by Laura Zigman
Mary shook her head. She couldn’t understand why Jack would sabotage his own client, why he would purposely torpedo a project—Legend—he himself had helped create.
“Because he knew long before he told you that there was a problem with the perfume itself. He knew that Heaven Scent had had to cut corners in the production of the fragrance and that it didn’t smell right and that because of that, Legend was going to be more of a hindrance than a help to you. In order to shift attention away from the lousy perfume and back to you, he decided to try to get publicity for you any way he could. Creating bad publicity for Heaven Scent was his strategy for keeping your name in the press while distracting everybody’s attention away from the fact that your perfume—your comeback vehicle—was destined to be a failure.”
Mary sucked her teeth.
“But once I started negotiating with PETA to scale back their protests, Jack’s plan was in jeopardy: the focus was going to go back on the perfume, which he didn’t want, so he tried to shut down the whole campaign as quickly as possible and cut his losses.”
“Hence the Minnie Mouse Suite.”
“Exactly. As for Lindsay, once she’d gotten attention from the media, Jack gave her the means and opportunity to sell her book in exchange for helping him bury Legend.”
“Jack may have given her means and opportunity,” Mary said slowly. “But he didn’t give her motive. She had enough of that on her own.”
Julia stopped.
Motive.
Maybe what Jack had said was true.
“What if Lindsay actually wanted to help you by getting involved with his plan instead of wanting to hurt you?” Julia said. “What if, by signing on with PETA to attack Heaven Scent, she did it to try to protect you from the public humiliation of having your perfume fail by taking the focus off you and putting it onto the issue of animal rights?”
“That’s absurd,” Mary said.
“No. It isn’t.” Julia sat forward again on the couch. “Look. Obviously, Lindsay has issues with you and with your mother-daughter relationship,” she argued. “And obviously she was ‘acting out,’ trying to get your attention by taking a public position against your perfume. But what if she was also conflicted? What if the other part of her—the part of her that loves you and wants you two to be closer—was also acting out? What if she saw her participation in Jack’s scheme—and the writing of a memoir—as the ultimate way to connect with you?”
Mary stared at Julia without blinking. “That’s quite a stretch.”
“Maybe. And maybe not. But whatever Lindsay’s intentions were doesn’t even matter at this point. All that matters is how you’re going to handle the situation she’s created—how you’re going to behave under the worst possible circumstances and come out of this whole thing a winner.”
Mary looked around the room and sighed again, then sat back against the cushions. “And you’re telling me that the only way to do that is by not fighting the memoir? By letting Lindsay say anything she wants about me—whether or not it’s even true? Even though most of it probably is.”
“That’s only part of what I’m advising you to do.”
“And what’s the other part?”
The other part was the key to everything—the strategy Julia believed would not only save Mary’s reputation, but would achieve the comeback they’d been trying for all along:
“Lobby to play yourself in the movie.”
Mary’s mouth dropped open. For the first time since Julia had known her, it seemed the impossible had happened:
Mary Ford was speechless.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” Julia said, “but I’m absolutely certain this will work. By going along with the book and the movie you’ll deflate Lindsay’s accusations against you and show everyone that you’re human, and that you have a sense of humor and a sense of irony about yourself and about the whole institution of parenthood: Yes, of course your daughter ‘hates’ you. But all daughters ‘hate’ their mothers sometimes. Because all mothers make mistakes—even big, famous movie stars like Mary Ford. All parents, no matter what they do and how hard they try, can never win.”
Mary said nothing, so Julia continued.
“It’s the opportunity to play the role of a lifetime—yourself—as you are now—an older, wiser Mary Ford. A role that is the ultimate comeback vehicle and that is virtually guaranteed to put your movie career back on track.”
Mary still said nothing, so Julia pushed forward to the end of her argument.
“And perhaps most importantly—you get a chance at building a whole new relationship with Lindsay. You told me yourself that you have regrets about some of the decisions you made when your children were growing up,” Julia said quietly. “How you feel you put your own needs before theirs. Well, if that’s true, then now’s your chance to make it right. Now’s your chance to connect with Lindsay in a completely different way. On her terms, collaborating on a creative project you both have a huge stake in.”
Mary swallowed, and just like two nights ago on the moonlit savanna, a tear made its way down her cheek.
“What if she doesn’t want me?” she said, her voice, for once, weak and tentative.
“She needs you, and you need her. Everything else will fall into place.”
Mary pulled a tissue out of the sleeve of her sweater and wiped her nose, taking one last moment to decide whether or not to trust Julia with what was left of her career.
“It’s a jungle out there, Einstein,” Mary said, keeping her eyes trained on Julia’s face.
“I know.”
“Are you sure you can handle it?”
Julia didn’t flinch. “I’ve been there before,” she said. “And I think I still know my way around.”
Now that she had Mary’s approval, all Julia had to do was not fuck it up.
Racing back down to midtown in a cab, she knew that she would have to act quickly in order to line everything up before Lindsay Green’s manuscripts started going out the next day. She walked past Jack’s office on the way to her own and saw him sitting at his desk, talking on the phone, but she ignored him. Instead, she called Jonathan into her office, closed the door behind him, and told him about her strategy to turn the Mary Ford situation around.
Jonathan’s eyes widened and then he slowly started to nod. “Cool!”
“You think?” Julia said, desperate for reassurance, albeit from an assistant half her age who wore love beads and whose pants were so big on him they were practically falling off.
He nodded furiously, unequivocally supportive. “Who would ever expect her to support her daughter’s nasty book? It’s a total shock. It turns the whole thing on its head.”
She breathed for what felt like the first time all day, or all week.
I ♥ Jonathan.
“Then why am I so scared to call Patricia?” She couldn’t believe she was asking him this.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because from what you’ve told me about her,” Jonathan started, “Patricia is—well—she’s kind of into herself.”
“You’re so right,” Julia said.
“Though probably not deeply narcissistic, one might go so far as to say that she has a rather healthy ego.”
“Right again.”
“Also from what you’ve told me, Patricia sounds like she’s all about control.”
“So, so right.” She nodded till her neck hurt. Everyone except for Jonathan and herself—Mary, Jack, Peter, The Scoob, Walt Disney—and everything—the Container Store, Cook’s Illustrated—seemed to be about control. “But why am I afraid?” Julia said, hoping he would connect the dots for her.
“You’re afraid because it’s a really good idea and you’re worried that Patricia is going to be jealous that you thought of it and she didn’t.”
“Then what do I do?”
He considered the equation and the solution. “When you call her, you need to do two things: play to her ego and distrac
t her from the fact that you’re trying to control her. She’s going to have to think that letting Mary glom onto Lindsay’s film deal is her own brilliant idea.”
Twenty minutes later, Jonathan came back with coffee and a Krispy Kreme donut so perfectly and translucently glazed it looked like plastic. Then he closed the door and sat down across from her as she’d asked him to.
Jonathan Leibowitz: copilot. Wingman. Friend.
Julia took out a fresh yellow legal pad and one of the crappy supply-drawer ballpoint pens that she was actually starting to like, and picked up her cordless phone headset. She dialed Patricia’s office number, got past her assistant, and, after a little small talk with Patricia herself, got down to business.
“So how’s the submission going?”
“So far, so good, I hear.”
“A lot of interest out there?”
“Yes.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I sure do.”
They both paused, then Patricia sighed loudly. “Julia?”
“Yes, Patricia?”
“Did you call for a reason or are you just killing time?”
“Of course I called you for a reason.”
“I’m listening.”
Julia paused one last moment to collect her thoughts.
“What if I told you that Mary Ford is prepared to support her daughter’s book?”
Patricia was silent. “What do you mean, ‘support’?”
“Meaning, she won’t publicly denounce it; she won’t speak ill of it or ill of her daughter to the press when the sale is announced or at the time of publication.”
“Look, Julia, I’m not sure you understand what this book is. It’s an unflattering portrait of a selfish woman who cared more about her own ego and public image than she did about the well-being of her daughter, let alone her son. It’s not a pretty picture and I can’t imagine it’s something she—or you as her publicist—would want to endorse.”
For the second time that day, Julia bristled. “I understand what the book is, Patricia,” she said with arch assurance, then stuck out her tongue. Jonathan stifled a giggle.
“Then how can you tell me that Mary Ford will support it?”
“Because that’s what she’s decided to do.”
“But why?”
“Because she thinks her daughter deserves to have her say.”
“But what’s the catch?”
“There is no catch.”
“There’s always a catch.”
Julia smirked. Duh.
“Look,” Julia said, as fortified by sugar and caffeine as she was by her desire to win this last and final round. “You’re about to go out with a highly subjective memoir about a Hollywood mother who’s a has-been, by a daughter who’s a loser and an ingrate. Right?”
Patricia didn’t answer.
“Wouldn’t it be great if the has-been mother supported the loser daughter’s right to speak her mind? Wouldn’t it be great if the has-been mother was willing, in fact, to accompany her loser-ingrate daughter later on television appearances and interviews when the book is published in order to demonstrate to the world how one mother and daughter can resolve their differences and live to tell the tale?”
Patricia was completely silent now but Julia knew her mind was working—Julia knew she could see the Oprah interview; the Diane Sawyer sit-down; the conversation with Larry King and the hour-long session with Dr. Phil—she could see Mary and Lindsay discussing their problems and how they healed their troubled relationship.
“It would certainly help humanize Lindsay Green, who’s going to come off badly when she hangs her mother out to dry and cashes in on all the family secrets,” Julia said. “Wouldn’t it?”
“It would,” Patricia conceded.
“Because then there would be a really great story to sell—not just the story of the angry adult daughter of a former movie star, but the story of failure and redemption and the power of people to come together despite years of emotional injury.”
Julia was ready to barf, with all the psychobabble language she was using—words that Jonathan had written down on a legal pad in big bold letters behind which he was shaking with laughter—buzzwords and phrases for her to throw in to make it all sound official. He’d howled as he’d written them all down, and as her eyes scanned toward the bottom of the pad and she saw CYCLE OF PAIN and WORLD OF HURT she almost lost it.
Patricia paused. “Like I said before, Julia. What’s the catch?”
Julia drew a giant fishhook on her pad and swiveled in her cheap shabby chair until it squeaked, and flashed Jonathan the drawing. “Like I said before, Patricia, there isn’t one.”
Patricia laughed. “Well, I don’t believe you.”
“Fine,” Julia said as matter-of-factly as she could. “That’s your prerogative.”
“I know it is.”
“I know you know.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Julia sighed loudly for effect, as if, out of bargaining chips, there was nothing else for her to do but hang up.
Patricia didn’t flinch.
“Well, okay then,” Julia said, as if this time she was really serious and was about to hang up. She closed her eyes, held her breath, and started counting.
“Wait,” Patricia said right before Julia got to three, with just enough urgency in her voice for Julia to know that the balance of the power equation had suddenly shifted to where she wanted it.
“So let’s just say for the sake of argument that you’re telling me the truth,” Patricia hedged.
“Which I am.”
Sort of.
“And let’s just say for the sake of argument that Mary Ford really is genuine about supporting her daughter’s story. Or, at least, genuine about creating the illusion that she is supporting her daughter’s story.”
“Which she is.”
Kind of.
“Then what? What’s the quid pro quo?”
She was all set to dance around the answer for another minute or two until Patricia figured it out, but she was tired of walking on eggshells with everyone. Julia sat forward in her chair and stared at Jonathan.
“A part in the movie.”
“A part in the movie?” Patricia laughed nervously, and if Julia hadn’t known her as well as she did, she would have thought Patricia really was nervous, instead of just getting a handle on the strategy and trying to figure out how to work it to her advantage. “She’s a little old to play herself, don’t you think?”
“Of course she’s too old to play her younger self. There isn’t enough makeup or Botox or Thermage in the world. But she’s not too old to play her older self.”
Patricia was silent but Julia could hear the wheels turning in her head.
“So Mary Ford wants to play herself in the movie based on her daughter’s unflattering memoir.”
Julia felt herself start to sweat.
“So she can have one last chance at immortalization in the role of Mary Dearest.”
More sweating. “Think of Faye Dunaway.”
“Yes, but Faye Dunaway wasn’t Christina Crawford’s actual mother.”
Julia wiped her forehead and stood up. “Listen, Patricia. With Mary Ford behind the film, studios and producers and directors who will be considering the project will be much more likely to sign on since they’ll know that she won’t try to get the whole thing tied up in a big legal battle. And being able to offer Mary Ford along with the property makes the property much more interesting and thus infinitely more valuable both as a book and as a movie.”
She waited a beat, then heard the squeak of Patricia’s chair.
“Jules?”
“Yes, Patricia?”
“Whose idea was this?”
Julia hesitated, trying to figure out what to say. But when she saw Jonathan looking at her with pride, as if, whatever the outcome, she had won the bigger fight, she closed her eyes.
“Yours.”
Patricia laughed out loud and the two of them dissolved into hysterics.
“I knew there was a reason I liked this idea so much.”
23
Her mission accomplished, Julia decided to take the rest of the day off and leave early. She told Jonathan that he could leave early, too, and after sending a quick e-mail to Jack’s computer next door informing him of the fact without even bothering to make up a lie, she packed up her bag, left a message for Peter on his cell phone, and rode down in the elevator with Jonathan. When they got outside, Jonathan looked up at the sky.
“Wow,” he said. “It’s light out. I don’t think I’ve left the office before dark since I started.”
“Me either,” Julia said.
Jonathan lifted his big black messenger bag so the strap went diagonally across his body. While they waited at a crosswalk, he turned to her and smiled.
“Wouldn’t it be cool,” he said, “if we never had to go back?”
It was just after noon when she got on the train, and she knew that if there were no delays she’d get to the station and into her car and to the preschool in time to pick up Leo. She couldn’t wait to surprise him and to be back in the cramped little foyer, squished in with all the other mothers waiting for their children to be released, one by one, after lunch.
When she arrived, just a minute or two before one, Lisa was there. So were Pinar and Monika and Hilary, and in the few brief moments before the children appeared with their coats and their lunchboxes and their little masterpieces of artwork in their paint-stained hands, her long-lost mom-group surrounded her, asking her all about her job and her trip and everything else they hadn’t had a chance to talk about the night before at the Ragamuffin parade when they were all dressed up in salad attire. Shocked that they seemed so happy to see her and thrilled that her brief re-entry into the preschool routine was so pleasant and painless, Julia couldn’t help wishing she could do pick-up more often, just to keep her hand in things. She also couldn’t help noticing that each of them was carrying a black three-ring notebook: their very own Family Binders.