I sounded like a caveman who didn’t have much grasp of language. I didn’t sound like I was ready for Chekhov on stage. I sounded fit only for a monosyllabic Stallone role. I called again. It went to voicemail. I waited ten minutes, which seemed a very reasonable amount of time, dialed her again, and got voicemail. Then I went to the studio. The last time I’d been there, I had a handful of hibiscus and some Mai Tai’s. Now I had a belly full of hate. The surge of violence, the desire to punch either the wall or the ex-boyfriend had faded away, and now I wanted to bury my face in my hands, wanted her to tell me it was nothing, and kiss me until I believed her.
I instructed the secretary to go get Abby out of whatever meeting she was in. The woman tried to put me off. I didn’t bother with my best movie star smile. I just leveled her a look that let her see a hint of how desperate I was and said, in a low voice, “Bring her out here. It’s urgent.”
She nodded and hurried away. When she returned with my protesting wife, I wanted to recoil from her. I didn’t want to see her familiar face, the crinkle of worry between her eyebrows or the concern in her eyes. Seeing her like that, knowing her first thought was fear for me, that something was terribly wrong—I felt a surge of shame. Shaking it off, I took her elbow, not unkindly, and asked her where we could go to talk.
“Are you okay?” she asked, looking up into my face, searching. Did she think I was bleeding internally? Was I? Because she had brought that man into our home?
I couldn’t answer her. We went into a vacant conference room, a dull place with too-cold air conditioning and a cheap, fake oak table.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “I was in a production meeting. This is a big deal!”
“So is this,” I said, shoving my phone into her hand so she could see the pictures.
“You’re serious? That is why you dragged me out of a mandatory meeting? To come scold me like I’m a naughty child?”
“If you’re going to act like one…” I countered.
“I am not the one who’s acting childish here.”
“I tried to call. You didn’t answer.”
“Because I was in a meeting! Listen to yourself! Josh, I have to get back in there. This is ridiculous. It was nothing. Someone took a picture when a friend brought me cupcakes. So you freak out and come to my office and throw a tantrum because my phone was off? Really?” she said hotly.
“You should not have had him in my home. You know how I feel about him, and it looks very much like you waited until I went out of town to invite him over.”
“First of all, it’s supposed to be our home, and if we’re talking shouldn’t, then maybe you shouldn’t barge into my place of work and throw a fit. Now I will talk to you later all you want, but I have to go smooth things over with the producers now. This is really embarrassing for me, and I’m angry with the way you’ve acted about this.”
“Well, I’m mad about what you did and kept secret, and how you minimize it and think you can tell me that my anger is out of proportion,” I said.
“I didn’t do anything except marry a man who doesn’t want me to have friends and thinks he can interrupt me at work to let everyone know he owns me. Why don’t you just call everyone out of the meeting, and you can hold a pissing contest in the lobby to see who’s got the biggest dick?” she snapped. Her eyes were bright, but she wasn’t crying. The idea that she was holding back tears punched me somehow in the chest.
“Fine, you go talk to your producers about how your big, mean husband doesn’t want you screwing other men while he’s at work, and how I’m so unreasonable that I wanted to talk about what happened. Because this marriage means something to me. I would never do what you did to me.”
“Look, you have to go. We can talk later, but now is not the time, and this sure as hell is not the place. I have to get back to the meeting and apologize profusely before I lose my job,” she said. I could tell she was desperate, that she really needed me to get out of there. I wanted to stay and fight for us, to be relentless—every instinct told me to fight. But I saw that Abby needed me to back off right now. So I did. I turned and walked out.
Having a fake wife was a lot bigger headache than I anticipated.
Then my agency called and demanded to know why I left the documentary reading before my audition after begging for it. I told her that I needed to deal with something privately with my wife. My marriage was the most important thing to me.
“If you don’t get the erratic behavior under control, it’s going to be a liability. You can’t run out on an audition like that. You’re a professional. If you have a personal problem, send an assistant to take care of it. Do not take off like you’re under the influence of something. This makes you look bad. Now get out ahead of this kind of behavior and don’t let it happen again, or you’ll be lucky to play a pants-dropping mall security guard soon,” my agent said.
“Fine, I’ve had a bad day. Talk to Max, and he’ll take care of it,” I said. “It’s what I pay him for.”
I hung up, took the car back to my house, and worked out long and hard. Not to get in shape for a role. To chase the demons away, to get it out of my mind that Abby wanted Wyatt, to get the image out of my head that was stuck there since the minute I saw that picture of them together on my porch. After I worked out and showered, I had messages on my phone from Max that he’d spun it as a freak out because I couldn’t reach her and was afraid she was hurt, that something had happened to her. It was simply a romantic overreaction, born of years of bachelorhood, and then having found love and being afraid of some tragedy. He’d made it sound like I sprinted out of the audition of my dreams to save Abby from King Kong or something.
He did a great job of covering for me, and I thanked him for it. Then I drank some water and sat in the gathering dark, waiting for Abby to get home. It occurred to me that maybe she would stay with her friend or in a hotel, that she might not come home at all because she was furious with me.
When I heard her open the door, I wanted to surge to my feet in relief, to go to her and gather her in my arms. But the righteous anger anchored me to the couch, my head in my hands, brooding away. I felt chained by my suspicion, by something like fear. Of being betrayed, of being left.
She kicked off her shoes, and I heard them clatter on the floor before she approached barefoot. “That was total bullshit. Half my office was talking about it. You storming in, demanding to see me. Like your woman stepped out of line. I lied to my producers and said we had a family emergency. There’s some crappy headline trending that you were terrified something had happened to me. So it’s all a lie anyway, all of it. Me, Max, everyone covering for your jealous tantrum. Now explain to me how my answering the door in our home was an unforgivable offense worth starting a scandal over. I’m waiting,” she said. I knew before I looked up that she had her hands on her hips.
When I looked at her, she was barefoot in her black pencil skirt, her red blouse with the loose bow at the neck. She was the picture of fury, and I wanted to howl. Don’t see him again, don’t let him in here, don’t let him ruin this, don’t let me ruin this.
“I overreacted,” I managed to say thickly. “Next time you’re turning off your phone, it would help if you texted me to tell me when you’d be available again.”
“This wasn’t about my phone being off.”
“Don’t let him in this house,” I said, surging to my feet, looming over her. It felt good to loom, to stand at my full height, and feel some kind of power after feeling like she had all the power over me.
“Or what?” she said. “You’re going to kick his ass? Or you’re going to dump me and call me a cheater on TV?”
“It makes me look like an idiot, like you married me for money and fame, and you’re going to carry on with your ex the whole time.”
“I didn’t do anything with him. You know that. You’re just freaking out. I left the box of cupcakes on the counter for fuck’s sake. I didn’t even hide them. If you asked where I got them, I would’ve
told you. I didn’t mention it because it was nothing. It was nothing!” she said.
“Show me. Show me it was nothing. Because I can’t stand that he was here with you alone,” I said, raking my hands through my hair in frustration.
“You don’t want me to show you. I’m too pissed off to be reassuring and tender right now, Josh. You put my job at risk, and you acted like you don’t trust me and I’m not allowed to have friends.”
“Of course you have friends. You have the right to do anything you want. I’d just prefer it if you weren’t friends with people you slept with in the past. It would make things easier for me.”
“Whoever said this was going to be easy?” she demanded. “It’s sure as hell not easy right now. I am so mad at you! You had no right to barge in there, no right to tell me who I can and cannot see in our home. This is bullshit. The way you’re acting is bullshit, and the idea that I care anything about him, that’s bullshit too!”
“Show me,” I said again, moving in toward her, my hand on her arm.
Abby looked at me, her jaw tight, her eyes narrow. I thought she was going to push me away. She reached out and gripped a handful of my shirt, wadding it up, pulling me closer. I yanked her toward me by the arm, crushing her mouth with mine. Her hand was in my hair, tugging just right so that a sharp tingle raced along my scalp. My heart pounded, and I backed her up until her back met the wall. Her mouth was open beneath mine, her tongue mating with mine, a frantic, passionate kiss. I could taste bitter anger, a spike of lust, a desire to command, to punish, to give in and surrender. All of it, from both of us—disappointment and apology and anger and fear and wanting, a deep well of wanting that swirled and pulled me in.
Chapter 12
Abby
It felt like we turned a corner. He’d confided in me about the woman that had broken his heart, about how he hadn’t used his looks to get ahead in Hollywood. He trusted me. We were on the same page again, and the next couple of years might not be torture after all. We went to the premiere together, and we showed lots of cozy affection as Max had instructed us. By the next day, the headlines were calling us lovebirds, and all rumors about a stormy relationship were in the past. And if he’d stop bringing up Wyatt, our problems would be over, too. He didn’t dwell on it, but he’d mentioned my ex a couple of times, and it was annoying to see he was still jealous. Even after the very intimate and energetic make-up sex we’d had and the heartfelt talk afterward.
Soon he had a meaty supporting role in the new Rory Devereaux project. Devereaux’s low-budget war movie had swept the Oscars two years before, and his insistence on doing only indie projects had fascinated and irritated the Hollywood brass ever since. I’d never seen Josh so excited, especially when I found out he was doing the part for scale.
“I don’t need the money; I need the chance to show what I can do in a complex part. I want the critical buzz from this project to lead to more mature roles for me. That’s why I’m willing to film in Utah. I mean, Utah? I guess Devereaux is either a genius or a fool like they say. Because if I were choosing a location, that wouldn’t be top of the list for me. Still, I think it’s worth it in the end.”
“It’s definitely worth it. But I want you to run through the last scene one more time. You’re too…hale and hearty. This guy’s got a bad liver, and he’s dying. He’s a dry drunk, so he’s in a bad mood, and it probably hurts to walk. You put that in your voice, but I want to see it in how you move,” I said.
“You sure you’re not a director at heart?” he said, dropping one shoulder and changing his whole posture. At once, he seemed smaller, shrunken, his face hollowed out. He rasped out his lines. I grinned.
“That’s amazing. Do that in Utah. You’ll knock their socks off. You should know that your stylist and I have already picked out my Oscar dress. I’m going Marchesa. The gowns from the last decade are gorgeous, and the fact that Weinstein pressured stars to wear the label does nothing to make them less beautiful. We got a black one that’s got sort of a Deco vibe. And so cheap, people are unloading those things because of the bad association. So it’s like I reclaimed this dress.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Why? You always go to the Oscars. This is just your first time winning,” I said, kissing his lips.
“Mmm, I’ll take the vote of confidence anytime,” he said. “But I have a plane to catch. To Utah.”
“A week of preproduction isn’t much,” I said.
“We’ve got a lot to do. I’ll call you when I can.”
“Okay, have a safe trip,” I said and hugged him.
I would miss him, but being on my own would be less painful than yearning for him. Or worse, trying to hold back from yearning for him when he was mostly adorable. He brought home the mushrooms for the soup the night before he left, and we made it together. It was such a powerful thing for me, bringing back the night he took me for soup and listened to me and made me feel better, like there was hope. Even then, he’d meant a great deal to me. Reenacting that in our own kitchen, just the two of us in our pajamas, was special. Making jokes, laughing, him refusing to let me near the stove so I didn’t burn anything down, ending up kissing, ending up making love all night—how could anyone resist that? Because I couldn’t resist that. So I’d have my heart ground into the floor when we broke up at the end of this convenient marriage. I’d face it; I’d survive it. It would suck.
At work, we’d gotten past the midseason sweeps episode and moved on to unfolding a romance while in the background, the balance of power shifted, and the southern forces closed in on securing the crown. I hated the show more every day. I had done everything I could think of, including remaining completely silent for an entire three-hour meeting one day, to try to ingratiate myself to the group of award-winning writers. They hated me. I hated them. Nothing helped. I got pulled aside by Randolph that day and accused of pouting because I didn’t speak. I tried to explain my rationale for listening to get a better handle on the group dynamic. It wasn’t a successful gambit.
Randolph and I were always arguing. It was our thing at that point. I tried and failed for days, never producing anything even readable. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Penelope asked to speak with me alone. I was shocked, though, when every writer in the conference room picked up his computer and coffee and walked out, giving us the room.
In the vacated room, Penelope asked me to have a seat. I swallowed hard. I was ready to defend what was taking me so long. I had ideas if she was open to them, but I’d have to sit through a reprimand first, possibly one that would go in my file. Maybe another one of the guys had reported me as uncooperative to HR again. But HR usually sent a desk drone to talk to me about my communication style and give me a brochure to study. This must be bigger.
“I spoke to Randolph this morning. Your head writer.”
“Yes,” I said, acknowledging that, yes, I know who Randolph is. The whiny old fucker.
“We’ve discussed your insubordination in the past, Abby. He had a list of all the times you’ve challenged his authority and argued with his directions in the last month. There were seventeen instances listed with times and dates.”
“Okay,” I said. “Did he mention that arguing is how we communicate, he and I? Because he doesn’t listen to suggestions and has shown no willingness to work collaboratively with me, not one single time. And I haven’t been keeping a list of complaints about him. I’ve tried just about every communication strategy I could learn to make inroads with this group.”
“Perhaps it’s a simple personality conflict. Regardless, it is the conclusion of the producers of this show that your participation in the writing team is not constructive at this point. Your contract has been terminated, and the agreed-upon severance will be direct deposited once you’re escorted from the building at the close of business today.”
“What?” I said, feeling the sting like a slap.
“Between the two of us, Abby, woman to woman? If I
may speak to you off the record—you’re more difficult than you are talented. You were a good script supervisor, and you’re a good writer, but not even a genius could get away with trying to countermand every decision rendered by the producers and the head writer. You need to learn some humility and how to work as a team, or else you need to helm your own show where no one else is allowed to have a viewpoint. Because you’re aggressive. You’ll get nowhere in this business if you don’t learn to bend. I didn’t get to be the executive producer of this show by demanding my own way every time I had an opinion. You’re young, and you’ll learn. I know this is a hard way to learn it, but you’ll land on your feet. I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks,” I managed. I wanted to rail at her and swear and drag Randolph in to fight his own battles because he was hiding behind the producers on this one. But it didn’t matter. I was being fired for expressing my thoughts, for trying to make a better show with more integrity and stronger female characters. I felt like Joan of Arc. If Joan of Arc had a bitchy, vindictive streak because I wished them all to fail, that the audience would flee from that show once my episodes ceased to air. Then the writers might look at each other and think, hey she had good ideas, and now she’s gone. We drove her away, and the show sucks even worse without her.
I took the box that maintenance brought me and put my stuff in it. There wasn’t much. My laptop and charger, my purse, a coffee mug, the thermos that Josh had brought me Mai Tai’s in, and a cardigan for when the room was cold. I walked out early, not waiting to be escorted from the premises. I left my ID badge at the front desk. When I rode home in the chauffeured car Josh had assigned for my use, I called him.
“Hey,” he said, upbeat, “what’s up?”
“I’ve had a rough day,” I said, choking up.
“What? I can’t hear you. You’re all crackly. It must be the reception here. We’re doing blocking on some scenes. I’ll call you later,” he said and hung up.
Pretend Wife Page 12
