“I was about to say get her to apologize, but on second thought, I don’t want her in the same room with Eric,” she said. “But someone should tell her exactly what we think of her. I would, but I’m not sure they’d let me anywhere near her again.”
What had Mother done to make herself persona non grata in the autograph room? I decided I’d rather not know, though chances were I’d hear all about it before the end of the convention. And did she realize what she was asking me to do? Tell Michael’s boss exactly what my family and I thought of her?
Then again, why not? Odds were the QB couldn’t afford to fire Michael right now. It might be a good thing if she did, for that matter. Right now, at the peak of his popularity with the series, he’d probably find it relatively easy to find other roles. Meatier, more dignified roles that did not require him to prance around in tight leather pants.
And if not, well, eventually we’d find a house we could afford without the acting income.
“But first, get her damned autograph on the program,” Mother said.
“Do you have any idea why she wouldn’t sign it?” I asked.
“She kept shouting that she didn’t want her signature on the same page as that imposter’s,” Mother said.
Imposter? I glanced at the page. I only saw signatures from Michael—that looked genuine—and Maggie West. Who, from reading her one-paragraph biography, had played the Duchess of Urushiol, Walker’s on-screen mother, for the first half of season one. I’d only started watching when Michael joined the show, but she looked familiar. Then again, she was an actress; I’d probably seen her in lots of things, if she’d been in the business as long as the QB had. Of course, that didn’t mean whoever signed the program was the real thing. Maybe the convention had invited the wrong Maggie West, too.
“I’ll straighten it out,” I said.
Chapter 12
Straighten it out. Good idea. But how?
Play it by ear, I advised myself. So as I strode toward the Innsmouth Room, where the autograph sessions were held, I let my anger at the QB build up. Not only for what she’d done to Eric, but for everything she’d done to anyone. Everyone. All weekend. Ever since I’d met her. Her whole life.
I had a good head of steam by the time I reached the autograph room. Outside, I saw convention volunteers turning people away. Blast. I knew that my present mood would severely impair my ability to charm my way past security.
But no, actually they were recruiting people. Drafting passers-by to stand in line for autographs. And distributing 8?10 black-and-white photos to the draftees.
Okay, so breaking into line wouldn’t cause a riot.
I moved along the side of the room. Michael wasn’t there. Probably just as well. But Nate, the scriptwriter, and Walker were. Nate was hovering attentively over the QB. Walker was waiting to take his turn.
“Hey, Walker,” I said, slipping into place beside him. “Any chance you could sneak me to the head of the line? I want to get an autograph for someone who can’t make it.”
“You sure you want to?” he said, surprised. “She’s in a lousy mood.”
“That makes two of us,” I said. “Just do it.”
He hesitated, no doubt suspecting that I hadn’t suddenly become an avid fan. I nudged him into motion, and then walked beside him to her table. Amazon security ignored us, as I’d anticipated.
“Meg, how are you?” Nate said.
Walker retreated. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him heading for the other side of the room.
“Wanted to get Miss Wynncliffe-Jones to sign a program for one of my friends.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to,” Nate said.
He held out his hand for the program, but I didn’t surrender it to him. Or to the QB when the person she was talking to moved away and she reached out mechanically to take it.
Maybe it was stupid, but I held the program out of reach until she finally looked up.
“Oh, hello….” she said.
“Meg,” I said. “You’ve seen me often enough to know my name by now. At least before the cocktail hour.”
A faint crease appeared in her forehead. Anger? Alarm? I didn’t care which. Maybe just irritation at the monkey who’d used a trailing vine to drop down nearly level with our heads, and kept looking back and forth between us, rapt by our encounter.
“What do you want?” the QB asked. Not openly hostile. Just cold.
“Sign this,” I said, slapping the program down on the table in front of her. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t sign it for my nephew just now, and I don’t care. If you have some problem with Maggie West being at the convention, take it out on the organizers, not on a child.”
She was looking at me intently now, as if seeing me for the first time. And she was taking a deep breath and drawing herself up for a tirade. I ought to know the signs—I’d seen her do the same stunt on every other episode of the show and countless times in person when hapless people crossed her. The monkey hissed, as if warning that danger approached.
“Stow it,” I said. “If you start shouting at me, I’ll shout louder, and you may not like some of the things I’ll say, but I’m sure everyone else will be fascinated.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what I would have shouted if she’d called my bluff, but it’s easy to blackmail the guilty. To my relief, she glanced over at the fans in line, and then bent her head and signed.
“You don’t want me as an enemy,” she said, handing the program back.
“No, I don’t want anything to do with you at all,” I agreed. “I’d be just as happy not to see you for the rest of the convention. Though you’ll see me, if you mistreat another child the way you did my nephew.”
I checked to make sure she’d really signed, and not just written something rude in Eric’s program. No, there it was; Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones. More legible than usual.
“You’ll regret this,” she said.
“What are you going to do?” I said. “Fire Michael? Go ahead, if you want to see your stupid show go down the tubes.”
She jerked as if I’d struck her, and I smiled, and I’m not sure what would have happened next if the monkey hadn’t startled us both by beginning to shriek loudly, baring its teeth in what was obviously a gesture of aggression.
Though when you come right down to it, so was my insincere smile. Points to the monkey for honesty, I thought, as I turned on my heels and walked out.
Behind me, I could hear someone trying to shoo the monkey away, and then the QB’s voice.
“I’m tired now, Nate. I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short.”
None of the people in line seemed upset that the QB was leaving before signing their programs. In fact, some looked relieved.
Mission accomplished, I decided to detour through the green room for a snack.
I found Michael there, sitting in a corner with Francis, his agent. Michael looked stern. Francis looked unhappy. Good. Michael needed to put some backbone into Francis. Or better yet, get a new agent. A good agent. He’d had a very good agent, back in his struggling, soap opera days, but unfortunately about the time Michael left acting for academia, she’d given up agenting to open a trendy restaurant. So when Walker recommended Michael for the part on Porfiria, Michael had started working with Walker’s agent, Francis. Who had been a disaster.
Michael smiled when he saw me, and beckoned me over to their table.
“I mean it,” he was saying, as I came within earshot. “You’re the one who got me into this. If you can’t fix it, I’ll find someone who can.”
“I’ll try,” Francis said, standing up hastily when he saw me. “I really will.”
Michael was shaking his head as I took Francis’s chair. I could see Francis leaving the room—almost running,
