Beautiful Mess

by Herrick, John

  “I make a decent living.”

  “Are they other people your age?”

  “Most are older. You’d be surprised.”

  “And they tell you their secrets? Their private stuff?”

  “It’s anonymous, from beginning to end, including their online payments. Totally faceless. So they feel like they can drop their guard. They use fake names if they want to. I just give them practical advice, reassurance. I’m their motivator, like a personal trainer for the mind or whatever.”

  “I realize so much occurs online these days, but aren’t people skeptical of an online wellness coach they’ve never met?”

  “As long as there are enough people who aren’t skeptical and the dollars roll in, it doesn’t matter. Frankly, I don’t care how it looks—I’m the one with the killer income.”

  Del thought he’d heard it all. Then today happened. Frustrated, he scratched his head.

  “And you got certified in this?”

  “You don’t need certifications. You just open up shop.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Of course not.” Tristan snickered. “You sound shocked, Del.”

  “So you don’t really have the answers,” Del said.

  “Hey, man, does anybody have the answers? No. So I’m not gonna bust my balls over it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Del said. “Don’t you feel weird taking people’s money for advice without having any actual qualifications to give it?

  “Look, people are gonna spend their money on something. Many of them want somebody to tell them what to do. I just give them what they want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Well, everyone’s different. Most of my lady clients want a gentle listener, so I give them that. If a dude needs a set of balls, then for a few hundred bucks, I’ll strap a pair of brass ones to his crotch. Figuratively speaking, of course.”

  “And your advice works?”

  “Clients tell me it does.”

  “But if it doesn’t, won’t you lose a client? Shouldn’t that concern you?”

  “Listen, man, I have more clients than I know what to do with. Suppose I lose one, or ten, or a hundred. What are they gonna do, tell their friends not to contact me? That’s how many prospects nixed per rejection? Ten? Meanwhile, people find me on search engines by the thousands. I don’t need to lift a finger to advertise anymore.”

  Unbelievable. And all these years, Del had fancied himself the clever one. “And it’s a random assortment of clients?”

  “They run the gamut of backgrounds. Businesspeople, graduate students who don’t want to leave academia, bored housewives. Anywhere from Boston to Boise. I even have some sort of celebrity these days—sounds like an actress or something. A sad situation, really. She’s under a lot of pressure.”

  Uh-oh.

  Tristan’s words felt like a crescent wrench sinking to the bottom of Del’s gut. He tried to recall the details of his recent conversation with Nora. She had mentioned talking to a wellness coach. And she’d said he was online. Exclusively.

  “A celebrity?” Del hedged. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Besides, she uses a fake name. She must be huge if she won’t even tell me her first name.”

  “What’s she looking for advice about?”

  “Come on, Del. Please don’t ask me for details. I need to respect the whole coach-and-client confidentiality thing.”

  Sure. Now he makes the case for professional standards.

  “How’d she hear about you?”

  “She stumbled across a business card. I leave them lying around. Said she never tried a coach before, figured she’d give it a shot.

  Del couldn’t blame Tristan for playing the game to make a living. After all, Del himself played the game in his own professional sphere. Yet his suspicion that Nora was Tristan’s client concerned him. If not for Del’s chat with her and its timing, he would have discounted the coincidence as unlikely.

  Tristan wasn’t a bad guy, but Nora was in a delicate position these days. After Del’s experience with Marilyn, he didn’t want to lose another friend before her time. And if she happened to get advice from Tristan under the impression he was someone else, and it ended up hurting her…

  Del would need to keep his eyes open.

  “Well, I suppose everyone needs to make a living.”

  “Exactly. It’s not like my motives are sleazy, Del. I’m not living on the government dole. I’m earning an honest living.”

  “True,” Del conceded. “So you don’t have any social-media advice for my little project?”

  “I don’t think you need to stimulate anything,” Tristan replied, his tone revealing a knowing smirk had taken up residence at the other end of the phone connection. “I have a hunch this wildfire is bigger than you could hope to control. Big bucks for you, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Del replied, his mind elsewhere. “Something like that.”

  He clicked to end the call.

  Del couldn’t move. He locked his jaw as he tried to convince himself he’d stumbled upon a coincidence and nothing more.

  CHAPTER 52

  DEL PARKED his car in the studio lot, the zone to which Bernie Schulman’s assistant had directed him. Getting out of the car, he noted the office building the assistant had described—not that he needed to be told—and found it would require a small trek across the parking lot. Best parking spot he’d ever had on this lot, though.

  Bernie Schulman had asked Del to come alone, without Arnie. He wouldn’t make an offer here, Schulman had promised, but some things were best kept hush-hush while talking possibilities.

  Schulman had called Del personally. After so many years without anyone stroking his ego this way, Del had fallen for it. And with gusto.

  Upon entering Schulman’s office suite and checking in with his assistant, he took a seat. Schulman kept him waiting for a few minutes. Then again, should Del have expected anything less? This was the head guy, after all. He was eager to negotiate but wanted to maintain whatever impression of an upper hand he could. Smart move. Del could respect that.

  When Schulman emerged, he welcomed Del with a hearty pat on the back, instructed his assistant to hold his calls, and led his new best friend into his office. The scent of leather furniture filled the room.

  “Please, have a seat.” Schulman waved to a small group of chairs around a coffee table, which sat at one end of his office, far away from that formal, unnecessary desk that makes things so complicated. Just a casual chat between two power brokers.

  Del took the seat closest to himself. Behind him, at the rear of the room, he spotted one of those little putting greens, the kind by which filmmakers have stereotyped CEO offices, with a golf club and three orange golf balls resting upon it.

  Schulman settled into the seat beside Del’s. “Would you like some coffee? Water?”

  “No thanks, Bernie.”

  “It was good to see you at the little soiree the other night. Always a pleasure.”

  Del crossed his leg, his heel facing away from his host. “Congratulations on the film. It looks like it will be another success for the studio.”

  “Yeah, we’ve had a solid string of hits for several years now.” Schulman brushed an invisible piece of lint from his knee. “We’re the winning team in town, Del. We’re the ones people want to work with when they want a blockbuster.”

  “I’ve kept abreast of your track record at the helm. Quite impressive.”

  Schulman nodded. “You’re a smart guy, Del, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I would like to partner with you on this script of yours—of hers, that is. You and Marilyn were friends, as I understand?”

  “We were.”

  “So this is personal for you. You have an opportunity to honor her memory.”

  “You’re observant, Bernie.”

  “Can I be blunt with you, Del? In the wrong hands, this film will plummet. It will fa
il from the launch—poor quality, poor vision, poor marketing, whatever the case. And this project is a gem, Del. It’s a rarity. We can’t let failure happen, can we?”

  “Should I remind you that you said you wouldn’t present an offer here?”

  “And I won’t. This meeting is my attempt to set forth a vision. The project is delicate, and we want to keep it all in-house. I’ve talked to corporate. The studio and its parent company are interested in sweeping rights—and as the dominant force in town, we have the muscle to make it happen. We want to sink a lot of cash into this.”

  Smothering Del with sincerity, Schulman continued his pitch by counting off details, one by one, on his fingers. He was one of those guys who started with his thumb.

  “I’m talking screenplay rights; production from start to finish; theatrical and video distribution rights, both foreign and domestic. Soundtrack rights for our sister company’s record label. Vertical marketing from top to bottom: the studio, the music arm, plus all the TV and radio stations, Internet outlets, publications, and restaurant chains our parent company owns. Director and principal approvals for you. We’ll even name you as a producer. And get this, Del: Our company has a partial interest in a vineyard in Northern California. We’ll cultivate an exclusive wine in honor of Marilyn Monroe and this film for our upper-brow audiences. Can you imagine! A smooth, luscious red wine—something dark and sexy, just like this script.”

  Del fought to maintain a straight face, but he felt his jaw go slack. Moisture evaporated from his tongue. He wished he’d accepted Schulman’s offer for that bottled water.

  “This is history in the making, Del, and public response will be stratospheric. Normally, we’d spread the risk by incorporating other studios at partners, but not this time. We’re willing to bet huge on this. No selling partial rights to try to recoup our costs, no allowing some other studio to come in and fuck it up—and you can put that in the contract.”

  “Is that the phrase you plan to put in the contract? ‘No fuck-ups?’”

  Schulman responded with a hearty power laugh. “What can I say, Del? I’m a straight shooter. Neither of us is one to mince words, am I right?”

  Del switched legs and tried not to drool at the fortune, the clout, within his reach. What could be behind door number two? “I don’t know what to say. I do need to take extra care with this.”

  Schulman held out his hands to communicate his willingness to back off and respect Del’s space. “I understand,” he nodded. “Like I said, this is special, and we want to handle the entire thing—vertical, horizontal, and all the way around—to protect its integrity. We owe that to Ms. Monroe’s legacy, am I right?”

  “Absolutely.” Del almost felt guilty, but he pressed on. Would he ever receive another opportunity this good? Poker face, Del. Keep your poker face. “You’ve made a compelling case, but Arnie is handling the negotiations. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the reach, but why call me all the way over here to discuss the details without him?”

  Schulman’s eyes narrowed, and Del could have sworn he caught a twinkle in one of them. The studio chief grinned.

  “You’re a savvy guy, Del, so I won’t play games.” Schulman leaned forward and interlaced his fingers, speaking in a hushed tone as if they were portraying spies in a World War II film and the director had called, Action! “I did have one more idea for this film, but I wanted to gauge your interest—under the radar—without getting agents or other delegates involved. You know how people misinterpret things.”

  Whatever would come next, Del couldn’t imagine, but it sounded like the mother lode.

  Del remained carved granite. He didn’t flinch, didn’t utter a word—and didn’t take his eyes off of Bernie Schulman.

  “I want to cast you in the major supporting role.” Schulman took a dramatic pause, while his words sank into Del’s mind. “You’ve read the script, Del. You know which character I’m referring to. We’re talking a plum role—the type of role comebacks are made of.” Schulman pierced Del’s eyes. “And it can be yours.”

  His dream. Set before him on a silver platter.

  Say something, Del! Say something!

  “I, uh, don’t know what to say, Bernie.”

  Schulman leaned back into his seat, then crossed his leg to match Del’s, their feet facing each other.

  “We know this film will be a commercial success,” the studio chief said, “but the script itself is golden. I don’t know where Marilyn Monroe found the words or the concept, but apparently, the woman had more raw, biting talent than anybody was aware of. We’re talking an Academy Award contender here, from top to bottom, and it’s anchored in the script.”

  When Del tried to glance down at his hands, Schulman tilted his head, caught his attention, and made sure their eye contact Del remained locked.

  “And Del, that means a real chance for you—not just for a career resurgence, but for a golden statue that has eluded you since 1978.”

  Del had never considered that.

  “Bernie, I’m a bit skeptical about—”

  Schulman flattened his hand and waved it to cut off Del’s speech. One slice.

  “Think about it, Del: Henry Fonda was nominated in 1940 and lost. He wasn’t nominated again for more than forty years—but he won with that second nomination. On Golden Pond, remember? The guy was what, seventy-five years old?”

  He had a point. The acidic feeling, that niggling sense of guilt, continued to dance in his heart; at the same time, however, Del’s imagination tangoed to its rhythm. He caught himself strategizing several steps ahead.

  “What about the lead role?” Del asked. “It would require a strong female. Any thoughts on that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think the chatter is dead-on. I’d want Nora Jumelle in the role. Have you ever met her?”

  “We’ve crossed paths once or twice.”

  Del’s mind retreated to the night he had invited Nora, Tristan and Felicia to his house for dinner. He replayed his conversation with Nora in his kitchen, when something about her demeanor didn’t settle well with him. He sensed darkness about her, emotional vulnerability that stretched beyond the leaked nude photo. Something else disturbed her.

  Before Del could wade deeper into his thought process, Schulman’s voice lured him back to reality.

  “So you tell me, Del.” Bernie Schulman smirked, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek. “Am I on the right track?”

  CHAPTER 53

  DEL AND FELICIA CLINKED miniature porcelain cups at a Japanese restaurant in West Hollywood. Sizzles and pops surrounded them as grills filled the room with the aroma of fresh meat and vegetables cooking. In the middle of the restaurant was a rectangular area similar to a bar, its perimeter enclosed by a high counter and elevated chairs. In the center of it, a chef in a crisp, white uniform and a tall, white hat prepared entrées in a made-to-order fashion.

  Throughout the dining room, patrons sipped sake as another chef rolled a small cooking station to each table and prepared meals from scratch. Aside from the crackling grills, the clink of cooking utensils, and the murmur of private conversations, the room was tranquil.

  As usual, nobody recognized Del. He had re-entered the public’s consciousness mere weeks ago. That would soon change, he knew; but for now, at least in subdued environments like this, he and Felicia still had their privacy.

  The classic Japanese music playing overhead reminded Del of a James Clavell novel he’d read once. Del adored Far Eastern cultures. He could picture himself sitting in a quaint restaurant buried in the Pacific Rim, where calligraphy accented the décor, watching candlelight dance upon the face of this intriguing minister, a woman whose smile disarmed and inspired him.

  Del updated Felicia on the details of his meeting with Bernie Schulman and the other producers and executives with whom he and Arnie had met that week. He felt refreshed, like a teenager with a new car and newfound freedom. Freedom to roam. Freedom to dream again. His whole countenance felt ali
ght.

  “I’m happy for you,” Felicia said. “You’ve waited a long time for this.”

  “After I sign the deal, I’m going to take you to Bora Bora, just for fun!”

  Felicia rolled her eyes. “Just the two of us? I’m a minister, Del! How would that look?”

  With a merry heart, Del grabbed the sake flask and poured Felicia another serving. “Fine, we’ll get separate rooms.”

  Felicia laughed at that.

  Each moment Del spent with her, he grew fonder of her company. He was serious about Bora Bora. And he didn’t want to stop there. He wanted to show her the world.

  Madrid! Tokyo! Rio!

  He took her hand and cradled it in his.

  “Once this deal happens, we’ll be set for life. You and me. I’ll work when I want to. We can do whatever we want, Felicia,” he promised. “You’ll never need to think about money again.”

  Something changed in the way she looked at him. A distance in her eyes, as though they had shrunken back and she’d begun to erect a wall of caution. Her glance darted to her plate.

  Del stopped short.

  “Whoa, what happened?” he asked, her hand still in his. “Aren’t you excited about this?”

  “I’m thrilled for you, Del.”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Talk to me. You should be excited! I want to take you along for this ride!”

  Felicia shrugged and seemed a tad shy. “The whole wealth and fame thing, material stuff…I don’t know, I’ve never considered those things important, I guess.”

  “And I love that about you,” Del said, his heart sincere. Her genuine nature had always drawn him to her. “But you have to admit, material possessions are nice. I don’t see anything wrong with that. Do you?”

  “I don’t disagree. At the same time, though, it’s all so…”

  He leaned toward her. “Yes?”

  “Temporary.”

  Her gaze dropped to her lap. Had she grown uncomfortable?

  “Temporary?” prompted Del.

  “In terms of the bigger picture. Eternity. The fame and money—you can’t take it with you when this life ends, right? I think of those Egyptian mummies, buried amid all that wealth—and what did it do for them? It stayed behind when they died. So wealth isn’t really a factor to me.”