“Where did you look?” I asked, opening each vowel and widening my eyes for extra effect.
“Everywhere!” Skeet said. I scanned the immaculate space and stared at him blankly.
I rummaged through the files on Chip’s desk and tugged open his desk drawers, pretending to look.
“Did anyone think to look in Chip’s antique cabinet?” I asked, stopping as though the idea had just occurred to me.
“Of course we did,” John said gruffly.
“Maybe I could take an extra peak,” I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice. “You know, just to be sure.”
“Fine.” John looked at Chip expectantly.
“Where’s the key?” I asked Chip, smiling at the redness creeping from his collar in embarrassment.
I asked again, stepping closer and letting a smirk play on my lips.
“I’m not sure,” Chip said in a sheepish whisper.
“You don’t know where the key is?” I asked, the smirk widening to a grin. The partners looked at Chip desperately.
“I, uh—” Chip stammered indignantly. “I just don’t know where it is in this mess.” All three of us looked around the spotless office.
The key was in the treasure chest of his toy schooner. I knew this because he told me so on his first day at the firm because he could never remember where he hid it. Today, I would not be reminding him. Instead, I walked over to his desk and sifted through the drawers theatrically.
“Chip, where would you hide something where only you would look?” I asked, over-enunciating each word. “Would you hide it in your plant? Or maybe under the vase?”
I flashed Chip a sarcastic, toothless smile.
“Are you blind, Zeller? There’s no vase in here,” Skeet boomed.
Chip was leaning against the windowsill inches from the damn sailboat.
“Chipster, this does not look good,” John said. “You need to help us out here.” A nudge from John caused Chip to bump the toy schooner, opening my opportunity.
“What about your sailboat?” I offered. At this, Chip jumped up to grab the boat, quickly opening the treasure chest and dumping the key into his hand.
“Of course, here it is!” exclaimed Chip, looking around with desperate pride.
“Open the damn cabinet, man!” John bellowed finally.
I watched as Chip opened the thick cedar doors. The file, marked with “Chalmers” in bold red typeface, laid smack dab in the middle shelf.
“Do you think this might be it?” I ran my finger along the file, staring at Chip.
Skeet and John moved swiftly towards the cabinet, brushing Chip and I out of their way. Skeet and John burst out laughing in relief, slapping each other on the back.
“We could have had a disaster on our hands,” John said, looking over at Chip fondly. “In the future, you should leave the key with your secretary.” Female staff members were automatically relegated to the title of secretary; I wondered if that’s what they had called me behind my back.
“I do apologize,” Chip said, his voice creeping to a pathetic soprano. “Going forward, I will leave the key with Joely.”
Why would he leave the key with me?
“Maybe you should get going on that mess in your office,” Skeet said, nodding at me. “It should be as pristine as it was on the first day you started.”
“Yes, and then I think you should get started on the research for this case,” Chip said, regaining arrogance. “Your little ‘sabbatical’ has already pushed the deadline.”
I stayed put, angry and incredulous.
“Tomorrow, we’ll address how your salary will be adjusted to compensate for the little vacation you took,” Skeet said, rounding the partners out of Chip’s office.
I stared down the hallway as their backs bobbed toward Skeet’s office. I turned to the window and picked up Chip’s ridiculous schooner, winding it up behind my shoulder and heaving it into the antique cabinet. The toy smacked it with a dull thud, scattering little plastic bits across the carpet and leaving a large dent in the soft burled walnut of the door. I snatched Chip’s Rolodex off of his desk, knowing he’d never miss it, and walked out the door toward my office.
I gathered my personal belongings quickly, making sure to include my annotated Chalmers file among them. I hammered out a resignation letter and emailed it to Skeet and John, copying Chip, before I could think twice about quitting or the ramifications of what I’d written.
Sirs:
As of this letter, your ethnic quota is short one token Jewish woman. I came to you a graduate of Stanford Law School and have spent the last four of my eight years cleaning up after an imbecilic child whose legal education required no measure of intelligence to receive. Yes, Chip, you are the imbecilic child; I nominate you to play janitor and clean the mess you made in my office since I didn’t get a degree in custodial engineering at Stanford Law. John, Skeet — I wish you luck with Chip at the helm; it will be a true miracle if you keep one single estates client with him as their lawyer. I’m no doctor, gentlemen, but I’d keep an eye on the asphyxiation caused by having one’s head up one’s ass for long periods of time. You may well end up in the same grave as your client list.
In summary, I quit.
Joely
P.S. Please forward my severance package to my home address as listed on the emergency contact list. If you can’t find it, just ask one of the secretaries you’ve been bending over the board table.
Holding my attaché and balancing two Bankers Boxes, I took a final look at the coffin in which I had been buried for the past eight years. Stepping into the elevator, I turned around and smiled as the doors closed finally in front of me. “I’m free,” I said quietly, a mix of relief and anxiety brewing. I looked up and chuckled at the thought of those Neanderthals reading my resignation letter.
CHAPTER 4
The First Step of Twelve
With my legal career over and an almost guaranteed return to LA imminent, my only residual worry was how I would ship the remaining contents of my apartment — about four hundred and twenty pairs of shoes and a wooden spoon, all told. I also needed to call my mother to tell her that I would be coming home without a fiancé or career.
I picked up the phone and trembled as I dialed Mom’s number. One ring. No answer. A few more and, still, no answer. She was probably drawing it out for effect. Finally, after about fifteen rings, I heard her familiar purr.
“You have reached screen siren Sylvia Zeller,” my mother breathed into the phone. Callers were never greeted with a simple hello. After my mother had won both of her leading actress Academy Awards®, the phone greeting heard in my house was always: “You’ve reached the residence of screen siren Sylvia Zeller, award-winning actress. Are you calling to speak with her or someone else?” Things got worse during Oscar season, especially if she wasn’t up for an award. Melodramatic Sylvia’s voice mail would include a snide remark about how the women nominated instead of her lacked talent, beauty and were old. Life with my mother could be like living with a high school mean girl.
“Hi, Mom,” I sighed. “How are you?”
“Dahling, please call me Sylvia,” Sylvia warned.
“Did you get my email?” I asked, ignoring her ridiculous remark.
“Oh, yes!” my mother said, her pitch rising excitedly. “Armand and I are just so thrilled to have you come home.”
“How is Armand?” I asked dutifully.
“Ask him yourself. Armand!” my mother shrieked. “Your daughter is on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
“No. No. I don’t want to—” I stammered, but was cut off before I could evade speaking to him.
“Joella bella! How is my favourite daughter?” Armand boomed.
“I’m your only daughter, unless you knocked up one of your mistresses,” I replied, hearing muffled chuckles from my mother.
I’m the child of a beautiful, revered and supremely talented Hollywood actress and a washed-up director; my upbringing was torturous,
to say the least.
Instead of being raised to eat my vegetables, brush my teeth at night or to finish my homework before watching TV, I was brought up to know that my mother’s career came first and to jeopardize it was out of the question. So, I was raised to call my mom Sylvia and Armand, Dad. The only real threat to Sylvia’s career was her marriage to a philandering D-list movie director, but she brushed the dalliances off so long as they were discreet.
“Relax, toots! It’s just an expression. Becoming a lawyer made you so serious.” Armand spoke to me like a six-year-old. “And come on, Joely. I have repeatedly told you to call me Dad or Daddy. I wish you’d respect that request.” He’d earned the formality when a four-year-old me caught him kissing the first young girl with whom he was having an affair.
“Let’s not even discuss how disturbing it would be for me to call you that — I know it’s what you have your little starlets call you,” I said, repulsed. “As for respect, you don’t even know what the word means. You have none for my mother and you have never had any for my choice of career.”
“Sylvia and I have an understanding. You know that. As for your career, it might actually come in handy — I finally have a studio picture and need you to review my producer’s agreement,” Armand said.
“A cable network MOW isn’t exactly a studio film,” my mother chirped, eager at the chance to attack Armand.
“It’s shooting at Paramount, babe. A studio. Let’s not split hairs,” Armand said defensively.
I cut off their banter. “I just need to make sure I’m being picked up tomorrow at 12:15 p.m.”
“Yes, of course, dahling. Sylvia has never let you down,” my mother cooed. “Juan will be there waiting for you.” Juan, or Big J as I called him, is our family’s driver, though he’d always been more of a father figure to me, driving me to and from school and even accompanying me to father-daughter dances when Armand was otherwise indisposed. Big J was a 200-pound teddy bear. Cuddly on the outside, but, with his black belt in karate, he could kill you thirty different ways, if need be.
“Great,” I said with a genuine smile. “I miss him. How is Big J?”
“Him you miss and speak of lovingly, but your own father—” Armand interrupted dramatically.
“Come off it, Armand. And don’t bother her with legal questions. She isn’t a lawyer anymore,” my mother stepped up to defend me.
“Ah-ah-ah. Wait a second. I don’t think you understood my email correctly. I never said I was no longer a lawyer. I only said that I’d quit my job and am coming home to figure things out,” I told her, hoping to end the discussion there.
“Quitting your job means no longer being a lawyer,” my mother said dismissively. “You’ve come to your senses and, with my guidance, might finally make something of your life. Why else would you be coming home?”
“To escape the mess I’m in here, for starters. I’m licensed to practice law in California, so I’m still very much a lawyer,” I said.
“Fantastic! See, Sylvia, she’s still a lawyer and will review and write my contracts,” Armand chimed in triumphantly.
“I am an Estates and Trusts attorney, not an entertainment lawyer, so I cannot review your agreement for you,” I told him sharply. “While having you two try to figure out my life for me is utterly appealing, I think it’s best you leave me to sort out what I’ll be doing next.”
“Nonsense, my dear! We are your mama and papa here to help and love you,” my mother said with a drawl. “On your own, you’ve failed. It’s clear you need guidance.
“As soon as you land, I’ll be whisking you off for a much needed affirmation session with Dr. Feelgoodstein. Then you might consider pumping up your boobs with a visit to Dr. Farber. With some work, we could call up that Millionaire Matchmaker woman on TV to help find you a hubby!” Notwithstanding my mother’s desire to make me over in her likeness, I was an attractive woman — a combination of Armand’s matinee idol looks and my mother’s undeniable beauty.
A former beauty queen, Sylvia had shoulder-length, wavy auburn hair and emerald green eyes (both of which I naturally inherited), a lithe 5’4” frame that strictly hovered around 115 pounds and elegant hands. I had always loved my mother’s hands, especially when she tickled my back with them as she did when I was a little girl in the few motherly moments I can remember from childhood. My mother’s heart-shaped face and rosebud lips fooled people into believing she was a delicate flower — though they soon found that inside that mouth was a steely tongue that could cut you in two. I suppose I got all of those endowments from her, too.
Although I inherited my mother’s starlet looks, I had been granted the genetic gift of height from 6’2” Armand, being 5’8” with an athletic build. And, despite my mother’s constant quips, I have a lovely figure, breasts included. As a child and teen, I grew up hearing how beautiful I was, which pleased my mother to no end. Yet, when the same people said I should be in the movies, my mother’s desire to stymie any and all competition led her to hide me away when studio executives were around.
“How about a little sympathy to start?” I pleaded with mounting frustration. “My entire life has just imploded and all you can think of is how to transform me into a younger you!”
“I’m trying to support you. There’s no sense in wallowing, Joely. Would it hurt you so much to let your mother help out once in a while?”
“Just make sure Big J is waiting for me,” I barked before slamming down the phone. I was glad he’d be the first face I saw in LA.
As I packed up my clothes and made arrangements to have my belongings shipped to LA — with careful attention paid to my shoe collection, which would be moved in a temperature-controlled convoy — I thought about my life to date, trying to figure out where things first broke down. I’d been in therapy since my bat mitzvah, when the plastic surgery full-court press began. At 12, when my mother could no longer hide me away, she began to see me as the demise of her career. Armand, on the other hand, enjoyed the fact that I kept him young. I was the reason my mother, at 35, was only offered roles for middle-aged women; Armand pimped me out to the young sons of other Hollywood studio heavyweights in the hopes that a good match would result. In Armand’s deluded mind, such a union translated into a prosperous career for him, since no studio head could turn him away from directing their next picture if I was their daughter-in-law.
I grew up in a world of glamour and Xanax; of paparazzi hiding in the bushes to catch a glimpse of young girls leaving Armand’s bedroom; of superficiality to the extreme. I went to school with the kids of other famous actors who were certainly more fucked up than me. Most of them had figured out a wraay to numb their pain at an early age — sneaking snorts or puffs from their parents’ not-so-secret stashes. Drugs weren’t my self-destructive instruments of choice. Instead, I chose to be a pariah and social misfit and, to my mother’s horror, I enjoyed dessert with my dinner.
I refused to be social. I did not attend school dances. I certainly did not attend film premieres — distancing myself from my family as much as possible. As repayment for my insurgence, I was neglected entirely by my parents who were out every night in their pursuits of greater fame (my mother) and more conquests and directing jobs (my father). Big J and a revolving door of nannies and household staff raised me. I spent many a weekend sleeping over at my nannies’ homes in South Central LA without my parents’ knowledge. I was safer amidst gang wars because these homes offered emotional protection unrivalled by the care of my parents. Sylvia’s and Armand’s idea of parenting meant either taking me to one of their parties where drugs and sex abounded, or leaving me home alone because they figured no harm could come to me in the gated community of Bel Air.
Upon graduation from my tony private high school, I applied to every college outside of California. I made my way to Brown University, where I was almost altogether forgotten by my family. The only reason for them to go to the East Coast would be for a film premiere, shopping or if my mother was in a Broadway s
tage role. At Brown I met Coco and my other best friend, Ethan Berg. Ethan and I met on my first day of US Foreign Policy when I accidentally sat in what I had thought was an empty seat in the front row, but was actually his lap. I’d been too busy on my cellphone arguing with my mother.
My four years at Brown were amazing. Ethan, Coco and I lived together in a cute little house off campus for three years. By third year, we’d all shown an interest in going to law school. Together we took the LSAT and applied to the same law schools (most of which, to my delight, were on the East Coast). We made a pact to all go to the same school and sent off our applications with fingers crossed. For the first time in my life, I had a real family. Our life together was threatened when only I was accepted to both Harvard and Yale, my first and second law school choices. Coco and I got into NYU, but the only school all three of us were accepted to was Stanford Law — a highly reputable, well-respected, top-ten law school. It was in California, however, which meant a much-dreaded return home for me. Its location, outside of San Francisco and five-hour drive north of LA, provided a buffer between me and them, but it remained too close for my comfort. Knowing everything about my upbringing and my worries about returning to the Golden State, Ethan and Coco convinced me that they would stand by me to face my family. They did. We had three more fantastic years together at Stanford.
If Coco was the poster girl for the Camille Paglia set, Ethan Berg could not have been more different. In fact, Ethan loved women and they loved him back — sometimes a little too much — but who could blame them. Ethan was the whole package: 6’2” with broad shoulders and a swimmer’s body. A chiselled jawline, to boot. He was classically handsome in a way that no female, except for me, seemed able to resist. Even Coco had succumbed to Ethan’s charm and good looks in our first year at Brown after a long night of heavy drinking at his frat’s Halloween party.
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