But right now, I try to give her no ammunition for questions or a lecture.
“Toronto was fine.”
“You didn’t check in much. You barely checked in at all from the fishing trip. Andy okay? His family all fine?” She’s still eyeballing me.
“Quincy had croup for a while. She’s still not sleeping. Other than that, everybody’s peachy.” I take another big swallow of the coffee. “Really.”
She rolls her eyes. “Then you won’t mind if I barrage with twenty details from the contract re-up?”
“Which one?”
“Seriously?” She takes a pen out from behind her ear.
“No, I know what you’re talking about. The one with Cineaste. For Jessica Rabid Rabbit.” I’m tossing Esther a bone here. She and I delight in nicknaming our pain in the ass clients as ridiculous cartoon characters. For Amanda, the more I think about Jessica Rabbit, the similarities are startling. One time she broke into Andy’s trailer on set and decorated it, stripped down to her undies, threw herself at him. When he was already married to Kelly.
Amanda is crazy, but she’s able to keep her shit together on set, and lord, people love her in movies, so she gets jobs and I get paid.
“Esther? You know what I need?” I soften my voice; she has to take a step in to be a considerate listener.
“Yes?”
“I want a Danish. A fritter. A carb for breakfast. Is there anywhere in LA you can get that for me?”
She follows me into my office. “I will get you a gluten-laden sugar bomb if you promise to get things wrapped up with Amanda today, okay?”
I sit and nod. Sometimes Esther reminds me of Sister Agnes Katherine, the nun who lived down the street from me when I first moved out to LA. She took it upon herself to be my Jewish mom in absentia. My own actual mom was a lapsed Catholic, but given that she was married to a Jew, she nagged in earnest. Mom may have hired Sister Agnes, for all I know. I always found her nagging ironic but kind of sweet. Esther is kind of like that, except in a hot lesbian nerdy way.
“I’ll comply. I really want a doughnut or something, so you’ve got me over the barrel.”
“I’m bringing in the last revision of the contract they messengered over last night, and you look at everything I’ve highlighted, and then you work your slimy Jeremy King charm on Brunhilda and get her to sign off on it so we can be rid of her for 60 to 180 days assuming they can put together the financing package.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“That’s Miss Smartypants-who-held-the-office-together-while-you-were-off-having-a-midlife-crisis-or-something to you.”
“Fair enough. Could you write it on an index card so I can properly address you?” I shoot a rubber band at her ankles.
“You know I can take you. Back off, King.”
“And I think I take offense to the mid-life crack. I’m thirty-four. You want me dead by sixty-eight?”
“I’d like you dead by six-thirty tonight, sir. But we can’t always get what we want.”
“Fine. Buy me that Cronut, and I’ll be one step closer to the grave.”
“On it. Now look that contract over. Amanda’s assistant called. They’re on the way over.”
“Maybe they’d pick up the carbs for me.”
She leaves my office and pulls my door closed behind her.
And that’s when the ennui sets in.
I love my job.
I like Esther, and I love our witty banter.
But today it all feels blah.
Empty.
Stupid.
Forced?
So I sit and look out the window at my view, which is mostly a view of smog and more buildings and sometimes the occasional sunset that’s red from the gunk in the air.
Work is a great distraction, unless you’re distracted already.
I force myself to attend to the contract. For no other reason than trying to expedite this meeting with Amanda.
A few minutes later, Esther pokes her head in. “She’s brought Stephenson. You want me to cancel?”
Stephenson is Amanda’s entertainment lawyer. He’s a pain in the ass that takes another bite out of Amanda’s checks. He’s pompous for no good reason. He has weird hair. I don’t like him. His ears are uneven.
“No, I want this to be done. I’ll tolerate him.”
Esther nods and brings them in.
Amanda’s still in her yoga pants, but with heels. And legwarmers. And a torn-up plaid shirt. There’s so much to look at, I don’t know where to start with the insults.
“Amanda. Lovely as ever.” I give her a kiss on both cheeks.
Stephenson puts out a hand. “Jeremy. You’ve got a little color. Heard you were out in the field. Good stuff going on, I’m sure?”
“Toronto. Another client’s shooting up there for a couple more weeks.”
Amanda plops down in the chair across from mine. “Andy. You can say his name. I don’t give a crap about him.”
I know better than to take that bait. “Uh-huh. Let’s talk about this contract.”
“Did you look at all the revisions?” Stephenson shifts in his chair, nervously. That’s a tell if I ever saw one.
“What’s the part you think I’ll have a cow over? I thought Cineaste was pretty decent in the terms.” I look at Amanda instead of Stephenson. He’s just her lapdog.
“I’m the one who should have a cow. My cut of the backend is pathetic. Don’t they know who I am?” Amanda twirls a red tendril of hair. God, I hate her.
“They do.” I tilt my head, weighing my options. I go there. “You’re a terrific actor, Amanda. But you’re a huge pain in the ass. You wear people out. And you’re terrific, but not wear-people-out terrific.” I say this, and I’m amazed, because my voice sounds, I don’t know, sympathetic? Tired? Actually not annoyed? Helpful?
She looks straight at me. I hold her gaze. “You think I’m terrific?”
“Yes. No lie. But a huge, huge jerk to work with.” I don’t know. Right now I think she could profit from a little honesty.
Stephenson holds his hand up, one finger extended, as though he’s frozen. I think he was going to say something about the contract, but his eyes dart from me to Amanda.
She sits for a minute, and then her eyes drop to the contract in her lap. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She gets up and walks out the door.
Stephenson’s still frozen.
“Good to see you, Stephenson. Your client’s headed to the car, I think.”
He shakes out of it, stands up and stuffs the paperwork in his briefcase. “That was unexpected. But we’re done. I’ll scan and send you signed copies when I deliver them to Cineaste.”
“You aren’t messengering them?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I want this in their hands before she changes her mind.” He shakes my hand and scurries out of my office.
Esther comes in, carrying a white box. “What magic did you do in here? I barely had time to find a maple bar.”
I shrug my shoulders. “I was different. Honest like always.”
“But different how?” She’s intrigued.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t so fired up. Maybe I didn’t maneuver as much.”
“It worked, so whatever it was, good work. Now eat your heart attack of a pastry.” She plops the box on my desk. I open it, and the maple bar has chocolate icing piped on it that reads, “Happy mid-life crisis!”
Esther cackles at her desk. “Eat that!”
“I am!” I take a huge bite and chew on what’s become of me.
That night the drive home makes me somewhat happy. My Tesla and I are reunited—Esther sent one of the less hirsute assistants to fetch it so I could drive home in it. Usually someone else, especially some hipster in Toms, behind the wheel would put me into a panic, but today I didn’t care.
It’s nice to listen to my own stereo and push the car fast around the curves up the canyon roads. I consider having a soak in the spa and enjoying a cigar when I get home.
I pull into the driveway, and I get a text from Andrew.
When you coming back to T.O.?
I answer. Deal done. I’ve set a record with PITA diva. So tomorrow night prolly.
I consider just calling him, but I don’t know if he wants to talk about my screwed-up life, and I’m not in the mood.
His next text: We’re going to Idaho for 4th of July. You’re coming with. Swan Valley.
This is why I didn’t call him.
I’ll pass.
Someone texted and asked for us to come. Someone you like. Who must not hate you.
She didn’t say me, she said you.
My phone rings. I speak first. “She’d be happy to see you. I’m definitely dis-invited.”
Andy laughs. “That’s what Kelly said you’d say. Which is why she said I had to call and ‘stop texting like a teenage girl,’ to quote her.”
“Your wife makes fun of us a lot. I don’t know how we should feel about it. But really, I’ll pass on the trip.”
“Now I’m quoting from the text I received today: ‘I’d like it if Mr. King would come. Please tell him that.’”
My heart skips down the street, little wicker basket in hand. My mental picture of my heart looks like Dorothy from Wizard of Oz if you’re wondering. “Why didn’t she just text me herself?”
Andy covers the phone; I hear muffled talk. “Kelly says get back to Toronto so we can wrap the hell up for the long weekend and go to Idaho for crying out loud. She’s dying to meet Macy.”
“I don’t know.”
“She texted me instead of you because she’s stubborn. Just like you.”
I consider this. “We can talk more of my mess of a life that you all love to meddle in when I get back to Toronto. I need to come back regardless of where I spend my 4th of July.”
“Excellent. Catch a flight tomorrow, and Tucker’ll pick you up.”
He hangs up, and I pull into the driveway of my house.
She wants me to come back to Idaho.
There’s hope for me yet.
I take myself up on the offer for a soak under the stars, and I smoke that cigar, and for good measure, I have a couple drinks, too.
And consider calling her.
Or texting. I could text her.
I close my eyes for a minute and the sensation of her lips on mine, the feel of her skin on mine, that night in Seattle, it all comes back to me.
Maybe this is a bad idea. I want all of this too badly.
I call her number.
It rings, and rings, and she doesn’t answer.
Then I start to the obsessive worrying.
Then I text her.
Just checking in. Hope you’re well.
I wait.
I smoke the cigar, sit in the spa until I’m a waterlogged prune.
No text.
I finally give up and go inside. I knock back another drink in hopes of falling asleep.
And then I go to bed.
It’s humid, and all the windows are open, but there’s no breeze. I can smell some sweet flower from outside, and I try to take in slow, even breaths and relax. I watch the shadows on the ceiling.
I finally fall asleep with the phone beside me, but Macy never calls.
So I will go back to Toronto and get on with the business of getting over her.
The flight attendant is lovely. She wears her black hair in loose curls. She has huge eyes and big eyelashes and sports two beauty marks on her porcelain skin, one on her cheek and one just above her red lips. She reminds me of a storybook character, maybe like Snow White or Rose Red or something.
She’s wearing the navy shirtdress all the attendants wear. She’s cinched a belt tight, just below her chest, and I notice the effect.
Quincy could not care less. I’ve stopped the constant bouncing in my distraction, and she lets loose with a piercing shriek in protest. I’m about to stand up and go give Quincy back to Kelly when Rose Red, the flight attendant, comes over.
“What’s wrong little bugaboo, huh?” She holds her arms out for the toddler, smiles big and broad for me.
“It’s fine; Kelly’s right over”— I look back, and Kelly and Andrew are both zonked out, fast asleep. The croup drama in Toronto must’ve sucked the life out of them.
Rose Red raises her eyebrows. “I’m not a patient woman. Hand the sweet pumpkin over.”
I comply, and she holds Quincy up over her head, almost brushing the absurd bow on Quincy’s little blonde head on the roof of the plane’s cabin.
She coos at her and blows raspberries. “Who’s cranky? Who is?” Then she brings her back into orbit and flips her around to face me, holding her with one arm under Quincy’s armpits and one under her bottom.
Quincy looks surprised, her wet little mouth agape.
But Rose Red starts to sway, twisting back and forth at the waist, and Quincy seems to relax.
And then the little body lets loose an enormous fart, loud.
“That’s why bugaboo was fussing, huh, little one?” Rose Red smiles, which is the opposite of what I do when a stink bomb is loosed in my close vicinity, but okay, we’ll go with it.
Quincy smiles. I can’t help but remark. “Toddler life is good, huh, now that you’ve gotten that out of your system?”
She giggles.
Rose Red smiles. “Ah, look, she likes you. Are you her uncle?”
Red sure is attentive to me. “I’m her godfather. In a strictly non-Mafia sense.”
“Well, she loves her handsome godfather. You do, don’t you little bugaboo?”
She just called me handsome. Is something going on here that I’m missing? “I think she just likes playing with my keys.” I fail to mention that I usually make Quincy wail.
“You get up to Toronto much?”
“We’ll be back after the long weekend. We’re filming for another few weeks.”
“I live in Toronto. We could get together sometime. Couldn’t we, little girl, huh?” She turns Quincy over again and holds her up, face level, gives her another little raspberry sound and a goofy face.
“Which are we talking about? Me and you, or me and the toddler and you?”
Rose Red laughs, a high peal. “You and me.” She looks right at Quincy. “Your godfather’s irresistible.” She hands my goddaughter back to me, holds out her hand.
“Give me your phone, you handsome silly man.”
I hand it to her. I don’t know why. I just do.
She takes it and puts her phone number in, hands it back to me.
“I have to go lock the galley down before we land.” She licks her lips slowly. “I look forward to hearing from you.” She turns and sashays up to the front of the plane.
Quincy looks at me. She drools. I look at her, my mouth open, too.
“What just happened?”
Quincy blinks.
Here’s what happens next: I get this queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I hold Quincy and rock her gently, and she closes her eyes, so I close mine.
In my mind’s eye, do I see the storybook flight attendant, the one with the black hair and the red lips? The one who said I was irresistible?
Nope.
I see the woman with the fly rod in her hand, her eyes on the river, the gold flecks in her eyes glinting in the river light reflected, her smile broad.
That one. That girl, the one who hates my guts, who didn’t call or text me back.
I open my eyes, and Quincy looks at me, tries to poke a wet toddler finger in my eye.
“This is a mess.” That feeling in my gut is guilt, and the woman on my mind?
She’s love.
Quincy and I spend some more time drooling and bonding, and finally the plane lands in Nowheresville, Idaho, destination Macy.
If she’ll have me. I’m a little bit convinced that this return trip is a terrible idea, but I’m a lot convinced that I’m beyond hope and that I might as well listen to Kelly’s advice and actually put up a fight and try to reach Macy.
Wi
ll she let me in? Who knows. I won’t forgive myself if I don’t make an attempt.
I’m Jeremy King, Smartest Guy in the Room, Agent of All Agents.
I win at everything. Usually.
I might have to lose a little bit to win with Macy, but I’m going to try. I’m definitely not a quitter.
“Are you speaking on this trip or is your big idea to remain mute?” Andy’s rescued Quincy from me, thanked me profusely for letting him and Kelly sleep a bit. Now he holds her at his hip and interrogates me.
Quincy fusses, squirms in his grasp, looking around for her mama.
“My goddaughter doesn’t like your tone.” I’ve talked about myself more in the last month than in the whole last decade before that, and I’m getting tired of being the center of discussion. Center of attention and adoration, I’m totally on board with that. Center of talk, introspection, and inspection, possibly the center of a discussion of failings and shortcomings, no way in hell.
“He speaks!” Andy smiles at me. I hate that he can read me so well. That’s a downside to actually having a friend. He knows me, and I can’t lie to him as well as most people. And he calls me on it. What a pain in the ass.
“My big idea is to grovel, I think.” I might as well be honest with him. Whatever I have left of my pride/ego/hubris is already catching a late bus to Peoria. No sense in trying to maintain dignity.
Andy nods. “I’ve done that before.” We walk off the plane, make our way to the terminal. Quincy squeals in delight as the wind on the tarmac whips her little sundress around her legs. Andrew keeps his iron grasp on her.
“What do you mean? You’re Andy Pettigrew. You don’t grovel.” I look at him. Guys who look like him don’t ever have to grovel.
He looks at me and shakes his head. “You’ve got a short memory. I don’t know another word to describe what I had to do to get Kelly back when I massively screwed that up. I thought I’d lost her.” His face clouds over. He’s serious. We usually don’t get back around to this stuff.
Use Somebody Page 18
