As Jeremy absorbed all that, Zoë scanned the yard. “So you definitely have to sell, huh?”
“Looks like it. Financially, it’s just too complicated. It’ll be cleaner this way. Or so I’m told.”
Cassie had presented him with two realtors to choose from this week. Jeremy flipped a coin and picked Marjan Khan, whose face he recognized from countless bus bench ads and neighborhood lawn signs, one of which now swung from its perch in Jeremy’s front garden. (Katie and Crash were “super sad” when they saw the for-sale placard, even though Jeremy had warned them it was coming. It hit Jeremy hard as well.)
Zoë gave him an empathetic look as they passed the grapefruit tree again. “Maybe you could move in with Annabelle,” she half joked. “Or get a new place together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
That took Jeremy by surprise. He’d just assumed he’d rent something small and affordable until he figured out a longer-term plan. Live with Annabelle? That seemed premature and presumptuous. Didn’t it?
Instead of meeting in Ian’s office, the executive led Jeremy down the hall to a corner conference room with a multi-window view of the city and the mountains beyond. An immense, rectangular wooden table for twenty, around which sat ergonomic swivel chairs, filled most of the echoey room. At one end of the table was a stack of blank notepads, ballpoint pens, Sharpies, and good old-fashioned pencils that, to Jeremy, looked more for show—“See, the great ideas just flow around here!”—than actual use.
“Sit anywhere you’d like,” said Ian, who plopped himself down in a chair at the center of the table and took all the guesswork out for Jeremy, who settled in across from Ian. The ever dutiful Xani, who Jeremy decided might actually be older than her young boss (those were not the worry lines of a twenty-something), followed them in carrying a MacBook Air, more pads and pens, two phones (hers and Ian’s?), a sheaf of Xeroxed notes pages and a printed copy of Offensive Measures. She handed a set of the notes pages and the script to Ian, who, Jeremy would later realize, didn’t look at them once during the meeting. Like the pads and pens, they were props.
“There he is!” announced Ian, sounding eerily like Dr. Hockstein greeting Jeremy post-surgery. Jeremy watched as the exec sprang out of his chair and opened his arms to the skinny, thirtyish guy in a white T-shirt, holey jeans, and tattoo sleeves who had just entered. “Jeremy, do you know Laz Huddlestone?”
The name sounded familiar. Too familiar. Jeremy realized who he was: a director whose first film, a convoluted action-thriller called Time Bomb, he’d reviewed last year for the Times. Jeremy recalled the closing line of his critique: “Save your time, avoid this bomb.” What was this hack doing here? Unless …
“Laz loves your script and wants to direct it,” explained Ian. “Which is awesome because we love Laz and want him to direct it.” He shot the filmmaker an unctuous grin that seemed a bit much, even for a glad-handing film exec.
“Oh, okay, that’s great,” said a startled Jeremy. He stood to shake Laz’s non-extended hand and added, “Thanks, man, really glad you liked the script.” Couldn’t Ian have warned Jeremy they’d picked a director and that he’d be in the meeting?
Laz eyeballed the writer as he returned the handshake. “Are you the same Jeremy Lerner who writes for the L.A. Times?” he asked, his accent somewhere between English and South African. Or was it Australian?
Okay, this was a case of good news/awful news. The good news was that Monolith was already attaching a director to his script, so it was likely on the fast track to getting made. Booyah! The awful news: Laz Huddlestone knew who he was and, if the vague snarl in his voice was any indication, was aware that Jeremy hated his debut feature—a movie that presumably (if inexplicably) gave him the cred to direct this one. Meantime, what the hell happened to Antoine Fuqua?
“Yep, that’s me,” Jeremy answered as breezily as he could, steeling himself for the blowback.
“Wait, you write for the Times?” asked Ian. “Wow, that’s amazing. How come I didn’t know that?”
Because you’ve probably never read a newspaper in your life, thought Jeremy, maybe unfairly given how few people read newspapers anymore (except apparently Laz Huddlestone). He glanced at Xani, who was earnestly documenting all this on her laptop.
“I did, until recently,” Jeremy admitted, frozen in place.
“Yeah, gave Time Bomb a bloody shite review this one,” said Laz, his accent shifting into full-on Brit. His eyes were boring holes in Jeremy.
Ian looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Wait, what? Seriously?” This was a diplomatic snafu that, frankly, only Laz could dig them out of by simply taking the high road and blowing it off. Turn it into something they could all laugh about during awards season.
“Serious as a fookin’ heart attack,” Laz answered. So much for the high road.
Ian, struggling to read the room, forced out a careful chuckle. “Really, what are the chances?” he asked. He looked at Jeremy for a lifeline.
In the end, Jeremy refused to get sucked into this silliness. He wasn’t the only critic who roasted Time Bomb; he’d just been doing his job. And had Laz done his better, maybe reviewers would have liked the film more. Who’s to say? Regardless, the guy was being asked to direct a big movie for Monolith—and it was because of Jeremy’s script—so what’s the complaint? Still, Jeremy needed to say something to ease the tangible tension.
“Sorry about that, Laz,” Jeremy offered with an innocent shrug. “It was just an opinion, that’s all. Nothing personal.” Which, of course, was bullshit, because how could someone not take a slam like that personally? It was your work being judged. But what else could Jeremy say?
The men stood there a few painful seconds (Xani stayed seated, her pen still) until Laz broke into a dark grin. “Ah, what the fook. Bygones be bygones, and all that shite. We have a sodding movie to make, right? And it’s going to be fookin’ brilliant!” He gave Jeremy a devilish wink that said: “I may be cool now, but I’m watching you.”
Jeremy relaxed and took his seat again, as did an enormously relieved Ian. Laz came around and dropped into the chair next to Jeremy. “Gonna sit next to my new best mate if that’s okay,” the director said. He stopped short of throwing his arm around Jeremy, who rolled his chair back to make room for Laz while trying to decide whether “détente” or “truce” was where he and the scraggly-hip director had landed. Whatever. As Laz said, they had a “sodding” movie to make, the idea of which made Jeremy want to pinch himself awake.
“Alright,” said Ian brightly, “let’s dive into this baby!”
CHAPTER
29
Five hours, four phone breaks (Ian: 3, Laz: 1), numerous bathroom duck-outs, and an assortment of grilled panini sandwiches later, Jeremy had his marching orders on the script rewrite. Ian and Laz went page by page, tossing out a dizzying—and only occasionally infuriating—combination of suggestions and directives, though Jeremy knew even the suggestions were directives. He took a load of notes, pushed back on a few requested changes (though carefully picked his battles), and stayed as calm and open-minded as any outnumbered screenwriter could under the circumstances.
Laz, despite his brash observations and sporadic torrent of curse words (he said fuck—or in his case, fook or some variation—seemingly more times than in all of Goodfellas), was strangely deferential to Ian and Jeremy. It made Jeremy question if Laz really had the gig or if this meeting wasn’t some kind of audition. (Turned out it wasn’t. His deal closed the day before Jeremy’s; Ian was quite the little secret keeper.)
Jeremy relaxed more as the meeting progressed, largely because Ian, at least for now, treated him as indisposably as he did Laz. By the end, Laz was even joking around with Jeremy, quizzing him on which movies he reviewed worse than Time Bomb. Fortunately, there were many. No matter, Jeremy knew that in features, it was the writer, not the director, who was the disposable one—unless the writer was the director then: chec
kmate.
There was only one truly giant curveball thrown at Jeremy and it was from Ian. “I’m just spitballing here,” he began, “but what if … what if … we made Senator Garfield a woman instead of a man?” Jeremy hated the idea but said nothing at first. That’s because Laz beat him to it.
“That is fookin’ brilliant. I bloody love that. A fookin’ ton!” enthused Laz so quickly that Jeremy wondered if it wasn’t the director’s idea all along. “I know Emily Blunt,” said Laz. “I can text her right now!”
“Love Emily Blunt!” agreed Ian. “Jeremy, what do you think?”
“Who doesn’t love Emily Blunt?” he answered. But he loved Jake Gyllenhaal or Ryan Gosling more for the part of a pipe-smoking, male senator suddenly stricken by paranoia and erectile dysfunction.
“Why the hell would they want to do that?” asked Annabelle with layman’s outrage—and logic—when Jeremy got her up to speed over dinner that night on the marathon Monolith meeting. “I mean, doesn’t that change everything?”
“Well, yes and no. Lots of parts written for men have been switched to women. It can bring a twist to things we’ve already seen a million times,” Jeremy said, further reconciling the concept in his head.
They were sitting in Annabelle’s dining room over a delicious home-cooked meal of grilled mahi-mahi, rice pilaf, and sautéed Brussels sprouts, accompanied by, as Hannibal Lecter would have called it in his inimitable way, “a nice chianti” (hold the fava beans). Jeremy found himself studying Annabelle’s cottage more closely that night than he had during his previous visits. It was a small, Craftsman-style place on a cramped side street on the border of Hollywood and Los Feliz, a town or so over from Jeremy and Cassie’s first apartment.
Annabelle and Gil bought the two-bedroom house just before they got married. According to Annabelle, it was a steal because it was “a total dump” that she, Gil, and his contractor brother, Ramón, ended up restoring to its earlier glory—or to at least a far more livable condition. The result was a charming, eclectic little spot that was worth more now than Jeremy’s larger cottage given its hip and desirable (if congested) location.
Jeremy had been thinking a lot about what Zoë had said about living with Annabelle and, while it appealed to him on so many levels, it felt like too big a leap—and commitment—to even consider floating at this point. And yet, over that fish dinner, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to put his shoes under Annabelle’s bed, so to speak. She had apparently lived in the compact house quite comfortably with Gil, so why not Jeremy? They could split expenses and duties and otherwise join forces. Make a life together. The downside was there was no immediate place for Jeremy’s office or, as far as he could see, even a quiet corner to set up shop. There was the second bedroom, but that was spoken for as an exercise/craft room combo with a sofa bed for visitors.
Besides, what made Jeremy think Annabelle would jump at the chance to live with him? She seemed to want their relationship to move forward, but was this what she had in mind? And would Jeremy even be thinking about it if he didn’t have to move this fall? It made him feel like some kind of opportunist. Still, how would he react if the roles were reversed, and Annabelle asked to move in with him?
He decided to table it all for the time being and focus on the amazing hot apple crumble Annabelle had whipped up for dessert.
“What if you said you didn’t want to make your main character a woman? What would happen?” asked Annabelle.
“I could fight it,” he answered, swallowing a spoonful of the apple-cinnamon treat, “but I’d lose and have to make the change anyway. And then I’d be branded ‘difficult’ or ‘uncooperative,’ which would give them ammunition to fire or replace me—which they’ll probably do anyway at some point. This crumble is fantastic, by the way.”
“Thanks, it’s really easy to make.” She smiled, enjoying a big bite of the dessert. “Your business is a little crazy, isn’t it? Mine is so simple: someone has a problem, you help them fix it. They feel better, and you go on your way.”
“Unless you start dating them.” Jeremy flashed a grin.
“Oh, that would never happen.” She returned the smile.
“Anyway, as Zoë told me, once these people get something in their heads, they rarely shake it loose. You’re just better off riding the horse in the direction it’s going.”
“Off a cliff?”
“Honestly? I’m thinking that changing Garfield to a woman isn’t a bad idea. I’m kind of sorry I didn’t write it that way from the start.”
“Then they’d want to make her a man.”
Jeremy laughed. “You’re catching on.” He scraped the remains of his crumble out of the dish and savored it. “I’m surprised you don’t think a female lead would be a good thing. You being a woman and all.”
“I’m your woman first. I want what’s best for you. But if you’re good, I’m good. I mean, I’m not the one who has to go in and tear the whole thing apart.” She began to collect the dinner plates.
Jeremy rose to help. “Bottom line, I’m lucky to have this job. Almost as lucky as I am to have you.”
Annabelle couldn’t help but smile. “Listen to you.”
Jeremy leaned in to kiss her. Annabelle set the plates she held in each hand back on the table, put her arms around her guy, and returned his kiss. “You taste like cinnamon.”
Jeremy and Cassie’s realtor, Marjan, had already traipsed several prospective buyers through the house, each time requiring Jeremy to disappear for the hour-long intrusion. He promised to silently hole up in his office and not get in anyone’s way, but Marjan put the kibosh on that tout de suite: “Trust me,” she told him in a practiced tone, “you’ll hate being here, and my clients will hate having you here. Any questions?” Sure, but did it matter?
Jeremy either went for a long walk up and down the neighborhood hills (way better aerobic exercise than his backyard jaunts; Matty heartily approved, even joined him a few times) or ducked in next door to hang with Katie and/or Crash. It was proving a good way to spend quality time with his favorite neighbors; they all knew, without verbalizing it, that they’d likely lose touch once they were no longer living next door to each other. It was just how these things went.
He would always return to his house feeling a bit violated (Did a stranger use my toilet? Rifle through my nightstand?) and wondering what kind of cruel comments his anonymous visitors made about his home of twenty-two years (“Ugh, that wall color is awful!” “Who would ever choose such ugly tile?”). Jeremy soon understood why Marjan discouraged his presence during those tours. Mostly, though, he hoped a buyer would surface sooner than later and not drag out the pain of the process. Until then, Jeremy found himself taking stock of his abode and trying not to get too overwhelmed by the raft of memories that lived within its walls.
And suddenly, there was an offer, one just shy of the asking price. A couple in their forties—he was in finance, she was in insurance—who recently relocated to L.A. from Denver with their six-year-old daughter and hypo-allergenic Wheaton-doodle, were looking for something comfy and bucolic with a good public school nearby and Chez Lerner handily fit the bill, quirks and all. Cassie wanted to accept the offer and Marjan, of course, agreed (“Hold out for full price and you could be waiting forever!”), so Jeremy ultimately made three. It was a dark day for him but, fortunately, the Offensive Measures rewrite helped keep his mind off the hovering clouds.
Matty, guessing that Jeremy might need the company of someone else who loved their house, took his dad out for dinner the next night to “celebrate” the end of an era—and the start of a new one, whatever that would turn out to be.
Over margaritas at Mercado, a hip, absurdly noisy, but festive Mexican restaurant located near the hectic West Hollywood intersection of Third and Fairfax—and around the corner from the Writers Guild, to which Jeremy’s membership was thankfully revived by worki
ng for Monolith—father and son toasted to Jeremy’s future.
“To your new chapter!” Matty cheered, clinking Jeremy’s salt-rimmed glass. “It’s gonna be great, Dad.”
Jeremy took a swallow of the tangy cocktail and tried to buy into the kid’s optimism. “I hope so,” Jeremy said. “Though I’ll feel better once I figure out where I’m going to live.”
“I think there’s a unit available in Mom’s building,” Matty tossed out with a mischievous grin.
Jeremy couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, she’d love that,” he said, dipping a tortilla chip in guacamole. “It’d be worth it just to see the look on her face.”
Matty sipped his drink. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but I don’t think Mom’s doing so well.”
“No? Why not?”
“She’s been kind of low-key lately. Maybe just low energy, I don’t know. She says she’s fine but … who knows, maybe it’s just in my head.” Matty took a chip, considered the guacamole, and passed.
Jeremy was surprised, yet also felt a bit validated. Maybe she was feeling some of the same seller’s remorse that he was. Or maybe it was something else. “Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?” Jeremy gently asked, his ears finally acclimating to the noise level.
“I don’t think anyone in particular, just, y’know, dates.”
Sex dates thought Jeremy, as if he was being celibate. The margarita was going to his head. He watched as Matty, looking to get off the subject, returned to the chips bowl.
“Anyway, Dad,” Matty said between crunches, “you can always crash at my place until you get settled. I stay at Gabe’s half the time anyway, so.”
“Thanks, honey, that’s really sweet of you.” Jeremy could feel himself tearing up, but didn’t want to be a buzzkill. He lost himself in his margarita glass till he pulled it together. “So, sounds like things are still going great with you and Gabe?”
Matty, who’d been checking out the bustling room, turned back to Jeremy. “Yeah, great. Gabe’s the best.”
The Last Birthday Party Page 20