—to be B- or C- or even D-listed by your own flesh and blood. Whereas other families maybe had favorite children, the Royce family had stars and additional cast members. Which, as bad as it might be, felt even worse—at least for the additional cast members.

  Bach kicked her under the table. Focus, B. They’re filming.

  “Yeah, what he said. Let’s get this party started already,” Bent said. “Before we melt.” She didn’t feel like making a Bad Bentley face, and couldn’t think of a rude enough comment, so she just tried to slurp her lemonade as loudly as she could.

  “Absolutely. You’re here,” Mercedes finally said, sitting tall in her seat (Golden string, Mercedes! Golden string!) “. . . because I have News.”

  Hmm. Also not in the script.

  “Please say syndication.” Bach was momentarily intrigued. “Please, please say syndication.”

  Porsche snorted—not one of her approved on-camera sounds—and put down her Diet Coke with a thump. “Are you kidding? Syndication? Dream on, guys.”

  “CUT!” Mercedes yelled.

  Mac and Teddy looked at Pam, and then slowly lowered their cameras.

  JoJo kept filming. (It was Lifespan policy to keep one camera rolling, in case Jeff Grunburg wanted to go through the footage later. Privately, Mercedes felt like this was just another tactic in the psychological war the two of them waged on each other, the ongoing battle of who worked for whom.18)

  Mercedes turned on Porsche. “Really? Dream on? You just couldn’t keep that one to yourself?”

  Bentley raised an eyebrow. Mercedes snapping at Porsche? Is there a crack in the Great Wall of Diva?

  “It’s his fault.” Porsche glared at her brother. “We’ve been off track since we started. If you for once ever learned the script—”

  “Yeah? At least I’m not the reason we just had to stop shooting.” Bach scowled.

  Porsche rolled her eyes. “What was I supposed to say? Syndication? At the rate we’re going, that will never happen. This isn’t Duke of Ducks. I’m not Joelynne Wabash. We don’t have a secret family recipe for duckloaf. We’ll never be syndicated.”

  “We don’t know that,” Mercedes began.

  “Don’t we? Then how come we haven’t even heard a word about next season yet?” Porsche started to stress-frown, and then realized what she was doing and took a breath, massaging her face with her fingertips. (Stress wrinkles, Bentley knew from her sister’s daily lectures, went deep. Maybe even the deepest.)19

  “Well, that’s why we’re doing something about it,” Mercedes said calmly. Only she wasn’t calm, Bent knew. Mercedes never bothered to make herself sound calm when she actually felt calm.

  Uh-oh. That’s not good.

  “Doing? Doing what? There’s nothing we can do!” Porsche, unlike her mother, was practically wailing. “We’re getting boxed out. Everyone’s so busy not talking about it and not picking up when we call and not asking us for favors and not inviting us on their planes, it’s almost like they’re rubbing it in.”

  Bentley looked at her sister. “Not to be negative, but would it really be the worst thing in the world? If we were, you know, cance—”

  “Don’t say it!” Porsche shrieked. “Don’t put those vibes into the atmosphere! If you say it, it could happen, and then what would we do?”

  “Go back to our regular lives? Go to school? Get jobs? Contribute to the greater good of society, for a change?” Even before the words left her mouth, Bent knew that she was pressing her luck.

  “What?”

  “Bentley!”

  Both Mercedes and Porsche looked like they’d been struck. Bentley sighed. At least she could give them that to agree on. Even if it meant Bach’s foot was now digging into her ankle.

  Mercedes recovered first. She leaned across the table and clutched Bentley’s hand. “I know why you feel you need to say these hateful things, Bentley. I know you’re terrified on the inside that the unspeakable will happen, and that you don’t know what you’ll do if you have to go back to regular life.”

  “Okaaaay,” Bentley said. She looked back at the cameras, because Mercedes was definitely doing her on-camera voice. Ted’s and Mac’s green indicator lights were still off, though. Only JoJo circled around Mercedes now. She’s getting primed, Bent thought. This is just the lead-up. Proceed with extreme caution.

  Mercedes kept going. “But we are going to make it. I promise you that. Literally nothing else in our life matters, not to me. Because I am your mother.”

  Bent and Bach locked eyes. Mercede
s had used the m-word.

  “Wait. Literally nothing?” Bach asked.

  Kick, kick. Bent answered him beneath the table.

  “But you’re right, Porsche. We’ve got to up the stakes for next season if we want to stay in the game. Joelynn Wabash is this year’s headliner, that’s true. That’s also part of the reason why I want you to meet someone. A very special someone.” Mercedes looked at Pam. Pam’s arm shot up, and the cameras went back on.

  An ambush, Bent thought. Not in the script, but Pam’s in on it. Then she caught the look on her sister’s face—which was shock. Wait—Porsche’s as clueless as we are? How is that possible? Since when did Mercedes start keeping Porsche out of the loop?

  It wasn’t possible.

  Porsche recovered seconds later, just as all three cameras began to move in on the family. She made a point of adjusting her face so it stayed out of the sun—or rather, the direct line of both Mac’s and Teddy’s shots—while she pulled herself together. “You know I hate surprises, Mercedes.”

  “Well, you’re all going to love this one,” Mercedes said, looking mischievous. “He’s just in the other room. I’ve invited a very special boy to come live with us. A beautiful baby boy. And we’re going to raise him as a Royce.”

  The cameras swiveled for the reaction shot (which, as it turns out, was not one they would have missed—no matter where they were positioned on the patio).

  “What the hell, Mercedes?!” Porsche knocked over her Diet Coke and staggered to her feet, dripping wet.

  “A WHAT?!” Bach looked at his mother blankly.

  “The hell?!” Porsche said again, this time more loudly.

  “A BABY?!” Bach said, incredulous.

  “MERCEDES! YOU CANNOT TAKE CARE OF A BABY!” By the time Porsche got the words out, she was shouting.

  Not Bentley. She said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. She had never in her life seen her sister turn on her mother like that. When Mercedes drove, Porsche rode shotgun. When they sat in a restaurant booth, it was always assumed that Porsche got the seat next to her mother. And the spare Birkin. And the second producer credit. And the extra Emmys ticket . . .

  It’s not possible, Bent thought again. Thing One and Thing Two aren’t supposed to fight like this. The Divas were . . . the Divas. The stars were the stars.

  And yet here they were, her sister screaming at her mother as if she were something lower than an additional cast member.

  Bach slammed his hand on the table with mock excitement. “Of course Mercedes can’t take care of a baby. Which is why this whole angle is genius!”

  “Oh, please,” Mercedes said.

  “Nothing about this is genius,” Porsche barked.

  “Oh, yeah? You know what’s really going to move the dial on our ratings? When our mother is arrested for reckless endangerment of a baby!” Bach started clapping. “Well played, Mercedes. Even for you, well played.”

  “You’re being rude.” Mercedes drew herself up, pushing back her seat. She looked straight at Porsche. “I don’t deserve this, and I’m hurt, really. Have a little faith. I know what I’m doing.”

  “ ‘I know what I’m doing’?!” Porsche began laughing hysterically. “Says the adoptive parent of my new baby brother?!”20

  “You might as well at least meet the poor thing. Especially since we had Production drag him the whole way from Ojai along with his team. You have no idea, the paperwork.” Mercedes sniffed.

  Porsche and Bent and Bach were speechless.

  “Stay there, I’ll bring him out. We can pick it up with a new reaction shot.” Mercedes rushed back to the patio door, motioning to Pam. “Probably joy, right? Or maybe surprise? Pam? What did the writers say? Do we need to do more than joy?” Mercedes disappeared into the restaurant.

  “Joy should cover it,” Pam said, as if nothing strange was happening at all. Then she turned to the Royce kids. “Can you guys give me joy?”

  “Seriously?” Porsche looked at their producer, disgusted.

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Pam did not. (She never did.) She bent over the table now, leaning on the back of Mercedes’s empty wicker chair. “It’s hot. It’s hiatus. We’re now in time and a half.” She raised her head and stared straight at the three remaining Royces. “So can you please get it together and give me some freaking joy? GIVE. ME. SOME. FREAKING. JOY. That’s all I want to see or hear from any of you.”

  The siblings stared. Bent’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know what to think if even Pam was losing it now.

  Pam stood up straight again. “I need more Bentley. More Bach. And you, Porsche?” She looked serious. “Dial it down. I need way less Porsche for the rest of the day, okay? Okay.”

  Less Porsche. Two words that had never been said before. Porsche was so surprised, she didn’t say anything at all.

  “Fabulous.” Pam turned back toward the patio door. “Quiet on set.” Her arm flew up. “And . . . we’re rolling. Bring him in!”

  They could only hear Mercedes’s voice at first. “Come here, Hope. Come with Mama, Hope. That’s what I’m calling you. My sweet baby Hope.”

  Mama? Impossible.

  Mercedes emerged in the doorway, calling over her shoulder—but to what, Bent couldn’t tell.

  “Hope! Come here, hot stuff. Come give your new big sister Porsche a big kiss. She really, really, really wants to meet you.”

  Bent held her breath—

  As the three cameras swung around in the direction of the newest member of the Royce family—

  As Mercedes lifted up what appeared to be an orange-and-brown leather Hermès leash—

  And as an enormous feathered creature waddled out behind her.

  “A DUCK?” Bent said, choking on the words.

  “IT’S A DUCK?” Bach shouted.

  “WHAT THE DUCK?!” Porsche howled.

  Mercedes smiled. It was a duck, all right—and not just any duck. Hope the Duck was the size of the turkey they’d eaten at the LA Country Club last Thanksgiving. To be honest, Hope was just a few webbed feet short of being the size of a Smart car. He was no gentle turtledove either.

  “Hope is from Joelynne Wabash’s wild game supplier. Get it? He’s Duke of Ducks royalty,” Mercedes said proudly. “Take that, Joelynne. This is one feathery fricassee you’ll never lay your lips on.”

  Nobody said anything. Not in words, anyway.

  QUAAAAAAAAACK!

  The approach of mother and duck was accompanied by a chaotic chorus of flapping and fluttering and feathers flying.

  Bent stared at the thrashing animal. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  “Oh my god,” Porsche said. She sunk back down into her chair and started to cry. “That’s it. I can’t do this. I give up. It’s over.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You’ll scare Hopie.” Mercedes yanked the leash harder. “He’s part of our family now.” As if in answer, Hope hopped up onto Mercedes’s empty chair and scrambled to the top of the table, knocking over Bentley’s (almost full) lemonade glass and stepping straight into a plate of soft (completely untouched) butter—narrowly missing Mercedes’s Diet Coke.

  QUAAAAAAAAACK!

  Porsche cried harder. Bach put his arm around his sister. “It’s okay, P.” He patted her back. “Everything will be okay.”

  “Stop crying! I said stop!” Mercedes was getting frustrated now. She couldn’t handle this many emotions in one day. “This will work. I’m telling you! Hope is going to fix everything. You just aren’t seeing it yet!”

  Porsche snapped. “Give up, Mercedes! How desperate do you think this looks?” She sprung to her feet. “You think people are just going to buy that we’re suddenly duck people now? Well, they won’t! Because we’re not! We’re nothing! We’re not getting another season and we’re just as pathetic as everyone thinks we are!”

  “Not everyone,” Bach began, standing up—but Bentley pulled him right back down into his chair. This wasn’t a fight for additional cast members like the two of
them. Not when the Divas were facing off.

  “Do you have a better idea?” Mercedes was starting to lose it herself.

  “Better than making us a joke? A low-class, white-trash joke?” Porsche hurled back. “Of course I do!”

  “GREAT! PITCH ME! GO ON, DAZZLE ME! Since you suddenly know everything—what’s your idea, Porsche? What’s your big high-class trash-don’t-stink million-dollar idea? If you’ve got one, by all means let’s hear it!” Mercedes’s voice grew louder as she spoke, until she was shouting. Porsche was clearly caught off guard.

  “WELL?!” Mercedes roared.

  “NOW?” Porsche was blushing. “I don’t know—I guess—Oh, come on, Mercedes, it doesn’t work like that. I’d have to brainstorm—storyboard—consult—that kind of thing takes time—” She looked at her brother and sister for help.

  “Sure,” Bent said from the table.

  “That’s what I’ve heard.” Bach tried his best to be supportive. Of course, neither sibling had ever been asked to pitch or storyboard anything before.

  Mercedes yanked the leash in front of her. “Of course you’ve got nothing! You complain and complain, but do any of you ever do anything? No! Never! Why should you?”

  “I’m at every meeting you’re at, Mercedes!” Porsche’s eyes narrowed. The worst was not yet over, it seemed.

  “And I’m the only one who actually does what it takes to help this family!” Mercedes was as red-cheeked and emotional as Porsche now. She yanked the leash again.

  QUAAAAAAAAAAAACK!

  The panicked duck couldn’t take it anymore. It flung itself into their faces, flapping its wings and stomping its flippers and as a result upsetting nearly every drink, breadbasket, salt and pepper shaker, and bowl of artisanal sugar cubes on the table in one spin around the center.

  Bach rolled out of his seat. Bentley pushed her chair away from the table. Porsche screamed. “HELP? This is your idea of HELP?”

  “At least I’m doing SOMETHING!”

  “You think this is something?” Porsche was apoplectic. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? I thought my Lippies Line would save us—but my entire product line is tanking! I’ve got a twenty-million-dollar budget shortfall, and you’re buying the family a pet duck? Wake up, Mercedes! You guaranteed my loans. We’re not just going to lose the show—we’re going to lose the house!”