I've decided this is set in some alternate universe. It kind of has to be. It won't fit anywhere within the events that happened on the show, so...
Disclaimer: Remember WENN and its characters were created by and belong to Rupert Holmes. The show is produced by Meltzer Productions, and is broadcast on American Movie Classics. No copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: I don't know exactly when this is set. All I know is between "Who's Scott Sherwood?" and "All's Noisy". Pick your time. :-)
Half-full boxes still lay scattered over the apartment premises. She had never completely settled in, though it had been months since she had moved in. Partly it was because she was always too tired to unpack. It was mostly from habit. She didn’t stay put in one place too long, so over the years she had acquired a tendency to keep the few things she had semi-packed.
Whenever she had the desire to take some things out, she always became distracted by something she uncovered. That particular day, it was a photo album. She sat cross-legged on the hard floor, carefully cradling the book in her lap. Her smooth-skinned hand fingered the tough, bumpy texture of its cover. It turned to the front page. Yellowed photographs of a younger self beamed at her. She smiled as she looked through the select pictures she had kept with her throughout the years. It was a rather small photo album, so it was no great task to glance through it in a short amount of time. Her gaze lingered on those pictures containing her parents. She laughed a little as she looked at the recently-taken photograph of the WENN cast and crew for a publicity story in a local newspaper.
She gingerly turned to the final page. It had been taken several years in the past. It featured a handsome, cheerful twentysomething with a dazzling grin. Leaning against him, smiling contentedly as his arm rested around her shoulder, was a young woman with dirty blonde hair. She chuckled, recalling her blonde days.
A folded piece of paper had been tucked between the back cover and the final page of the photo album. She removed it, not quite remembering what it was. It was a plain piece of off-white paper with the distinctive scrawl of a man.
"How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..." she read to herself. She giggled. It was a poor attempt at poetry, and rip-off poetry at that. Scotty had never been one for rhymes.
A faraway look glazed over Maple’s eyes. She glanced down again at the picture. With two fingers, she caressed his cheek.
"Betty Roberts doesn’t know what she’s missing," she murmured.
Placing the photo album gently back into its respective box, Maple stretched her arms and stood up. She suddenly felt very drowsy. She switched off her light and climbed into bed, snuggling under the covers. Closing her eyes, she drifted off into a deep sleep. The last thought she remembered having was that of Scott Sherwood.
***
She idly stirred a cup of coffee. Maple laid her head against her other hand, her elbow propped up on the table. She watched the spoon circle round and round, round and round, her eyes following the dizzying pattern. She blinked once or twice to snap herself out of a hypnotic state.
Across the table sat her companion, a very full Scott Sherwood. He had been too busy eating to notice Maple’s unusual disposition. Normally she chattered a mile a minute in her distinctly-accented voice. Today, she hardly said two words. Scott had trained himself to tune her out, catching enough sentences here and there to get the gist of her one-sided conversation. He realized as he dusted some crumbs off his shirt that she hadn’t said anything at all.
"Mapes?" he said. She seemed not to have heard him. He reached over and touched her arm. She promptly halted her stirring and her head snapped up. She quickly plastered a feigned smile on her inanimate face.
"Are you okay?" Scott asked.
"Oh...yeah," she replied fake-cheerfully.
Scott gave her a knowing look. He had been acquainted with her too long to not know when she was hiding something. When she subtly shook her head, he knew she didn’t want him to prod. When Maple was ready she would tell him. Their friendship was based on a "don’t ask, I’ll tell you later" philosophy, and it had worked as long as they had known each other.
"How’s the Betty hunt going?" she inquired casually.
He reached behind his head to rub his neck. "I don’t know," he sighed. "You know me, Mapes. I’m usually flexible. But I haven’t met a woman yet who can take my mind off Betty."
Maple offered her own sigh. Scott interpreted it as sympathy. She was suffering from other mixed emotions. She quickly took a long sip from her lukewarm coffee to hide any tell-tale signs from Scott’s detection.
"I’ve done everything I can think of. I’ve done everything you can think of. She just doesn’t respond to me," Scott pouted.
"Aw, you’re giving up too easily," Maple encouraged him as she characteristically did. She didn’t know what else to do. Their time passed years ago. She hadn’t even thought about it until she had found that picture the previous night. Everything had emerged from the dusty back corners of her mind and hit her like a ton of bricks. She always cared for Scott Sherwood. But she hadn’t felt that kind of caring since they had their fling.
She found herself digging in her purse for the picture. She nudged it in Scott’s direction. "Look what I found this morning."
She watched his face light up at first with a wry grin, then soften to a reminiscent smile. He glanced up at her, then quickly returned his focus to the photo.
"God, Maple, I feel old looking at this thing," he joked.
"How do you think I feel?" she retorted.
Scott compared the younger Maple with the older Maple and concluded all that had changed was her hair color.
"And you’ve put on a little," he teased.
"I should say the same for you," Maple said.
"Oh, would you look at the time?" Scott answered quickly, glancing at his watch. "We should get back to the station."
It was his turn to pick up the check. As he made his way to the cashier, Maple reached for her photograph. She studied it once more and placed it cautiously in her purse. She smoothed out her dress as she stood. She saw Scott waiting for her at the exit. He was holding the door for her. Scott may have been a charming rogue on the outside, but had the heart of a noble gentleman. Maple thanked him with a tender smile.
She paused just outside the diner, as Scott continued to play doorman for a pair of elderly ladies. He came out, chuckling. One of the ladies had winked at him. He stopped, offering Maple his arm. She didn’t take it. Instead, her eyes were on his. Not thinking, Maple quickly ran her fingers through Scott’s hair and leaned in for a kiss.
As her lips pressed against his, Scott found himself drowning in a sea of memories. As he sunk deeper and deeper, he swallowed the water of passion that flowed throughout his body to the point he should have choked. But he didn’t. Instead, he soaked it up and thirsted for more. It was a taste he hadn’t experienced in years. To Maple’s surprise, he was returning her kiss. Furthermore, he had enveloped her in his arms and had no intention of letting go.
Scott and Maple parted simultaneously. She lingered in his grasp for a while, staring deep into his chocolate-brown eyes. He was breathing heavily, as if he had finally surfaced from his aquatic descent and was trying to regain the oxygen he had lost. Maple suddenly pushed him away, staring down at the ground.
"God, I’m so sorry," she whispered in a hoarse tone, looking up at him, her hand covering her mouth as if her words were infected with something contagious. Scott noticed her eyes were slowly accumulating tears. He silently reached out to caress her face. She shook her head, reaching up to remove his hand.
"You can’t, Scotty." A teardrop rolled down her cheek. "We’re over. You’ve moved on."
"Maple..." he started, but she shook her head once more, this time more fiercely.
"Go back to work. You’re gonna be late," she said. She attempted a small smile. "Hilary’s going to kill you."
Scott’s face remained emotionless. "Maple..."
"Go, dammit!" she ordered angrily, attracting some curious glances from passerby. She wiped her eyes self-consciously, trying to avoid their questioning gazes. The only safe place she found to hide were in Scott’s eyes. She sniffled as he cradled her face in his hands and ran a thumb over each cheek, removing any tears that remained there.
"Can I say something?" he asked, smiling. Maple allowed a helpless laugh to escape from her system. She nodded.
"I never realized how much I missed you." After a brief afterthought he added, "How much I missed us."
"Us," Maple echoed, savoring the flavor of the word carefully, as if she was tasting a piece of chocolate after years of deprivation. "Don’t say that, Scotty. That makes me feel really old." She let her lips tug at a smile. Scott returned a look of seriousness that almost frightened her. He was rarely ever serious. The last time she had ever seen him so serious was when he had confessed all his newfound infatuation in Betty Roberts.
"Betty..." Maple murmured.
Scott frowned.
"What?"
"Betty," Maple intoned more clearly. She glanced at Scott anxiously. His eyes were downcast, and his feet tapped the ground nervously. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. Betty. Slowly, his gaze wandered back to Maple’s.
"I don’t know," he mumbled.
Maple found herself shaking slightly with uneasiness.
"I know you love her, Scotty." She pressed her lips together so that they formed a thin, pink line. Even in the midst of an intense situation, she found herself loyal to her friendship with Betty. "I would understand if you..."
"Stop it, Maple," he interjected. "You don’t have to defend her."
A troubled pause passed between them.
"What are we gonna do?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"We’re gonna work it out, Mapes, like we always do." Scott put a reassuring arm around her waist. Maple leaned into him, just as she had done in her photograph. They walked back to work solemnly.
***
"Aughh!" Hilary shrieked as the studio doors shut behind her. She threw the script she had been holding into the nearest trash bin.
"Something the matter, Hilary?" Gertie queried innocently from her post at the receptionist’s desk.
Hilary’s eyes burned with a murderous fire. She held up two clawed hands as if to strangle someone. She was about to exclaim exasperatedly, when the entrance opened and Scott and Maple walked through it. She yelped and growled in a homidical tone, "You."
"Sorry," Scott apologized rather heartlessly as he helped Maple remove her coat. He hung it on the coat rack and began to work on his own.
"It was my fault, Hilary," Maple admitted quietly.
Hilary simmered down, struck by the unusual responses. Scott normally would have called her Hildy and made an incredibly irritating response. Maple normally would have cracked her gum and added a smart-alecky remark. They were both strangely unenthusiastic. Hilary shuddered as an almost paranoid feeling swept throughout her. Was the world coming to an end, or was this all a conspiracy?
Gertie noticed a certain twinkle missing from both their eyes. They looked exhausted. She must remember to ask them where and what they had eaten and avoid it at all costs. Scott offered Gertie a melancholy half-grin as she handed him the next script. She noted the eye contact that he and Maple made before they parted - he into the studio and she into the Green Room. It was something she couldn’t identify. She looked at Hilary, who had watched the same event wordlessly. Hilary met her gaze and frowned.
"Did I miss something?" she asked.
Gertie offered a shrug.
Hilary decidedly made her way to the Green Room to find out exactly what was going on, and whether there was a plot somewhere against her. She found Maple sitting at the table, studying herself in a small, hand-held mirror, wrinkling her nose at her red eyes.
"I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me what’s going on," Hilary prodded.
"You suppose correctly," Maple replied dully. She didn’t notice as Hilary sat in the seat across from her. They exchanged no words for a few minutes. Hilary watched as Maple reapplied much of her makeup, seeming rather absent-minded about it.
"Cripes!" Hilary vociferated.
"What, Hilary?" Maple said impatiently.
"Aren’t you going to tell me anything?"
Maple replaced the cover on her tube of lipstick and produced a tissue to blot her lips with. Calmly, she looked at Hilary and said, "No."
"I’ll make your life miserable," Hilary warned.
"You already do," Maple reminded her.
"You don’t suppose Scott will tell me anything."
Maple laughed her old jovial laugh, something she felt she hadn’t done in eternity. Her face lit up and her eyes regained some twinkle. "Good luck," she chuckled.
Hilary rose from her seat with a great harumph and began to pace back and forth. Maple paid no attention. Finally, Hilary stopped, crossed her arms haughtily, and inhaled sharply as if she was going to say something. She realized she had nothing worthwhile to say. Instead, she shook an accusing finger at Maple and said, "I’ll find out whether you like it or not. So you might as well tell me."
"Tell what?" a third voice asked.
Betty had walked in, searching for a cup of coffee. Maple appeared alarmed for a split-second, but quickly masked her apprehension with a forced smile. She cleared her makeup off the table and stood up abruptly. Hilary made a mental note of the reaction.
"Oh nothing," she announced, trying to imitate her bubbly self. "Oh, would you look at the time? I have to be...somewhere." Anywhere but here, she added mentally. Maple offered a nod of parting at the two women and rushed off to the women’s lounge. Perhaps she could do some thinking in there.
Hilary’s index finger waggled again, after Maple had disappeared, this time in a thoughtful manner. She looked at Betty with an air of suspicion. Betty found herself being confronted with the finger. She quickly turned her attention to her coffee. Hilary retracted her finger and placed her hands on her hips. "There’s something fishy going on, and I can smell the putrescence," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"What is it now, Hilary?" Betty asked tiredly. She took a sip of her coffee, feeling a little bit of sustenance as the liquid raced down her throat. She’d been extremely worn out the past week. Not that she wasn’t drowsed every other week, but this particular week, she had been preoccupied with more than just work. No, a burden placed on the backburner had suddenly reemerged from the dusty corners of her mind, and she’d stayed up late preoccupied with answering her own heart’s inquiry.
"I don’t know exactly," Hilary said, tapping her chin thoughtfully with a finger. "But something’s out of place."
The door to the Green Room opened and Scott Sherwood entered, pausing abruptly in his tracks when he caught sight of Betty. He nervously rubbed one arm.
"We need you in the studio, Hilary," he said, keeping as self-contained as he possibly could. He did not offer Betty any greeting. He did not crow his usual trio of Bettys. He didn’t send her a quick wink. He didn’t even crack a smile. He stood stiffly, trying to mask some kind of emotion that Betty couldn’t decipher, hoping not to make any eye contact. Hilary took some more mental notes, her curiosity piquing. "We don’t have all day, Hilary."
"Now, now, Scotty...you can’t rush greatness," the diva replied in a grandiose manner.
Scott rolled his eyes, did an about-face and exited, the door swinging behind him. In the hall, he let out a slow, dejected sigh. Women. They were wonderful creations, but sometimes they caused too much chaos in a simple man’s existence.
Hilary arched one knowing eyebrow towards Betty. "Tell me there was nothing unusual about that," she dared.
Betty tendered no response. She stared at her coffee, the usual bout of confusion attacking her psyche. There was something strange about Scott’s demeanor. She had almost come to take his constant friendliness for granted. Now that it was missing, Betty felt a small hole in her spirit. Hilary also noted Betty’s silence with a kind of superiority. She loved being right. With that ego-pumping thought, she left for the studio.
Scott and Mackie were inside. They telegraphed displeased looks towards the actress, who disregarded them. She had sent them those same looks numerous times. She felt rather generous allowing them to be so hostile and not throwing up her sharp-tongued defenses.
"Oh look," Scott adlibbed. "Here is our stupendously inconsiderate and tardy lady now. Just another pet name we have for her." He glowered as he spit out his lines.
Hilary’s shell of generosity cracked. Two arrows of animosity were one too many - especially when they were dipped in the same poison she had been the first to use. How dare Scott Wormwood steal her line? She found herself straying from the script. "Well," she hissed, "I was solving a little mystery of my own, you see. The Case of the Suspicious So-Called Actor, as I like to call it. I’m afraid I’ve become rather preoccupied."
Scott was controlled enough to hide his surprise. He sincerely hoped Hilary didn’t know the entire story. He would have liked some time to sort out his own feelings before word got out around the station. He had no intention of hurting Maple or Betty.
"As interesting as that may be, madam," Mackie chimed in with his best British accent, "I’m afraid it’s time to take you to the guillotine..."
"Wait a minute," Scott interrupted, stepping out-of-character to Mackie’s dismay. He directed himself towards Hilary. "What do you know?"
"Crimey," Mackie quickly said. "It’s...the Mysterious Masked American!" He sincerely hoped the audience had forgotten this was supposed to be a period drama set in Europe before 1492. He removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses against his shirt awkwardly. He braced himself for another on-air war. Mr. Foley found himself a seat and prepared for the action. Eugenia sighed and folded her hands in her lap. C. J. buried his head in his hands in dismay.
"Don’t spoil your knickers," Hilary remarked with a sly grin. "I don’t know any details. Yet."
"You just get a kick out of making everyone’s life a living hell, don’t you?" Scott raged.
"Which is exactly why," Mackie piped up, taking a big breath before he continued, "...we’re off to see the guillotine, the wonderful guillotine..." He added a familiar movie melody to his last few words, receiving appreciative smiles from Mr. Foley and Eugenia. Scott and Hilary did not appear amused, nor did they give any sign of acknowledgment. Mackie felt himself perspiring at the heat of their tension. Mr. Foley motioned him to an empty seat, and Mackie fell into it gratefully.
***
Scott shut the door to the main office behind him and locked it. Maple leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes brimming with questions as she watched him.
"Scotty..." she started.
He interrupted her with a swift kiss. She lifted her eyes and probed into his. They only offered a warm, affectionate twinkle.
"What happened in there?" she asked.
"Hilary Booth," Scott grunted with a grimace. "She wants to know what we’re hiding."
Maple lazily traced his cheek with her finger.
"Are we hiding something?" she questioned softly.
Scott sighed. How could he tell her without hurting her? When he had seen Betty in the Green Room that afternoon, he had felt an emotional pain, sort of like what he imagined digesting oneself inside out would feel like. A thoroughly unpleasant sensation. Although Maple had revived something that had remained dormant for years, she hadn’t erased whatever he felt towards Betty.
Maple could sense Scott’s hesitation. She could understand what he was thinking. When she had seen Betty, an internal dread had permeated throughout her system. She liked Betty, just as Scott liked Victor, but even more so. She considered Betty a friend, and though Betty had shown no particular interest in Scott’s endless approaches, Maple still felt as if she had betrayed her friend somehow.
"I hope you understand when I say this, Mapes," Scott began tentatively, "but I’m just really confused."
"About Betty," Maple said, and nodded in comprehension.
"About everything," Scott corrected. He looped his arms around her waist and they pulled together into a tight embrace.
"I’m sorry, Big Guy," Maple whispered into his ear. "It’s all my fault."
"Don’t even say a thing like that, Maple," Scott chided. "You don’t know what you’ve done for me."
"Probably turned you into a basketcase," she answered with a rueful chuckle.
"Yeah," Scott agreed, "but that was long before today."
Maple laughed. She gently nudged him away, standing straight up and smoothing out her clothes.
"If we have something to hide, it won’t help to stay cooped up in here any longer. If I know Hilary, she’s probably waiting outside right now," she said, unlocking the door and opening it.
She froze when she saw someone waiting outside. It wasn’t Hilary, as she expected. It was Betty.
Betty smiled as brightly as she could. When Scott appeared from the shadows, she did her best not to wince at the strange pang that hit her unexpectedly.
"Hey there, Betty," Maple said amiably. She and Scott shared an urgent look. "We were just, uh..."
Scott, quick on his feet, put a confiding arm around Betty and whispered, "We were just planning a surprise party for one of our friends. You know. Hush-hush."
Maple came around to the other side and piled another arm on top of Scott’s.
"He’s kind of a lonely little guy. You know that type. Works nonstop all day, never gets the credit he deserves, always being ragged on by the people he works with..." Maple trailed off. Behind Betty’s back, she and Scott exchanged a nervous glance. Maple had just more or less described the lifestyle of Betty Roberts.
"That’s nice of you," Betty said unknowingly. "I hope everything goes as planned."
She shrugged herself out of her colleagues’ arms and entered the office, rapidly coming up with something to look for. She grabbed a red pencil and rushed out, saying, "I needed one of these," and practically flew back to the writers’ room. Scott watched her, hiding a vaguely disheartened feeling behind indifference. He turned his attention to Maple, who looked up at him with a smile, hiding anxiety behind friendliness.
"Duty calls, Scotty," she said.
To Be Continued...
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