“Look, don’t tell anyone,” Meena said, trying to sound encouraging. “But I think I’ve thought of something for you. Something fantastic.”
She just wasn’t willing to say it out loud. Not yet. She didn’t know why, exactly.
Well, all right, she did know why: the network was going to hate it.
And okay … maybe Leisha’s reaction over the phone when Meena had called her earlier in the day to tell her what had happened outside St. George’s had shaken her confidence a little.
“Bats?” Leisha had echoed.
“Yes,” Meena had said emphatically. “Bats.”
“In front of St. George’s Cathedral,” Leisha had said, as if requesting confirmation. “And this random guy just threw himself over you to protect you from them?”
“And Jack Bauer,” Meena had said, reminding her.
Leisha ignored her. “And he didn’t get a scratch on him, even though all of these bats attacked his face?”
“Yes,” Meena had said. “And then he walked me back to my building. Even though I never told him where I lived. It was like he just knew.”
“Okay, look,” Leisha had said. The sound of hair dryers blowing in the background was loud, as usual. “There’s a totally rational explanation for the whole thing: You took the sleeping pill, even though you don’t think you did. And then you took the dog for a walk. And you had a waking nightmare.”
“Except I didn’t take the sleeping pill.” Meena had insisted. “Leisha, I took it when I got home. I had to; I was shaking so badly from everything that happened. How else do you think I got to sleep after something like that? I was a wreck.”
“Well,” Leisha said, “there’s no other explanation. Because none of what you’re describing could have happened. Huge flocks of bats—or whatever it’s called when it’s bats and not birds—do not just go swooping down out of nowhere, attacking people in Manhattan. And how could he possibly have known where you lived—and your name, which you also said he knew—even though you didn’t tell him? There’s no such thing as mind readers, Meena. Except Sookie Stackhouse, and she’s made up. All you can do is tell how people are going to die, which isn’t nearly as useful or cool. You took the pill before you went out and just don’t remember, and then dreamed the whole thing. You’re working on a story line about vampires, remember? It’s natural you’d dream about bats. Vampires, bats. I’m surprised the guy you dreamed up wasn’t wearing a big black cape or sparkling or something.”
“He was in Burberry,” Meena said, knitting her brow. “But he definitely didn’t sparkle. He was very polite, though. And strong. He kept his arm around my shoulders the whole way home. It’s the only reason I didn’t fall down. He was so in control.”
Thinking about how strong and in control Lucien had been brought back feelings of warmth, even when Meena remembered it in the daytime. Except for one thing.
“But Jack Bauer hated him. Why would I dream that?”
“God, I’m just glad you’re all right,” Leisha had said, sounding concerned. “Whatever happened last night. You shouldn’t be out so late, even with Jack Bauer. What if the guy hadn’t been so polite or such a gentleman? Did you tell Jon about it?”
Meena had frowned as she’d sipped her morning soda. “No. I mean … sort of. I told him I saw some bats outside the church. That’s all.”
“You didn’t tell him because the guy was hot.” It was a statement.
“No! Leisha, come on. I barely talked to him.” She didn’t mention the feelings of warmth she got when she thought about how strong and in control he’d been.
“What? You’re mumbling! Over some guy you met in a dream! I can’t believe it. You like him.”
“If it was a dream,” Meena had said defensively, “parts of it were really vivid. And why shouldn’t I like him? He saved my life. And Jack Bauer’s,” she’d added hastily.
Leisha had said, “I knew all this crazy soap opera writing would catch up with you someday, and now it has. Meena, you’re in love with a guy your subconscious made up for you. A superman who saves you from bat attacks. God, it’s so obvious. He saved you from having to write about vampires, which you hate! Especially now, with Shoshona being your new boss.”
Meena had gotten up to throw her soda can away. She’d paused as she was about to toss it over the lip of her office recycling can.
“Well,” she’d said, “I guess I never thought of it that way. But … now that you mention it, the bats could represent my deep and abiding loathing for vampires.”
“Right,” Leisha had said. “Of course. Doesn’t that make more sense than any of it actually having happened?”
“Maybe,” Meena had said. “But then how do you explain the knees of my pajamas? They were filthy when I got up this morning. Obviously I was on the ground at some point. …”
“You really did go out to walk Jack Bauer, and you knelt down to scoop up some of his poop?” Leisha had suggested. “And don’t remember it?”
Meena had made a face. “You really know how to kill the romance in a story, don’t you?” she’d said.
“That’s what best friends are for, sweetie,” Leisha’d said. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.”
But now, sitting in Cheryl’s dressing room, Meena wondered. …
Had it all been a dream? Her subconscious working out her frustration over having to write about something she hated, like Leisha said?
And if it was … well, why not let it work to her advantage?
“Look,” Meena said. She glanced around the veteran actress’s luxurious dressing room as if she was worried someone might be eavesdropping. But there was only Cheryl’s vast doll collection—all dolls from the Madame Alexander Victoria Worthington Stone collection—watching. “Don’t say anything to Shoshona, because I haven’t written anything up yet—but I was thinking of having Victoria meet … well, a prince, actually.”
“A prince?” Cheryl was so astonished, she actually stopped crying. “What kind of prince?”
“A … Romanian one,” Meena said.
The truth was, ever since she’d gotten up that morning—still woozy from her ordeal the night before, even though Leisha was probably right and it had all been a dream brought on by her frustration over having lost out on the head writer job and having taken her sleep medication before, and not after, Jack Bauer’s walk—she hadn’t been able to get Lucien, and his ever so slightly European accent, out of her head.
And okay, so it was possible he was a figment of her overactive imagination, a manifestation of how she envisioned her creative self (weird that her creative self was a hot guy in a black trench coat, but whatever), who went around saving her from bats, also known as vampiric story lines thought up by Shoshona (who was wearing
