Hollywood on the Danube

Chapter Seven

The next day at the studio Rodney went over the stories, everyone noting Mollie was hung over from a night out with Frieda. "I met some really cute guys," she said almost guiltily, as she'd hinted she had a beau back in London. As a matter of fact he was due on the weekend, a tryst Jeremy privately gave odds would never materialize. 

"Cute guys?" Rodney asked in an unusual display of sexual interest. 

"Oh, not your kind of cute guys," Mollie teased tactlessly. "Then again, who knows nowadays?" 

"I would, believe me," Rodney said grinning. 

"Well, we ought to go out sometime, cowboy," she offered, grinding the pleasant aspects of the chatter to a screeching halt. 

Such small talk was uncommon for Rodney during the workday, since he normally plodded on non-stop; indeed, there was doubt that he ever slept. Only Jeremy might know, but would he for sure? On most nights when he came home from Becketts, he'd be snoring the minute he hit the pillow. 

Rodney brought out Billy's outline and managed a few compliments, which made it more glaring that Jeremy'd given him none. Billy figured that since story structure wasn't his friend's bailiwick he didn't want to mix in. There was no question he'd been supportive. The neck rubs alone had been terrific. 

"I would suggest, Billy," Rodney said, as he segued into a however, "that you watch the clichés and figures of speech." He explained how the translators didn't always get it, causing confusion for the Hungarian scriptwriters. "Also, don't be too specific, and try to avoid dialogue. I don't want the writers to be boxed in by what we give them." 

"I'll watch that," Billy said congenially, though he wasn't used to working that way. The story treatments he'd done for U.S. soaps and prime time TV were chock full of description in an attempt to provide them with substance. 

Though it was probably a waste of time, Mollie was included in the process. Billy and Jeremy would write two episodes apiece, and Mollie the one for Friday. When Billy brought up the young story liners, Rodney and Jeremy looked at each other and said almost simultaneously, Jeremy deferring to Rodney, "Don't worry about it for now. Let's just get fifteen in the hopper." 

It seemed odd, this continual disassociation of the trainees. But since all the contracts hadn't been signed, so that they could fire the ones they didn't want to keep, they found it difficult to bring them into the loop on the grounds it would look deceptive. 

Frieda and Csaba entered with Marlene von Riesling, a tall, slender woman somewhere around forty-five. Her hair was bleach blonde and she wore designer glasses, which complemented a fashionable ensemble of satin blouse and denim slacks. Introductions revealed she was the supervising producer from Berlin, and she shook hands warmly, particularly honing in on Billy. 

"Where do you live in LA?" she asked. 

"West Hollywood -- just under Sunset," Billy said. 

"Sunset Strip," she said knowingly, as if her familiarity with the club-adorned street indicated her connection to the show biz capital. 

"Right near my house. You get around," Billy said. 

"Have you been to the Sky Bar?" she asked. 

"Too many times. Hey, you look familiar. Maybe I've seen you there." 

"So we should have our meeting now," Frieda said, cutting in. 

"In a second," Marlene said. "I really like the Argyle. And sometimes I stay at the Chateau Marmont." 

"You know how to live," Billy said. "But I guess you've got an expense account." 

Marlene enjoyed Billy's irreverent sense of humor, which intrigued Frieda and Rodney, and as they pulled her away for their conference with Csaba, Billy sensed a degree of tension between the two German women.