Unraveling

by Owen Thomas

  The tendrils of Zack’s infidelity reached at least as far as Ohio, where, in the overly solicitous concerns of her family and oldest associations, my mother was no doubt forced to defend my honor against my own poor judgment. She called, trying her best not to lecture. She avoided any mention of my father, leaving me to imagine his reaction.

  Closer to home, news that the Golden Boy had proven unworthy of my affections shook Blair Gaines loose from wherever he had been holding his silent vigil. He appeared suddenly one afternoon on the threshold of the Pryce Point set, talking with Darnell Lewis like they were old friends. Privately, there was little or no professional respect between them and everyone knew it. They had each taken swipes at the other’s work. Directors, as a rule, are an insecure and catty bunch. But they generally respected each other’s territory, particularly the kingdom of the movie set and all of its loyal subjects.

  As I approached, I recognized the overly polite nods and smiles and eyebrows raised in keen interest that counted as Blair’s best conversational genuflection. Darnell’s fleshier features were pulled back against his skull in the souring expression that tended come over him in the presence of bad acting. In the context of a typical Darnell Lewis production, this usually meant that the character was insufficiently terrified or enraged or distraught. In the present context I supposed it meant that Blair Gaines, even with his hands clasped politely behind his back, was insufficiently obsequious. Blair broke off when he has saw me, wishing Darnell luck, and walked me off the set.

  “Slumming?”

  “Good news, Tillyjohn,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Cool. Unconcerned.

  “We’re back in business.”

  “Who’s back in business?”

  “We are. The Lion Tree.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re in.”

  “In what?”

  “Oh, come on.” He stopped, grabbing my hands, glancing in furtive irritation at a silver-haired man on a Segue whirring up behind us. He let the man pass then refocused his attention on me. “The Lion Tree. Elena Ivanova. You’re in, Tilly. For good this time.”

  I slipped my fingers from his grasp and resumed walking.

  “You mean I’ve been selected for the part that was originally mine? That’s nice.”

  He followed, talking at me. The script was great, he said. True, he said. True to the original source. Brilliant. Bloody brilliant. Angus had missed his calling.

  I kept walking, trying to unlock my car door a football field away.

  “Tilly!”

  “What do you want, Blair?”

  “I want you to be excited about this. I want you to show up for a reading.”

  “A reading?”

  “Yes. A reading. In two weeks. Three if you need it. Christ. Stop busting my balls, Tillijohn. Do you want the role or don’t you?”

  The timing was not lost on me. My relationship with Zack West, megastar, had publicly imploded and suddenly here was Blair, all smiles and promises. You’re in, Tillyjohn. You’re in. He saw an opportunity. There was no competing against Zack. But Blair had figured that Zack was gone, at least for now. And so here he was, whispering in my ear. No different than Maria Beckwith or Tiki Immanuel had been with Zack. He was working on a bigger plan. Except that Blair’s bigger plan wasn’t a corner office or a big fee. It was love. I was Blair’s bigger plan.

  “I’ve got a lot going on, Blair,” I said.

  “Like what? Pryce Point?”

  I looked at him, shrugging.

  “For fuck’s sake. Don’t tell me you’re passing because of that piece of shit. Darnell’s almost done. A month left? Three? He just fucking told me, three minutes ago. I suppose Darnell could still break a couple more of your ribs.”

  I shot him a look.

  “Kidding. Christ. I know you don’t really have anything else going on.”

  I snorted. “How could you possibly know what I have going on?”

  “I pay attention. Am I wrong? You have something cookin’ I don’t know about?”

  I kept walking, not answering his question. We both knew he was right.

  “I mean besides taking it up the clacker for Zack West?”

  “Fuck you, Blair.”

  “Yeah? Fuck me? I’d never treat you like that. The little prick.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. Zack and I are fine.”

  “You’re a bad liar and he’s a two-timing shit.”

  “How’s your wife, Blair?” I shot.

  “Ex-wife,” he said. “Signed the papers a month ago.”

  He said the words so quickly and with such assurance that I knew he had been waiting for an opportunity to speak them. I imagined him practicing on his way to the lot to see me, anticipating this very moment, picturing my face when he not only returned Colonel Ivanova to my custody but then also revealed – no doubt as evidence of his availability and noble intentions – that he had divorced his wife of thirty plus years.

  We reached my car and I opened the door. “Sorry to hear that. Was it ugly?”

  “No. It was easy. I gave her everything she wanted. Have dinner with me, Til.”

  “Gee, I can see you’re really broken up about it.”

  “Tilly.”

  “No.”

  “Why? Let’s give it a go.”

  “I’m late.”

  “For what? Cancel it. Let’s go for a drive.”

  “I’m meeting Zack,” I lied.

  Blair nodded in resignation. If he knew I was lying, he did not let on. He stepped back and let me get in and close the door. He leaned in the window. His expression was as earnest as I had ever seen it. Creases fanned out from the corners of his eyes and his brow was deeply furrowed. He was as tanned as ever, but somehow his complexion had sallowed. His hair needed cutting. He looked older than he should have. Suddenly I caught a sense of suffering, like the scent of decay on a breeze. I didn’t know how much of it was me and how much was The Lion Tree, but it was suddenly clear that the past few months had brought him a kind of struggle and torture.

  “I gave the new script to Milton Chenowith. I hand delivered it to that sanctimonious patronizing son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Why? I mean…”

  “Because you told me not to come to your house. Not to call. So I didn’t.”

  “Could’ve emailed it.”

  “Email? Have you lost your mind? That’s strictly against policy. One wrong click, one hack, one wrong address and suddenly everyone has your screenplay. I’ve sacked people for less. And Angus would choke me to death. Besides, I was trying to respect your boundaries. Official channels, strictly business, no shortcuts, that sort of thing.”

  I smiled, as kindly as I could, at the fact that in trying to respect my boundaries Blair had hunted me down at the studio and asked me out to dinner. He read my mind and stared down at his shoes, pushing against the door with both hands.

  “Right. Well I hate boundaries as much as I hate your agent and your boyfriend.”

  I laughed. Self-deprecation was not Blair’s style. The Blair Gaines I knew in Africa, the Blair Gaines everyone else in the world knew, would have been screaming at me. That he was not screaming underscored his vulnerability. Other women would have found the change in temperament endearing. I found it strange and a little sad.

  “Look,” he said. “Just go pick it up. Or get Milton to email it to you. Just don’t let him sit on it. He can hate me all he wants, but this is a good script Tillyjohn. Read it. We’ve got a list of decent second-choices in case you really want to pass, but none of them can do Ivanova like you can do Ivanova. Don’t let her go to someone else.”

  He didn’t say please. He didn’t have to. His eyes said it for him.

  “Where is Angus on this?”

  “He knows I’m right.”

  I let that sink in.

  “So then you’re pushing this? You’ve had to convince him.”

  “Look…”

  “Yes or no, Blair.”r />
  He stood up and took a breath, not wanting to continue. I found my keys and jammed them into the ignition. Blair’s face reappeared in the window frame.

  “Okay. Okay, look. Angus was fully on board in the beginning. We both wanted you for the part. I mean there was just no question about it. Then Angus…” He paused.

  “Jesus. Spit it out, Blair. I’m a big girl.”

  “He changed his mind. All of this shit about Zack. I mean doing Pryce Point was bad enough. Angus is a literary guy, Til. You know that. Pryce Point is about as far on the other side of the fuckin’ compass as you can get. He barely tolerates actors, but movie stars he cannot abide. We’re dealing with a cast of unknowns now. Good actors, the lot of ‘em; but no one has ever heard of any of them. Angus doesn’t want the film turning into a vanity piece dangling from your charm bracelet. Somehow I got him over that hump, but when the tabloids went ape shit over your sex life, well…”

  “He thinks I’m a train wreck.”

  “Look. We live and work in L.A. We pop these off-screen scandals back like they’re little breath mints. Hell, Darnell Lewis and Cecil Abrams are sniggering all the way to the bank. The Zack-n-Tilly show will be good for another point or two at the box office. You couldn’t have timed it better if you tried. But you know Angus. He’s not of this place or this business. So, yeah, he disapproves. Ivanova has a certain, what … a moral rectitude about her, I guess. A certain dignity. It’s like she’s real to him.”

  “So he doesn’t want my big bucket of class slopping over onto his character.”

  I sounded genuinely offended, but I knew that what he was saying made sense. Angus’ fidelity had always been to Ivanova, never to me. Blair winced. Then he nodded.

  “He wanted to go with number two on the list.”

  “And yet, here you are.”

  “Yeah. Here I am.”

  “And just what Faustian bargain has made that possible, Blair? Because I know you didn’t magically change his mind about me.”

  “No. His mind is made up on that score. So I gave up my veto rights on every other character in the movie. He got everyone he wanted. And I let him cut out the only two scenes I had any hand in writing. It’s basically his movie now.”

  “All so that I could keep the role of Ivanova.”

  Blair didn’t answer. He closed his eyes.

  “And he’s willing to take me.”

  Blair nodded, adding, “It was never about the acting, Tillyjohn. You’ve always been the right actor. For both of us.”

  “It’s just the rest of me he can’t stomach.”

  “Don’t be mad. It’s just Angus. Just read the script. Keep an open mind. Think about it. But think about it as business, Tillyjohn. Leave all the rest of it on the side of the fuckin’ road. Okay? Think of Angus Mann as just another asshole producer or director. Once you start bringing Ivanova to life, he’ll forgive everything else. Trust me.”

  * * *

  My cell rang on the way home, not ten minutes after leaving Blair in the parking lot looking like he’d been worked over for his last bit of pocket change.

  It was Simon Hunter, shouting above the air rushing through his convertible wind tunnel. I could tell that this was not Simon’s normal weekly call in which he made some pretense of checking on the status of Pryce Point, inquired after my healing ribcage and, more recently discussed my precarious and public relationship with Zack West. On that score, Simon was torn between affording Zack every benefit of the doubt as the lynch-pin of the Pryce Point project, which was still the biggest feather in Simon’s cap when it came to managing my career, and wanting to be my noble protector against knaves. Knowing that any inkling of an interest in Simon would have sent him off in search of dueling pistols, I always steered clear of any suggestion that Zack’s loss might be Simon’s gain.

  This time Simon’s accented voice bubbled and popped with the fresh energy that came with a bonafide reason to actually meet up in person. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I knew why he was calling.

  “Tills!”

  “Simon.”

  “Damn good news. I’ve got it and you’ll want it. Where are you? Let’s pop into The Ivy and have something fizzy with a lime.”

  “Can’t, Simon. Sorry. I’m almost home. What’s the news?”

  “Right. Email from Milton just an hour ago. He said The Lion Tree project is a go. Blair Gaines dropped off a script. He wants to take a lunch meeting.”

  “Blair?”

  “No, silly. Milton. Are you free? I was thinking Rene’s at the Plaza.”

  “Simon, have you actually spoken to Milton?”

  “About lunch?”

  “About The Lion Tree.”

  “Oh. No. Been a bit ragged lately, Tills. Haven’t really been in the office for the whole week. Making deals. It’s been a banner week and this is the topper. So?”

  “Rene’s. Eleven thirty.”

  I hung up knowing that Simon’s enthusiasm would meet a bucket of cold water by eleven thirty-one and that whatever chance Blair Gaines had of convincing me to trust him, he had absolutely no chance of working that same magic on Milton Chenowith.

  As it turned out, I was wrong in my prediction about the bucket of cold water. But only by about three minutes. When Simon Hunter and Milton Chenowith stepped off the elevator into the lobby of Rene’s Bistro, Simon’s face told the story of a slow and surprising elevator ride.

  Simon offered a hug without his usual effusive charm. Milton bowed slightly and took my hand, kissing it. The tremor in his own hand reverberated up to my shoulder.

  “Tilly Johns as I live and breath,” said Milton, straightening again to his full height. His silver-white mane stood in stark contrast to his dark blue suit. “You’re looking fresh and lovely as ever.”

  I curtseyed to acknowledge the quaintness of the greeting and looked over at Simon. He smiled perfunctorily and then turned his full attention to the hostess, ensuring we had a table with a view of the city as he had requested.

  Lunch itself was purely social with Milton holding court and parading his apocryphal yarns about the old greats of Tinsel Town. The Duke meets a dandy. Marilyn Monroe goes canoeing in a duck pond with Dean Martin and a thermos full of gin. Mae West’s cleavage eats Bing Crosby’s olive. No one laughed harder than Milton, which somehow made the stories all the more enjoyable. Simon laughed on cue but stayed attentive to his plate and his cell phone, which buzzed like a bee trapped under a glass.

  When the plates had been cleared, Milton ordered his third glass of Chardonnay and cleared his throat, suddenly, as if by magic, a totally different person.

  “Tilly,” he said severely, “we need to talk some business.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Simon told me…”

  Milton held up a large shaking paw.

  “I understand Simon had a conversation with you yesterday. We’ll get to that in a moment. But we need to have an understanding before we head down that road. When I am disappointed in a client, I don’t like to let it fester and get bigger than it needs to be. My style is to come right out with it. Deal with it head on. Understand?”

  I glanced at Simon, who was fascinated with his empty water glass. I nodded.

  “Good,” he said, as if we had just cleared a significant hurdle. “We have a contract, Tilly. You and me. Or rather, you and CTR have a contract. And that contract is an exclusive contract. That contract, for which we have paid a lot of very expensive lawyers to sweat every jot and tittle, says that CTR is your exclusive agent. Our part of the arrangement is to work hard for you to find work commensurate with your inestimable talent and to help manage the business end of your career. It’s a jungle out there, doll. You know it and I know it. And you need someone in your corner who can spot the sharks and keep you moving forward. Forward and up, Tilly. Forward and up.”

  The wine came and he took a slow sip.

  “And I hope that you will agree that we have so far lived up to our end of that bargain. Pryce Point
was a hell of a get. I mean right out of the box we plugged you into The Lion Tree, which went south for no fault of either you or us, and then whammo, here comes Pryce Point and where others stumbled, you kept moving forward and up. And you can thank Simon here for that save, not me. I just made a call or two.”

  Simon looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.

  “Now, CTR has not built its name by resting on its laurels. We have a continuing obligation and we have to keep working if we want to keep your business. But a contract has two sides, Tilly. You have obligations too. And one of those obligations is to direct all communications regarding potential work opportunities through us. Through CTR. That’s what it means to have an exclusive agency agreement. Now, you’re a bright kid and I know you already know all of this. So imagine my disappointment, when Mr. Gaines paid me a visit and informed me that you had re-auditioned for The Lion Tree.”

  “But, Milton…”

  The quavering paw shot back above the table.

  “What disturbs me Tilly, is not that you auditioned, or that you chose to disregard my advice as to the worthiness of that particular job…”

  “Milton, you found me the job to begin with.”

  “Even so. When a deal turns rotten, you pay me to give you my professional opinion. And you will recall that my professional opinion, bluntly stated, was that Mr. Gaines was conducting himself like an unscrupulous amateur not worthy of your valuable time and talent and, further, that I had never seen anything like his little independent movie fiasco in all of my years. Now, that was my opinion. There is nothing in our contract that says you have to share my opinions. You are free to ignore them at your peril. So again, what disturbed me was not that chose to re-audition in spite of my opinion. What disturbed me was that you told me point blank that you were not interested in auditioning when you had already done so. What disturbs me is that you lied to me.”