“But that’s freaking—”
Angie must have thought Vera was about to scream out some expletive because she shoved Randolph forward, and he rushed to stand in front of our table.
“Indeed, it is!” he said nonsensically to camera, grinning as he blathered cheerfully about some of the items coming up later in the show. He finished with, “We’ll be right back.”
“And . . . we’re clear!” Angie shouted.
Vera looked shell-shocked. Everyone in the studio started talking again, moving here and there between the sets, carrying on normal conversations.
I had watched the program a bunch of times, so I knew that when they went in to edit the shows, they would plaster across the TV screen a green graphic banner announcing the amount of money I had quoted, accompanied by the sound of a cash register making a sale. Cha-ching!
Angie approached me, but suddenly stopped and cupped her hand over her ear to hear what was being said over the headset. Her arm shot up in the air. “Quiet, people!”
Everyone in the vicinity froze. What awesome power she has, I thought. It was all in the headset. I wanted one.
“Randolph, don’t move,” she warned, as though she suspected he would disappear if given half a chance. Then she announced to the group in general, “Okay, we’re gonna need camera one to remain here. Jane wants to tape a short chat between Randolph and the book expert. For everyone else, we’re moving on to the Civil War segment.”
Most of the crew stirred themselves into action at the mention of Jane, the director. They pushed the cameras and the heavy microphone boom to the opposite side of the large studio where another cozy antiques-furnished set similar to mine had been designated the war room.
I had met Jane Dorsey earlier that day, during my orientation with the two executive producers, Tom Darby and Walter Williams. Jane was almost six feet tall and very attractive, but stick thin, with white blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Today she wore knee-high black boots over her jeans and a black sweater. A long white scarf was tied around her neck and fluttered in her wake as she walked.
Apparently the long scarf was something she wore every day. Tom explained that they kept the air really cold in the director’s booth so the equipment wouldn’t overheat, but I figured she also enjoyed the dramatic effect. Not that she needed it. People paid instant attention to her when she walked into a room.
Camera one remained in place, still pointed in my direction, along with its operator and a couple of crew members who assisted with microphones and cables.
Angie looked around anxiously. “Where did Randolph wander off to?”
“I’m here,” he said from halfway across the stage floor. “I’m here. I’m here. Don’t pay the ransom.”
A few of the crew guys chuckled and Angie’s lips twisted sarcastically. “Can we get this show on the road?”
I wondered how he had escaped all the way across the room in mere seconds. The guy was speedy, for sure.
“Okay, let’s do this,” Randolph said, and flashed me a rakish grin. “Hello, beautiful.”
“You are so full of it,” Angie muttered.
“But you love me, anyway,” he said, bumping his shoulder into her arm.
“Yeah, in the worst way,” Angie said. She paused to listen to a voice in her ear, then said to us, “They’re not quite ready upstairs, but don’t anyone go anywhere.”
Randolph snorted. “Famous last words. I’ll be right over here.” And with that, he wandered a few feet away to kibitz with one of the crew.
“You move and I’ll kill you,” she said.
He grinned and winked at me behind Angie’s back. He was the worst kind of flirt, completely adorable and charming. I could tell Angie liked him. What woman wouldn’t? Maybe she didn’t want to like him, but she couldn’t help herself. All of that was probably clear to Randolph, as well. Angie seemed pretty transparent with her feelings.
She was beautiful, with pale skin and a halo of thick, dark curly hair. They would make an adorable couple if hard-as-nails Angie could ever learn to deal with Randolph, the charming jokester.
The stage manager ignored the star as she rested her elbows on my table. “You did a good job, Brooklyn. Once we’re finished with the chitchat, you’ve got at least two hours to kick back before we tape another book segment.” She turned to Vera. “You okay, hon?”
Vera blinked a few times. “Oh. I’m . . . I’m a little shaken up, but very happy.”
Angie pulled two pieces of paper from the clipboard she carried. “Almost forgot. You both need to sign these releases.”
“Another one?” I’d already signed my life away that morning, indemnifying everyone in the universe in case of any possible occurrence of anything, including acts of God. “What are these for?”
“One of our local news stations is here, taping some footage for their nightly segment. It’s sort of a Look What’s Going On in San Francisco kind of thing.”