KW 09:Shot on Location by Laurence Shames Page A

an observation.”
    The drinks arrived. They looked benign enough. Healthy even, with a coiling twist of orange peel. They clinked glasses and after the first sip Jake said, “So, you want to tell me why you’re furious?”
    Claire looked at the ocean, took another sip and said, “It’s just the stupid show. This big successful cash cow of a program. I just don’t like what it does to people.”
    She told him about the meeting with the publicist and the suits.
    “Not a shred of real concern for Donna,” she said. “Not even a shred of curiosity about what really happened. All they care about is buzz. Spinning a tidy little story for the media. And the sick part? It’ll work. It’ll work brilliantly.”
    She paused just long enough to nip at her drink, then went on. “The publicist has been talking it up all night, all morning. She’s already got segments lined up on
ET
and
Inside Hollywood. People
and
Us
have committed to stories. Candace is in her glory, of course. The diva in danger. The star as target. Like real life has become one big outtake from the show. The whole thing’s disgusting. Aren’t you glad you asked?”
    Before Jake could answer, a waiter appeared to take their order. Claire said she was too mad to eat much, maybe just some oysters. Jake asked for the same. Then he said, “Actually, I am glad I asked. I’m ticked off about some of this same stuff.”
    Claire heard herself say, “Even though Donna is not your girlfriend?” She hoped it would come out as a little joke, but it didn’t really sound that way because today she truly wanted to settle the question.
    “She’s not. Never was. This isn’t even about Donna. Not really.”
    “So it’s about--?”
    Jake struggled to explain. He was surprised how difficult it was. He described things, explained things, for a living. It was harder when the thing he was explaining was gnawing at his guts. “Yesterday,” he began, “when Quentin called —”
    “And you hung up on him,” Claire put in.
    “Right. You know, for such a smart guy, his timing was incredibly dumb. I’m upset about what happened, it’s horribly fresh in my mind, and he picks that moment to pitch me on this preposterous fake story about the earth cracking open. And the two things side by side made my job seem so ridiculous, so trivial, so embarrassing that writing this cynical hack bullshit is what I’m doing with my life —”
    He broke off because Claire had put her hand on his. This was so unexpected that it sent a spasm all up his arm. Her hand was cool from cradling her glass. She let it rest on his for just a moment then pulled it back. He kept feeling it after it was gone. She said, “You’re being awfully tough on yourself.”
    He shook his head. “No, not tough enough. I take the easy road. I have for years and years. Last night, I was having dinner with this old Mafia guy —”
    That’s when the waiter appeared with the oysters. His eyes widened just slightly and he set the plates down very carefully. Before he could slip away Claire asked him for another round of drinks.
    “Mafia guy?” she said to Jake.
    “Long story.”
    “I’ve got time.”
    So he told her about his evening at Joey’s.
    “This old guy Bert,” he said, “who’s either like a Mob Zen master or totally out of it or probably both, starts asking me all this stuff I haven’t thought about in years. Why’d I stop writing what I wanted to? Which way was I happier? And I swear, by the end of the dinner I felt like I’d been turned completely inside out.”
    The fresh drinks arrived. For a moment Jake just stared at his.
    Claire said, “Tough day all around. But I like talking with you. I sometimes forget what it sounds like when people actually say what they mean.”
    He looked up and met her eyes. They were the same color as the sea behind her.
    They started in on the oysters, salty with brine and sizzling with the tang of Key lime. They sucked them straight from the shells.