Violet & Claire

by Francesca Lia Block

It was the desired response but not to be responded to in the affirmative. “I have work to do,” I said.

  “You are serious. Can I see you again?”

  Someone was doing an admirable job with Flint’s script. I’d have hired them.

  “Maybe,” I told him.

  “I’ll give you my address,” he said, and I hurried (backward because of my state of undress) into the bathroom so he wouldn’t see the childish glee that was about to hop onto my face like an army of imps.

  I felt that there was something momentous about my meeting with Flint Cassidy. However, my perceptions were skewed. Yes, momentous—I could trace back to him the series of events that eventually changed my life. But I had thought Flint might change my life a different way. It felt sick to admit it, even to my trusted Tinker Claire, but when I was with him I didn’t care so much about completing or selling my script or making the movie. It was the first time I had ever felt that way. Instead, I began to fantasize about being a devoted wife. Rather sick, but true. I saw the ornate Victorian mansion in New Orleans with the recording studio in the basement where I would reign, floating down the mahogany staircase in a long black gown to greet our guests; my husband, that untamed panther no one thought they could ever own, feeding from the palm of my hand at one moment, and then receiving me at his metal-toed feet as I knelt before him and his music filled the house like an army of violent angels residing in the speakers and golden flowers grew on vines twining around the chandeliers and spilling from the bedposts and banisters and jungle birds whistled in the fronds of potted palms and my art was myself—Violet Cassidy, girl-Jesus-vampire-angel-satan, concubine, mistress, wife of the man.

  As you can see, I had lost it. I was pathetic. I was infatuated. And most definitely I was misled.

  Sitting on the floor of my room with my hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup on my face, dressed in boys’ boxers and a T-shirt, I felt completely different than the regular Violet. Claire and I were painting each other’s toenails pale blue—not my normal choice, I only liked the dark metal Urban Decay colors—but I was in a blue toenail sort of frame of mind. (Claire was always.)

  “Then what?” she asked again. I had told her about six times, a fact which I reminded her of, but she insisted.

  “Then he gave me his address and he kissed my cheek and told me he thought I was brilliant and beautiful.”

  That was how our meeting ended. Flint Cassidy telling me I was brilliant and beautiful. Growling it, as if he were in pain. Looking at me like some kind of mortally wounded jungle animal who had come to rest his head in my lap and be mystically revived.

  “I can’t believe you have his address!” Claire cried. “You have Flint Cassidy’s address!”

  Claire was a blue toenails kind of girl, a squealing, feet-kicking kind of girl. I was not. At least not until that moment. I squealed, I kicked, we both did, ruining our baby-blue pedicures.

  “Careful!” we squealed in unison. Was I becoming Tinker Bell after the brief but potent touch of Flint? That was when I confided in her, revealing the fantasy of the New Orleans mansion, the marriage bed, even some embarrassing thing about a wedding and a see-through lace wedding gown. (If you can’t be an exhibitionist on your wedding day, then when?) But I was serious, and scared, and when she asked me what I was going to do I got very quiet and told her I had no idea, which was another unusual thing for goal-oriented me.

  “You have to go see him!” Claire said.

  That night when she had fallen asleep on my bed, curled like a kitten and gripping the pillowcase, I sat up looking at myself in the mirror. I held the Spent Pleasure CD with Flint’s face on the cover next to my reflection and imitated his petulant, girlish pout. His eyes were steely, his cheekbones dangerous. We could have been brother and sister. You you me me.

  I whispered into the microphone of my tape recorder: “I told you you reminded me of me.”

  I hardly slept that night. I flopped around on the carpet like a fish while Claire dreamed of her enlightened race of faeries (I could tell by her expression of wonder) on my bed. In the morning I spent a long time getting ready—applying my makeup and choosing the perfect ensemble of halter crop top–hot pants–high go-go boots. Instead of black I opted for cherry-red satin. Some things I’d bought in a fit once months ago and never worn.

  Now what, you may ask, was this girl thinking? And I am not only referring to my completely out-of-character fashion choice, not to mention how it clashed with my blue toenails (though they were hidden). That Flint Cassidy, some big thinks-he’s-hot-shit rock star has slept with her and so suddenly she’s acting like one of those crazed chicks she generally has so much contempt for? But you weren’t there when we made love, this girl might respond. You weren’t there when he looked into my eyes as if he had found the child-bride fallen girl-angel sweet vixen of his dreams. You weren’t there when he whispered hoarsely, “My God, Violet, where did you come from? You are the most beautiful brilliant girl I’ve ever met.” You probably aren’t a girl who keeps trying to make life like a movie, either.

  Still, what was I thinking? How naive was I? I didn’t even become suspicious until I began to notice that all the buildings along that section of the street were businesses and not residential.

  Maybe Flint Cassidy lived in a dazzling blue glass office building? Maybe he called his penthouse “Metatalent” in honor of his own abilities? Maybe not, Vile.

  He’d given me his agency’s address, in case you haven’t guessed by now. I hung a pissed off U-ie and headed back muttering about what an idiot I could be. But then a thought occurred to me.

  Ambition.

  Fatal flaw or life-saving energy channel? It had saved me from suicidal thoughts before, when I really was Vile. Without my dreams of grandeur—delusions, maybe, but it didn’t matter—without them I might have perished long ago. Without my movie fantasies, I might have been another statistic of teenage suicide at thirteen, cutting up my arms with hearts and crosses until the blood filled the bathtub and my corpse was left behind like a felled graffiti-stricken tree. So if ambition had saved me before, I figured I would turn to it again. I had been remiss in losing sight of it for those moments with Flint. It was the only thing that was real for me. He certainly wasn’t real. But Metatalent, that was a different thing altogether. It towered above me, flashing in the morning sun. It was calling to me, “Violet, bring me your treatments, your screenplays, bring me your concepts, your visions.”

  It was the voice of ambition, the only voice I could rely on, and I was ready to answer it. I had a script to finish a.s.a.p.

  After I had dropped off my screenplay with the bitchy woman who insisted they did not take unsolicited manuscripts until her boss, a deeply tanned silver fox, happened to pass by on his way to lunch and corrected her, promising me to peruse the material himself, I decided I might as well go to school. What a mistake. Miss Henderson wasn’t thrilled about me sauntering in late, even though I did apologize.

  “I’m surprised you bothered coming at all,” she waaa-ed.

  Even my second apology wasn’t good enough. It might have been if I were dressed differently, but as I’ve mentioned, Miss Henderson was not a fan of my wardrobe or the reactions it caused. Especially with this new red factor. She told me she didn’t like my attitude and that I should go see Mr. Hurley, the principal.

  “I had some business,” I tried to explain.

  “Well, you certainly do look like a working girl in that outfit,” she wittily quipped.

  I left them all to their joke. This situation of school was getting intolerable. I had to do something.

  Claire tried to cheer me up. That night we went to Neo-Bo, as in Bo-hemian. We sat upstairs in the dark, slumped on one of the torn velvet couches, under a gaudy piece of art in a heavy gold frame that could have killed us if there had been an earthquake. I was smoking greedily and Claire was reading the New Times, glancing up occasionally at the goateed boys in black that passed by.

  “How abo
ut him?” she said, jabbing an elbow into my rib cage.

  “What?” I gloomily grumbled.

  “For your love interest.”

  I glared at her. Sometimes her cheerfulness made me want to shriek. Or puke. Or shriek and then puke.

  “It’s not so bad,” Claire said. “Maybe he thought you wanted his agent’s address so you could give them your script.”

  I squashed my cigarette in the ashtray like I was killing a bug. “I did. That’s what I wanted and I did, Claire,” I enunciated.

  She knew right away she was pissing me off. “Oh right. That’s what I meant,” she mumbled, going back to her newspaper.

  I watched over her shoulder as she circled an ad that read, “Poetry for Screenwriters.” There was a photo of a tall sad-eyed man with very large hands. Well, Claire could drool about poetry and laze away in cafes until she was old and gray. I, on the other hand, had places to go, people to meet. If Flint wasn’t my guy it mattered not; my screenplay was in the world. I was sure it would bring me what I desired.

  A week later I received a call from Metatalent; an agent named Richter wanted to meet with me. I assumed that he was Silver Fox. Since he had seemed more interested in my body than in my work, I wore my shortest black skirt suit for the occasion. I tried not to think about the possibility of running into Flint at the office. But he was probably in London or somewhere anyway, I told myself.

  Flint was not my destiny. But Richter, that was a different story. When I walked into his office I felt something serious was going to happen. He had a tanning booth and a Universal machine in the room. His feet in their expensive thin-soled Italian leather shoes were up on the desk, his hands behind his sterling-haired head. He nodded for me to sit down when I held out my hand to shake. It seemed that Mr. Richter didn’t shake easily.

  “Well, Violet,” he began, looking at something on the wall behind my head, “I do see some real talent here.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Richter.”

  “You need to learn a few things though,” he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Do you know what high concept means?”

  I did.

  He looked at me then, with a molten heat in his dark eyes that made me flinch. “I used to think it meant lofty. Almost religious, do you know what I’m saying?” he asked fervently. Then his mood changed, briefly, to a wan melancholy.

  “That was when I was young and innocent like you.”

  That part about the “innocent” pissed me off. Not to mention how he had ignored my handshake, avoided looking at me except when it most suited his delivery, and stepped all over my lines. And high concept bugged me.

  “It’s actually kind of a cheap thing,” I retorted.

  Richter’s tepid melancholy changed to burning ice. “It’s what we’re looking for, Violet. It’s what you need to work on.”

  I stuck out my chin, which looked defiant and slightly jutting even in repose, and said, “I can learn.”

  This seemed to charm him. He leaned forward and gazed into my face. “We’re not just interested in established talent. We’re interested in nurturing budding young talent. How old are you, Violet?”

  “Seventeen. But I’m…”

  He was not put off by my age at all. In fact it made him beam. “That’s excellent. That’s what we’re looking for. Youth sells these days. That Kids kid is old already.”

  I gave him my sweetest smile. I had been saving it for the right moment.

  He said, “I think I can work with you.”

  I started to thank him but he put up a hand. “We’re not going to represent you yet. You obviously have talent and ambition but you need more experience.”

  He leaned closer still, threatening. There was something manic in his face, the face of a man who would do anything to get what he wanted. Ruthless. I didn’t want to let him see me pull back. I could learn something from this Richter.

  “We need a new receptionist, Violet. I’d be willing to offer you that position if you’re interested.”

  “I’m still in school.”

  “You can come in afterward.”

  I decided to play it as cool as possible. “And you’ll look at my work?”

  “Better than that. I’ll give you input.” He lowered his voice to a gentle gravelly growl. “You just have to trust me.”

  And then Richter did the thing that he had managed, by withholding it, to bestow with major significance; Mr. Metatalent himself reached out to shake my hand.

  I saw the faintest gleam in his eyes when I hesitated before shaking his. I believe he had recognized that Violet Samms was a quick study.

  Things were looking up. Every day after school dressed in my sexy but for-success outfits, I drove the ’Stang to the office where I served Richter and the other agents as if I had no interest in a career as a screenwriter but lived to answer the phones with the phrase, “Metatalent, can you hold.” Occasionally I would attend a class at school, when the other part-time receptionist was around, but mostly I lived for my job. I made up for the lost hours that were being wasted at high school by working late, and on weekends, doing secretarial tasks for Richter. He said I was talented enough that he’d put up with my school schedule in order to have me as the “figurehead of the ship,” as he called it. You might think that he’d want me to go to his office and dress the part of figurehead if you know what I mean, but he was quite respectful; I didn’t have to disrobe and he never laid a finger on me. My salary was good and I was able to save most of it. At first I thought I’d like to use it for film school, but then I began to consider the possibility of funding my own production.

  “After all, Robert Rodriguez made El Mariachi for like nothing!” I told Claire.

  Another advantage of working at Metatalent was having contact with the awesome clientele. One day a certain very tall, very gorgeous, very famous couple who were supposedly divorced, came in holding hands. They were even taller in real life than they appeared on screen and in print. I found myself struck almost speechless when I had to announce their arrival. They were very nice about it, however. Thoughts about her mole kept me occupied for the rest of the day.

  I told these things to Claire and she squealed. I felt so happy between my job, my friendship with Claire and the possibility of my film getting made that school was tolerable. I certainly didn’t think about a certain pretentious self-coveting rock star. I knew he was ancient history when Claire passed me a note in Mrs. Hellberger’s history class: “Are you going to look up his home address?”

  I knew who she meant but I said “Whose?”

  “You know…” she said.

  “There was only one reason for me to have had that thing with Flint,” I told her. “And that was to bring me to Metatalent.”

  Claire was worried about me, though. She thought I was working too hard. One day while we were panting around the smoggy track at school, the jockettes whizzing by us at top speed and Coach Pitt angrily blowing her whistle, Claire asked if I was working on the movie.

  “I’ve been a little distracted,” I said. “But I’m sure it’s all rubbing off on me in really excellent ways.”

  “Aren’t you tired? You’re working so much, Violet.”

  “I love it,” I told her.

  “I think you should do something to relax, though. To feed your spirit.”

  I informed her that was exactly what I was doing.

  And then she sprang it on me. “No, I mean, like poetry. There’s this poetry-writing workshop I want to take. Extension. It looks really cool. It’s cheap, too.”

  She pulled an ad out from the pocket of her gym shorts. It said, “Poetry for Screenwriters.” There was the photo of the tall, sad-eyed man.

  I had to admit the screenwriters part interested me a little. But I was skeptical. “That’s one way to sell a poetry workshop in L.A. It sounds a little bogus to me.”

  “He looks very sensitive. He looks like the kind of person you could share anything with.”

  I rolled my eyes. But
I had to admit one thing. This guy could be a love interest for Claire’s character in the movie.

  “I wonder if he acts,” I said.

  If Peter Brookman acted it seemed like all he knew was one part; the soft-spoken, seemingly innocent seducer of young poets with faerie wings. We came into the classroom late and he smiled up at us, but his eyes lingered on Claire longer and last.

  “Welcome, ladies,” he said, after we’d told him our names. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  I crossed every limb and glared at him from my seat. Claire leaned forward. She seemed to be holding her breath.

  “First of all,” Brookman said. “I’d like to know why you’re all here. What does poetry mean to you.”

  A prematurely balding guy with thick-framed glasses said, “I’m a screenwriter. I wanted to sharpen my sense of rhythm and imagery.”

  “Excellent,” said Brookman, gesturing with his large hands. “I believe poetry can really do that for you. Is there anyone in here who isn’t a screenwriter?”

  After a long awkward pause Claire raised her hand.

  “Claire, right?”

  She nodded shyly.

  “Why are you here, Claire?”

  “I’ve written poetry since I was little. I thought it was like my secret language. And then I discovered that other people had been doing it forever and I was so excited. All I wanted to do forever was to read and write poetry and…”

  She stopped, self-conscious. But Brookman reassured her.

  “That’s very beautiful. I’ve actually felt the same way myself.”

  I thought I might chuck up. How many times had he used that one? I rolled my eyes.

  At that moment a tiny Chihuahua peeked its head out of Brookman’s desk drawer. I figured he’d trained it to do that to punctuate his come-on lines. It looked like a muskrat more than a dog.

  “I guess Lord Byron agrees,” he said as everyone (especially our Miss Claire) giggled.

  Lord Byron jumped out of the desk and ran in mad circles around the room. All I could think about was how once I’d read that Chihuahuas’ eyes occasionally popped out of their heads and had to be re-inserted. Morbid, I know. But something about Brookman brought that out in me. I was worried about Claire, all of a sudden.