Focus.
Focus, focus, focus, la-la-la-la-la. How was it that any word, when repeated repeatedly, could become a song? Why was it fun to say “repeated repeatedly”? That could be a song. Maybe not a rap song, per se, because it lacked a certain edge. That is my problem, thought Michael. I lack edge. I need edge.
I need focus.
I need a snack.
Clinging to the theory that low blood sugar was behind his complete inability to put words on paper (or his computer screen), Michael headed into the kitchen, hoping against all logic to find something other than olives and champagne in his refrigerator. Maybe he could call Kate and see if she wanted to meet up for a quick breakfast. Or, even better, he could bring her back here for breakfast, and as the eggs were cooking, he could ravage her right there on the kitchen table…
Focus.
Turning on his heels, he forced himself back into the chair in front of his computer. Just write, he scolded himself.
Write what?
Write anything.
Anything?
Anything.
So he did. He wrote his grocery list (olives, coffee). He wrote a long list of all of the things he wouldn’t miss about Sapphire if she were to suffer a tragic hair-product accident and a much longer list of “Kate’s adorable traits,” which almost became a poem but was too nauseatingly cutesy to ever show to anyone. Then he started writing about how terrified he was to start writing and how afraid he was of the humiliation of failure, and how his deepest fear was that by allowing himself to actively pursue such a profound and personal dream he would somehow chase it away forever. He wrote pages and pages about the many ways he could fail and have his heart broken by his creative ambitions, but how he felt a drive to move forward anyway, even if it meant risking his comfort and security.
And then he found himself writing about Vivien Leigh.
The research that had kept him up all night flowed together with his imagination and his personal experience, and his fingers were suddenly flying across the keyboard. He found that he understood his subject not just through the eyes of a young boy who had lived with mental illness in his home, but also as an artist with frustrated ambitions striving to communicate his creativity in the face of society’s expectations. He struggled to get his ideas down before his mind raced ahead to the next scene, the next action. He felt as though a dam had broken and his rapid-fire typing was the only thing saving him from drowning in the rushing waters of his imagination.
Michael didn’t take a break or even look up from his computer until his ringing phone broke his concentration. Reaching for it, he was surprised to see that it was completely dark outside. What time was it? How long had he been writing?
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Hello, Michael, Hamilton here. Did I wake you?”
“No,” said Michael, although he did feel as if he were coming out of a deep sleep. “I was just, um, watching TV. What time is it?”
“It’s a few minutes after eleven. Sapphire and I just got back from the Save the Diamonds benefit.”
“Save the Diamonds?” Michael knew he was tired, but was he losing his hearing, too?
“Yes. Apparently there are some misguided people who have taken issue with the working conditions or some other blah-deblah happening in the diamond mines. If those of us who love diamonds don’t act fast, these nasty gem-haters and their demonstrations may even impact supply.”
“Wow, Sapphire must be beside herself,” said Michael, masking his disgust with sarcasm. “I remember how devastated she was when they cut down on the baby-seal clubbing and she couldn’t buy the fur coat she had set her heart on.”
“Yes, she is quite upset. She has had far too much loss in her life, as you know.”
Only if you count her mind, thought Michael. “What can I do for you tonight, Hamilton?”
“Well, as I said, Sapphire is quite upset. This issue with the diamonds has made her feel very vulnerable. She has always felt that jewelry was the one thing she could really count on to keep her warm at night when the chips are down.”
“What about you, Hamilton?”
“Oh, I buy her lots of jewelry.”
“No, I mean, don’t you keep her warm at—oh, never mind. What were you saying?”
“Just that Sapphire is feeling very vulnerable right now, and when we were at the dinner tonight, several people asked me about Kate. It was very awkward. I mean, don’t they read People?”
“Did you two do a story for People?” asked Michael, his heart breaking for Kate.
“Yes, and we had brunch at the Ivy, went shopping at Kitson, and had dinner at Mr. Chow. We even sat on the swings at the Malibu Country Mart. Anyone who can’t figure out that we are together is just not paying attention.”
“Maybe you need to do a story in the New York Times.”
“Well, we did send out a press release. It’s not our fault if the Times can’t recognize a good story.”
“Well, they are probably just distracted by the war.”
“Maybe, but I’ll be honest with you, Michael. People are bored with all of this war talk. That’s why newspaper sales are down. If those snobby New York Times editors want to boost distribution, they need to take a page from the book of Star magazine. Those full-color photos sell newspapers like crazy.”
Michael decided against pointing out that Star magazine wasn’t actually a newspaper, preferring to let Hamilton’s stupidity speak for itself. “I don’t know how to help you with the press, Hamilton. It sounds like you are doing everything you can to announce your new couplehood.”
“I think we are, too, Michael, and that is why we’re so frustrated.”
“Frustrated?”
“Yes. Despite all of our efforts, people just can’t seem to forget about Kate.”
“Well, you did break up a week ago, Hamilton.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” asked Hamilton, stunned by the realization. “I mean, my relationship with Kate feels like a tiny blip on the radar screen compared to the meeting of the souls that I share with Sapphire.”
“Tell me you didn’t say that to People magazine, Hamilton.”
“Of course I did. I believe it’s the title of the piece.”
“‘A Tiny Blip on the Radar’?”
“No, no—‘A Meeting of Two Souls.’ I don’t believe Kate’s name even came up.”
“How could her name not come up, Hamilton? She is your soon-to-be ex-wife and a television star.”
“Exactly why I called you, Michael.”
Finally. “Yes, Hamilton.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell you how short the public’s attention span is. The way I see it, if Kate wasn’t on television every week, people would stop thinking about her, and if people stop thinking about her, then they will stop asking Sapphire about her, which, as I mentioned before, upsets her.”
“I thought she was upset about the possible diamond and fur shortage.”
“That, too. She feels like her world is falling down on her, Michael.”
“And how do you think Kate is going to feel losing her job right after her husband left her for another woman?”
“Have you read Codependent No More, Michael?”
“What?” asked Michael, trying to adjust to the conversational U-turn.
“I just notice that you keep bringing up Kate’s feelings. But her feelings are her own responsibility, Michael, not mine. And certainly not yours.”
Oh dear. “Thank you for the psychological checkup, Hamilton.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But I wonder if firing Kate is really in Sapphire’s best interest. It could be a real image-killer if word gets out that Sapphire ordered the execution.”
“I don’t think we need to kill her, Michael.”
“I was speaking metaphorically, Hamilton.”
“Good, because nothing turns the tide of public opinion like untimely death. Kate could be turned into some kind of saint.”
“Too bad for her she wouldn’t be alive to enjoy it.”
“True, although I could never get her to understand the importance of a good public image.”
“Yes, nothing kills a marriage faster than public image incompatibility.”
“Amen.”
Michael allowed the silence to hang between them, using the few moments of peace to strategize about how to keep Kate employed. Although the more he talked to Hamilton, the more he began to think that getting fired and getting as far away from this creep as possible could be the best thing for her. He was at a loss as to how to communicate with Hamilton anymore. What he really wanted was to be left alone to write and pursue a relationship with Kate. Maybe he should just sit back and let Hamilton and Sapphire fire her. They could fire him, too, while they were at it. Worse things could happen to both of them than to be rid of the Annoying Duo. It might be a hard sell, though: “Great news, Kate! I got you fired so you will have more time to date me! I realize you just got divorced and could probably use the money you earned in the good old days when you were employed, but I can support both of us with the money I don’t earn as a writer!”
Maybe not.
“Listen, Hamilton, you make a lot of good points.” I couldn’t name any if pressed to do so… “But I really feel that we need to put some more thought into this before moving forward. Let’s keep our focus on Sapphire’s film career. She is in a completely different league than Kate.” Let’s call that league “outer space.” “I think the next meeting we should have with the suits over at Generations is one that focuses on clearing her schedule for the Vivien Leigh project.”
Hamilton perked up. “Is that imminent?”
“Well, let me put it this way, Hamilton: the script is in the works.”
“Well, that is great news, Michael. Maybe that will take poor Sapphire’s mind off her troubles.”
“God willing,” said Michael, thinking he couldn’t live through another conversation about his rich, spoiled client’s difficult life of privilege and wealth.
“When is your meeting with Bob Steinman?” asked Hamilton.
“In a couple of days,” said Michael casually, doing an internal calculation that put the exact time frame at thirty-five hours and thirteen minutes.
“Great. We can’t wait to hear all about it. When can we get a look at the script?”
Never, if you don’t let me off the fucking phone. “Soon, Hamilton. As I said, it’s in the works.”
“Great. Super. I’m off to comfort our sensitive little flower. It wouldn’t hurt for you to give her a call, too, Michael. She needs her friends right now.”
Then she should really go make some. “Right-o, Hamilton. I’ll get right on that.”
Just as soon as the sun starts rotating around the earth…
29
Sapphire was inconsolable.
“Why does no one care about me? When is it going to be my turn to shine?” She threw herself onto the floor of her trailer. Luckily, her fall was cushioned by the huge pile of discarded designer clothes that covered the ground.
“Sapphire, darling, we are all here for you. We all want to help you shine.” Hamilton took it upon himself to speak for the group gathered by the door. Jerry eagerly nodded his agreement. Claire tried to maintain an outward expression of concern while inwardly rolling her eyes.
“It’s true, Sapphire. And nothing means more to me than doing my part to help,” she said dryly.
“Absolutely!” piped in Jerry excitedly. Claire watched him, searching for any sign of sarcasm or irony. She found none. Amazing. “Just tell me what more I can do to make your life easier and I will run and do it right now,” he said, turning to face the door and placing a hand on the doorknob to illustrate his sincerity.
Claire’s eye roll snuck to the surface. “Thank you for that, Jerry, but before you charge out into the world in search of dragons to slay in honor of our shiny star, we really need to focus on getting her dressed for this scene. Everyone else is ready and waiting on set.” The fact that this point should have been made by the producer, not the costume designer, was just one more reality that seemed to float right over Jerry’s head.
“Everyone else can just wait, then. Sapphire is Generations.” Jerry delivered his serenade directly to Sapphire, not even bothering to glance at Claire as he spoke.
“Honey-bunny, we really do need to get dressed soon,” said Hamilton gently. “Claire has been kind enough to bring out everything in your size from the trailer, as well as sending her assistant to buy everything in your size from Saks and Neiman Marcus. There must be something here that will work for you.”
“No, there’s not!” wailed Sapphire. “I want the blue jersey Calvin Klein dress I saw in Vogue.” She sat up just far enough to create the momentum necessary to throw herself back onto the clothing pile with a dramatic “Nobody ever cares what I want!”
“I do!” said Jerry, rushing forward to help as if Sapphire had accidentally fallen instead of hurled her body in a tantrum.
Claire thought about her mortgage and car payment and realized that, sadly, she really did need this job. “I do care what you want, Sapphire, but that dress is not available.”
Hamilton knelt down next to his sobbing girlfriend, displacing Jerry, who offered Sapphire a tiny bow before scurrying back to his position by the door. “Did you hear Claire, honey? That dress is not available. We need to find you something else to wear today.”
“But that’s the one I want,” said Sapphire in a little-girl voice, looking up at Hamilton with sad eyes.
Hamilton turned to Claire and Jerry with an indulgent “isn’t she precious?” expression. Jerry smiled back, but Claire was on the verge of drawing blood in her palms from the pressure of her clenched fists. “Sadly, my beauty, we don’t always get what we want.”
“But I should,” said Sapphire, pouting. “I’m the star.”
“Yes, Sapphire, I believe that has been made clear.” Painfully clear, Claire thought. She continued, “I understand that you are a special case, but the dress you want is simply not available, for you or anyone.”
“I bet Gwyneth Paltrow could get one.”
“But you’re not Gwyneth Paltrow.” The words were out of Claire’s mouth before she could stop them. There was a collective gasp from the floor at her blasphemy.
Not surprisingly, Jerry jumped to his star’s defense. “Of course you’re not Gwyneth Paltrow…because you are so much better than Gwyneth Paltrow. She only wishes that she could hold a candle to—”
“Thank you, Jerry,” interrupted Hamilton. “I think we are all in agreement about who deserves our loyalty and admiration.” He stared pointedly at Claire. “And those of us who are confused about that should really be working for Ms. Paltrow.”
Claire allowed herself a brief moment’s fantasy of dressing that elegant, yoga-toned body before saying, with just the subtlest hint of sarcasm, “What could be confusing about working on a hit show with the biggest star in the business?” She had to literally bite her tongue to keep from expounding on the many applications of the term “biggest.”
“Amen to that,” Jerry said.
Sapphire seemed comforted by the comparisons between her and the stunningly beautiful Gwyneth, unrealistic association being the cornerstone of her inflated self-image. She began the slow process of pulling herself together, sniffling and wiping her nose on the nearest piece of cloth, which, to Claire’s dismay, was a four-hundred-dollar silk blouse that she had hoped to return to Fred Segal. Maybe she could sell it on ebay. If Britney Spears’s half-eaten corn dog could sell for two hundred dollars, who knew what fortunes could be made from a snot-stained designer blouse?
Sensing a possible end to the standoff, Hamilton shifted into manager mode. “So, short of finding you that blue dress, is there anything we can do to help you get ready for your scene today?”
“Well…” Sapphire sniffled again, her face the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “There is one thing.�
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“That’s weird,” said Kate, closing her cell phone.
“What?” Paige was just finishing loading their breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. They had taken advantage of Kate’s day off and Paige’s late call time to enjoy a midmorning breakfast of mammoth proportions. It gave Paige great pleasure to see her friend tuck into a big bowl of oatmeal with nuts and berries. They’d be sharing clothes in no time. Too bad it wouldn’t be Kate’s tiny designer wardrobe. Maybe they could sew a few things together to make one normal-size outfit.
Kate got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. “That was Sam. They want me to come in.”
“Oh shit,” said Paige, reaching up to feel her messy topknot. “I am a good hour away from being anywhere near presentable. When do they need us?”
“That’s what’s so weird. They don’t need us, just me.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Paige’s face paled. “Unless they are replacing me. Do you think they are upset that you are staying here? Maybe they think it’s inappropriate.”
“Well,” said Kate, concerned, “Sam did say something about hearing through the grapevine that you are trying to fatten me up.”
“Really?”
“No.” Kate grabbed a dish towel and threw it at Paige. “And the proper response to that statement isn’t ‘Really?’ The proper response would be ‘That’s crazy! I could never fatten you up. You are lithe and beautiful like a panther.’”
“Okay, panther-head, if I tell you that you are still skinny, will you tell me whether or not I still have a job?”
Kate sat down at the kitchen table, suddenly serious. “Honestly, he didn’t say anything about you—and I asked. He said I wouldn’t need makeup because I was just coming in for some sort of meeting.”
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