by Owen Thomas
“What does she have to feel guilty about?”
“Leaving Miller.”
“That’s the minor note. What’s the major chord?”
I was stumped. He waited. They all did. I could feel Blair’s eyes on me. If he was bored and annoyed before, he seemed riveted now. I had impressed him. But I was stuck. I could not tell what Angus was after. He was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes boring into me.
“I … I don’t know. Leaving Miller to die. Leaving Miller to rot with his own guilt in his worst nightmare. Alone in space on a deserted planet.”
“No.” Angus was suddenly irritated and impatient. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“Then… what?”
Angus looked around the table, from one blank stare to the next. He came back to me. His eyes had taken on a pleading quality. He wanted me to understand.
“The judgment itself,” he said. “It was Ivanova’s own judgment that crushed Miller, this person who loved her. This person who had found his way through the stiff, unforgiving uniform to the soft humanity inside. The guilt starts there. That’s the origin of the heart’s betrayal. The rest follows purely as a matter of consequence. Ivanova will feel guilty, forever, for judging him.”
“Expiation,” I said, smiling because I could not resist it. “Everything from now on will be about expiation. Judge me. Forgive me. For I have judged without forgiveness. As though Miller was still with her and there was something left to salvage.”
Angus leaned back in his chair, cocking his head to one side, regarding me as if in a new light.
“Love will not be banished,” he said, “nor longing consumed; fates reserved for the heart and the will.”
I sat staring at him stunned, shocked to hear my own words – the words on my audition form – repeated back to me by the author himself. He had committed them to memory. He had held on to them, tucking them away in his mind. He had waited for an opportunity to speak them back to me. I felt naked and embarrassed. I began to blush and the room felt suddenly stifling. It took a moment to realize that no one else in the room had any reason to believe those words had come from me. No one else had any reason to know that Angus was conducting a conversation in a code that only I could understand.
Not that I knew what he was trying to tell me. I really had no idea. But it was clear that he was trying to connect with me and only me. It was clear that he actually wanted to connect. And that idea was completely contrary to what I had imagined, which was that interacting with me beyond what was absolutely essential to conducting business, Blair’s business, a business he hated and that was anathema to his entire professional existence, was the last thing he wanted. It was beginning to dawn on me that almost more than anything else, Angus wanted to be understood, and that I was somehow better at that than anybody else at his disposal.
“Well,” said Blair in a tone of retaking control. “If you two are quite done…”
The meeting trundled on for far too long. Late in its third hour my cell phone began vibrating its way across the table. That was Blair’s cue to call it quits for the day. Everyone stood as I answered. Angus exited the conference room without so much as a word or backwards glance. I looked at the phone, surprised.
“Simon?”
Blair looked down at me, suddenly interested. I nodded and drew a slow finger across my throat.
“Tills. Can you talk?”
“I can now. What’s up?”
“I … I don’t know if you’ve heard …”
Simon’s voice was like someone walking on broken glass in bare feet.
“I received Milton’s termination letter, Simon” I said, still looking at Blair. “This morning.” Blair held out both of his middle fingers and pointed them at the phone.
“Oh. Yes. God. This is terribly awkward on so many levels. That was not my choice. But Milton… He has a lot of pride about these things.”
“Don’t worry about it, Simon. I probably had that one coming. No hard feelings.”
Blair rolled his eyes in disgust and left me alone.
“That’s big of you, Tills. Really.”
“Not at all. I suppose you’ll be wanting to get together to make sure you’re getting a good paper trail on my two current projects.”
“No,” he said. “I know what the letter said, but I’m not an accountant and I’m not comfortable being an … an enforcer. Not even for Milton Chenowith. Have your new agent call me. Let’s work it that way. I’ll tell Milton everything is copasetic.”
“Fine. Easy enough. Thanks.”
“But…” The bits of glass are still under foot.
“But what?”
“God.”
“Simon, what?”
“We do need to meet, Tills. Not for all of that nonsense, but … for something else. Are you free, like… now?”
“Now? Uh… yeah. I guess. Simon, what the hell?”
“I’ve got some news you’re not going to like.”
“What news?”
“It’ll be better if we talk about this in person, martinis at the ready.”
“Jesus, Simon. You can’t leave me hanging. Give me a fucking headline.”
There was a pause with only the wind of the freeway blowing into Simon’s telephone.
“Okay,” he said, sounding trapped. “Fuck all. This just in: Young starlet struggling with professional image hit with fucking sex tape scandal at worst fucking possible time.”
“What? A what?!”
“Photos at eleven.”
* * *
Avoiding any further discussion with Blair, I left the Brightleaf offices in studio rich Burbank and met Simon within the hour for coffee at a little place on Century Park East. The location had been Simon’s choice and was a far cry from the it clubs and the million dollar vista venues he normally recommended to impress me that Simon Caldwell Hunter could swing with the best of them. I surmised that Simon did not want it getting back to Milton that he was meeting with me so soon after I had been fired.
He was sitting outside when I arrived, at a sidewalk table beneath a red umbrella. I stepped in and ordered a latte and then joined him. A steady stream of pedestrians passed us in both directions on the sidewalk. A phalanx of metal newspaper kiosks lined the other side of the sidewalk, beyond which the traffic was unrelenting. On the other side of the street a team of men in orange vests were jackhammering up the concrete. We were alone in a maelstrom of sound and activity.
“I am sorry about Milton, Tills,” he said. His lean face was tense with discomfort. He tugged a little at the knot in his tie as I sat. He squirmed in his chair as if his Brooks Brothers was suddenly too small. “Really.”
“We’ve covered that,” I said, sipping. “Now, tell me something I don’t know.”
“Have you found a new agent? I’ve got some names for you. Good ones. We’re not supposed to do that, but what Milton doesn’t know…”
“Simon, if you don’t quit stalling…”
“Right.” He drank from his cup and watched the traffic. “I received a call this morning from an editor over at Glitterragz. Having no reason to believe otherwise, he called because his research showed CTR as your agent. He asked for Milton, but he’s off golfing with the new head of projects at over at Paramount. So Cynthia gave the call to me. The editor, his name is Greg Chamblis, was looking for a comment on a story they’re running in the next edition. Glitterragz is a weekly, so on Friday it will be in one of those boxes.” Simon pointed to the row of newspaper kiosks.
“He said he has good sources claiming there is a sex video circulating and that you’re on it in living color.”
“Me and who else?”
“Golden Boy.”
“Zack? No way. No way, Simon.”
“He said Glitterragz doesn’t have it and he hasn’t seen it but they are writing about it in their Weekly-Roundup section. He said the buzz is too strong to ignore.”
“Oh, give me just a small break. Too strong to ignore? I d
on’t make sex videos, Simon. It’s just gossip trash from a third-rate tabloid. I’ll admit I’m relatively new at this game, but I know enough that chasing this kind of thing is like chasing your own tail. It’s crap. They’re just looking for a new angle on an old story.”
“That’s basically what I told him right before I hung up on him.”
“So?”
“So, not fifteen minutes later I got a call from Diana Schimmer. She works on media relations for Cecil Abrams. She said that she had just been contacted by a guy who claimed to be a stringer for an unnamed network affiliate. She said he claimed to be in possession of the tape – or, I guess it’s not really a tape, it’s a digital flash drive or something – anyway, he told Diana that he bought it for an undisclosed sum and was prepared to sell it to Abrams for fifty thousand. He said he thought that was a small price to pay to keep Pryce Point off of the tabloid sleaze circuit. He told her that he would be contacting the media organizations next.”
“What did she tell him?”
“To sod off.”
“Good.”
“But then she got two other calls. One from Glitterragz and one from a Fox 11 news reporter. Diana said it sounded to like they were both working off the same contact. The Glitterragz call was essentially the same one I received. He’s got nothing but a story about a possible story. But the guy at Fox 11 said he had seen the video and that it was clearly you and clearly Zack and plenty…”
Simon stopped on a dime, as though he had just realized to whom he was talking. I watched the color rise in his face like a human thermometer.
“What?”
“Well … raw.”
“I can’t believe this. Fox 11 is paying for celebrity skin films?”
“They deny paying anything.”
“What, someone is out there just giving it away? After asking for fifty grand?”
“Got me. All I know is that they’re going with the story tonight. Grainy face shots only, but enough to verify the story.”
“This is news? Really? People having sex?”
“In this town? Come on Tills. There’s more.”
“Shit. What.”
“As Diane was giving a no comment to Fox 11, another call was holding.”
“Who?”
“Danny Blum, Zack’s agent. They got the same call.”
“What is Zack saying?”
“That it’s a load of crap. That it’s a shakedown. Blum was in full damage control mode, trying to orchestrate a coherent response.”
“Did he call you?”
“I called him after I ended with Diane. He was out and I left a message. Turns out Blum was not returning my call because he and Zack’s lawyer were over at Fox 11 trying to shut the whole thing down. Fox consented to show them what they had but they are going ahead with the story. When he finally called me he said there was not much they could do. The report will include a statement from Zack’s people that they believe the video has been faked and that they will be seeking a criminal investigation. But Blum let on that all of that was just bluster. He thinks the video is real. The studio lawyers are involved. I think the strategy is to hunker down, starve the story and let the storm pass.”
“What about me? What are we saying?”
Simon looked down at the table and then up again, wincing.
“I forgot,” I said. “There is no we. I’m recently unrepresented.”
“I tried. Milton’s not getting anywhere near this one.”
“Big surprise. He’s been thrown clear. In the nick of time.”
“Yes. Uncanny, that one. What are you going to do?”
The jack hammers across the street stopped as if the men in the orange vests were also interested in the answer.
“What can I do?” I asked, not expecting a response.
We drank coffee and watched the traffic.
“I guess I’m going to call Zack and find out what the fuck is going on. He called twice this morning while I was in a meeting the new cast. I guess I should have picked up. He never calls me. I should have known it was important. Then I guess I’ll tune in for the show on Fox 11. Tomorrow I’ll start my day by calling my mother and warning her away from all media. Then I’ll have some lunch and after that I’ll kill myself.”
“Not funny,” he said.
“I never said it was.”
“Tills, this will pass,” he said, clasping my hand. “We’ll laugh about this someday, you and me. You’ll be a major star and I’ll own my own agency and we’ll meet every Wednesday for drinks and pasta at Toscanova and we’ll laugh about this little coffee of ours, here on the side of the street with the traffic and the concrete demolition crew. We’ll laugh. I promise.”
“I know. I’m more pissed than anything. If this video is real, then I’m going to kill Zack West. Go ahead and get the bail money ready. And I’ll need some legal talent. Find out what Johnnie Cochran is up to. Wait… too late for Johnnie. Call Robert Blake’s guy.”
“Still not funny.”
I smiled as warmly as my mood allowed and stood to leave.
“You’re a sweet man, Simon. Thanks for doing what you can.”
I hugged him. Unusual for me and he knew it. I was never a hugger in my younger days. But I felt affection for him and gratitude for his loyalty. He pulled me in close and tucked his chin over my shoulder, nestling it around the nape of my neck like a lovesick swan with expensive taste in cologne. I suspect he was feeling suddenly free of his professional conflict of interest, the obvious silver lining in losing me as a client.
“Call me any time, Tills,” he said. “Day or night.”
I gave him a firm pat on the back and pried myself free.
When I got to my car I dialed Zack’s number. It rang over to voicemail and I left a message asking for him to call me back as soon as he could. I sat, watching traffic and wondering what to do next. I decided that home was as good a place as any since I did not have anything else scheduled for the afternoon. Pryce Point was officially entering its post-production phase, which, for an action blockbuster could be expected to last for several months, and while I would certainly be called in for looping, that sort of work would not start for another week or two. The Lion Tree, meanwhile, was not yet off the ground. Brightleaf was still working on re-contracting the labor and Blair had yet to finalize the shooting schedule. I might have called some of my friends, but most of them were working and those that were not working would have taken more emotional energy than I had to give. What I really wanted was to be alone. I started the car and headed for home.
My cell rang before I hit Santa Monica Boulevard. I spoke without looking.
“Zack?”
“No, Blair. But thanks for getting us confused, Tillyjohn. Good for my ego.”
“Sorry. I was expecting Zack.”
“I’ll bet you were.”
“You’ve heard.”
“I’m told we just got a call from a Mr. Chamblis at Glitter-something.”
“Glitterragz.”
“So you know about this?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you known?”
“What time is it? That’s why Simon was calling.”
“I thought he was calling to fire you.”
“Milton took care of that by letter.”
“You’re better off without him. I’ll get you some names. You can do better than those clackers. So what’s this all about, Tilly? Tell me it’s just more tabloid shit about you and Zack.”
“Partly right,” I said.
“Which part?”
“It is about me and Zack.”
“You mean it’s not just tabloid shit?”
“Doesn’t sound like it. No. Fox 11 is running something tonight. Zack’s agent has seen it. Sounds like the real thing.”
There was an empty wind in my ear.
“Blair? Can you …”
“Christ Tillyjohn…are you saying this is real? You and Zack actually…”
“Bl
air. Listen. I don’t know. Okay? I don’t fucking know. This is less than a couple of hours old for me. I haven’t spoken with Zack. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Well … did you or didn’t you?”
“Did I or didn’t I what, Blair? Fuck Zack West? Yes! With abandon! Record it for posterity? Not to my knowledge. Is that good enough for you?”
“This is the last thing I need, Tilly.”
“The last thing you need? Fuck you, Blair.”
“The last thing we need.”
“Too late.”
“Do you have any idea how Angus will react to … to… Christ.”
“To Ivanova, reality-porn queen?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck Angus. He needs to grow up and live in the real world for ten minutes. No one forced him to option that story. He doesn’t have to be involved in this movie. But he did and he is, so he needs to stop being so fucking fragile.”
“This is bad, Tillijohn. You wowed him this morning, but we’re gonna lose him.”
“So let him go.”
“That’s not the way it will work,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said ruefully. “I know. I gotta go, Blair.”
“Who do I talk to at Fox 11?”
“I don’t know. Call Zack’s guy. Danny Blum. He seems to know the most.”
“Keep me posted,” he said.
I hung up without confirming or denying that I intended to keep him posted about anything. The traffic was maddening. The drivers in front of me were indecisive and dawdling. Those behind me were needlessly aggressive and cantankerous, passing me with revving engines and irritated eyes. By the time the road elbowed into West Hollywood I was thoroughly upset with everyone for complicating my life.
At Santa Monica and La Brea, four black and white patrol cars, lights flashing, had converged under the date palms swaying over the sidewalk outside a Starbucks. Drivers slowed, camera-phones at the ready, rubbernecking to see if somebody famous was involved. Traffic crept into a snarl, backing up for a block and a half. Uniformed police stood in knots of two and three, speaking all too leisurely. My phone rang.
“Tilly?”
