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and Jennifer, PA Susan, and researcher Jackson—they had all become game-show pros. They’d succumbed, this group, to the temptation of making good money on the outskirts of show business. In fact, there are hundreds of odd little jobs in the entertainment field that can save one from the humiliation of going back home to Toledo and admitting to Aunt Ruth that one had not made it in Hollywood after all. And so, one by one, I imagined, each had stumbled into working on game shows and discovered they had a knack for doing the work.
    As Greta was taking rather a long time to finish up her conversation with Susan’s group, Jennifer Klein returned to the black leather sofa and smiled at me as Quentin slipped out of the meeting.
    Frankly, putting aside any suggestions of redeemingsocial value, the work of putting on game shows is fun. There is a wicked pleasure in performing a task for which no sane grown-up could expect to get paid, and in fact getting paid well for it. Like circus clowns or nuns in a convent, this unique, offbeat employment lifestyle encouraged a bond among the longtime staffers. Jennifer noticed me looking at her and whispered, “Are you feeling a little more comfortable here this week?”
    I nodded and whispered, “Maybe.”
    She laughed. To these folks, I must seem like the next new shiny-faced gal to pull a chair up to their lavish table.
    Finished with the production notes, Greta looked up and suggested, “Someone go find Quentin.” As she collected our writers’ pages, Kenny ran out the door to track him down. Greta then began to read through the material that Jenny and I had submitted. Susan and Kenny chatted to themselves, going over some revised plans. A few minutes later, Quentin Shore reentered the office.
    “You’re late,” Greta said, keeping her eyes on the papers she was reading.
    Quentin walked over to her desk, handing over his material for the day. As he returned to his seat, his beady eyes read the room, looking for enemies, no doubt. He whispered to Jennifer, “Sure, when I take a tiny break that’s when she decides to go over my work.”
    “Relax,” Jennifer said, under her breath. “The torture is only beginning.” Jennifer had a quick laugh and a talent for the subtlest of sarcasm. She seemed fairly unruffled by the process at hand. I was frankly just happy to be there, enjoying the show.
    After only one week on the job, I had become accustomed to the schedule for the writers of Food Freak. In the mornings, we met to go over new material. After lunch, we were left alone to write up new recipes or rewrite something that needed work from the morning meeting. On this particular Wednesday, it took about ninety minutes once we got serious, all of us sitting in Greta Greene’s office gossiping over each other’s recipes, tossing out suggestions, offering corrections, for Greta to make her way through the material we had handed in. Once, when Greta was involved in a longish phone conversation with Artie, I stepped out to make a call of my own.
    As I walked out into the hallway, I almost bumped into Kenny, who looked startled to see me popping out of the door. I smiled and pulled the door shut, and walked down the stairs to go outside for a moment and get some air.
    My cell phone reception was slightly better outside, and I connected with Holly, our young and invaluable assistant at Mad Bean Events, after a few rings.
    “What’s shaking?” Holly answered, not bothering to ask who it was on the other end.
    “Not much,” I said.
    “Ah, Madeline! You must be clever and sneak me onto your studio lot. I heard that U2 is shooting a music video there this week and I simply have to, have to, have to see them.”
    Holly is the sort of adoring fan whose enthusiasm could power a small city. Her devotion has prompted me, at times, to keep an extra-careful eye out, when one of her favorites shows up on the guest list of one of the parties we are catering. She’s a mass of fan nerves