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“I like tequila.”
“No, no, no. I am not giving anyone tequila. I've gotten in trouble for that before. Unless…I know liqueurs have a lot of calories, and I'm sure you have some kind of special diet.”
Because, like any other actress, I need to maintain my weight, or because, Laurie, like everyone else with an internet connection, knows I spent three months in an eating disorder clinic?
We wander through the production office, pilfering the kitchen for snacks. Mostly, she offers me the healthy stuff—fruit, nuts, Greek yogurt.
But, when Laurie finds her bottle of liqueur hiding in the back of the soda cabinet, she loses all interest in good entirely. We fill plastic cups with ice and pour the green drink until our cups are full.
“Aren't you going to drive home?” I ask.
“Fuck that. The network will pay if I call a service. You too. You're the star. You'll be able to make all sorts of obnoxious demands if you're a hit with the fans.”
“I won't.”
“I want that in writing,” she giggles. “You want to order a pizza? Jesus, sorry, I should know better. You had to leave that other show because…”
“It's okay,” I say. “Part of being a C-lister means everyone knows you're bulimic.”
“You're still…”
“No, I'm not 'still…' but I have to be ever so vigilant about recovery.”
“That sounds fucking awful,” she says.
“That's life.”
“Sorry, I'll stop. I'm being nosy and annoying.”
“It's fine,” I say. “I don't like pizza anyway.”
“Who the fuck doesn't like pizza?”
“I don't like cheese.”
“Yeah, totally, pizza and cheese are awful. Food is totally overrated. It's the worst.”
“You don't have to do that,” I say. “I'm perfectly aware that food is delicious. But I really don't like cheese.”
“Okay, what delicious and totally appropriate food should we order? A salad? Salads are healthy right, and grilled fish or something?”
“Anything but grilled fish or something,” I say. “It's the only thing my fiancé knows how to make.”
“Okay, how about, hmm, how about steak?”
I hesitate. Steak is not on the recovery diet menu.
“God,” she says. “I need to stop before I start offering you cocaine. Tell me what you want and we'll order it.”
“No,” I reply. “Steak is good.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
We settle into her office, drinking until an assistant arrives with our food. Poor kid is the only one still here.
“Don't worry about her,” Laurie says. “She's getting a $100 dinner from this little errand.”
