Cosima took a deep breath before entering the bar. Then she coughed, because she'd forgotten she had a massive spliff between her lips. She took a more measured toke, to calm her nerves.
"You can do this," she told herself. "You're a professional. Your friends are all behind you, and your look today is totally on point. Let's go."
She had never expected to be in this position, meeting Delphine Cormier, the creator of her favourite show,Foundling Plaid. Sure, she had run one of the most popular fan sites about the show between her regular gigs in the film industry, but when she got an invitation from Ms. Cormier herself to meet up while she was in town, Cosima spent a good fifteen minutes figuring out if it could possibly be fake. And that included the five minutes after the nonplussed producer had agreed to send her a selfie as confirmation, one of the Frenchwoman's eyebrows raised in an arch expression.
Cosima patted her bag once more to feel its extra bulkiness (she had loaded up with show memorabilia in case the producer was willing to sign some autographs.)
"Dios mio," she thought, then wondered where that came from. She stepped through the door.
The bar was out-of-the-way, definitely on the dive end of the spectrum of drinking establishments. It was dark and nearly empty, but she saw Delphine Cormier almost immediately, a neon sign on the wall lending a halo-like glow to the perfectly coiffed blonde hair. Cosima approached the table.
"Um, hi, hi there. Delphine? It's me," she tottered a little out of nerves, a blush above her grin. "Cosima. Cosima Niehaus."
Delphine grinned back and held out her hand.
"Hello, Cosima, I'm Delphine."
"Yeah, I, well of course I know that," Cosima babbled, shaking her hand, and then paused for a second. For some reason, holding the other woman's hand in her own felt like… coming home. "I mean, yeah. You make my favourite show ever. I'm so psyched to be meeting you. Oh," her brain finally caught up and registered the nod the other woman had given at her towards the other side of the table, and she finally let go and sat down.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, too," the blonde smiled. "You know, we look at your posts about the show all the time in the writers' room. We think you're très hysterical. Drink?"
"Oh, yeah, totes, obvs," Cosima nodded, "I could really go for some tequila."
The producer raised her eyebrow again, (shit, is that too strong? do I sound like an alcoholic? Cosima's mind bleated) but raised her hand and a young man in a suit glided up to her, seemingly out of the shadows.
"Martin, would you go to the bar and get Ms. Niehaus some tequila? Oh, and bring us some pretzels." The man slid off like an animate oil slick.
"Okay. Wow, so I…" Cosima began.
"Ms. Niehaus, allow me to interrupt. Not to be rude, but I have a limited time frame for this meeting, and, well…"
She reached into the briefcase beside her, and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
"Now, I love what you do. I think you show great spirit in your, em, comedic edits of our series. But the network, lawyers, well…" She placed the papers in front of the brunette.
"What's this," Cosima asked, nearly jumping out of her skin when Martin suddenly appeared by her elbow with the requested drink, set it down with a bowl of pretzels, and slithered off like a hagfish slipping out of a diver's grasp. Her eyes moved quickly down the top page. "Cease and desist?"
"Oui, but don't be alarmed. It's a formality, really. The network just wants to make sure our program is being depicted in… well, its best possible light."
Cosima's face fell. Here she had been looking forward to talking shop, learning background information about the show, maybe even asking some questions her followers had. She had actually been flattered that the bigwig had sought her out.
"Wow, Delphine, I have to say, I didn't want to offend anyone. This is such a bummer."
The Frenchwoman cocked her head and pursed her lips, her green eyes suddenly seeming to pierce Cosima's gaze, tattoo her brain, brand her heart, split her pancreas and perform ritual scarification on her soul.
"Ah, but that's not it. These papers are a contract. They don't allow you to keep up your fan website, but that's because we want to hire you to work with us."
Cosima performed an impressive spit take with her tequila, nearly setting the faux wood panelling on fire when the spray crossed the open flame of the tea light on the table and produced a miniature flame thrower. Delphine's majestic ocular orbs glowed, partially due to the conflagration and partly due to some alluring, inner fire. She calmly smacked the coasters with her briefcase, smothering the minor blaze and producing the distinctive fragrance of lightly charred leather.
"You… you want me to work with you? How?"
"We were thinking a combination of writing and editing. But, we know you have a plethora of skills. We could certainly explore… whatever roles you're interested in filling." Her fingers traced the rim of her beer stein seductively. "Join with me and we'll have leverage. Our relationship can be whatever we want…"
Cosima was dumbfounded. Her mind was awhirl, and her stomach flopping worse than it had the time she'd entered that churro-and-chili-pepper eating contest.
"Woah. I mean, that all sounds great, but can I have a little time…"
"Non," the showrunner before her shook her head. "I actually have to be on a plane to Canuckistan in forty-five minutes, so I need your decision. You can either join me, or," she looked briefly at the contract and shrugged, "you can hear from our lawyers.
"Well, I… on the plane, now? But, Delphine, this is so sudden… I mean, I, what about my jobs? My apartment? My things?"
"You can finish your jobs from the hotel we're setting you up in until you get an apartment. Martin can arrange to have your things packed and shipped."
Cosima's mouth was gaping, opening and closing like a largemouth bass hauled up into a pile of old beer cans lining the floor of an angler's boat. (But not like a hagfish, because hagfish have no jaws.) Was this all real? Was it a dream, or a — gasp! — nightmare?
"But my friends, m-my followers…" she stuttered.
"Forget your followers. They'll be happy for you. And your friends are always at the other end of a telephone, non? Besides, I intend to spend a lot of time one-on-one with you… integrating you into things, as it were. I imagine I'll be working you through a lot of… hands-on training." The curl of the French woman's lip made Cosima's heart gallop like the horses of her mind, the ones she was always trying to capture with childlike sketches in her notebooks. Heck. it made her kegels clench.
"Okayyy, well, but… I have a girlfriend," she uttered, voice sounding distant in her own ears.
"Do you," Ms. Cormier asked, sliding her hand across the table and tracing the back of Cosima's hand lightly with her supple fingers. It took a moment for the smaller woman to focus on her original train of thought.
"Uh, yeah, I have. Her name's Shay…"
"Do you," the magnetic blonde inquired again, her tone slipping lower, her lower lip slipping between her teeth, her gaze slipping to Cosima's mouth and back up to her eyes, and her slip slipping beneath her dress.
"Uhhhhh…" Cosima sounded, her allegedly brilliant mind turning to cold pone mush. "No?"
"Excellent, Cosima," Delphine smiled, like the wolf who ate the thing that wolves eat, and rose, pulling on her jacket. "Shall we, then?"
"Um," Cosima said as if through a fog, rising with her.
Before she knew it, she was in the back of a limousine, a mink stole around her shoulders and a champagne flute in hand. Delphine pressed a button and the television screen built into the swanky car started playing a reel of scenic and cultural highlights of Canuckistan. Cosima knew she was forgetting something. Something small…
"Oh, wait," she said, just as the producer laid a warm hand on her thigh, "can we at least pick up my puppy?"
"Your puppy," Delphine gasped, a sudden look of indignant, but super-hot, irritation crossing her face. "Dieu, how I hate that word! You have a pet?"
"Yes. I can't leave her behind. My little dog, Rita Moreno…"
"Hmm," Delphine purred, or some other sexy word for talking but not like a cat. "How… ethnic. Alright, Cosima. We can pick up your little dog. But then, to the airport, to Canuckistan… and, my cherie, you'll be allll miiine…" Her final words could have been followed by a resounding MUAHAHAHAAAA, but they weren't, because she was shady, but subtle like that.
Less than twenty-three and six-sevenths hours later, all trace of Cosima Niehaus' former fan site had disappeared, to live on only in the hearts of the bereft, geeky fangirls who had followed her. The next the world heard from her, she was captured by Canuckian paparazzi (who are so much more polite than other paparazzi, they're basically like photographers who specialize in asking explicit permission via calligraphic writing on embossed, Egyptian linen paper to take pictures of small, much-beloved royal children) tripping the light fantastic in designer Canuckian clothing and double-platinum sunglasses at the hottest clubs in Hoser City, and then appearing at a press conference where Delphine Cormier, renowned and really, really, really, really good-looking show biz producer, announced that the sassy brunette had joined the team for Foundling Plaid.
"Well, my little hon hon hon baguette, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful amitié," the tall blonde smiled down at the glittering American, who was adjusting the gold-sequined carrier holding her now bright pink dog under her arm.
"Yeeeaaahh," Cosima crowed. "Fuck bitchez and haterz! Cosima on top! Mic drop, I'm oouuuuttt…"