It was more work than I could ever have kept up with, but I think Fiona felt like she was on vacation. Not only did she finally have a defining sense of purpose, she also got to leave behind what she considered the most stressful job she’d ever had in her life. Overseeing production schedules for hundreds of people, coordinating high-profile premieres with an endless menagerie of things that could go wrong, and raising millions of dollars to send water to Yemen were apparently nothing compared to making sure no one ran out of boob tape on Oscar night.
And I, for one, definitely worked harder than I ever had before. I loved almost every single moment of it. Again, not right away. The enjoyment began after the soul-crushing regret and questioning of every decision I’d ever made. But once I moved on from all of that, it was incredible. For the first time in a decade, I didn’t have to come up with new ways to express condolences for lost pets or to congratulate teenage boys on the day of their bar mitzvah. Instead, when I spent time writing, I wrote things I cared about. And then I stepped way outside of my comfort zone and actually spoke to people about the things I had written. Every day I queried agents and production companies, and each rejection—and there were many—spurred me on to the next attempt.
Yes, “The Year We Got Our Stuff Together” was more liberating than I ever could have imagined. And by February 4, 2012, I can honestly say that, well . . . absolutely nothing had come of any of it. At least not for me.
“I’m out of time, Fi,” I said softly as I stared out the east window of our Mar Vista apartment, transfixed by the sight of nothing at all. We had moved south to Mar Vista when our Studio City lease ran out last April. It was much less expensive, and Fi cut her commute time to UCLA nearly in half. It added time to her 90 Craic Hollywood commute, but we always chose to overlook that part in a way that would make Taye Diggs exceedingly proud of our grooves.
“Yes,” she replied, and then paused, no doubt allowing herself a moment to come up with one more somewhat believable platitude. “Isn’t that exciting?”
Lately she had been spending more and more time encouraging me less and less sincerely. I knew she still believed in me, and I knew she was still proud of me. But even an eternal optimist like Fiona had to be discouraged by a year of doors being slammed in my face and the sound of being told no at every turn. Rejection had lost its charm.
“Well, frankly, no. I don’t find it exciting.” I groaned. “I need to start looking for a job. I need to figure out if I should try to go back to Heartlite or give something new a shot. Although, let’s face it—I think I’ve learned my lesson about trying new things. Besides, I’ve realized there aren’t nearly enough ‘Sorry it took you so long to realize you’re a talentless hag’ greeting cards, so maybe I can corner the market. Or maybe a special rejection line, so that agents don’t even have to bother trying to sound sensitive? They just pull out one of their rejection cards and stick it in the mail. ‘Thank you for your film proposal. It’s now in my garbage disposal,’ perhaps?”
“No, Liv, listen to me.” Fiona had been lying on her stomach on our carpet, feet in the air behind her, open laptop on the ground in front of her, but she jumped up and sat down next to me on the couch. She pasted on her glass-half-full smile, which had become an indefatigable visitor in our home in recent weeks. “You’re almost out of time. And that means a ‘yes’ must finally be imminent! Your screenplay is so brilliant, and you are so brilliant. And you took a huge leap. I believe that leap is going to pay off. You gave yourself a year. Well, the year’s not up yet!”
Sweet, supportive, delusional Fiona.
“It’s literally been a year, Fi. Today. The year could not be more up than it is.”
“But . . . but . . . it’s February 4, Livi!”
“Oh, trust me, I’m fully aware—”
“Then you know that anything can happen today!”
I took the pillow I had been squeezing against my stomach and pulled it over my face. “I can’t do this again, Fi! Please don’t make me. Just let me suffer in peace.”
“No way. What are we going to do today?” She pulled the pillow away from my face and threw it across the room. “And choose carefully. You’re on year nine. This is the last year you have to soak in all the magic before you meet Hamish at that coffee shop and he takes you into his arms and kisses you—hopefully like he kissed Jennifer Aniston in that awful movie last year—and tells you he never stopped thinking of you.”
“You were just telling me yesterday that you saw him in People magazine with some new girlfriend.”
She shrugged. “It’s only year nine.”
“I’m sure Hamish’s girlfriend would be touched to know you have such great expectations for their long-term happiness.”
“So, what are we doing today?” she continued, undeterred by my lack of enthusiasm. “Do you want to send more query letters? Or should we try something new? Impromptu readings of your screenplay at coffeehouses? That’s one we haven’t tried before. You be Jack and I’ll be everyone else.”
“As delightful as that sounds, I would actually like to do the one thing I’ve never gotten to try on this date—I mean, apart from our rousing two-woman action/adventure/romance at open-mic night, of course.”
“You bet. Just name it.”
“I want to stay home. I want to lock the door and turn off my phone and close the blinds and maybe take a nap. And with any luck, when I wake up it will be February 5, and I can figure out the best way to start my career over from scratch at thirty-nine years old. I can dwell on the fact that I have no job and no realistic idea of what I even want to do with the rest of my life. That I haven’t been on a date in . . . oh, I don’t know, a century or so. And yet I will be able to look at my calendar and know that I have 364 days until I have to hide under the blankets one last time. And you know what? I think I can find joy in that.” I was so tired. I was so tired of all of it. “That’s all I want, Fi. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
She squeezed my hand. “Okay, Livi. If that’s what you want.” She smiled at me and squeezed my hand one more time before going to pick her laptop up off the floor. She brought it back and sat on the opposite side of the couch from me, and the only sounds I heard for several minutes were the birds outside the window and the tapping of Fiona’s fingernails on the keyboard.
The peacefulness had nearly cajoled me into a false sense of February 4 security when I heard her sharp intake of breath. When I turned to her to see what had caused the reaction, she was staring at her screen. I could see her eyes scanning back and forth, reading quickly.
“What?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know the answer.
Her eyes kept scanning for a few more seconds, then she looked up at me, back to her laptop, and then at me again. She slammed the computer shut and stood with it in her arms. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I didn’t have time to argue with her before she was gone, into her bedroom to get herself dressed. Then again, I knew arguing wouldn’t do any good anyway. She had probably concocted some hairbrained scheme to pull me out of my funk—and knowing Fiona, it would probably even work. But I didn’t want it to work. I wanted to give in to the gloom. Just for the day.
So I sat, staring out the east window at absolutely nothing.
I thought back over my life, allowing myself to get caught up in the melancholy. It wasn’t just the year that had been wasted. My entire life had amounted to absolutely nothing. Oh, sure, I had my health and my family and my friends—well, Fiona anyway. But I was nearly forty years old, and the one chance I had taken in my life had amounted to nothing more than the complete decimation of my life savings.
“Liv, what are you doing?” Fi interrupted my depressing reverie with a disappointed groan. “You need to get dressed.”
I looked at her and knew I didn’t want to ruin her positive outlook, wherever it was coming from. I also didn’t have any fight left in me, so I just whispered a defeated “Okay.” Then I stood and walked to my room
. I followed her lead and matched her style of clothing—though of course I never could quite manage to match her style—and I returned to the living room ten minutes later in a casual dress and sandals.
“Where are we going?”
Her smile widened as she answered, “You’re coming to work with me.”
“No way,” I stated with an ardent shake of my head. “I’ve told you, I don’t want you pulling any strings or using any connections to get my movie made. I have to do this on my own. And if I can’t make it happen because of the quality of my work, then it’s just not meant to happen. I’m not going to let you make all my problems go away by slipping my screenplay onto your boss’s desk—”
“Livi, I love you. And you know that I would do anything for you. But two things: number one, no one in this industry makes it on their own. I mean, I guess Charlie Chaplin was capable of doing it all himself. Oprah, maybe. Other than that . . .” She shrugged. “And second, I know you’re my biggest supporter and I adore you for it, but I don’t have slip-a-screenplay-onto-a-desk-and-make-the-problems-go-away clout just yet. Thank you for the vote of confidence, though. I just want you to go with me and get your mind off things for a little while. Maybe you’ll be inspired. I mean, it’s a Hollywood production company. It’s exciting!”
“Even on Saturdays?”
She nodded. “Especially on Saturdays. There’ll hardly be anyone there, and we can put Post-it Notes on all the assistants’ desks telling them that the project Gus wants more than anything is some sort of epic Civil War vehicle for . . . I don’t know . . . Adam Sandler and William Shatner to star in together. It will be fun today. But seeing their reactions when they come in on Monday?” She grabbed her purse as she sighed indulgently. “Well, you’ll have given me the gift that keeps on giving.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later we were pulling through the security booth of a movie studio. I don’t know why, but I think I’d expected to be taken to some offices in a strip mall or something. I hadn’t imagined that Fi actually worked on a sound stage.
“Is that Viola Davis?” I asked as I nearly gave myself whiplash turning around to confirm for myself.
“Yes,” she replied without looking.
“This is a huge mistake,” I whispered as my eyes grew large at the sight of Fiona waving to Daniel Craig as he got into his car, and even larger at the sight of Daniel Craig smiling and waving back. I found myself sinking lower and lower in the passenger seat, as if removing my visibility would remove the reality.
I felt the movement as she made a couple of turns and occasionally braked, but I didn’t open my eyes until the car finally came to an extended stop and I heard her take the keys out of the ignition. What I saw, once I allowed myself to see, was not nearly as glamorous or intimidating and therefore much more welcome. Though we still weren’t anywhere near a strip mall, the building before us did look much more like a regular, nondescript office complex. In fact, nothing about the building, or the people entering and exiting, would give you any clue as to the entertainment powerhouse that functioned from within, including the understated sign that read “90 Craic Films.”
“What is ‘craic’?” I asked, pronouncing the word phonetically.
“It’s pronounced ‘crack,’ actually,” Fiona replied as she bounded out of the driver’s seat and I was forced to follow. “It’s Gaelic. It basically means the level of fun. So, if it’s at 90, you’re doing pretty well.”
I laughed. “Well, it seems so obvious now. I mean, this is the company that brought us Exquisite Agony. And if that isn’t at least a million on the craic scale, I don’t know what is.”
With a defensive but good-natured smile, she said, “To be fair, it was originally called La Douleur Exquise, but they didn’t want anyone to think it was a foreign film.”
“How is that better? Isn’t that just the French way of saying you’re in love with someone you can’t have?”
“Yes, and that even though you know you can’t have them, you refuse to quit trying to be with them.”
She paused as if the discussion had reached its natural conclusion, but I wasn’t yet done being obstinate. “Okay . . . So how is that any better?”
She sighed, and then with a dismissive wave of her hand said, “It’s French. Everything sounds more fun in French.”
“I’m not sure what language all the people around me in the theater were crying in, but it must not have been French.”
“Come on,” she replied. Her words indicated she was ignoring me, but the smirk on her face let me know she was amused.
I had made the mistake of getting in the car with her, so I figured I had no choice but to follow her, no matter how much I wished to be back home in bed. We walked past the security guard at the door and then through another checkpoint where I had to have my handbag investigated and my every nook and cranny wanded. I was finally given a visitor badge and allowed to follow Fiona into the elevator, which took us to her fourth-floor office.
We stepped off of the elevator into a workspace that was surprisingly quiet and calm. I’m not sure what I had expected, though probably something more based on the newsroom of the Daily Planet in a Christopher Reeve Superman movie than any actual movie-studio ideals. There was no frantic pace as dozens of frenzied workers, one deadline away from a heart attack, ran from side to side, seeking approval and accolades. It was somewhat disappointing.
“Hey, girlie.” Fiona was greeted by a woman who appeared to be slightly younger than we were, dressed in a flattering blue-pinstripe pencil skirt, stylishly paired with a men’s button-up shirt and dangerously high heels. “I thought you were off today.”
“I don’t intend to be here long at all. Just showing my best friend around. This is Olivia Ross. Liv, this is Cricket Oppenheim. She’s 90 Craic’s vice president of development and the genius responsible for nailing down the rights to Exquisite Agony.”
“Well, equal credit needs to go to every other genius in this town who passed on it before it got to me, but still, I’ll take it. Nice to meet you, Olivia.”
“You too. I genuinely loved the film.”
“She’s not just saying that either,” Fi chimed in. “Liv is probably responsible for 10 percent of the domestic box office.”
Cricket laughed and shook my hand. “It’s a great little film, isn’t it? As Fiona has probably told you, the critical appeal hasn’t exactly translated to mainstream success yet, but because of fans like you, we were at least able to pay the catering service. Thank you for that!”
“My pleasure. Truly. And I’m sure with the Oscars coming up in a few weeks, more people will discover it,” I said, as if I had any idea what I was talking about. It made sense, though. “And if not, I’m sure I can go see it again enough times to at least pay for the director’s dry cleaning or something.”
“I may hold you to that,” Cricket replied. “None of the nominations have done anything yet, but yes, the Oscars should give us a little boost, even if we lose.”
“Which, let’s face it, we probably will.”
I looked at Fi in shock after her pessimistic declaration, and she smiled at me.
“Gus doesn’t want us to jinx it, so anytime the Academy Awards are mentioned, we’ve been instructed to downplay our chances.”
Cricket smiled and grabbed a hot-off-the-presses fax from the machine next to the reception desk where she stood. She skimmed it quickly, then looked back up at me, the smile still on her face.
“He’s not normal, our boss. But we like him.”
“Is he around, by the way?” Fi asked.
“Just left. He had to meet Keanu in the Valley.” Her groan was accompanied by an eye roll. I wasn’t sure if the groan and the eye roll were evoked in the name of the Valley or for Keanu, but Fi’s sigh and nod indicated she fully understood the meaning.
“Even better, then,” Fi said as she grabbed some papers out of her inbox just beside the fax machine. “I was telling Liv it might be a good day
for some Post-it fun.”
Cricket’s eyes flew wide. “Yes! What did you have in mind?”
“I was working on an Adam Sandler–William Shatner Civil War epic.”
“Brilliant!” Cricket chuckled and then looked at me. “Last week we had them convinced Gus wanted to produce a Chumbawamba musical biopic starring David Schwimmer and Jackie Chan. When will they ever learn they can’t trust the Post-its?”
A couple minutes later we were in Fiona’s office, and as she closed the door behind her, she whispered, “And that’s how it’s done!”
“That’s how what’s done?”
“Networking.”
I scoffed. “What are you talking about? I didn’t even tell her I’m a writer.”
“I know. You were charming and kind, you’re a fan of her work but you acted like a peer, and you were part of a simple but memorable conversation. Now, in a few months, when the moment is right and your screenplay somehow crosses her desk, she’ll take note.” Fiona tapped on her keyboard as she sat behind her desk. “Not only because she remembers you, but because she remembers that you didn’t come on strong or exploit the situation. And that’s how it’s done.”
That made some sense. Besides the part where my screenplay would somehow cross her desk, of course. But I decided to trust that Fiona knew what she was talking about and take it as a win.
“Well . . . thanks.”
She looked up and smiled. “You know, Livi, I’m sorry your year is nearly up—”
“My year is completely up.”
“—but I still don’t believe this is over. Okay, so maybe you have to get a job. If I wasn’t paying for grad school I would offer to—”
“No way!” I interjected. “Thanks for that, but you’ve already done so much.”
“I guess we could take in another roommate or something.”
I laughed. “Because that will make us feel better about entering our forties. Seriously, Fi, it’s fine. I had the year, and it didn’t happen. I won’t give up. I may just . . .” I took a deep breath and leaned against the door. “Well, I think I’ll probably just need some time to figure things out.”
Plot Twist Page 19
