Predictably, the concept of "take tomorrow off" was short-lived.
After lounging in bed at Mike's until almost ten a.m. – alone, as he was working on some new songs downstairs – Bonnie showered and was hanging on the downstairs deck, enjoying the view, the kick-ass coffee that Nesmith had brewed, and the sound of his guitar trailing out the window of the music room. Promptly at ten forty-five, she went back in the house.
"Hey Nesmith, where's the downstairs phone?" No reply. She went to the music room and found him crouched on the ottoman, listening to the playback of what he'd just taped, writing it all down on staff paper. She walked up close behind and stood over him.
"HEY NESMITH, WHERE'S THE DOWNSTAIRS PHONE?" she hollered, inches behind his head. He jumped a mile, and the padded headpiece of his headphones whacked her the face.
"Ow!" She grabbed her nose and jumped back as he shut off the tape and took of the phones. "I dink you broke id! Danks a lod, Desmid."
"Jesus jumped-up Christ, whaddaya expect?" He pounded his chest. "Gimme the cables, will ya, I need a jump." Bonnie was still hanging onto her nose, eyes shut tight. "Ah c'mon, Morris, quit bein' such a baby. Lemme see." He gently pried her fingers away. "Still straight, no blood." He bent down to kiss the tip. "There, all better."
"Sez you." She made a couple of rabbit faces, just to be sure. "I need to call my service, where's the phone down here?"
"Maybe the blow to your nose confused you…" He cruised past the lame pun. "You have the day off."
"Sez you," she repeated. "Phone."
"Suit yourself." He pointed her to a table in the corner. He watched smugly as she dialed. "Wasting your time," he whispered, waving his hands, "wasting my phone…"
She ignored him as she dialed. "Hey Janie, it's Bonnie. What've you got for me?" A pause, a nod, "I'm stunned. I'm shocked. I'll be there. Thanks, Janie." She hung up and turned to Mike. "I got a sit-down at two, with Bob and Chip and the writers." She brought her mug in from the deck and held it out to him. "Coffee. More."
"Uh-uh, Oliver, not until you tell me why suddenly we don't have the day off anymore."
"Oh, you do, all of you stars do. Us production lackeys, fat chance." She took her mug back from him and went into the kitchen, chanting "Coffee… more… coffee… more." Mike trailed behind, a picture of disgruntlement. When she found the pot, empty, and shook it at him whining "More," she caught him getting ready to wind up into a rant against The Man.
"Don't start, Nesmith. I myself am not even surprised. Really, I can't believe it… we all started this gig at exactly the same time, working for exactly the same guys, and you still get blindsided. Too much into the music, I guess." She gathered her stuff up set it by the door. "Drive me in will ya? I should get some stuff done in my office before we do this 'sit down' thing."
"This what you were talking about last night? What I'll wish you didn't work so hard for?" He grimaced, and shook his head in disgust. "Man, I could learn to hate this music business. Suffering for art, that's bullshit."
She shook her finger at him. "Lemme remind you of something… the business of music is business, not music. You and David and Micky and Peter do the acting in the studio and the music on the road, and the rest of us do the business. Everyone suffers. Some of us profit. The. End. Now who do I have to fuck to get some MORE COFFEE?"
As usual, her refusal to cave killed his interest in the debate. His demeanor turned on a dime from Pissed Off Artiste to Sexy Rock Star. He slunk closer, reaching for her.
"Why that would be me, little lady," he drawled in his most seductive, honey-velvet voice, "Which would you prefer first?" When she shoved her mug at him, the grimace returned. "Damn you know how to slap down a good offer. Just for that, no Papa Nez morning lovin' for you." He turned on his heel and went to refill the percolator.
"And another thing, Nesmith," she told him, "Never, ever, not on the longest day of your life, will I ever call you 'Papa Nez'. That's fan talk. I am not a fan."
"Yeah, yeah, you're telling me," he muttered as he set the pot on to brew. "You are a cruel, evil-minded woman…" He whipped around suddenly and snatched her into his arms, dipping her almost to the floor. "Lucky for you that's just my style."
"I had a great idea last night, guys," Bob announced to the assembled Production Lackeys. "It'll get us to a new location, it'll grab the kids watching, and it'll keep the guys from getting mobbed. We're gonna go to Paris."
Blank stares all around.
"Paris," Chip repeated in a monotone. "As in France."
"Well I don't mean Paris as in Texas."
"Thank god for that," one of the writers mumbled. "Writing for one fuckin' Texan is enough. Couldn't handle a whole city full."
"Well you don't have to worry, guys… there's gonna be no dialogue."
Now the three-man writing team, who Bonnie had dubbed (in her head) as See No Rewrite, Speak No Rewrite, and Hear No Rewrite, blinked as one.
"Wanna tell us what we're here for?" the Hear No Rewrite said. "Since nobody's gonna have lines?"
"Scenario, guys, we still need the scenarios!" Now he turned to Bonnie, "I was thinking hard about what you said about the guys getting killed by crowds, so I called Donnie and asked, 'where in Europe are the Monkees selling the least records and getting the least press'? And he said, France! So… killing two birds with one stone… we can get this special 'real-cam' thing done where it'll be easier to shoot, and we can up their press in France at the same time!" He turned back to the writers. "I want it to be like… a mob of fans chasing them around Paris, the landmarks, the street scenes… but just four girls to play some cat-and-mouse and shoot some social stuff with 'em too."
"But you just said nobody's gonna mob them," Chip reminded him.
"We'll hire extras. It doesn't have to be crazy, like here. Hey, it's Europe, they have more class, right? Anyway, it'll grab the kids' attention and look more exotic than…"
"Des Moines?" Bonnie piped up. "It scares me to say it, but I think it kinda works, Bob. But what do you mean by 'social stuff'? Like publicity?"
Bob looked as if she'd suggested they be sacrificed to some obscure god. "No, it's gonna be part of the episode! Four models, because they're cheaper than actresses and they don't have to speak anyway. Shoot some walks in the park, driving in the Monkeemobile, like that."
Now Bonnie, who also sketched out preliminary budgets for Bob's Brilliant Ideas, slapped her notebook shut. "Do you have any idea how much it would cost to fly that tarted up hot rod to France? Take the unicycles, they're easier to pack. Better yet, stick to local stuff, Citroens, crap like that. Besides, it's more exotic, right?" She opened her notebook again and began writing madly. "Okay, I'll need to contact the Parisian film board, look for a decent hotel that won't break the bank, find a modeling agency that also won't break the bank…"
"Wow. Girls catch up with them and they don't get ripped to shreds... sure we're not writing for the Twilight Zone?" See No Rewrite quipped.
"Ha, ha wiseass. And Bonnie, I got that covered," Bob told them.
Bonnie was astounded. "Already?"
"Yeah, my driver gave me a tip."
Another round of blank stares, some more alarmed than others.
"Your driver," Bonnie intoned. "Henri? The guy from Montreal? Bob, he's not even French!"
"Hey, he's been with me for years. His cousin, by the way, does talent work in Paris. He gave me the name of an agency to call."
"Bob," Chip reminded him. "You don't speak French."
"He barely speaks English," Speak No Rewrite mumbled to his companions.
"I heard that, Marty. Henri made the call, he took the notes, they're right here. We're all set. Four women, and a bargain for a day's worth of shooting."
"Lemme see that," Bonnie reached for the papers in Bob's hands.
"They're partly in French, babe, but he explained it all."
"Donnez les-moi!" she demanded. "That means, hand 'em over."
"You speak French? You never told me you spoke French!" Bob exclaimed as she shrugged.
"Wasn't in the job description. So…?" He handed her the documents, and she read through the sloppy handwriting. "Is this the name of the 'agency'? Filles des Nuit Accompagnement?" She dropped her head into her hands. "What did Henri tell you it was?"
"I told him we needed an agency to provide women to go with the guys on the shoot. Nice looking, like you'd take on a date."
"Bob. How do I say this? It sounds like he set you up with an escort service. Accompagnement means escort."
"He said it meant company."
"He probably meant 'companion', that kind of company. And Jesus, Bob, 'Filles des Nuits'? I don't guess he translated that for you."
"No, he just said it was the name… why?"
Now Bonnie burst out laughing. "Evening Ladies… ladies of the evening? Evening Ladies Escort." She was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, and the others joined in as Bob sat in stunned silence. "Okay, okay," Bonnie struggled back into control. "I guess ol' Henri thought he was giving you what you wanted… some female companionship between shooting, or something." She lost it all over again.
Bob tried to re-assert his authority. "If you all would mind getting a grip?"
"I'm sorry, man," Bonnie gasped, "but it's too perfect. Fake fans, fake mob scenes, and real French hookers… hey if you're gonna pay for what they can get for free anywhere else, why not go all the way?"
After letting them laugh themselves out, Bob turned to Bonnie. "Can you fix it?"
"Bién sûr. That means hell yeah, more or less. Who's your contact?" She searched the notes and found a name and Paris phone number. "'Madame Janelle Duvalier'. I'll bet she is."
"Are you sure you can take care of this?" Chip asked. He was the kind of guy who, while everyone around him was going apeshit, had a healthy desire to keep things from spinning out of control.
"Mai oui… vous avez besoin d'on qui parler Francais. Cette person … c'est moi!"
"Okay, okay," Bob interrupted in impatience, "just take care of it. We're through here, we'll meet again when Bonnie has this crap straightened out."
She loved how he said "this crap" as if it had just fallen from the sky. "Hey Bob, this'd make great backstory for the episode! Pleeeeze can I leak it?"
Bob's expression darkened. "You do, and there'll be another ad in the paper," he threatened. "Right after your funeral notice."
Smiling sweetly, Bonnie skipped merrily past Bob, inventing an on-the-spot parody of the old French kiddie song: "Frére Robert, Frére Robert, patron fous, patron fous..."
Madame Janelle Duvalier… seriously, how hard could it be to break a non-contract with a French madame?
A/N Interpretation below for the French-impaired:
"Mai oui… vous avez besoin d'on qui parler Francais. Cette person … c'est moi!": "But yes… you need someone who can speak French. That someone is… me!"
"Frére Robert, Frére Robert, patron fous, patron fous...": "Brother Robert, Brother Robert, crazy boss, crazy boss…"