Free Unscripted by Jayne Denker Page A

had to have the mother of all parties to celebrate. As usual, I took care of all the planning. I didn’t mind because, as usual, I enjoyed having complete control.
I considered having it at my house, but I had invited a million people—everyone from the lowliest intern all the way up to Randy B., because at the time I was still trying to suck up to him. We may have been renewed, but I wanted to make sure we got a full twenty-two episode order—no more of this piddly thirteen episodes shit—and if I had to actually amuse Randy B. to get my way, then so be it.
In the end I rented out Zapp, a club on Sunset that was just the right side of skeevy—nasty enough to be cool (really cool, not fake cool), but not so nasty that we were afraid to drink out of the glasses. I catered the hell out of it and of course had an open bar, plus got one of the hottest DJs on the Strip, so it wasn’t too far into the evening before everyone was feeling no pain. Randy didn’t show, by the way. But we didn’t miss him.
I even gave myself permission to have a good time: I dolled myself up (face by Lacey, one of our makeup artists; hair flattened by Mario, my stylist; stomach flattened by Spanx) and even had a couple of drinks. I was feeling pretty good as I watched my flock enjoy themselves, thinking, These are my people. I was responsible for their happiness, their success, their future. And so far it was going well. For that, I reasoned, I deserved to have another martini.
The night dissolved into one loud, raucous, flashing blur. I remembered being surrounded by cast and crew members, giddy friends pushing their faces into mine to shout excitedly to me over the throbbing music. I remembered dancing, but not to what music or who with; laughing at jokes I couldn’t recall afterward; hugging lots of people; and even engaging in a few flirtatious exchanges with some of the guys on my staff—something they’d never dare try in any other setting, something I’d never allow in any other setting. In short, all the usual elements of a spectacular night out.
But one part of the night remained crystal clear. I had been gossiping with Jaya, still in my presiding corner, when she glanced up, over my shoulder, and took a polite step back. I looked behind me to find Alex standing there, smiling, looking hot in a white dress shirt and suit, as though he were some sexy corporate dude who had just gotten off work and dropped in to the party. Like a good bestie, Jaya disappeared quietly, and then it was just me and Alex, in this weird bubble. I couldn’t move; I was just staring at his lazy smile and the hollow of his throat where his white shirt lay open.
“Hey,” I rasped, faintly, and it was lost under the music.
He reached down and picked up my hand, which was hanging limply at my side, and raised it to his lips. Yes, he actually kissed my hand. “You look really nice tonight.”
I was surprised I didn’t turn into a stupid puddle of ooze on the floor.
“Really great party too,” he said, leaning in so I could hear him. I wanted to say “Thanks,” but nothing came out. Alex looked around the room, lifted his chin in greeting to someone, then looked back at me. “Want to dance?”
That brought me out of my stupor. I glanced around at the gyrating dancers, the strobing lights, the DJ bopping behind her equipment to the beat of the deafening, throbbing techno-something I was too old to recognize. Then I turned back to Alex with an incredulous look.
He only laughed. “Hang on.”
He caught the DJ’s eye and, unsurprised, she nodded, and the booming techno faded immediately, replaced by—no lie—a waltz. It was a pop song, but it was definitely three-quarter tempo. Alex took my drink out of my hand and put it on a nearby table, smooth as you please, then lifted my other hand onto his shoulder, easing me out into the middle of the now sparsely populated dance floor.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he murmured—because now we could talk at normal