Turn Me On

So when you’re in your seats tonight enjoying the premiere of the production, applaud the actors but don’t forget to clap a few times for all the other folks who make the magic happen.

1

“WHAT I WANT FROM YOU, honey, is sex.” Royce Schuyler, the Home Cinema vice president of programming, stared across the restaurant table to where Sabrina Pantolini sat—poised, sleek and dark like a silky cat. “You give me that, and everything else will follow.”

“Royce, honey, I’ll give you the best sex you’ve ever had.” Sabrina smiled, her eyes ripe with promise and fun. A golden topaz hung winking from a gold chain around her neck. “This documentary series is going to have people stopping to take cold showers.”

“Swingers are old hat. Don’t give me swingers.”

Sabrina snorted and pushed her short, dark hair back behind her ears. “Forget swingers. That’s practically pedestrian. I’m talking about blow job tutors, exhibitionist hotels, you name it. It’s perfect for cable—all the stuff that the networks would never have the nerve to touch, and you guys will be putting it right in the late-night living rooms of Middle America.”

“With a guarantee like that, I’m looking forward to the pilot.”

“Great. Does that mean you’re ready to sign on for it?” Her goat cheese and heirloom tomato salad sat in front of her, forgotten.

Royce shook his head and scanned the restaurant with a practiced eye. “Not yet. I want to see what you’ve got when you finish the pilot.”

“I need working capital, Royce.”

“I’m sure you do, but I can’t give it to you.” He took a drink of his seltzer water. “Right now, you’ve got no track record and no staff on board.”

Sabrina suppressed a surge of annoyance. The money she was asking for was chump change for a cable network like Home Cinema and Schuyler knew it. On the other hand, she was fortunate he was even here talking to her. If she’d been anyone else, she’d have been lucky to meet some mid-level flunky in the city offices. Instead, she was here talking with Home Cinema’s vice president of programming in a see-and-be-seen restaurant.

She had no illusions about why she was getting the VIP treatment. Her father, Michael Pantolini, had been the kind of director people talked about in hushed whispers. Even five years after his death in an auto accident, Sabrina was still connected to the Hollywood power structure through her producer uncle, her action-star cousin and her set-designer mother. Sabrina was Hollywood royalty, but if it gave her some small edge, it also made her chafe.

“I can make a better pilot if I have Home Cinema behind me,” she said in a slightly bored voice, waving across the room to an actress she knew slightly.

“Find a way to make a hot pilot on your own. That’s the mark of a good producer. Bring it to me and we’ll talk.” Royce took a sip of his drink. “Hey, isn’t that your cousin who just came in?”

Sabrina glanced over at the door where Matt Ramsay had just arrived with this month’s hot starlet on his arm. Oh yeah, she knew how this worked. Royce expected her to call Matt over and introduce them. It would up Royce’s collateral with everyone in the room to be seen talking to the big box-office hero. And maybe the next time Royce was looking to cast an action miniseries, he’d have a better chance of getting Matt. Sabrina stifled a sigh. Sometimes she found the treacly, sycophantic side of Hollywood almost impossible to tolerate.

If she were smart, she’d use Matt to work Royce and get her funding. That was how it was done in Hollywood. Sabrina wasn’t always smart that way, though. She had a feisty disposition as classically Italian as the arc of her cheekbones, her vivid coloring and the hollows of her eyelids that somehow lent an extra importance to her every expression. She didn’t want to use her family connections to make this happen. She wanted to make True Sex fly on its own. If she could have gotten away with it, she’d have used her mother’s name. Unfortunately, Sabrina Pantolini was far too well-known from her years in the media spotlight to work incognito.

Matt waved and started over to where she sat.

Sabrina sighed. “All right, Schuyler, I’ll get you your pilot in six weeks. You like it, you give me a series contract.” She rose. “Thanks for lunch.”

“SO ARE YOU AN AUNTIE YET, Laeticia?” Sabrina asked her assistant as she breezed into the office of Pantolini Productions. Offices, really, if you counted the tiny reception/waiting area as separate from the cramped room behind it. Though her offices were tucked in an old building off Hollywood Boulevard instead of in Westwood, they were hers. Besides, they were big enough in a town where all the important meetings took place in restaurants.

“An auntie? Not so far. My sister’s taking her time. Of course, that girl’s been late for everything since her own birth, so it doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Laeticia was long and slender, with gorgeous, mocha-colored skin and doe-soft eyes. When they’d met, Sabrina had wondered how a woman like Laeticia could possibly take on the production coordinator’s role of logistics, paperwork and organization, let alone survive the Hollywood meat grinder. To her surprise, the woman was ruthlessly efficient, able to alternately sweet-talk and bully as the situation demanded. Anyone who underestimated Laeticia did so at his peril.

“Patience. You know what they say about watched pots.”

“Mmmm. So how did the meeting go with the brass?”

Sabrina moved her shoulders noncommittally. “Well enough, I suppose. They want to see more. Now we just have to deliver.”

“That doesn’t sound too hard.”

Sabrina made a face at her. “Any messages or mail?”

“Your new cell phone is here,” Laeticia said, handing her a small box. “I activated it for you. Try not to lose this one, hmmm?”

Sabrina grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Laeticia picked up a pair of small pink notes. “Gus Stirling called to remind you that the night shoot on the Hollywood Hauntings project has moved to the Sunset Boulevard location.”

Augustus Stirling, Sabrina’s godfather and teacher. The thought of seeing him made her smile, though with the night shoot he had planned, they’d probably go until the sun was coming up. No sleep for her tonight, she thought resignedly. The fact that in her partying days she’d seldom arrived home before breakfast didn’t make her any happier about missing her slumber. Back then, she’d crash until three or four in the afternoon if she’d felt like it. Now, she had to rise and shine early in the morning to meet deadlines and get work done.

But Gus had taken her seriously when she’d decided she wanted to work in film and had taught her the job from the ground up. He’d been tough on her, forcing her to prove herself again and again. He wasn’t shy about working her hard and she’d be damned if she’d stop a second before he did.

“You also had a call from Kelly Vandervere, reminding you that the Supper Club is at Gilbert’s at seven.”

Nachos, margaritas and gossip with old friends. Sabrina’s mouth curved into an arc of pleasure. That much, at least, would make the rest of the night tolerable. “And?”

“Just remember, don’t get too worn out tonight. If Kisha goes into labor later, I might be coming in late tomorrow.”

Sabrina winked at her. “Here’s hoping I’m on my own and you’re an auntie.”

“Just what I need—baby-sitting and diaper-changing duties,” Laeticia muttered, but her eyes held a smile as she said it.

FIVE HOURS LATER, Sabrina opened the glass door of Gilbert’s and stepped into a bar area filled with the sound of blenders. It seemed as if half her time was spent in restaurants, she thought wryly as she passed the hostess stand with a nod. Then she turned the corner and spied the group of women seated at a table, talking animatedly, half hidden by a lattice. The usual faces.

And the usual discussions.

“Forget all this feel-good stuff. Reality is, size matters,” said a tawny-haired woman with an angular face.

“Not true.” The words were definite, the speaker dressed in a silky floral op-art blouse from the latest Dolce & Gabbana collection. “Bigger might be better, but it’s what he does with it that makes the difference.”

The first woman snorted. “Oh, come on, Cilla. The guy’s twenty-two,” she said, taking a swig of her margarita. “He doesn’t know enough to do anything with it. With them, it’s just in and out, with maybe a few hours sleep in between. At least if it’s big, he’s got a fighting chance to do some good.”

Sabrina ducked around the corner. “On the other hand, there’s a limit to size. It has to be big enough for basic purposes, but too much beyond that it just hurts.”

Six sets of eyes stared at her blankly.

“Sabrina? Good to see you, sweetie, but what the hell do you mean?” asked the tawny-haired woman, Kelly Vandervere.

Sabrina pulled up a chair at the table and signaled to the waiter for a beer. “Come on, admit it. We’ve all had to groan through getting pounded by some guy who thinks a monster boner and an ability to recite batting averages in his head is all he needs to send a woman to heaven. Size isn’t everything.” She speared a pickled jalapeño out of the bowl on the table.

“What are you talking about?” asked Cilla Danforth, an amused frown on her triangular, foxy-looking face.

It was Sabrina’s turn to look blank. “Tackle. Aren’t you?”

Laughter rose around her. “Apartments,” said Kelly, wiping her eyes. “We were talking about my little brother’s new apartment. Only someone with your filthy mind would think we were talking about dicks.”

“Sorry. It was the thought of all your dirty minds that made me assume you were talking about sex,” Sabrina said with dignity, taking her beer from the waiter. “So if you’re not talking about it, does that mean that nobody’s getting it?”

“Do you guys realize we’ve talked about sex every single week for the past five years? You’re obsessed. Let’s do something else for a change.” Dark-haired Thea Mitchell, dressed in her perpetual black, scooped up salsa with a chip and crunched it.