"So Mike, whaddaya think?"
Micky glanced out the door of Bob's office to make sure nobody was approaching as he shared the final part of the night's plan with Mike. He, Mike, Davy, and Peter were gathered there with Bob to wait for Bonnie. Genie had insisted on "finishing her up" in an outfit she'd had shipped straight from Mary Quant's design studio in London. Being the head of wardrobe for the show had its perks.
"I think Davy's pants belong at the circus," Mike observed.
"That's why I'm wearin' 'em," Davy laughed. "If this show ain't a circus, what is?"
Bob leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on the desk. "You got that right. Look, no matter what Nesmith thinks, the plan's set. If we win, Davy will..."
"Why Davy?" Mike complained. "Shee-it, why can't I do it? Hell we've put up with enough bullshit, we earned the right to shove it in their faces."
"Too obvious, man," Micky explained. "Don't want anyone thinking it's the same old same old, 'Mercurial Nesmith' and all that."
"Gotta agree," Peter said, "we want everyone to know it's about all of us, together."
"For once," Bob added.
Mike thought about that for a minute. "Yeah, okay, in fact Morris said something like that too. Tonight's the one night we'll all be on the same side in the same place."
Micky jumped up from where he was slouched on the sofa, and brandished an Instamatic. "Good thing I got a camera!"
"Well boys, don't you all look smashing," Genie announced from the doorway. She wouldn't be attending the ceremony, but was helping the set guys decorate the suite at the Hilton where Columbia-Screen Gems was hosting a bash for the Monkees cast and crew, win or lose. "Dear, dear, Davy, those trousers..." she clucked, "dressed in the dark, did you luv?"
"Considering his extracurricular rep, we're lucky he's wearing pants at all," came a familiar voice from behind her.
"Hey now, just one minute there," Davy began to protest, but his jaw dropped when Bonnie pushed past Genie. "Bloody hell!"
The others stood and lined up like boggled school kids, even Bob. Even Mike, who was the only one in the room who had seen Bonnie's new hairdo.
Micky broke the silence. "Will ya look who has her mojo workin'!"
Bonnie was wearing the outfit imported from Mary Quant by Genie: a flapper style dress of black silk with skinny spaghetti straps and two tiers of crystal pleated black silk making up the very short skirt. The shoes were also from Quant, black leather pumps with a chunky high heel. The only jewelry she wore was a wide, glossy black bangle on her left wrist, and the ever-present gold-and-silver Lone Star ring Mike had given her on her right pinkie. Together with her shiny Sassoon hair and Genie's carefully applied makeup ("No big Bambi eyes," she'd insisted, "I don't wanna look like an orphan!"), she looked like a whole new person. She felt like a whole new person.
"So, guys, whaddaya think?" She did a silly little pirouette. "Mind being seen with me?"
Even Bob was speechless. Finally Mike stepped up and draped an arm around her, doing his best to tickle her neck with a lace-edged cuff. Genie had chosen his suit as well, a blinding white linen tux with a bare sliver of black ribbon visible at the front of the shirt collar.
"Don't know about you fellas," he drawled, "but I think it's about time somebody brought a little class to this traveling zoo."
As if on cue Micky whipped out his camera, snapped a flashcube on top, and fired off a few shots before turning back to the others.
"I can't believe our kids are going to the prom, it seems like only yesterday they were duking it out over wool hats."
"I'll see you lot of weirdos at the party," Genie laughed. "Good luck, and try not to spill on yourselves."
They all were wearing their own unique take on evening wear, Davy with a bow tie and black jacket over wildly out-of-place white window pane checked pants. Micky was more subdued, dark striped trousers and a classy double breasted evening jacket with a Cary Grant ascot. Only Peter was in full-tux, complete with brocade cutaway. Bob was sort-of-tux like. All together they looked like pretty much the real men who played something a little hipper-by-design on TV.
From his inside jacket pocket Mike pulled a pair of black shades with small round lenses and slipped them on.
"Oh, NO, you you look like an evil Mr. Peepers!" Bonnie wailed. Whereupon he raised both eyebrows to his companions then leaned down and hooked a finger in the bodice of her dress.
"Yep, the peepin's fine from here... let's get going before you gimme more ideas." Mike started to draw Bonnie after him out the door in the direction of where the limo would be waiting, but Bob called him back.
"Hey, do me a favor, keep your hands off of each other in front of the cameras."
Bonnie pulled free and marched back to stand in front of Bob. Thanks to her Quant heels, they were almost eye to eye.
"Look, every gossip rag and fan mag in the business knows 'the mercurial Monkee and the production exec' are together. Nesmith is calling contractors about a security fence to keep the photographers at bay."
"And an attack dog," Mike chimed in, "don't forget the attack dog."
"Over your dead body," Bonnie shot over her shoulder and turned back to Bob. "I say we take advantage of the Monkees' debut of legit-ness to go legit all the way."
"Legit?" Peter echoed, and Micky promptly began to whistle The Wedding March.
"Now hold on there just a minute missy, what kinda rumors are you trying to replace all them other rumors with?" Mike demanded.
"Shaddup, will you? I'm trying to make a point!"
Mike exchanged a look with Davy and Peter. "Yes dear," they chorused.
"I think I get it, Bonnie," Bob was saying. "You're right, we don't need to play that game anymore. But like I said, you're gonna have to deal with the fan response."
"Oh goodie," Mike chirped, clapping his hands like a six-year old, "maybe I'll get more fan mail." Then he dropped the comic persona. "Can we get a move on?"
"Sure, Mike." Bob ushered everyone out the door, "Wouldn't want you to miss a chance to sneer at the public."
When they were all in the back of the limo Bonnie settled under Mike's arm. It was a good feeling. She looked around at the others, knowing that they were as wound up as she was in spite of their (forced) casual demeanor.
"Look, guys," Bonnie told everyone, "thanks for having me along." She meant a lot more than just for tonight. For all of the work she knew she did, and she knew she did it well, this night seemed to bring it all together with stunning clarity. She was nowhere near where she'd planned to be when she'd left New York; she was in a place she'd never imagined with people she couldn't imagine being without. Her deep and meaningful reverie was interrupted by Nesmith's nibble at her neck.
"Well thanks for being had," he growled.
"Hey, cut it out!" She shoved him away. "Ever since I cut my hair you act like I'm some kinda chew toy!"
"Serves you right for flashing that tasty-looking neck," Micky observed wickedly, then threw his hands up as if to fend off a blow. "Just an observation, guys!"
Out of nowhere, Davy spoke up. "Look, lads... and Bonnie. No matter what wanker we're forced to sit with tonight, no matter how he gloats, or if we win or lose..." He brandished his invitation with the Monkees show nominations listed. "This one's ours. No doubles, no backups."
"Like I said..." Bonnie cast a sharp look at Mike to restrain him. "Thanks for having me along. I know you didn't have to."
"Bullshit." Bob, who had been staring out the window like a stranger on a bus, startled them all with his sudden declaration. "You're one of us. And I'll kick the ass of anyone who says otherwise."
"Well said," Davy announced. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.
When they climbed out of the limo Bonnie was holding Mike's hand as he pulled her to her feet. There were the usual legions of screaming teenagers, but more grownup-celebrity watchers outnumbered them.
"Hey Mike!" a reporter called out. "Is it true you and the associate producer are living in sin?" The other reporters laughed.
"Nah," Bonnie called back, "we live in the Hills. Sin is up the coast a ways."
Bob was trying to hustle everyone up the carpet, and pointed to where Pam stood behind the press line. "There's your pass, Bonnie, we'll see you later."
With an impish look on her face, Pam shouted, "So it's true then that you're together not just on the set?"
Instead of answering Mike grabbed Bonnie and dipped her into a hot kiss, one arm wrapped discreetly around her ass to keep her skirt in place.
"You could say that," he announced after releasing her, then leaned down to whisper, "Later, mama." He gave her a light shove in Pam's direction and trotted to catch up to the others, including the two writers who had arrived in, predictably, a taxi.
Bonnie curtsied to the laughter and applause of the gathered reporters, most of whom she knew by name from handling so many production press calls for the show.
"What can I say, boys, you've found us out. Michael Nesmith and I are going steady. No further comment." She ducked under the velvet rope to join them, or to join Pam to be more specific, and waved her shiny new temporary press pass. "See, I'm one of you tonight!",
Just then a silver Rolls pulled up, and out stepped Don Kirshner like the king of goddamn Prussia.
"Well I'll be damned," Pam muttered, "he did show up. Hey Jack!" she hollered to a photographer on the other side of the carpet. "I owe you ten!" Seeing Bonnie's confusion she explained, "some of us were betting he wouldn't show, just to be an asshole. Force you out and leave the seat empty you know?"
Bonnie looked over to where Kirshner was chatting with some bystanders and posing for photographs for the music mags. It was gonna be a might chilly evening at table "18". She almost felt sorry for the little creep.
That is, until she and Pam heard him telling a reporter, "No, I don't know where Bonnie Morris is tonight," he was saying, "I only know she's not here."
"Oooh, that little shit," Pam grumbled.
"Yeah, well watch this," Bonnie told her before leaning over the press rope. "Wrong again, Don. I'm with the fourth estate tonight... care to comment on your sudden departure from the most successful show on television, and speculate why the ratings spiked for the last four episodes of the season?"
Kirshner whipped around and glared in her direction, clearly not recognizing her at first. Bonnie offered an exaggerated smile and wiggled her fingers in an insincere wave. She was rewarded by the sight of Don Kirshner as close to losing his cool in public as she'd ever be likely to witness. As always, he recovered with lightning speed.
"I'd love to stay and catch up, but dinner awaits." He smirked and was gone.
"Hope ya choke on it, you weasel," Bonnie snarled under her breath. She was definitely looking forward to the rest of the evening, especially since she'd be spending it with Pam. But the thought of sitting staring at Kirshner's back as he sat where she belonged was a nasty little stab to the heart. Fine. When they won... and she knew they'd win, she knew it, goddammit, they had all put up with too much bullshit and high judgment and being looked-down-the-nose by too many others not to win... Kirshner would smile and sleaze and smarm and would know every minute, deep in his black soul, that he had had nothing at all to do with it. She'd decided that would be enough.
Pam was dragging at her arm. "C'mon," she urged, "the press buffet is way better than that rubber-chicken-and-warm-champagne deal in there." She was eager to get the evening going, even more eager for the Best Comedy, Musical, or Variety Show category to be called. Like Bonnie, Pam knew in her heart that the show had to win. Unlike Bonnie, she also knew what would happen when it did.