At the end of the table sat some executives fromUBC, including the president of the network, a guy named Robbie Kaschen, and Elias Guggenheim, the octogenarian showrunner ofFriday Comedy Live, and their lawyers.
Quentin felt like he’d been called into the principal’s office, and he hadn’t even done anything wrong. His nose hurt, and when he’d gone to the ER last night to get it fixed, he had learned that it was broken in two places, but he wouldn’t need surgery. They’d reset it, which hurt like hell, and told him to avoid getting knocked in the face as much as possible in the following weeks while it healed. Oh, and he should try not to sneeze.
Great.
He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He wore a plain white T-shirt, blue jeans, and a leather jacket. He felt underdressed, with everyone else in business attire, except for Joel, who looked fashionable in a dark red sweater over a white collared shirt and loose black pants.
“This,” Robbie Kaschen, the president of the network, was saying, “Is not good.”
“No shit,” said Chad Jankowski, and Quentin hid a smile at his lawyer’s way of speaking. The hockey lawyers weren’t fancy New York types at all, and he liked them more for it.
Robbie looked sternly at Jankowski. “It looks like we broadcast an assault live on TV last night,” he continued.
“It wasn’t an assault,” Joel said, speaking for the first time in that meeting. He had a nice voice, a little raspy.
Shivonne Sharpe, his PR manager, laid a soft hand on Joel’s arm. “Let the lawyers talk,” she whispered. Then, louder, “I agree that we shouldn’t use that word. It has a certain weight to it, I think we’d all like to avoid.”
“Would we?” Jankowski said, cocking his head.
Quentin and everyone else looked at Shivonne. Apparently, in the entertainment world, she was known as Shivonne the Shark. She was a brilliant and ruthless PR manager, and Joel was her only client. She looked to be about forty, had long blonde hair, deep brown eyes, and a stern, beautiful face. She wore a black suit and a white blouse and seemed to be all about business.
“We would,” she affirmed, looking coolly at Jankowski. “What my client did was not assault. It was an accident.”
Quentin shifted his attention to Joel, who was still looking at the table. Quentin honestly wasn’t sure it hadbeenan accident, though he also wasn’t sure he believed that one of the most famous singer-songwriters in the world hadintentionallypunched him in the face.
All week long, duringFCLrehearsals, Quentin and Joel had clashed. They were very different men, with very different personalities and styles of communicating. They were strong-willed and stubborn, and Quentin thought Joel was an arrogant diva. He had made demands for his dressing room, had shown up late to the first day of rehearsals, and had always been ducking out of meetings or delaying them to call his people back in Los Angeles about other things. He didn’t seem to have any respect for the people ofFCL, and definitely didn’t have any respect for Quentin. He’d barely looked at Quentin the entire time they’d rehearsed together, and, despite being friendly and warm with the cast and crew of the show, had been nothing but cold to Quentin. It didn’t make sense, it hurt Quentin’s feelings, and left him frustrated and resentful.
And then, in their final monologues, Joel had gestured wide, like an actor at the end of the play thanking the crew in the wings, and had whacked Quentin right in the nose.
So, maybe it wasn’t on purpose, but it looked really bad, especially considering how they’d not gotten along all week.
“Our client,” Jason Caselli said, “has said that he and Joel didn’t get along during rehearsals and filming. Can anyone corroborate that?”
“I can,” said Joel’s slick New York lawyer. “Mr. Beckett has confirmed that several times.”
“Mr. Guggenheim?” Caselli asked, turning toFCL’s octogenarian showrunner.
The old man, who wore a pale blue suit and an oversized pink bowtie, smiled. “I didn’t notice anything. I spend most of my time in my office. I just have final say on the jokes.”
That was true; Quentin had barely seen Guggenheim during rehearsals. The man was old and had been runningFCLsince it started, back in the late seventies.
“They may not have gotten along,” said Joel’s Los Angeles lawyer, “but our client did notassaultyour client.”
“Shall we play the episode?” Jankowski growled.
“It was an accident,” Joel said, despite his PR manager’s insistence that he shut up. “I promise. It was an accident.” Finally, the singer looked up and looked straight into Quentin’s eyes. Quentin felt a shiver of distaste run through him. He found Joel annoying, frustrating, and rude. He wanted to get away from the singer as soon as he could.
“Yeah, Quentin and I didn’t get along,” Joel said. “Happens. Not everyone is going to get along. We argued a lot during rehearsals and had different ideas about how some of the sketches could go.” He raised an eyebrow, which had a little scar through it. “Do you agree, Quentin?”
Quentin didn’t like Joel’s tone, which seemed condescending, like he was talking to a kid, not someone who was his same age. “I agree,” Quentin said.
“But I wouldn’t hit him, not on purpose,” Joel said, more softly. “I’m not a violent person. I wouldn’t do that.”
Begrudgingly, Quentin believed him.
He decided he should say something, too. “Look, I think we can all see that there won’t be any love lost between Joel and me here. We didn’t like each other from the start. No offense, Mr. Guggenheim, but your producers didn’t pick well when you put us together. I hope we managed to give you a good episode before the accident at the end. But I think it was an accident, and I don’t intend on pressing any charges.”
Robbie Kaschen, who’d looked for the last twenty minutes like he was trying to pass a kidney stone, relaxed. Shivonne Sharpe’s posture grew a little less tense.
