Bleak (23 page)

Upward
and
Homeward
bombs. It opens on fifteen hundred screens and makes four point six million dollars during its first weekend. The following weekend’s gross drops more than fifty percent, coming in at an embarrassing two point two million. From there, the numbers get dismal: $900,000 on 1,100 screens, then $400,000 on six hundred.

It is an unqualified failure.

This strikes me as potentially positive because it means Chancery Productions could get Millie to sign on to
J&J
at a drastically reduced rate. Everyone loves a bargain.

But my thinking it all wrong.

“She’s lost fifty percent of her value,” Lester explains after I harass him sufficiently into calling me back. It’s been six weeks since I’ve heard anything. My repeated requests to find out how the meeting between Millie and the director went have been met with stony silence. Lester doesn’t think this is the sort of information he has to provide. When there’s something meaningful to tell me he’ll tell me. In the meantime, I should sit quietly and mind my own business.

I’m so tired of this. Suddenly my life has become one endless attempt to extract information from unwilling sources. Every day I beat my head against another wall. Just once I’d like him to tell me something without my haranguing him into it.

I suppose this is what my mother feels like all the time.

In my frustration, I write several long, involved e-mails to Lloyd begging him to tell me what’s going on. I spend hours obsessing over the wording, striving for that perfect mix of demanding and self-deprecating: Tell me but don’t mind telling me because I’m adorable and funny. In every letter, I find myself explaining how hard it is not to regret pulling the
New York Times
article. It might not be fair, it might not even be his fault, but it’s impossible for me not to resent him. The only reason I pulled it was he said he was one week away from twenty-four million dollars.

One week.

That was nineteen weeks ago.

I think constantly about calling Angela Deering up and giving her the OK to publish it. There are still things to peg it to, like the DVD release of
The Hanging Judge,
which is slated for Valentine’s Day. I watch the date approach and wonder if I’ll have the guts to do it.

I know I won’t. I don’t even have the guts to send my e-mails to Lloyd Chancellor. I stick them in a folder buried deep in my hard drive, so I won’t have to look at them whenever I boot up my computer.

I am a moral coward.

But no. The only reason I wrote that article was I had nothing left to lose. Now there are things at stake. Playing it safe isn’t moral cowardice. It’s smart business sense.

“What does losing fifty percent of her value mean?” I ask Lester.

“That she’s not big enough to carry a movie anymore. Her built-in audience can’t be relied on to support her films. And that’s just the effect on the American market. Oversees, she’s a nonentity. The foreign returns were terrible. Somewhere in the low three million. A backer counts on foreign box office to get a significant return on his investment. Millie Sherwood can’t be relied on for that,” he says.

“So what happens now?”

“They rewrite the script, punching up the male lead so they can cast that role bigger than Millie to anchor the film. The investors are demanding it.”

Another thing I’m tired of: these investors, whoever they are. More and more, they seem like Mafioso toughs trying to break into the movie business for the glamour of it. They belong in a Woody Allen film. “Who’s rewriting the script?” I ask, exhausted. It’s only one in the afternoon, but it feels like the dark of the morning. I want the oblivion of sleep.

“Tipston and Field.”

“What? But I thought they were done. No more rewrites without another payment.”

“They’re doing it in exchange for an executive producer credit. It’s a very nice deal for guys like them.”

I sigh, surprised yet again—and yet somehow surprised that I could be surprised—at what a backward place Hollywood is. It’s the only spot in the world where two talentless hacks can get paid half a million dollars to write a script nobody likes, then get a cushy screen credit to ruin it further.

Where’s my exec-prod credit for seraphic patience and Herculean self-control? Acts of self-abnegation are never rewarded.

Life so isn’t fair.

“When will the new script be in?” I ask.

Of course Lester doesn’t know. “They said early November, but they’re not getting paid and have other projects, so it will probably take longer. Think mid-December.”

I make a mental note of the first date and decide I’ll start e-mailing Lester on the fifteenth. The only time he bugs Lloyd is when I bug him. It’s a round robin of annoyance.

“All right,” I say, trying to come up with more questions while I’ve got him on the line. There must be other things I want to know. When can I see the script? Which male character do they consider the lead? But I know it’s not worth the bother. The details don’t interest Lester; nothing does except the payday.

Another call comes in and he rushes off the phone to get it. I hang up, lean back against the couch and close my eyes. I was supposed to start my new screenplay today come hell or high water but suddenly that seems like a terrible idea. I need some time to get over this fresh blow.

If I don’t give myself a break, who else will?

I log onto Fandango and check the local theaters until I find what I’m looking for. Then I get dressed, brush my hair, grab my keys and head to the galleria for the two o’clock showing of
Upward and Homeward.

It’s pure masochism, but I can’t help myself.

While Simon digs his mail key out of his front pocket, I press my back against the tile wall and peer at him from behind the green fronds of the lobby’s fern. The leafy plant hasn’t been dusted in months, and my nose immediately begins to tingle in response. Somehow I manage to hold back the sneeze while he sorts through his mail, puts away the key and waits for the elevator.

As soon as the door closes on his furrowed brow, I let out a huge achoo, dig a worn tissue out of my bag and resolve to call the super to complain about the poor plant maintenance. What does rent cover if not basic cleanliness?

Blowing my nose, I extricate myself from my hiding place and get my own mail, pausing to look through a West Elm catalog to make extra sure I don’t bump into him in the hallway upstairs.

Simon is remarkably hard to dodge. Whenever I turn around, there he is, like a shadow or a Secret Service agent.

It doesn’t make sense that our schedules are perfectly synched, especially as I don’t have a schedule. I come and go whenever I please. Frustratingly, whenever I please seems to be whenever Simon pleases as well.

If he were a woman, I’d swear our periods were following the same cycle.

The coast is clear when I get to the fourth floor, and I’m pitifully relieved to have avoided another conversation about my life. Simon always wants to know what I’m up to. How’s the new book going? What’s up with the movie? Where’s the Tad Johnson screenplay at? Am I sure I don’t want a job?

Or he won’t say a word and just looks at me with that expression of concerned understanding.

It’s unbearable.

And what does he really understand anyway? Nothing.
The Lindell Assignment
was his screenplay. He didn’t have to twiddle his thumbs for two months while two slacker-hacks dragged their feet through another rewrite.

As soon as I stick my key into the lock, Simon opens his door and he steps into the hall. He’s wearing dark brown sunglasses to ward of the remarkably bright December sun and instantly takes them off when he sees me. He smiles. “Hey, your timing is perfect. Drop your mail, change out of your running clothes and meet me back here in five minutes. We’re going to see Pinkie.”

Far from being perfect, my timing sucks. If I’d spent one minute less drooling over wenge-wood furniture at West Elm, I would have missed him completely.

Annoyed, I force a bright smile. “Pinkie?”

“Yeah, it’s her birthday,” he says, sliding off his sunglasses.

I think of all the people I’ve met at the bar. Any one of them could be called Pinkie. “I don’t know her.”

“That’s all right.”

“I don’t want to crash a celebration.”

“I promise you she won’t mind. So go get dressed. It’s a mind-boggling gorgeous December afternoon—I swear the temperature just hit 87—and time’s a-wastin’.”

Now I smile for real. “Did you just say a-wastin’?”

“Yes, I a-did. And I meant it sincerely. No irony at all.”

Leaning against the door frame, I contemplate his wide grin and the endearing crinkles around his eyes. In moment like this, Simon is remarkably attractive. His blue eyes sparkle with humor and his hair falls appealing into his eyes.

“I can’t,” I say, with a semblance of regret. “I have too much to do today.”

He puts his hands in his pockets. “Like what?”

With no lie prepped and ready, I take a moment to think of something believable. Work is always good. Either the new novel or a fresh draft of
Tad Johnson.
Not smart. I don’t want to introduce a topic vulnerable to the third degree. Maybe I have to clean? Many people vacuum and dust and scrub the bathroom tiles on Saturday afternoons. Or I could have lunch with a friend.

But then why would I say I had too much to do when I had previous plans?

My pause gives me away, and before I can even voice an excuse, Simon is waving it aside. “It can’t be that important if you can’t remember it. Now you run along and change and I’ll wait right here. Go on, it’s a holiday of sorts. You can’t spend it inside.” When I fail to jump to his bidding, he grins again. “Don’t make me say
a-wastin’
again. Because I’ll do it if I have to.”

Knowing I’ve been outclassed, I give in graciously. “All right, but I’m a-hopping into the shower, so you’re going to have to wait here for fifteen minutes.”

“Fair enough.”

The drive to Pinkie’s party takes a half hour, and I spend the time DJ-ing Simon’s iPod. We have a lot of the same music, and everything I pick makes him say, “Hey, this is my favorite.”

We pull into a large parking lot flanked on the right by a grove of trees. Before us is a long walk and a white pavilion with classical columns. It’s a strange place for a birthday party, but I follow Simon, who is humming the last song played in the car.

The sign at the visitors center welcomes me to the Huntington, entrance fee $15. Before I can even balk at the expense, Simon is paying for both of us with his credit card. I protest but he waves my concerns aside. “You don’t even know Pinkie,” he says. “Why should you pay?”

The Huntington, it turns out, is the once-private estate of a collector who turned his home into a research and education center with three galleries, one library and a series of botanical garden featuring more than 14,000 species of plants. Highlights from the library include the Ellesmere manuscript of
The Canterbury Tales
and a Gutenberg bible.

Simon grabs the brochure out of my hands before I get to the description of the galleries. “We’re here to see art, not read about it,” he says.

“I thought we were here for Pinkie’s birthday. Is she having a picnic?” I look around at the pristine lawns and the elegant buildings. “Are you allowed to picnic here? It seems like a stay-off-the-grass kind of place.”

“I’m not clear on the ordinances regarding picnics, but I do know they don’t allow weddings. A friend tried to get married in the Japanese Garden, and they referred her to the Arboretum. A pretty spot but not nearly the same,” he says, opening the door to an elaborate white building that looks like an Italian villa: the Huntington Gallery itself. The building is cool and has that art-museum smell, a combination of paint, wood and age. I breathe in deeply. “Anyway, Pinkie’s plans are much more low-key. She’s just going to hang out.”

We turn the corner and enter an ornate room with high ceilings and creaking floors. Simon leads me to a portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence of a rosy-cheeked girl in a gossamer white dress cinched at the waist with a pink sash. One hand is tucked behind her back, the other bent at the elbow and raised slightly before her. The long pink silk ribbons from her bonnet blow in the wind as swirling storm clouds gather behind her. She’s standing at the top of a cliff, her shoulders straight against the blue-gray sky and hills in the distance.

Although she looks old enough to go to balls and picnics, the descriptive text places Sarah Barrett Moulton—called Pinkie by her grandmother—at eleven years old.

“She’s beautiful,” I say, feeling the weight of the sky. The heavy darkness of the storm clouds is oppressive but the wind is curiously light. “I love how she’s stares right out at you, like she’s not afraid to meet your gaze. Clearly, she isn’t a shy girl. I wonder if she kept that or became more demur as she aged.”

“She died a few months after the portrait was finished of tuberculosis,” Simon says softly.

The fact, almost two hundred years in the past, makes me sad. “That’s a shame.”

“Her father was a wealthy plantation owner in Jamaica. He sent her to England for school. Her younger brother Edward grew up to be the father of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, so she came from what’s commonly called good stock. Lawrence painted it when he was only twenty-five, right after his admittance to the Royal Academy in London,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact but his eye intensely focused on the portrait. “She’s often paired with Gainsborough’s Blue Boy in popular imagination but the two paintings had nothing to do with each other until the curators here hung them across from each other in the twenties.”

Surprised, I turn around and see the familiar portrait of a young boy swathed in elaborate blue silk with too many ruffles and bows. His gaze is as frank as the girl’s but he somehow seems false and dishonest. I turn back. “I much prefer Pinkie.”

“So did my mom. It was her favorite painting in the world. She saw it the first time when she was eleven years old. It was on a school trip. One look and she was a goner. She bought a postcard and kept it in a picture frame next to her bed and as soon as she was old enough she started coming back once a year on Pinkie’s birthday. She used to drag the entire family but after a while my brother and father decided it was silly and stopped coming. When he was fourteen, Judah said the picture never changed so why did he have to keep looking at it.”

He says this wryly, as if his brother’s attitude doesn’t bother him, but obviously it does.

“Was your mom disappointed?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Yeah, but she understood. My mom was really good with the understanding. She got things.”

“And you kept coming.”

“Every year since I was four.”

He’s silent and thoughtful as he stares at the portrait, and I realize Pinkie is only a small part of the reason he’s here. He really comes to remember his mom. Even though he hasn’t said the words, I know she’s dead. There’s a way you talk about people when they’re absent and a way you talk about them when they’re gone.

“How?” I ask after a long stretch of silence. I curl my fingers against my palm because the urge to reach out and take his hand is almost irresistible. I don’t know why I feel the pull so strongly or why I can’t let myself give into it.

Although the question is vague, he knows exactly what I’m asking and doesn’t make me explain. But that’s Simon. Like his mom, he gets things. “Breast cancer. She caught it early but it was the very resistant kind. Nothing worked and it spread to her lymph nodes. But she survived for five years. Five good years. It’s a gift, getting the opportunity to know how much someone means to you and having the time to show them.”

Without thinking, I give in to the impulse and grab his hand. It’s warm and strong in my own. He squeezes thankfully, and I stare ahead.

We stand like that for a long time, neither one of us moving or speaking, until a tour group comes through and forms a semicircle around us. The guide relates the sad tale of Sarah Barrett Moulton and speculates that the reason her cheeks are so pink is she was already suffering from tuberculosis.

Simon tugs on my hand and I follow him outside into the bright sunlight where no tour groups are waiting to swarm. He leads me into another colonnaded building and we browse through John Singer Sargents, Edward Hoppers and John Singleton Copleys. We stop in front of a Mary Cassat painting of a mother lying in bed with her arms around her young daughter who seems eager and anxious to explore the world.

The painting makes me sad in a wholly different way than the Lawrence.

After a brief tour of the gardens, Simon announces he’s starving and knows the perfect place to go. The Huntington café, in a classic white building in the middle of the rose garden, looks wonderful, but he assures me the food is pricey and average. “I have something much better in mind,” he says.

The drive to the beach is surprisingly quick. We hit traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway, but it breaks up as soon as we pass the 405. Simon finds a free parking spot, an excellent omen, and takes me to a tiny hole-in-the-wall on Union Jack Street that serves nothing but tacos. There are two vinyl booths and a counter along the window with weathered stools, but he gets our order to go. He takes an extra stack of napkins—“These babies can get messy”—and walks to the beach. It takes him a while to find the absolute best spot, even though all spots on the beach look exactly the same, and eventually he plunks down with a satisfied sigh. “Are you ready for the best taco you’ve ever had?”

My stomach grumbles as I sit next to him, facing the ocean, and slip off my shoes. The sand is still warm from the beautiful day. “Yes, yes, yes. I’m so hungry I could eat a whole taco stand.”

Simon tilts his head. “Hmm. I’m not sure that was the right answer. These tacos are meant to be savored, not wolfed down like pig slop at feeding time.”

Unamused, I give him my killer stare. Another hunger pang gurgles through my body. I hold out a hand.

He relents. “Fine. But I’m starting you off with the tuna because it’s not as good as the tilapia. The tilapia must be enjoyed slowly like a fine wine.”

The ahi in the taco is lightly seared and seasoned with lime, cilantro and a spice I don’t recognize. A hint of guacamole rounds out the flavor. “Yum,” I say, after I swallow my first bite.

The sun, which is just starting to sink toward the horizon, is still high, and it’s lovely and warm on my face. I close my eyes, feel the gentle breeze, smell the salty air and take another bite of the taco. It’s wonderful.

When Simon deems sufficient time has passed, he gives me the second: beer-battered tilapia with a cabbage slaw and tartar cream. Either the breading or the sauce has a bit of kick, and the spice reverberates in my mouth. It’s so good all I can do is grunt with happiness.

Simon nods smugly.

When he finishes his taco, he leans back onto the sand and closes his eyes. I sit next to him with my arms wrapped around my knees until he reaches over and pulls me toward him. I rest my head on his chest.

I listen to the seagulls and the surf and kids playing by the lifeguard stand, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. For the first time in forever the movie is only a memory—a vague, unimportant, distant memory. I am fully engaged in the present.

This could very possibly be the most perfect moment I’ve ever had.

Simon runs his fingers gently through my hair. “Hey, what’s this?” he asks softly.

I tilt my eyes toward him but don’t move my head. I’m too comfortable. “What?”

“I don’t know. It looks like a leaf from the fern tree in the lobby of our building.”

Horrified, I jackknife into sitting position and run my hand through my head before he finds another. Then I remember the shower I took before leaving.