Bleak

by Lynn Messina

  Firmly resolved, I dial his cell phone. He answers on the first ring. “Hey, superstar screenwriter whose about to be produced. Didn’t I tell you this would happen?”

  Although this is hardly the greeting I’m prepared for, it’s pretty nice. His faith in me has always been his greatest appeal. No matter what happens, he’s a source of unflagging support. “Tulk told you?”

  “It might have come up while we were talking about other things. So how does it feel? Top-of-the-world-like or floating-on-a-cloud?”

  “Very earthbound at the moment. I’m trying to be prudent and practical,” I say. “Tulk called it a business opportunity, which sounds a little scary to me.”

  Harry laughs. “Fine, you be prudent. I’ll be imprudent enough for the both of us. As soon as I get back into town, I’m taking you to Spago to celebrate.”

  I lean against the arm of the couch, wondering if I knew if he was going to be out of town. His schedule’s been so busy lately, I haven’t seen him in the past two weeks, which is another reason he might have slipped my mind in the Simon giddiness. Out of sight is out of mind.

  Great, now I’m a shallow, heartless slut.

  The self-revelations just keep coming.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Visiting my sister in Chicago. My parents are here. We’re doing the traditional Skimpole family post-Thanksgiving/pre-Christmas bash. So far we’ve hit the historic-skyscrapers tour, the river tour, the museum tour and now we’re about to do the zoo tour. All this touring is punctuated by intense bouts of shopping on Michigan Avenue. So far I’ve scored a new couch and a flashy suit from Armani. I’ll wear it when we go to Spago. You’ll be amazed how handsome I look.”

  The mention of Spago reminds me of why I called and the fact that I can’t break up with him now, today, this moment. I have to wait for him to come back—and in the meantime two-time Simon.

  I should tell him about Harry.

  I should not tell him about Harry.

  “When are you back?” I ask.

  “Can’t wait to see me, huh? Next week. I’m visiting a friend in St. Louis while I’m so near. Why don’t I— Uh-oh, the zoo tour is about to start. The guide is waving a zebra-striped umbrella in a desperate bid for attention. I’ll talk to you later.”

  While Harry oohs and ahhs over three-toed sloths, I sit on the couch and wonder what to do next. Clearly it’s my intentions that count. I intended to break up with Harry. That he’s out of town and unbreakupable is not my fault. Simon would understand that.

  Still, I can’t convince myself there’s any reason to tell Simon at all.

  As soon as Love & Valor starts at three, I put the matter out of my head and focus on some real problems: what Jinx will do when she finds out her husband, Giovanni, is the mafia crime boss she’s hunting, how Kylie will escape from the collapsed salt mine and whether Piers and Arizona will finally consummate their love.

  The hour is over far too soon, with few epiphanies and little closure, and I slide effortlessly into an episode of Dr. Phil about mom’s who can’t say no. I watch fascinated as overindulged ten-year-olds bully their parents into buying them everything they want. It seems so simple when they do it, and I realize, observing the secretly filmed footage, that I didn’t throw enough tantrums as a child. No wonder my parents didn’t buy me a car when I was sixteen.

  While the credits roll, I check my e-mail to see if Lester responded yet to my question about the revised screenplay. It’s been two weeks since I sent the first message. If he doesn’t get back to me soon, I’m considering drastic measures: phoning. Nothing says answer my e-mail as much as an unwanted telephone call.

  Luckily, there’s an update in my in-box informing me that the writers turned in the script a week ago. “It’s better but not as good as Lloyd would like. But it’s the best he’s going to get from them without paying them more money. He has a meeting next week with the investors to show them the new script. He thinks it’s strong enough to get their backing.”

  This is such good news that I don’t even flinch when I read Carrie’s e-mail threatening to come for a visit with Glenn. “He’s never been to the West Coast. I thought we might start in SF and drive down on hwy 1. Could be very special.”

  By “very special” I’m terrified she means engagement-worthy, and I shut down the computer without responding. I don’t want to think about it.

  At six-thirty, Simon surprises me with sushi from my favorite Japanese restaurant. He’s amazingly perfect and thoughtful and perfect.

  I set the table while he complains about the new receptionist in the office, Colleen, an incompetent woman who doesn’t know how to use a computer or understand the concept of a network. “She can’t even transfer a phone call. And I’m talking about a simple phone that has a button that says transfer, not one of those out-of-date devices with an F1 function key. She’s driving me crazy. Every day she asks the same question about Word. And she refuses to get anyone’s name right. She calls Kristin Christine, even thought she’s been corrected a zillion times.”

  “How’d she get the job?” I ask, digging out clear, blue ramekins to use for soy sauce.

  “Get this. She worked the desk at Celia’s health club, so Cee assumed she had skills and hired her away. All she had to do was scan IDs. But Cee is big on guerilla hiring tactics. She doesn’t trust people who are looking for new jobs. She thinks they’re discontents. In two years, she’s never gone through an agency or ran an ad in the paper. It works sometimes but mostly we wind up with inept dimwits who don’t know how to sharpen a pencil. You have no idea how many hours I’ve spent giving tutorials on Word mail merge.”

  “You have my full sympathy. I know from personal experience how frustrating that is,” I say, recalling the dozens of times at HWSP when I had to give the other paralegals lessons in Bates numbering and Lexus searches, things that should be part of a person’s basic skill set.

  He laughs and reaches for the napkins. “Are you kidding? I love it. I’ve been waiting my whole life to complain about my coworkers. It’s so middle-America normal.” He pulls two pairs of chopsticks out of the take-out bag. “What’d you do today?”

  I have a few sets of nice chopsticks but I can’t remember where I put them and disposable are so much easier. “I learned that saying no is the most loving thing you can do for your child.”

  “And where did you pick up this useful bit of parenting advice? The park?”

  “Dr. Phil,” I say, contemplating the contents of my cabinet. “Wine?”

  “Sure.”

  I take out the wineglasses and retrieve a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the refrigerator.

  “Anything else?”

  “I also learned that contrary to popular belief, crime does pay.”

  “Now I know that’s not Dr. Phil.”

  “Love & Valor.”

  Simon transfers the sushi from its aluminum container to a serving tray. The presentation is lovely but I resent having to wash another plate. Even with a dishwasher, a novelty I’d never have in New York, doing the dishes is a pain in the butt.

  “Any lessons that don’t involve TV?” he asks.

  I pour the wine, give the table a thorough once-over and sit down. “Yeah, if you don’t tell your sister she’s dating an asshole in the very beginning she might make him stay in your apartment for several days. That was a huge lesson.”

  He sits down across from me and lifts the wineglass. “I like your sister.”

  “Me too.”

  “It’s a shame about the asshole.”

  I shrug. “What can you do?”

  “So any writing today?” he asks. “You haven’t told me how the new book’s going.”

  And there, just like that
, I’m reminded why I’ve been ducking him for a month. My giddy mood dims for the first time in forty-eight hours. Not even the discovery that I’m a shallow, heartless slut had been capable of doing that.

  “It’s good,” I say evasively, reluctant to lie further but incapable of not lying a little bit. I’m already in to the depth of one still-have-a-boyfriend omission. In an effort to limit the damage, however, I change the subject immediately. “The new script is in. The producers are happy with it and think they can get the backing now.”

  Simon takes a piece of salmon sushi and dips it into soy sauce. “Wasn’t the rewrite because the investors wanted to cast the male lead big?”

  I start with toro because it’s my favorite. “Yeah.”

  “Then they’re not going to back the film until the part is cast,” he says logically.

  “Lester thinks the script is strong enough without it being cast.”

  “Lester’s either grossly optimistic or deliberately misleading you. Take your pick,” he explains calmly, his didactic tone having the usual affect on my temper. He’s such an obnoxious know-it-all.

  My giddiness dims another few notches.

  Simon sees my expression and reacts with perfectly thoughtful thoughtfulness. He puts down the chopsticks, takes my hand and squeezes gently. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be negative. It’s just that I don’t want to see you get hurt. You expect so much. I can see it on your face. Be prepared for the investors to want more—not that they’re necessarily going to but in case they do. Just be prepared. You can’t have all your eggs in one basket. That’s why I’m excited about the new book. It’s something separate and apart from Jarndyce. Having a life outside of it is the only way to remain sane.”

  Everything he says makes sense. I know it’s dangerous to have nothing else in the hopper. But that’s why I wrote the screenplay in the first place. I know the importance of diversifying. “I also had some exciting news about Tad Johnson today,” I say eagerly.

  He releases my hand and smiles, then snags a piece of eel. “That’s fabulous. I didn’t know Lester was taking it out already. I thought he wanted you to do another rewrite.”

  I look down at my plate and reorganize the slices of ginger to avoid his gaze. It’s a little too penetrating for my peace of mind. “It’s not with Lester. I found a new agent for it.”

  “Oh?” he asks casually. But his eyebrow raises a few inches.

  “Yeah, his name’s Howard Tulkinghorn. But he makes me call him Tulk.”

  Simon thinks for a moment, trying to place the name. He comes up short. “I’m not familiar. How’d you hear about him?”

  The last thing I want to do is bring up Harry. “Around. A friend of Wren’s might have mentioned him,” I say vaguely. It’s not quite a lie when you use caveats like might have. “He’s really great. You should check him out. HowardTulkinghorn.com. He’s got a ton of Emmy winners on his roster.”

  “Cool.”

  Silence follows his succinct remark as we both reach for another piece of sushi. I go for salmon; he goes for mackerel. I finish my wine and pour a second glass. Simon is only halfway through his.

  “So the news?” he asks.

  For a moment I’m baffled, but then I realize I never told him what’s up. How could I have possibly forgotten? It’s huge. “Details still to come—I’m having lunch with Tulk tomorrow to find out more—but an independent film producer made an offer on the script. He loves it and can’t wait to go into production.”

  His response is hardly what I’m expecting. He doesn’t jump up and hug me or even smile and say congrats. “What’s the producer’s name?”

  “I don’t know. That’s one of the details I’ll learn tomorrow.”

  “What else has he done?”

  I sigh. I should have known he’d be like this. He’s always so cautious. Except when it comes to sex. He didn’t think twice about that. “Again, I’ll find out tomorrow. Geesh, the important thing is, he wants to make my movie. Isn’t that wonderful? I’m going to be a plucky independent.”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he says with a smile so forced it might as well be a scowl.

  “Why isn’t it great?” I ask impatiently.

  “It is great. I just said it is.”

  “No, you’re lying.” I wrap my chopsticks around another piece of toro but I can’t get any traction. Every time I try to lift it, the sushi falls to the plate. Frustrated, I throw down the chopsticks. “Do you really think I can’t tell when I’m being appeased like a little child?”

  “Then stop behaving like a little child,” he says, his temper snapping for the first time. His eyes sharpen to a deep blue. “Every time someone gives you a sliver of positive news, you go all in. Why can’t you hold something back?” He sighs, puts down his own chopsticks and takes a deep sip of wine. I watch him struggle to calm down. “Look, independent films are a long road too. Just because someone wants to make your movie doesn’t mean they will. Ninety-nine percent of projects never take off. Ninety-nine percent. Those are odds I’d want only with earthquakes and tornados. So all I’m saying is be cautious. Just please be cautious.”

  By the end of his speech, his tone is soft and pleading and I find myself softening too. His intentions are good. He only wants the best for me, and it’s not his fault he’s been hurt so many times by Hollywood that he can’t see anything but his own pain. All he wants is to save me from heartache.

  How can I hold that against him?

  It would be better, of course, if he realized I’m a grown woman who can take care of herself. I’m not the turnip-truck greenhorn he seems to think I am. But that will come in time. He doesn’t know me well enough yet.

  But if we’re ever going to make it that long, we clearly need to stay away from any movie talk. I love fish-tacos-on-the-beach Simon and looking-at-Pinkie Simon and surprise-me-with-sushi Simon but I can’t stand this man who knows everything and is just waiting for me to fail. Hollywood-insider Simon is intolerable.

  As disappointed as I am that any topic is off-limits, I’m relieved to have discovered the toxic downside to Simon so early on. Now I don’t have to wait for the other shoe to drop.

  So, for the sake of our relationship and its fragile future, I refill his wineglass and ask him if he knows the three important questions every parent should pose before giving in to a child’s demand.

  Somehow, he manages to guess two out of three.

  Day 1301

  The first thing Tulk says after we order lunch is: “We’re not going to decide anything today.”

  It’s a pretty dramatic statement for the circumstances but I nod. “All right.”

  “Today, we talk. Tomorrow, maybe the day after, maybe next week, we can make up our minds. But this is a big decision and I won’t let you make it over guacamole and bean dip,” he says, with perfect indifference to the fact that we ordered a veggie quesadilla and a fiesta salad.

  He was going for imagery. I get that.

  “Solution Pictures is new and small and they’re looking at Tad Johnson as one of their kick-off projects. They’ve got a few things in the works but Joshua Smallweed, the founder of Solution, thinks your script could be the one that takes them all the way to the Oscars. You know with indies, the big question is distribution, right?” he asks.

  I nod. The better your film does at Sundance and Cannes and Venice, the better chance it has of being picked up by a distributor. Many films that are made never get a chance to find an audience. It’s a sad thought but not that different from book publishing or even screenwriting. Very few works ever see the light.

  “Josh’s credentials are solid. He worked with Katzenberg at Dreamworks for five years and Grazer at Imagine for three. He set up Solution about a year ago because he was tir
ed of the Hollywood system of making watered-down movies with mass appeal. He believes it’s possible to make quality movies with mass appeal. And he’d like to start with How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard.”

  The waitress brings our platters and refills Tulk’s coffee cup. I’ve never seen anyone eat lettuce and java at the same time before, but he seems immune to the strangeness as he pours blue cheese dressing over the grilled chicken.

  “Hmm,” Tulk says, breathing in deeply. “Doesn’t that smell good? The food here is wonderful. Just wait until dessert. Flan that will make you believe in God.”

  Although I asked for the quesadilla without bell peppers, it comes stuffed with them, and I pick out a few green strips before I realize it’s too much work. I dig in. The cheese is melted perfectly.

  “The really exciting thing about Josh’s offer is he wants to bring you on board as a producer,” Tulk says.

  As soon as he says the word, I realize the money situation is worse than I thought. Lloyd gave Tipston and Field production credits because he didn’t have money to pay them. But that’s all right, I remind myself, blocking out the dwindling balance of my nest egg, I’m here to build a career. A production credit is an investment in my future.

  “He thinks you have really great ideas and a strong vision. He wants your input on everything from set design to casting. How does that sound?”

  “Amazing,” I say with total sincerity. The last time my opinion was sought on a professional matter, the office manager at HWSP asked if she should photocopy that year’s holiday schedule onto white paper or beige.

  “Josh’s keeping the budget small. He thinks he can do it on three hundred thou. He’s drawn up a tight, thirty-one-day production schedule, which will keep costs down. He’s got Abel Fiero playing Tad. You know who he is, right? He’s the star of Fifties Dreaming. Very popular with the eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds. He’s willing to do the film for nothing to prove his acting chops.”

  I’m not surprised Abel Fiero wants to show the world he can act. On Fifties Dreaming, a laugh track sitcom that lampoons midcentury morality and culture, he spends the entire half hour winking at the camera and delivering lines with a gee-whiz enthusiasm. It’s painful to watch.