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Vaughn
When your agent summons you to lunch at The Ivy to meet with an America Rocks producer, you arrive promptly no matter how drastically you have to bend time, space, and traffic laws to do it. I’m antsy by the time I pull to a stop at the curbside valet in front of the iconic white picket fence surrounding the patio of the famed West Hollywood eatery. The dash clock reads 2:07 p.m. Not perfect, but respectable. I surrender my car to the attendant and try to steady my pulse. There’s no need to look eager. Best case scenario is I’ve raced from a shoot in Culver City to jump through another hoop. Worst case? This is their way of letting me down gently and offering me a consolation prize, like man-on-the-street interviewer for the open audition crowds. Hours of tape for maybe ten minutes of screen time per season. And fuck it, after I recovered from the catastrophic disappointment, I’d probably take the offer. I love the show that much.
Instead of steadying, my pulse stalls like a rusty clutch because I spy Nigel Cowie holding court under the shade of a generous white umbrella. Nigel’s not just a producer for America Rocks, he’s the producer, and he’s sharing the small linen-draped table with John Brenner—one of the associate producers I met during my first audition and subsequent callback—my agent, Nina Felder, and my father. I’ve never met Nigel before, but the tall, tanned Englishman is instantly recognizable thanks to his habitual five o’clock shadow and signature tight black T-shirt. I stand stock-still for a half second to take it in, savor the moment, and yes, to give my heart a chance to fall back into a normal rhythm.
I get only the half second, though, because Nigel spots me, stands, and extends an arm my way. “Vaughn Shaughnessy. We meet at last.”
The patio’s not full for a Sunday afternoon, but every head swings from the prominent Brit to me, and every Hollywood insider and waiter-slash-actor in the place starts doing the math on two America Rocks producers, one agent, one manager, and the guy from the Armani ads. I plaster a confident smile on my face and stride over like I expected this meeting. “Mr. Cowie,” I say, and shake his hand. His grip is firm, his smile surprisingly genuine.
“Nigel,” he corrects. “I believe you know this lovely lady and these other gents?”
“Of course.” I shake hands with John, who looks like Tony Romo’s twin brother, kiss Nina’s flawless cheek, and give my dad a quick one-armed hug. “Glad you could make it,” he mutters in my ear, letting me know I’m tardy. Nigel gestures me to the single empty seat at the table.
I sit, and conversation pauses while a waiter approaches with a tray of drinks—Ivy gimlets all around. My back is to most of the patio, but I can practically hear texts being tapped out on every phone in the vicinity. When the waiter retreats, Nigel leans in and raises his glass. “Cheers. Apologies for mucking up everyone’s schedule with a last-minute meeting,” he says in a voice modulated for our table alone. “I’m off to London tonight and I wanted to meet all the talent on our short list in person before I left.” He touches his glass to mine and adds, “Old-fashioned of me, I know, but I like a sit-down and a chat. I appreciate you indulging me.”
“It’s no problem,” I manage, which sounds humble and understated when what I really want to do is leap up and high-five Nina. I want to fist-bump John. I want to kiss Nigel full on the mouth. Mostly, I want to wipe the frown off my dad’s face. This is great news. Why is he scowling like someone pissed in his cocktail?
“Sorry, John. Nigel,” my dad says, “forgive my confusion, but I guess I’m still trying to catch up. Friday, a very reliable source told me your team had drawn up the short list and we weren’t on it…”
I stop my head from swinging in my father’s direction. He’d had an unofficial thumbs-down since Friday and didn’t think to share that information with me?
“…today, I get a call for this meeting and find out we’re still in the running. Obviously, we’re pleased, but why do I have whiplash?”
John props his forearms on the table and leans in. “Confidentially?”
Dad nods. “Of course.”
Total waste of breath. Whatever John’s about to disclose will be breaking all over the gossip outlets before this meeting concludes, but we pretend it’s just between us. “You’re not the only one with very reliable sources. Late last week one of ours informed us Flynn Bateman is about to be the latest name trending with a MeToo hashtag attached. We conducted a quick but intensive investigation into the accusations, and while we are of course not prepared to comment on whether he broke any laws, we determined certain documented behavior fell short of the America Rocks ethical standards. He was one of our top contenders, due to his potential to reach the smartphone demographic on the platforms they favor and lure them away from their YouTube channels and Instagram feeds a couple hours a week.” John’s eyes shift to me. “Now you are. Unless you tell me someone’s got hard-to-refute evidence of you doing things that would make it impossible for you to sign a morals clause.”
“Of course not,” my father replies before I can even open my mouth.
“Brilliant.” Nigel sets his drink down, and I realize the meeting is basically over.
“What kind of morals clause,” Nina interjects, ever the pragmatist.
Nigel rubs his palms together. “Nina, John will have someone send over the gist of it first thing tomorrow morning, but the legal folks tell me it’s completely reasonable.”
“I’m sure they do,” she says without much concern, but I know she’ll go over every word and work that shit until she’s satisfied it’s fair. Beneath her Clair Huxtable facade beats the heart of a tireless detail-wrangler. “I’ll give it my immediate attention and let John know right away if anything doesn’t read right.”
“I’m confident you will.” His smile widens to include my father, who has been in on the rounds of auditions, discussions, and negotiations so far. “And I’m sure we can count on your continued discretion regarding this process.”
He follows that up with a wink, because we all know this, too, is part of the game. If you’re Nigel Cowie you don’t sip drinks on the patio of the Ivy with a guy plenty of insiders know auditioned for host of your show unless you want to fuel rampant speculation. Which he does, because having people buzzing about this is good for the show.
I figure it’s time for me to get in this meeting and say something. “Aside from ethics, Nigel, can you tell me what’s on your wish list for the next host?”
Across the table Nina gives me a tiny nod of approval.
Nigel sips his drink and considers how he wants to answer my question. “I loved Gray. Loved him. Admired him. He was one of my mates. But this process isn’t about finding another Gray Ellison. We had him, he was bloody amazing, and nobody can replace him. That chapter of America Rocks is closed. It’s on the next host to write the next chapter in a style and voice that works for them. Page one, someone with the versatility to appeal to the loyal, longtime fans while at the same time attract a new set of viewers.”
“I—”
“Right.” My dad cuts me off. “You don’t need another Gray Ellison, but you do need someone who can project a similar all-American image. Someone who knows how to watch what he says, what he does, and with whom he says or does it, because this franchise is handing over an audience, and the host’s choices have the power to alienate that fan base. Here’s the bottom line. Flynn Bateman wasn’t ready for prime time. We are. In today’s world you have no safe zone. So Vaughn”—he turns to me—“you need to keep in mind that every facet of your life is part of your brand and, by extension, part of the America Rocks brand. Does that make sense?”
Yes, but my face heats at my dad’s assumption that he needs to spell this out for me, especially in front of Nigel and John. He’s treating me like a kid, and everyone at the table realizes it except him. For two people who share DNA, he doesn’t know me at all.
“Yeah, Dad. Thanks. I think I’ve got it.”
My tone doesn’t invite any further discussion, but my dad doesn’t need an invitation. “Most importantly, you’ve got me.” He directs his attention back to Nigel. “I’m here to manage his brand, down to who he makes appearances with, who his name is linked to, and so forth. There will be no missteps.”
