But this? This was beyond. Beyond beyond! And to think Ian and his bosses had made this momentous decision before any of them even saw Jeremy’s clincher haircut. He wanted to call Cassie right then and tell her, and then realized he meant Annabelle and thought he might pass out altogether.
“Who did you say your agent was again?” Ian asked, interrupting Jeremy’s reverie.
“Oh. I didn’t. I mean, I don’t. Have one. An agent.” Jeremy sounded like a short-circuiting robot. He’d forgotten how there was so much more to writing movies than writing movies. Reviewing them was a lot less complicated.
Ian stared at Jeremy as if he’d just dropped onto the planet from outer space. “Well, just let us know who business affairs should call to make your deal,” Ian finally said with a shrug, taking a last swig of his bottled tea.
“My deal,” Jeremy repeated. “Right.”
He wasn’t even a Writers Guild member anymore, hadn’t paid his union dues in a decade. Would he even get the WGA minimum rate? Jeremy didn’t have a clue what buyers paid for a screenplay these days that wasn’t written by Aaron Sorkin or Diablo Cody or any of the other A-listers making bank out there. And then it hit him like a ton of scripts: if Monolith wanted Offensive Measures maybe another company would, too. Someplace like Netflix or Amazon or Hulu or a more traditional studio like Universal, which had bought his first script. If that happened, there’d be competition; it might drive up the price. A bidding war! Jeremy put the brakes on his ping-ponging thoughts, knew he was getting way too ahead of himself. He should be kneeling at Ian Franco’s Vans-covered feet and thanking him for this golden opportunity. Not that that was Jeremy’s style, but—Christ, focus, man!
Fortunately, Ian had a crucial reason to break the silence.
“Where do you get your hair cut?” he asked. “I’m looking for a new stylist.”
CHAPTER
21
It was Annabelle’s idea to gather Jeremy, Matty, Gabe, and Joyce for a celebration dinner at Pace, a quaint and popular Italian spot nestled into a rustic corner of Laurel Canyon just north of Sunset Boulevard. Jeremy, though wary about getting overly excited about his amazing good fortune until the deal closed—Zoë’s agent, Juliana, more than happy to jump in to represent Jeremy on the script, had begun negotiating with Monolith and pronounced the streamer’s presumptive bid “bearish”—figured he deserved to splurge on the people he cared most about (including Gabe, who, like his aunt, continued to prove a wonderful addition to Jeremy’s little circle).
He also considered it a fitting, if belated, way to mark the end of the line for Big Bertha, his freedom to fully use both hands and arms again and to wear and pretty much do whatever he wanted—as long as no heavy lifting was involved. His bad shoulder was still mending, still tender but, like so much else in his life lately, greatly improved. Dr. Hockstein, during a follow-up visit the previous week, said Jeremy was making a “remarkable recovery” and jokingly—or not—took full credit.
When Annabelle suggested Pace (that’s pah-chay to you: Italian for “peace”), Jeremy went right along with it even though the restaurant struck such a wistful chord in him he had to avoid glancing its way whenever he drove past. And who was the last person Jeremy would want on his mind while he was feting his script sale over ciabatta-crust pizza and organic beet salad? Cassie, of course, even though he knew that’s exactly whose memory would be hovering over the entire evening.
The restaurant had just changed hands—and names—around the time Jeremy and Cassie moved to Laurel Canyon some twenty-plus years ago. They had eaten there a few times before that when it was Caioti, a bohemian hole-in-the-wall famed for serving a salad that, urban legend had it, could kick-start labor in overdue women.
So on the night they closed on their Laurel Canyon house—and with Joyce and Larry babysitting year-old Matty—Jeremy and Cassie thought, where better to honor the occasion but smack dab in their new neighborhood at its one and only official restaurant? While it retained its former woodsy charm, the place now had a bit more elevated menu and the prices to match. But it felt like home to them and, although emotionally zapped from their late afternoon signing spree, they enjoyed a long and languorous meal nestled amid the trattoria’s brick-walled warmth.
This is not to say that Jeremy and Cassie, still only in their twenties, weren’t more than slightly terrified to be doing something as irrevocably adult as buying a house. And they had no idea that night just how overextended they’d be for the next swath of years or that Jeremy’s screenwriting career, which had enabled them, at least on paper, to afford their new homestead, would have the shelf life of sushi. Cassie also hadn’t decided to go to law school yet, so those expenses, though they’d prove a wise investment, were also not on their mental tote boards.
As a result, they were free to dream up all kinds of improvements for Chez Lerner: new kitchen cabinets and counters, moving the washer and dryer inside from the garage, relandscaping the front and backyards, retiling the master bathroom, and on and on. They were giddy with creativity, drunk on possibility. They drew sketches on napkins and made lists on their palms. They floated favorite paint colors and wood stains. Money was no object. Need played second fiddle to want.
They were also totally and completely in love—with each other and their wondrous baby son. So much so that after they returned home that night, bid goodbye to Joyce and Larry, gazed in awe at their sleeping child, and then climbed into bed filled with such a heady mix of hope and joy and adventure they could barely stand it, they tried to make a brother or sister for Matty.
Like the indoor laundry room and that new bathroom tile, it would never come to pass.
So as the others gabbed away as they pored over the Pace menu, Jeremy’s thoughts sprang back to that night a lifetime ago when he and Cassie sat at a corner booth just two tables down and mapped out the rest of their lives together. It made him terribly sad.
“I just want to give props to my dad,” announced Matty, wine glass aloft, “who proves that it’s never too late to get your shit together!” They all shared a warm laugh and toasted.
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s actually ‘together,’” said Jeremy as he clinked his glass around the table. “But it’s definitely in a much neater pile than it was a few months ago.”
“By the way, Mom sends her congratulations,” Matty told Jeremy, perhaps a bit too well-timed. It put a slight pall over the table. There was a sudden rearranging of cutlery and interest in the breadbasket. Matty soldiered on: “She’s really happy for you, Dad. Knows what a big deal it is.”
Jeremy appreciated him trying to normalize things, to keep his family aligned amid its fracture. Annabelle was respectfully silent.
Gabe, quick on the uptake, jumped in to paper over the weirdness. “Ian told me it’s only the second spec screenplay Monolith bought all year. So that’s pretty major.”
Joyce turned to Jeremy, did her part: “What did you use to say about screenwriting, honey? ‘The roulette wheel is always spinning, it’s just a matter of whose ball lands in the slot?’”
The exchange escaped Jeremy. He’d been spaced out wondering why Cassie, if she knew about his script sale, hadn’t at least shot him a quick text or email. And did she really send her kudos through their son, or did Matty concoct that to make Jeremy feel better? Then again, Cassie and Jeremy had had next to no communication in weeks. Most notably, not even about their pending divorce, of which Jeremy had still done nothing in terms of hiring an attorney.
This was partly because Cassie, for some unknown reason, had not been pressing him, and partly because Jeremy had been too taken up with the recent whirlwind of his life to deal with it. And though, in theory, he’d come to terms with needing a divorce lawyer, he maybe still naively believed he and Cassie could work things out on their own—even when it came to the house. And maybe, just maybe, he’d begun to think these last few days, the money he�
�d make from Offensive Measures (Juliana said they were circling a healthy six figures, “none of which was a one or a two”) could go a ways to making the house his own. And wouldn’t there be fitting synchronicity to that, given how he and Cassie were able to afford it in the first place?
Joyce dipped some bread in the pesto-olive oil mix and turned back to Jeremy: “Honey, tell us about physical therapy. How’s that coming along?”
As soon as Jeremy’s abduction brace was history, he began seeing a physical therapist at a clinic on La Brea covered by his insurance. (That he was still on Cassie’s medical plan was a whole other issue.) Dr. Hockstein, Annabelle, the internet, and Jeremy’s PT himself, a wispy-whiskered little fellow named Lonnie whose elfin looks belied a powerful pair of hands, all agreed: if Jeremy didn’t complete the twelve to eighteen sessions of therapy prescribed to rebuild his strength, it could slow the healing process and leave his rotator cuff susceptible to a retear.
“It’s not exactly how I’d like to be spending three hours a week, but I think it helps,” Jeremy said, forcing out some halfway upbeat response for Annabelle’s benefit. In reality, he despised every painful, tedious minute of PT—those latex resistance bands were torture—and blew off the home exercises Lonnie so diligently diagrammed for him. Jeremy was, however, still doing those thirty-minute walks around his invisible backyard pool, which he found to be great for brainstorming ways to improve Offensive Measures and new script ideas altogether. Matty seemed almost more impressed that his father had kept up his daily laps than that he, a relative nobody, had sold a six-year-old screenplay to a billion-dollar streaming platform.
“I’ve made a decision: the lamb shank,” proclaimed Annabelle, closing her menu with such force you’d think she’d just chosen an attack strategy for the Battle of Normandy.
“Caesar salad and the Aphrodite Pie,” Jeremy decided. The pizzas were all named for Greek gods, in honor of the adjacent upscale housing development known as Mount Olympus.
“Rigatoni and sausage,” declared Matty.
“The snapper,” Gabe reported.
“Okay, all present and accounted for,” said Joyce, who waved their waitress over from the other side of the room.
Annabelle turned to Jeremy and kissed his cheek, covering his hand with hers. They sat that way, serene and secure, while the others, pretending to ignore the snuggling in their midst, debated the merits of vitamin supplements: Joyce was pro (“They can only help”), Gabe was con (“Eat right, you’ll take in all the vitamins you need”), and Matty was on the fence (“Okay, but there’s just so much kale one person can eat”).
Right as Jeremy was about to change the topic—any other topic, please!—a familiar voice behind him boomed, “Boy, they let anyone into this place, don’t they?” Jeremy looked up, startled to see Lucien hovering above him, wife Bonita at his side.
Jeremy disengaged from Annabelle and rose to greet his hapless ex-employer, who’d put on a few pounds and grew an ugly, bushy beard since he’d last seen him at his birthday party. Bonita, with her sleek, super-long dark hair (think Cher in her Sonny days) and turquoise jewelry looked her usual well-heeled earth mother self. Jeremy and Lucien did a half-handshake/half-hug; Bonita tilted her head and smiled, no hug required. Fine by Jeremy. He made quick introductions—or reintroductions—all around, saving Annabelle for last. Without stumbling, he called her his girlfriend, which made Annabelle smile and Lucien study her like a science project. He shouldn’t have looked so puzzled: the last time he and Jeremy spoke it was to report that Cassie was spotted on an ice cream date. What did he expect?
“You’re doing well, I hope? Recovered from the broken wrist and all?” asked Lucien, one eye on Annabelle.
“Torn rotator cuff,” Jeremy corrected him. “And yeah, it’s good, thanks.” As for the “and all” part of Lucien’s question, Jeremy added, because it was too glorious not to, “Actually, this is kind of a celebration dinner.”
“Really? Nice. What are you celebrating?” Lucien glanced at Annabelle again.
Joyce, now down to the bottom of her wine glass, brought it on. “My fabulous, brilliant son just sold his screenplay Offensive Measures to Monolith, which, I don’t mind telling you, only bought two original movie scripts the entire year!”
“Wait,” Lucien said, “this isn’t the same screenplay you’ve been working on for ages, is it?”
“One and the same,” Jeremy confirmed and, with a sly twist of the knife: “I had some extra time on my hands, as you know, so I pulled out the script again, did a major rewrite, slapped on a new title and, with Gabe’s help here”—he swept a hand in Gabe’s direction—“got it to an executive at Monolith. And, well, here we are.”
Jeremy hoped he wasn’t beaming too brightly, but it felt pretty great. Not that Lucien was responsible for his firing per se—Jeremy largely earned that himself—but knowing that the news would likely reach Geneva, whether she gave a shit or not, gave Jeremy a jolt of satisfaction. He wished he could just forgive and forget but sometimes the high road was a lonely, boring place.
Lucien clapped Jeremy on the shoulder (yes, his bad one) and said, with such genuine enthusiasm Jeremy felt like a dope for his preening, “I am so happy for you, man, I really am. You deserve it. Just promise we can interview you first when the movie drops.”
“That’s a promise,” said a humbled Jeremy, remembering now to ask: “How’s everything with you?”
“Same shit, different day,” he shrugged. “Growing this beard is my big excitement.”
“I hate it, he loves it,” Bonita told Jeremy with an eye roll. “It’s like kissing a sheepdog.”
“Hope you got your shots,” tossed in Joyce, like she was auditioning for a slot at the Comedy Store.
That bon mot gave everyone, even the impassive Bonita, a laugh. Lucien offered a final goodbye-and-good-luck to Jeremy and followed his wife to their table.
When they were out of earshot, Annabelle drained her wine glass and said, “Who says success isn’t the best revenge?”
CHAPTER
22
“Okay, this is where we are,” Juliana began in an early morning call to Jeremy the next day. “Either they buy you out lock, stock, and screenplay for $275K or you get 150 and the first rewrite at WGA scale, no other guaranteed steps.”
Jeremy, pacing the kitchen, wasn’t through his second cup of coffee yet so was still a bit fuzzy. Not to be ungrateful, but he had to ask, “What happened to ‘six figures, none of which is a one or two?’” He heard keys tapping on the other end.
“I traded $25K upfront for a $75,000 production bonus,” she explained. “They don’t develop a lot so there’s a solid chance they’ll shoot it. You’ll thank me later.” Clack, clack, click.
Annabelle, looking button-cute in Jeremy’s oversized old Cannes Film Festival T-shirt (hot tip: you don’t have to go there to get one) and lavender cotton panties, her wavy hair twisting into full-on corkscrews, padded in. She’d stayed overnight to continue the celebration—which they did, well into the wee hours. Annabelle, crossing to the coffeepot, wiggled her fingers “hi” to Jeremy, who returned the gesture.
“Okay, that makes sense,” he told his agent. “What doesn’t make sense is why they’d pay me so much more to do so much less.”
Jeremy mouthed “Juliana” to Annabelle. She whispered, “Should I leave?” He waved his hand in a definitive “no.”
“They’re hoping you’ll just take the money and run so they can bring in another writer immediately, save three, four months. My words, not theirs.”
Jeremy noted not an ounce of irony or disdain in Juliana’s measured voice. This was her life, and she was more than used to it, each negotiation just a passing car on the freeway.
“Wait, they don’t even own the script, and they already want to get rid of me?” Jeremy rolled his eyes at Annabelle, who was getting a crash course in show biz ab
surdity. For Jeremy, it was an unwelcome refresher course. He spotted some peeling yellow paint on the wall above the stove, wondered if he had a can of touch-up somewhere.
“News flash, Jeremy: Once a director comes on board, they’ll want their own writer. Same with a star. It’s not about you.”
“No, I only wrote the thing,” Jeremy said, trying in vain to sound light.
“And you did an awesome job, dude, which is why they’re willing to plunk down 300 grand on a script that literally came out of nowhere.”
The patrician, pencil-skirted, pushing-fifty Juliana didn’t seem like the “dude” type, but Jeremy had to admit it was disarming.
“I thought you said $275?” Jeremy realized.
“You want the buyout, I’ll get you 300.”
Jeremy swallowed some coffee and processed this. Erstwhile script negotiations crept back into his head, the fight to balance logic and leverage. “What would you do?” he asked Juliana. Right now, his agent was Jesus with a headset.
She let loose an uncharacteristic laugh. “C’mon, I’m an agent. I’d grab the money and fuck the rewrite.” She turned serious again. “But it’s your call.”
Gee, thanks. Jeremy sighed and locked eyes with Annabelle, who smiled sweetly over her coffee cup. He had an idea, one he hoped Juliana would talk him out of, but he presented it anyway: “What if there was another buyer?”
“Is there?”
“I’m asking you.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to shop it,” she answered. “Do you want me to shop it?”
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