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The Showrunner

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The Showrunner

  Praise for Kim Moritsugu’s Previous Books

  The Oakdale Dinner Club

  “Under the author’s deft pen, her small community comes to life; her plot weaves back and forth through time with skill.”

  — Publishers Weekly

  “The Oakdale Dinner Club is light and entertaining and goes down as smoothly as the free-flowing dinner-party wine.”

  — Quill and Quire

  “Toronto writer Kim Moritsugu’s clever sixth novel is sheer ­entertainment from beginning to end.”

  — The Waterloo Record

  The Restoration of Emily

  “A very funny, sometimes suspenseful novel for grown-ups … Moritsugu writes with dash and irony.”

  — Quill and Quire

  “A fun, light, and adept piece of writing.”

  — Globe and Mail

  “Funny, wise and sharp, this is a character all of us can see a little bit of ourselves in.”

  — Chatelaine

  The Glenwood Treasure (shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Best Crime Novel)

  “The Glenwood Treasure has suggestions of the late Timothy ­Findley and more than a hint of the old Nancy Drew mysteries. But, given the strength of this book, it seems more fitting to drop the comparisons and allow Moritsugu her own place on the literary landscape.”

  — Globe and Mail

  “Kim Moritsugu is a witty social observer and the book deftly blends a comedy of manners into the mystery.”

  — Toronto Star

  “A cozy read … Moritsugu is a good writer with an appealing central character that will awaken the inner girl in all of us.”

  — National Post

  Table of Contents


  Praise for Kim Moritsugu’s Previous Books



  2 Ann’s Journal





  7 Ann’s Journal







  13 Ann’s Journal







  19 Ann’s Journal






  24 Ann’s Journal








  32 Ann’s Journal









  40 Ann’s Journal





  45 Ann’s Journal





  March Fifteen months later




  Also by Kim Moritsugu



  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content




  Stacey was in her office with the door closed, reading a script, when she heard her producing partner, Ann, bray her name from outside her door. “Stacey! You in there?”

  She marked the spot that she’d read to and pictured Ann steamrolling down the hallway. Three, two, one: Ann flung the door open and stepped inside. “There you are. I want you to meet someone.”

  Stacey did not grimace at the interruption. She made her eyes go bright and friendly and held up the script. “Hold on, I’m halfway through the latest draft of episode 5.”

  “I’ll be quick. And that script is fine; I already approved it.”

  If Stacey were keeping track of Ann’s little put-downs, that would be the first of the day, the fifth this week. On a Tuesday morning.

  Ann pulled in from the hallway a slim, pretty actress whose credits included the lead in a low-budget horror movie, a four-­episode guest arc on Gossip Girl, and featured roles in the ensemble casts of two short-lived cable shows. She had also done a TV spot in the previous year for The Olive Garden, as a perky waitress, if Stacey was not mistaken. But what was she doing in the office?

  Ann said, “Jenna, I’d like you to meet Stacey Sampson, the second woman in Two Women Walking, and co-creator of The Benjamins. Stacey, this is —”

  The second woman? Make that slight number six. Stacey said, “Jenna Kuyt, isn’t it?,” stood, shook hands, and hoped Ann had not gone behind her back and cast this Jenna without Stacey’s consent. She had nothing against the girl, but there were protocols in place for who did what when and consulted with whom. Protocols Ann was inclined to forget.

  “It’s such a treat to meet you!” Jenna said. “I was just telling Ann how much I loved Mothers and Daughters, and you worked on it, too, right?”

  “I did, yeah. And hey, I liked your work in East Side, West Side.”

  “You mean you were one of the ten people who saw an episode before it was cancelled?”

  Jenna was enough of an actress that Stacey couldn’t tell if the modesty shtick was false or true. What she could see was that Jenna’s face was a study in the golden ratio that defines physical beauty. Up close, she was breathtaking, in a pan-ethnic, olive-skinned, green-eyed, auburn-haired kind of way. Like a citizen of the future, an ambassador of the planet. Next to Ann, she looked like Baby New Year alongside Mother Time.

  “But thanks,” Jenna said. “It’s good to know someone watched the show other than my parents and my boyfriend.”

  Okay. What was Jenna doing there? And why were Stacey’s calf muscles tensed, and her heart rate elevated?

  Ann said, “Jenna’s going to be my assistant while Candace is on maternity leave.” And to Jenna: “Stacey is number one on my contact list. We call each other eight times a day, minimum. And text or message countless more times. Right, Stacey?”

  “Sometimes,” Stacey said, “we even speak to face-to-face, like we’re doing now.”

  Jenna smiled politely, Ann rambled on about the nature of their partnership, and Stacey wondered what Ann was up to with this hire. Maybe Jenna’s acting career had slumped (The Olive Garden, for Christ’s sake) from C-list to off-list in the last year, and she was reduced to doing temp work, so why not become an assistant to an industry heavyweight like Ann? And it would be just like Ann to take pleasure in bossing around — she would call it mentoring — a pretty, semi-known actress. That was probably what was happening: the two of them were engaged in mutual exploitation, and Stacey’s fight-or-flight response was an overreaction. “I should get back to this script,” she said. “Welcome aboard, Jenna. I hope you like it here.”

  “I’m sure I will. It’ll be fun to learn how the business works from the other side of the camera.”

  Yeah, non-stop fun was what they had, all right. Stacey said, “Ann, a quick question — what happened to the pool house sex scene? I didn’t see it in this draft.”

  “I moved it to ep 6. And like I said, don’t worry about that script.”

  “Me, not worry? Is that even possible?”

  Ann ignored that, and on her way out, said to Jenna, “Stacey started in the business as my assistant a few years back. I took her on straight from college, and now her office is almost as big as mine.”

  Ann’s version of the how-they’d-met story positioned her as a wise old bitch an
d Stacey as a young, eager-to-please pup plucked from a litter of interns and trained until she became Ann’s top dog. It was true enough that Stacey didn’t need to hear it again. She got up to close the door and heard Jenna ask, “So, which one of you is the showrunner?”

  Good question. Stacey waited, doorknob in hand, to hear Ann’s reply.

  “I am. On the creative side, anyway. I’m the éminence grise around here.”

  “The what?”

  “The head honcho.”

  Stacey shook her head. Ann would take full credit until forever for their combined work, and for the work of the three hundred people that their production company employed to produce The Benjamins, a primetime dramedy (the inevitable tagline: “It’s All About Them”) centred on the hopes, dreams, and weaknesses of an interracial L.A. showbiz family.

  Glory-taking was Ann’s way, and there was no denying that her track record of thirty-one years in television — take this in: she’d started in TV the year Stacey was born — had helped sell the show to the network. But the Benjamins concept had been all Stacey’s to begin with. She’d dreamt up the concept during her non-existent spare time while producing Ann’s last show. She built and devised the storylines, characters, and arcs for the entire first season and put together a complete show bible before she even brought the idea to Ann. Before Ann had tweaked it and assumed ownership of it.

  Ann said, “Stacey’s a rock, but her role is to look after the logistical side of things. She’s got an accountant’s mind — she’s all about dotting i’s and crossing t’s.”

  Stacey eased her office door shut. The secret to survival when working with Ann was to pick out the occasional tiny gold nugget of approval from the dross she blurted out daily. So Stacey would take being called accountant-ish and rock-like as a compliment, and she would get back to work.

  As of that August morning, two episodes, post-pilot, of the eight-episode first-season order of The Benjamins were in the can, the fourth was in production, the premiere was slated to air in a month, and Stacey was so busy she had to compartmentalize. She picked up the script and tried to focus in on it, but she couldn’t ­concentrate — her mind skittered and bounced over the words on the page. She lifted her head, dropped her jaw, and placed two fingers on the pressure point beneath her collarbone. She breathed in and out and ordered her brain to calm itself, to de-tense. That was better.

  When she’d finished reading the script, she made some notes on it and gave it to her assistant, Topher, to distribute, though without employing any of the techniques Ann had used in Stacey’s assistant days. There were no imperial summons or hollered orders, and no throwing of papers across the room. Instead, Stacey got up from her desk, opened her office door, and waited until Topher finished his phone call before asking him to please pass the script on.

  “On it,” he said. “And sorry about Ann barging in on you before. I told her you wanted some alone time, but she pretended she didn’t hear me.”

  “Thanks for trying. Did you meet the new assistant?”

  “The actress? Yes, I did.” He gave Stacey a knowing look from behind his hipster glasses. “You want in on the office pool for how long she lasts?”

  “Now, now. Let’s be nice to her for at least a week or two.”

  Topher arched one eyebrow, a trick he was good at. “So I’ll put you down for two weeks? My bet is on ten days.”


  “I should deal with this script,” he said, and hustled off.

  Back inside her office, Stacey picked up her phone and read a text from Ann:

  Did u talk to Ryan yet?

  Ryan was the actor who played The Benjamins’ resident heartthrob, one of the adult grandsons of the Benjamin patriarch. Thanks to a panty-melting grin, a well-proportioned and ripped physique, and a willingness to remove his shirt at the drop of a clapperboard, he had built up a vocal online fan base of gay men and straight women on his last show, and Stacey was counting on Ryan’s pecs and abs to pull in some early eyes to The Benjamins. So far, he’d kept his body in shape, shown up on time for his calls, and dutifully attended the second-rate red carpet events the studio publicists had arranged to have him invited to and photographed at. His acting was one-note — his role as a charming slacker was made for him. So he’d caused no concerns until word had reached Stacey from an on-set spy that he’d become extra-friendly with Vanessa, the seventeen-year-old nymphet actress who played the role of his seventeen-year-old nymphet sister.

  Ann and Stacey had discussed the issue the day before on their mid-morning walk — a leisurely stroll from the studio to a nearby coffee shop and back — during which they covered the usual seven or eight items of business, Ann did not mention that she’d hired a new assistant, and Stacey was elected to have a chat with Ryan to warn him off the jailbait.

  “He’ll take it better coming from you than me,” Ann had said. “From someone closer to him in age. If I talked to him, I’d prob­ably come off parental, and that would be so not cool. For him and for me.”

  Stacey agreed that she should handle Ryan, but not because they were of the same generation. More because she was immune to Ryan’s charms, and Ann wasn’t. Stacey knew better than to pursue or lust after any guy that handsome. She’d learned that lesson in high school, after a good-looking alpha male she’d yearned for all senior year had rewarded her devotion by letting her give him a blowjob at a grad party. Whereas Ann, despite her eminent greyness, had a way of dropping her boss woman persona in Ryan’s presence and turning girlish and giggly. And a little pathetic.

  Stacey had practised both parts of the upcoming conversation the night before, at home, where she’d adopted a jocular, between-us-guys tone, and had Ryan match her in kind. So, she was rehearsed when a flustered-looking Topher — Christ, not him, too — showed Ryan into her office.

  She began with a compliment on Ryan’s read of a line in the last scene she’d seen in dailies, a scene he played with Vanessa. As if his read had been in any way remarkable.

  He said, “Yeah? You liked it? I was trying to show that my character has a vulnerable side.”

  “Smart thinking. The fans love that in hot guys like you. And way to make the feelings between you and Vanessa look strictly fraternal during that big hug on the couch. No one would guess what’s going on in real life.”

  Ryan was a rare thing among young actors, a graduate of a halfway-demanding college program in economics, and the many hours he’d spent on tanning beds had not completely fried his brain, so he was fairly quick with a response. “Who said there’s something going on?”

  “Is there?”

  He did his signature jaw-clenching move. “Nothing that would make this meeting necessary.”

  “Good. I figured as much, but you know how people talk. And how the gossip hounds are ready to jump on any little indiscretion. Especially an indiscretion like statutory rape.”

  He blue-steeled her a ray of such active dislike that she would have been devastated if she were crushing on him like everyone else in the building. When she didn’t falter, he said, “You don’t think Vanessa’s a virgin, do you?”

  “I think we’ll all have something to celebrate when she turns eighteen in January. I know I’ll be sending her flowers.”

  “January’s a long way off. Who knows where we’ll be by then? The show could be cancelled.”

  She’d underestimated him, hadn’t realized he’d be up for a fight. She tried to look amused, as if she enjoyed their sparring, but her pulse sped up to an anxiety-making rate, and for the second time that morning. “We won’t be cancelled. With talent like you and Vanessa on board and the wicked storylines the writers are fleshing out, we’ll get a full-season pickup and an early renewal. Take it from me: good things come to those who wait.” They’d better, or her whole life plan would be shot to hell.

  Ryan stood and stretched — he lifted his sculpte
d arms in the air, and his T-shirt rode up, exposed his eight-pack. “Okay. Message received. I’ll hold Vanessa off. No matter how much she begs.” The douchebag grinned. “Is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”

  “No, that’s it.” It was time to throw him, douche or not, a carrot. “I’m glad we had this chat. I’m going to think about that vulnerability idea. There might be some interesting paths we can take your character down that we haven’t thought of yet. So thanks.”

  He turned the charm back on. “Any time.”

  Ann came by as Ryan was leaving — so she could experience the thrill of brushing past him in the doorway, Stacey suspected — and said, “Hey Ryan, how’s it hanging?”

  He said, “Low,” treated her to his sexy grin, and sauntered off.

  Ann stood in the doorway, awash in his Eau de Stud scent, and watched him walk away. While Stacey opened her desk drawer, found and swallowed some Advil, and avoided the sight of Ann flushing an embarrassing shade of menopause.

  When he was out of earshot, Ann said, “How’d that go?”

  “It looks like he’ll steer clear of Vanessa until she’s eighteen, or until he gets tired of her, whichever comes first.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “And they say gallantry is dead.”

  Ann said, “He’s a good guy. He won’t let us down.”

  Stacey wasn’t so sure, but she knew better than to disagree. “About your new assistant: are we hiring actresses to do clerical work now?”

  The besotted glow faded from Ann’s face and was replaced by something harder and colder. “You disapprove?”

  “Hiring her just seems a little like mixing church and state.”

  “I can’t believe we’re wasting time talking about who answers my phone. Why exactly is this a problem?”

  The Advil had better kick in soon. “It’s not a problem. In fact, what were we talking about just now? I forget.”

  “Good. You ready to walk? I want to discuss the cast retreat.”


  Ann’s Journal

  This is me keeping a journal. Which I’m doing because, one, I’d rather type stream-of-­­­consciousness banalities on my laptop than engage in conversation with my new driver, name of Miguel. He seems ­t­olerable — quiet and not too much of a talker. But no bonding with the help for me, thanks.

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