In the morning, Ana just focused on getting through this last day of shooting and heading home the next. That was all she wanted. As the day wound down, she started to feel better. The final two subjects had gone well. She just had to oversee a photo shoot for print and online. Even with that to do, it seemed like they might wrap early. She was starting to think that maybe she could even catch a flight home to Detroit that night.
Then, of course, something had to happen. Ana was standing not far from Bruce and Steven, the agency producer. The two of them were having a hushed, obviously tense, probably budget-related conversation, when Karin walked right up and interrupted them by saying: "So, where are we having our wrap party?"
"Wrap party?" said Steven, forcing a smile. He blinked at least ten times.
"Of course. We always have a wrap party after our shoots. Where are we going?"
"Well, Karin, we don't really have that in the budget—"
Karin's face stiffened into a death mask.
Bruce stepped up. "I'm sure we could go somewhere nice for drinks."
Karin's voice lost all color and tonality. "Topolobampo at seven. We'll meet in the bar. We'll be expecting a nice dinner."
She then walked away leaving, the two of them just standing there, looking at each other, as if to say, This agony isn't over yet. Ana turned and headed to the craft service table so they wouldn't see that she had witnessed their humiliation.
Ana had found that wrap parties for commercial shoots were pretty much a thing of the past. Maybe agencies on the coasts still had the bloated budgets that allowed their production companies to pay for such old-school luxuries, but most agencies in Michigan sure as hell didn't. Everything was budgeted to the bone. No one in their right mind would have ever expected such an extravagance on a low-tech, low-ball production like this one.
Except WomanLyfe. Ana watched from the craft service table as the two men continued their conversation, voices still hushed, gesticulation even more pronounced. She knew that if Adrienne was there, she would say something like, Damn. Karin has officially made this agency her bitch. And she would be right.
* * *
As far as Ana could see, it was going to be the worst wrap party for the worst shoot for the worst client that she had ever encountered in her entire career. Yes, that was about right.
Yet dinner was very good, an amazing modern Mexican meal, and Steven made sure that the good wine and top-shelf margaritas kept flowing—but could all that alter the fact that everyone hated each other? Ana wouldn't have thought so, yet before long the atmosphere resembled that of a group of people who actually seemed to tolerate one another. Karin was being downright nice—but why shouldn't she be? She had won the war along with most of the battles. The Capri Pants were flushed and friendly, all flirty with Bruce, as if now that their jobs were done and their god-awful commercials in the can, they could relax with the cool kids from the ad agency.
Bruce was being his charming self, regaling the WomanLyfers with stories of other shoots, of directors he had worked with. There were some A-listers mentioned, and though Ana was impressed, she was pretty sure that the Capri Pants didn't have a clue who any of them were. There were also star-studded tales of going to Cannes for the commercial film festival. The irony of telling stories about an international advertising competition in France to a Grand Rapids client for whom you just shot a series of insanely bad video commercials was not lost on Ana. Every once in a while, she would glance over at Adrienne, hoping for a split-second eye roll. Yet when Adrienne did actually look back, Ana would immediately avert her eyes, fearful for the angry glare she assumed was coming her way. When they did finally make eye contact, Adrienne gently raised her brows in an expression of extreme boredom. Ana smiled tentatively at her and hoped that perhaps this signaled that Adrienne was no longer quite so mad at her.
After dinner (when Bruce ordered calvados, Ana couldn't help but cringe), the client was still not ready to call it a night. So the whole slew of them walked down the street to an allegedly authentic Irish pub constructed from pieces of actual authentic Irish pubs dismantled in Ireland (apparently they no longer needed authentic Irish pubs there), where the drinking continued. Although part of Ana felt like poisoning herself into a complete state of numbness, the other, stronger part of her pulled back from the group and stayed on the sidelines. She noticed Adrienne doing the same. Strange, since Adrienne was usually at the epicenter of fun, never wanting to miss anything. Ana would usually be nearby, unable to be the extrovert but still absorbing the raucous behavior through Adrienne via osmosis. Tonight, Ana was feeling too sensible. Aside from the Bruce situation, it just seemed prudent to stay in control, what with all these clients around. She was also thinking of approaching Adrienne again, wondering if there was some way to win her back.
When Bruce started in on the shots, Ana felt like she was watching the consul from Under the Volcano crack open a bottle of mescal, knowing the night would now most assuredly tailspin into the abyss. Ana would have never thought for a moment that Bruce could get a group of middle-aged dowdies from Grand Rapids to first down shots of Bushmills, then Irish car bombs (shots of Baileys dropped into pints of Guinness—ack!), but he was doing it. Ana realized that not only was Bruce drunk, he was now in full-on client entertainment mode. He was creating a night that they would all remember (mostly) and talk about—but most importantly, he was building a relationship with them to keep the account. This was where all the movies and TV shows about advertising got it right: this was where the real work was done—not in the creative department. One thing Ana knew: she did not like this Bruce. He seemed hollow and ridiculous and insincere with all his hooting and yelling and slamming down of glasses. At one point, he put his arm around Karin, squeezed her toward him, handed her a shot, and chanted her name until she drank it. Sure enough, she drank it.
It was getting loud. Ana wondered when they were going to hear from management about the noise. Then again, with all the money they were throwing around, it would be a long time before anyone said anything. Ana was managing to act like she was having a good time, smiling at the high jinks of Bruce and Karin and the Capri Pants. She was sitting next to Tony, the line producer for the production company. Every once in a while, he would lean over and try to make conversation. Mostly, she just nodded at him.
Then he asked her, "Isn't it nice to get out of Detroit?"
Maybe he didn't mean to imply that Detroit was a hellhole and anyone in their right mind would want to escape, but that's sure how it sounded to Ana. Even though it often was nice to get out of Detroit, considering the perennially dire situation there, she certainly wasn't going to admit it to him.
"Actually, I miss it," she said. And she truly meant it.
"Really?"
"Yes. And there's no need to be so surprised," she said, not bothering to hide the anger rising in her voice. "I love where I live."
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way."
Ana smiled coldly. "I'm sure you didn't." There was no more conversation after that.
She was seriously considering quietly slipping away to catch a cab back to the hotel when she saw Adrienne heading outside for a smoke. Ana grabbed her purse (her Coach from the outlet mall) and followed her out. She paused at the door while Adrienne moved to the curb with an unlit cigarette between her fingers. Ana walked up behind her as she lit up, trying to make just enough noise so she'd know someone was there.
Adrienne turned around. "Hey," she said.
Ana just started babbling. "Look, Ade, I'm so sorry about everything. That was a stupid thing that I said. I was just mad. I'm just so fucked up lately. I don't know what's wrong with me. I think it's this fucking job." Adrienne kept looking at her. Ana felt self-conscious about saying any of it, all of it. But she kept talking. "I just want you to forgive me. Please, I miss you. I miss us being friends."
Adrienne just looked at her, not in a hostile way, but neutrally. Still, no response. Before she could say anything else, Ana s
tarted crying. It was bad. It surprised her the way it rose so quickly and unexpectedly in her.
Adrienne tossed her cigarette into the gutter and gathered Ana, now sobbing, in her arms.
"I hate this job, Ade."
"I know, sweetie. Me too."
"I have to get out of there. I don't like me anymore," Ana said between sobs. "I don't know what happened. I turned into a bad person."
Passersby were now staring at them, Ana blubbering and hugging Adrienne.
"Come on, Ana. Take it easy. I can feel your nose running on my frock."
Ana laughed because she was right, her nose was running on Adrienne. She opened her purse to get a packet of Kleenex, then blew her nose and immediately needed another tissue. After she blew her nose a second time, Adrienne spoke.
"I slept with him," she said.
"What?"
"I slept with Bruce."
Ana didn't know what to say. "You slept with him? When?"
"That night in LA. After you dropped me off at my room, I went back to his room."
"But you were so drunk," Ana said, no longer feeling at all like crying. "You didn't even know what you were doing. That's practically rape."
Adrienne gave her a look. "Come on, Ana, I knew what I was doing. So did he. Sure, we were both really drunk. It was not a good idea." She paused. "I'm not saying it wasn't pretty good, though."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know, I felt stupid. I knew you'd get mad at me. It was so unprofessional. I didn't want to fuck up our work thing. I was afraid I already had. So Bruce and I acted like it never happened. Man, is he ever good at that."
"God, I know."
"But when you told me what happened—"
"You got mad at me?" Ana said, voice rising. "That's total bullshit—"
Adrienne held her hands up. "I know, I know, it's bad. It's totally my fault. I shouldn't have gotten mad. I'm sorry. I just was so pissed at everyone—you and Bruce, especially me for wanting the attention of someone who obviously doesn't give a shit about anyone but himself."
"What a fucking creep. Why didn't you tell me to watch out?"
"I did, Ana. Repeatedly. And it's you we're talking about here. I never thought you'd do anything like that. You and Joe are . . . well, you and Joe. You know, together. I make fun of you two, but I'd love to have that. I couldn't believe it when you told me about Bruce."
Ana thought about having to go back to the agency, working with Bruce again, editing these awful commercials for the next month, having to work late and never be home, all for this horrible account and these horrible people. She rushed over to a nearby trash can, almost getting there before her expensive dinner came gushing out. Some jackass passing by in a cab whooped at her.
"Oh shit," said Adrienne, running up next to her, putting her hands on either side of Ana's face, tucking a few little curls of hair behind her ears.
Ana's hair was nowhere near long enough to puke on, but the gesture was comforting. After another torrent, she took the tissues that her friend offered and wiped her mouth. Ana turned from the trash can and caught her breath.
"I'll be right back," she said to Adrienne.
Ana walked back into the pub, toward where Bruce and Karin were sitting a table away from the Capri Pants. They were laughing. Bruce had his hand over his mouth, obscuring it, a gesture that Ana now understood. It was as if he didn't want God to see him lying. Then she saw a glance between Bruce and Karin, her hand on his knee under the table. Ana knew that they would hook up tonight. As she approached, Karin's hand gently slipped back into her lap.
"Hey, Ana," said Bruce, turning toward her. "What's up?"
Ana spotted an almost full Irish car bomb that had been abandoned by one of the Capri Pants. She picked it up and poured it over Bruce's head. Over the splash of milky stout, she heard the thunk of a shot glass as it connected with his skull.
"I quit," she said.
25
Attempted Dinner
Ana surprised Joe in the morning by showing up before nine, just as he was about to leave for work; he hadn't been expecting her until evening. Ana simply walked into the house, threw her bags down on the floor, left her rolling suitcase standing there with its handle extended, and announced: "I'm going to bed." No greetings, no niceties, no God, am I exhausted.
"Aren't you going to work?" Joe said. "I figured you'd come back from Chicago and go right there."
"Nope."
She seemed different. Relaxed. "What's going on? Don't you have editing and stuff to do for your commercials?"
Ana walked up to him, smiled slightly, put her hand on the side of his face, and then gave him a light kiss on the mouth. She continued to rub his cheek for a moment longer. "I'm just going to bed. I'm tired." Then she walked out of the room.
A minute later, he could hear the shower running in the bathroom. He stared at her bags still there near the front door. He wasn't sure what to do. She obviously didn't want to talk, but she seemed okay. Better than her last trip. So he picked up his messenger bag, opened the front door, and headed to work.
* * *
If Ana hadn't wanted to talk in the morning, she sure wanted to talk when he got home. Fairly apparent by the way that she said, "We have to talk," moments after he walked in the door. It was a phrase that still chilled his vitals when he heard it. He had come to assume that when a woman said, "We have to talk," it was never anything good. It was something he had found out with some frequency from girlfriends of many years ago. He could not remember any "We have to talk" talks that had turned out well.
"Okay," he said. What choice did he have?
He did notice that Ana looked beautiful, better than she had looked in months. Her eyes were clear, the circles beneath them were gone (makeup, no doubt, for no amount of sleep in one day could erase the dark moons that had lately settled beneath her gray-green eyes), and her voice sounded lighter. She was even walking differently, all the tightness she had carried in her upper torso seemed gone. There was a languid quality to her movements that he hadn't seen in months. It aroused him.
"Come on, let's eat," she said. "I made some dinner."
"You did?" She hadn't made a meal in ages. It was mostly her late hours, but he also worked late on Wednesdays, when they were putting that week's Dollar Daily to bed. Consequently, one or the other were always making sandwiches or microwaving frozen entrées. Not the most nutritious of choices, he knew, but they were both too tired when they got home.
Tonight, Ana had made pork tenderloin with a crust of coarse salt, pepper, and chopped rosemary, a side of ratatouille, grilled polenta, and a bowl of mixed greens. Judging from the work-intensive menu, she must have been cooking all afternoon. As wonderful as everything smelled, this in itself ratcheted Joe's anxiety up a notch. He knew that Ana liked to cook when she was feeling stressed or worried. She poured him a glass of wine, a really nice Sancerre, the kind of wine they only had when they were feeling prosperous.
"Ana, what's going on? You're scaring me." Joe sat down at the table, trying to decide whether they were celebrating something or talking about something. He could discern nothing from her face. It was pleasantly blank. She seemed to be working up to something and it wasn't exactly whetting his appetite.
Ana poured a rather full glass of wine for herself, and then sat down across from him. "So," she said, "I quit my job yesterday."
"You did?" Joe felt vaguely relieved, but not as much as he might have expected.
"Uh-huh."
"Wow. Really?" He placed his hands flat on the table, not sure what to do with them. "Well, that's great. I'm really glad."
"You are?" She still looked like there was something else bothering her.
"Yes, absolutely," he said, meaning it absolutely, at least for that moment. Yet seconds later, he started to feel anxious. It was the thing that he had hoped for, even asked her to do because it was hurting them, but now it hit him that he was the sole breadwinner in the family. He would be h
opelessly and indefinitely trapped at the Dollar Daily. He wasn't going to mention this, of course, yet he couldn't help but think it. "What made you do it?" he said, trying to keep things light. "What brought on this sudden spell of sanity?"
Ana shrugged stiffly. "I don't know. I just got fed up. With the whole place. All the bullshit. That stupid client and their horrible politics. And they were just so mean." She took a breath, then a sip of wine. "The shoot was an absolute nightmare. Worst I've ever been on."
"Was it that Karin woman?"
"Yes, I really couldn't stand her. And there was nothing to do since that company was all in bed with Cherkovski, that fucking piece of shit."
She was very upset. Ana was just as likely as he was to swear like a longshoreman, but she usually didn't do it about the people she worked with. So to hear her go off on Cherkovski, who as all signs seemed to indicate was indeed a fucking piece of shit, was surprising.
"I just kept thinking it was going to be okay."
"I know you did." Joe leaned across the table to take her hand and noticed tears welling in her eyes. "It's okay. You did the right thing. I'm really glad that you're out of there. It was sucking the life out of you."
Ana sniffed, then stared down at the table. Joe thought she was going to be all right.
"Yeah," he said, "when I didn't hear from you, I was wondering if things were going badly."
Ana looked up at him. "Joe, why didn't you call?"
It was his turn to stare at the table. He studied his plate, which was still empty. "I don't know. You seemed so distracted before you left, I didn't want to bother you . . . I guess I was mad at you."
"Why?"
"I don't know, I just was. You were so caught up in work while you were here, you just didn't seem to care about anything. And once you were gone, it was sort of a relief. I'm sorry."
The Narcissism of Small Differences Page 22