by Abby Stern
“I’m in here,” Ethan calls from the bedroom. All I want to do is take off these Aquazzura heels and jump into Ethan’s arms. He’s sitting at the foot of the bed and is not in the jovial mood I’d anticipated, but maybe I can cheer him up now that I’m home.
“You have no idea how hard it was for me to keep myself from taking a bite of these in the Uber, but I wanted to share this moment with you. Congratulations!” I lean in to kiss him and he pulls away.
“Share this moment with me?” he winces.
“Of course. This is huge. It’s official. I’m so proud of you!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“What are you talking about? This is an amazing night.…”
But he folds his arms like a child about to throw a temper tantrum for not getting his way. “You weren’t there, Ella.”
“Come on, Ethan—”
“No. No excuses. You weren’t there and said yourself that this night was a huge milestone for me. It just sucks. This really meant a lot to me … to us,” he sighs.
“I’m so sorry, honey. You’re right. I should’ve been there. I should’ve told Maggie no and gone out and hustled for points over the weekend.” I place the Death Dogs on the dresser and sit on his lap, wrapping my hands around his neck. “Can you forgive me?”
He sighs. “I was really hurt you weren’t by my side.”
“I totally screwed up. I’m really sorry. I promise that won’t happen again,” I assure him. I give him a peck on the lips and he softens.
“I know. Once you start working less this isn’t even going to be an issue, so there’s no point in ruining what’s left of our night and making it a big deal.”
Excuse me? What did he just say? I get up from his lap, baffled.
“What do you mean, ‘working less’?”
“Now that I sold the script we will have plenty of money so you don’t have to be so worried about taking every assignment or being threatened with being fired if you say no, once. I thought you’d pull back a little.”
I’m shocked. I get up from his lap and pace around the bedroom trying to make sense of this. “Why would you think that?”
“We talked about it.”
“We absolutely did not,” I insist.
“Yes, we did, on date night. We said everything was going to be changing and we’d be moving forward with our future plans.”
I scan back through last night as if my brain was a DVR and try to find the moment to hit the Play button so I can remind myself of this conversation, but we never discussed anything even close to this. Do I have some extreme case of early-onset Alzheimer’s disease? Nothing is even close to ringing a bell. I stop pacing and take a deep breath to calm myself and to hopefully prevent me from saying something that I won’t be able to take back.
“Where did me essentially quitting my job figure in to that conversation?”
“I never said quit your job. We just talked about cutting back. You know I hate you running around at all hours of the night stalking celebrities.”
“I knew you weren’t obsessed with it but you’ve never asked me to stop.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to if we can afford you not doing it. I thought you’d move on to something else.”
“Move on to something else? Ethan, I love you but I love my job, too. It would be like if I’d asked you to give up writing because you hadn’t made it yet. But the difference between us is I would never ask you to give up something you love.” I know that Ethan isn’t confessing that he slept with another woman, but this admission feels like a betrayal. “I didn’t think the plan was for me to quit my job once your career got going. I’m sorry but I can’t do that for you.”
“Well then maybe I can’t do this anymore.”
“What?” When did this go from an argument to a split? How can everything change in five minutes?
I realize I’m uncontrollably crying but Ethan doesn’t come over to comfort me or even bring me a Kleenex. “I thought you were going to propose. I thought that was the plan.”
He looks genuinely surprised. “Who am I supposed to propose to? Ella or Bella?” he says callously. “I’m done with both of you.”
Who is this person? Has his body been invaded by aliens? How can the man who wrote and just sold a love story about a couple who transcend obstacles like distance and societal pressure and illness just discard someone he claimed to love?
Even though everything is happening quickly in actual time, it feels like time is at a standstill, and I feel every fracture and crack tearing my heart into pieces.
We’re both silent for a long time.
Finally he says, “I’ll stay with a friend tonight. You can keep the apartment. I’ll come back for the rest of my things in the morning.”
I don’t hear Ethan leave. I’m lying in our bed, still. But after what feels like an eternity, I get up and look around the quiet room. He’s gone.
I put on my pajamas and take off all my jewelry.
I hope this will all blow over and Ethan will call later and we’ll work it out, so I take out my laptop and I start working on my file for Maggie. I barely know what time it is, but it’s still dark out, and I need to send it before the morning.
Eight
After I finished my file I couldn’t sleep. I crawled into bed, numb, and couldn’t stop myself from nuzzling my face into Ethan’s pillow and inhaling his scent. It was comforting but heartbreaking at the same time. I got to feel like he was still there with me, but it only emphasized that he was in fact gone. I couldn’t decide if closing my eyes and running through all of the “what ifs” in my head was worse than keeping them open to stare at his empty side of the bed. I never got to sleep that night, but I did zone in and out a few times, which I was thankful for. I got a text from him first thing in the morning, but not the one I was fantasizing about receiving. The text informed me he’d rented a U-Haul and would be at the apartment at ten to collect his things. I went into shock all over again, and in meltdown mode I wrote Holiday a novel of texts. She immediately rang and insisted on taking me to the Chateau Marmont for breakfast so I wouldn’t have to watch Ethan move out of our apartment.
And, more important, so we could drink.
I text Jessica on the way over to meet us. I thought this was a good idea at first but now I’m not so sure that I’m emotionally stable enough to be in public. “Fuck Ethan,” I’m hissing when I catch my favorite Pixie Haircut Hostess gawking me as she escorts Former Stripper Turned Academy Award–Winning Screenwriter past me.
“And now I’m crying in front of an Oscar winner,” I sob.
I should be ashamed that I’m causing a scene at my holy place, drunk well before noon, but my sadness and anger from Breakupgate are overtaking the rational part of my brain. Besides, everyone here is so self-involved they won’t notice anything going on short of an earthquake. If Ethan and I were celebrities, next week’s cover of The Life would be a picture of the two of us with a zigzag down the middle and the headline “Split: Screenwriter Leaves Celebrity Journalist Blindsided.” My whimpers become whines and my sobbing turns into bawling as my outburst escalates.
“Keep it together, darling. I know you’re in pain but this is still the Chateau,” Holiday councils. “Now that you’re single, the last thing you want is anyone thinking you’ve bought a one-way ticket on the Hot Mess Express.” I scowl at her even though I know she’s right and drown my sorrows in my Bloody Mary. In stark contrast, Holiday leisurely savors her mimosa. I look up between slurps to see Jessica being escorted to our table. She kisses Holiday on each cheek.
“How’s she doing?” she asks, as if I just got out of surgery. I wish some Beverly Hills plastic surgeon would invent an outpatient procedure to repair the internal scar on my heart.
“Let’s just say I’m glad you’re here for reinforcement. Her perspective and faculties are eroding faster than the Malibu coastline.”
“I’m right here, you guys,” I yell. Their gazes both shi
ft to me, giving me a look that says, “Lower your voice.”
Jessica kneels in front of my chair and gives me an Earth Mother hug. “It’s going to be alright, El.” Her laissez-faire attitude is usually eccentrically charming but it’s not helping today.
“How?” They’re giving me nothing so I reiterate my question. “How am I going to be alright?” The girls stare at me, still speechless, so I ask a third time. “I’m really asking you, how? The person that knows me best in the world walked away. What does that say about me?”
“Much worse has happened between these walls and you know it,” Holiday contends. She’s right and although it may feel like it, no one has died, if you don’t count my pride or my ego. Jessica gives Holiday a look, thanking her for tranquilizing me, even if it only provides momentary relief. As hard as I try to implement every rule of The Secret and attempt to stop my mind from wandering back to my circumstances, I fail and the tears drop down my face again.
“I just can’t believe he’s moving out right now. That he just got a U-Haul and is moving ASAP.”
“Rip off the Band-Aid. It’s a cliché for a reason,” Holiday reminds me.
“And at least it will be easier for you to move on. You won’t have all of his things lingering around conjuring up memories,” Jessica figures.
“That’s because I don’t have anything! The only things that are mine are the bed and the dishes.”
And now it hits me. I can’t believe I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t thought about my finances until now. Fuck! Fuck isn’t even a strong enough expletive.
“Oh my God, you guys, I’m going to have to move. The only way I can afford that apartment and all of my expenses on my own is if I go on a cleanse. From food. Entirely. For a while.” Ethan was always very conscious about budgeting and made sure he worked enough for us to never worry about necessities. But I’m beginning to calculate the expenses in my head, and despite my lack of sobriety realize that only having one income now, I’m screwed. I continue adding numbers to my monthly tab after I’ve surpassed the amount I earn in a month.
“Seriously. I’m either going to have to move in with Robin or a Craigslist killer and with our track record, I’m leaning toward the murderer!” Holiday and Jessica laugh but this isn’t a joke! I’m about to really lose it. Like, put-me-under-a-5150-psychiatric-hold lose it.
“I know you’re in pain but catastrophizing the situation won’t do you any good,” Jessica says.
My breathing is increasing exponentially by the second. “I feel like I’m going to pass out!”
Jessica hands me my glass of water but I shake my head, refusing the beverage.
Holiday takes the opposite approach and steps in with the tough love, gently slapping me on the face. “You have to calm down, darling!” I take one more large exhale and my blood no longer feels like it’s going to bubble over and explode out of my skin. It worked. My breath returns to its normal rhythm. “You won’t have to move in with your sister. But having a roommate isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” I roll my eyes. “Look, you clearly need to be on suicide watch for the next few days—”
“I don’t need to be on suicide watch. I need to be on homicide watch,” I correct.
“You made your first postbreakup joke,” Jessica says, clapping for me like I’m a toddler that was recently potty-trained.
Holiday’s wheels are turning and I never expected what she said next. “I have an idea. Why don’t you move in with me?” For the first time in eight hours I feel a slight twinge of hope.
“Really?” I hope my Holiday-prescribed breakup cocktail of Xanax and Bloody Marys isn’t making me hallucinate.
“Absolutely. You’re like a sister to me and I’m going to be in Canada filming the pilot. It would be great to have you watch the house while I’m gone.”
Jessica jumps in. “My boyfriend broke up with me last year, can I come, too?”
“Sorry, Jess, there’s a six-month statute of limitations for heartbroken roommates,” she quips. “So, what do you say?”
“Hol, that’s so generous, but sometimes when friends live together things can get tense.”
“Darling, that only applies to people that live in apartments, not twenty-thousand-square-foot houses. There’s enough room for you to have your own wing.” It’s true: I’ve gotten lost in her house before and almost needed a docent to guide me back to the front door. “I’m going to be away for a bit and we rarely run on the same schedule anyway.” I’m debating the pros and cons and both Holiday and Jessica are looking at me like I’m nuts for considering any possible alternative. Holiday comes in with the Hail Mary. “Do you really want to chance becoming a story line on Law & Order: SVU when you can live on top of Mount Olympus?”
How can I say no to this? I don’t want to say no to this. Usually when something seems too good to be true it probably is—especially in LA, where there are usually invisible strings attached—but I know that’s not the case with Holiday.
“You’re positive?” I ask one last time, hoping my initial hesitation hasn’t led her to change her mind.
“One hundred and ten percent.” She gets up from the table and gives me a big hug, even though I should be the one bowing down at her feet and chanting her name in a prayer circle while offering some kind of sacrifice in her honor. Jessica, never one to miss an opportunity for some “free love,” joins our embrace. My life: subtract one boyfriend and add luxury residence. It doesn’t equal happiness but it equals a slight sense of relief for the time being.
“You can start moving your stuff in whenever you want, but that’s where I draw the line. I don’t do moves.”
“Thank you! I’ll give notice at my place and get started ASAP.” For the first time since Breakupgate I feel like I don’t want to die. Good-bye, West Hollywood; hello, Hollywood Hills. Our roommates’ rejoice is interrupted by Holiday’s phone beeping consistently.
“Geez, how many notifications do you get?!” I say. I don’t think I even get that many messages on my birthday.
“It’s my Google alerts,” she explains.
“Who do you have Google-alerted?” Jessica asks.
“Me, of course,” she says with a cheeky grin. Holiday opens every article about her, reading each with care and scrutiny, digesting every detail.
“Between the Benedict Canyon announcement and Ella’s story about Recently Divorced British B-List Comedian–Sex Addict’s fight at my party on The Life, my name is all over the news. I can’t believe you were able to file last night with everything going on,” Holiday comments.
“I’m impressed,” Jess says, pulling out her phone to read the story as well.
“I didn’t really have a choice. Who I need to impress is my new boss,” I explain.
“Yeah, what’s the deal with that? You said you were gonna fill me in last night but then it got crazy with Boybander Turned Solo Artist Turned Actor—”
“And then the conclusion of the Ella and Ethan saga,” Holiday adds. I shake off the harsh reality of her comment and commence a new anxiety attack about the future of my employment status.
“To give you the Wikipedia version of events, The Life was sold to a new publisher. They hired Victoria Davis to come back and run the magazine—”
“That’s so funny, Gwendolyn mentioned something about her last night,” Holiday interrupts. “I made a mental note to talk to you about it, but the champagne sort of erased that memo.”
“What did she say?” I ask.
“Well, darling, I wasn’t particularly sober or paying explicit attention by that point in the evening but I think it was something along the lines of Victoria throwing your old editor under the bus to get this job because The Life is the only magazine that would even consider hiring her today.…” She trails off.
“What?” That can’t be. Victoria Davis is not a has-been. She’s a legend. “Are you sure that’s what Gwendolyn said?” I ask.
“No,” she squeaks. “Listening to Gwendolyn’s v
enomous gossip about the editorial world was not where my head was at last night,” she reminds me as she takes a double sip of her mimosa. “I’m sure I either misheard or she was being her usual catty self.”
“I swear the gossip magazines should really be about the people running them and the reporters,” Jess marvels. “Your incestuous media circle is bursting with more drama and is far more interesting than celebrities. No offense,” she attaches to the end of her suggestion to keep Holiday’s feelings intact. The thought of someone being more interesting than she could be is far more offensive to her than an actual insult. Holiday lets it slide but playfully gives Jess a glance to know that while she’s letting this one go, Jess has been warned.
“Well, apparently now that Victoria is in charge she has the budget to keep only four of us. To determine who stays and who gets fired she’s pressuring us into finding exclusives that will sell magazines and drive traffic to the Web site. We’ll receive points for any of our reporting that gets used, and the better the story, the better the placement and the more points we get. She’s going to fire the person with the lowest score at the end of each week until she’s down to four reporters.”
“Well, that’s no pressure at all,” Jess remarks with her trademark dry wit.
“Tell me about it,” I concur. “That’s why I went to Ambiance instead of going to celebrate with Ethan.”
“At least you got something while you were there. If it had been a bust this whole breakup would be even more devastating,” Jess says.
I nod and slurp down the rest of my Bloody Mary.
“Anyway,” Holiday quickly pivots the conversation in another direction, “thank you for the story and mentioning my party. Right now all press is good press, for both of us it seems.”
I grab my phone from my purse and quickly find the story and screenshot it, then throw the phone back in, so as not to arouse any suspicion.
“Almost all press is good press,” I correct. “Trust me.”
“You want another Bloody Mary?” Holiday asks.
Is she kidding? I wish this stuff was coursing through my veins. “What do you think?”
