She was all fake niceness and actually from New Jersey—not that there’s anything wrong about that, it’s just not even in the same state as New York City—but I shrugged in acceptance. I avoided conflict like the plague.
“Now Elena, honey, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially today,” Beatrice said.
Then don’t, I thought but, again, I didn’t say it out loud.
“How are you doing on that high-concept spec of yours? What was it...Godfathermeets90210? Is it anywhere to be read?”
“Almost there,” I lied.
I said I didn’t lie as a narrator—I didn’t say anything about not lying as a regular person. The script about a teenage girl and daughter of a mafia leader, who moves with her family from Miami to Beverly Hills and is forced to make new friends, was nowhere near ready to be read. I was stuck with writing a story I thought the market may find amusing—and some streaming service an absolute must to produce—but I wasn’t feeling it anymore even if I tried to continue typing.
“I need something from youpronto, honey,” Beatrice said, and I’m not even going to try and describe her pronunciation of the wordpronto. I can only imagine that, because she was meeting with a Spaniard, she thought its use appropriate. Never mind that I have dual citizenship, speak four languages, and my English—if accented—is more than proficient. “Either you write something extremely sellable and commercial, or you accept theNYC Misconductsoffer you’re being all snobby about. But I can’t have you doing nothing for much longer. Per the conditions of your overall deal, you owe the studio something. Something they like,” she added before I could protest and bring up the four projects I’d pitched and written and they had rejected. Perhaps this was why I wasn’t feeling my latest spec script attempt. I’m perfectly aware that having thick skin is the number one quality to being a successful screenwriter, but who can take so much rejection?
“And I assume I don’t have to remind you that the overall deal runs out in three months. The chances of the studio renewing it are getting slimmer as the market for overall deals is getting colder. So take the job they’re offering you or get me something juicy.”
There it was. The not-so-veiled threat behind a mask of fake smiles and concernedhoneys. Either I delivered something soon or I could start thinking about shopping for a new agent, because Beatrice was going to put me in client Siberia.
9
Iwould be lying if I didn’t admit I was worried about Beatrice’s words. It wouldn’t be the first time she chastised a client whose output wasn’t to her satisfaction. She was known for her ruthlessness in contract negotiations and getting the best terms for her clients—but also for asking said clients to produce their best work and be their best selves.
I knew she’d been extremely generous and patient with me. Quite lenient too, for her standards. I also suspected she’d only done that because of who I was. And by that, I don’t mean my natural talents as a screenwriter or the fact that I had all the markings to become the next Michelle King or Jenji Kohan, but who my parents were and their position in the city and the Hollywood industry.
I was walking home, still worried about my prospects if I became a screenwriter whose agent was actively ignoring her—or even an unrepped one—when I realized the perfect story was waiting for me. It had everything: a glamorous setting, the tragic death of a famous actor, and all the ingredients of a riveting whodunnit. I just needed to figure out who actually did it and write a script about it. And who better to help me figure all of that out than a hunky investigative reporter with whom I shared a lot of history?
He’d already told me no when I’d asked to join the investigation of the case that morning. But he couldn’t say no to me again, right? I wasn’t going to give him the option this time. I couldn’t afford it. I needed to work on this with him and get the perfect tale on which to base my next project.
I called David from the street, ready to leave him a voicemail, but he answered right away.
“Where are you?”
“Why?” he answered.
“Because I’m obviously coming. You need help, Scribe.”
I hadn’t used the affectionate term with him since we’d broken up. Hell, I probably hadn’t used it for weeks or even months before the separation, and I knew he couldn’t resist it. He’d always loved it when I used tender words with him, perhaps because I’d rarely done it.
“I’m at the swimming pool,” he said, and I rolled my eyes.
Why couldn’t he work from his desk at the newsroom or at home or even from his sofa, like a normal writer? He always needed to be out and about, writing from the weirdest places. I did most of my writing directly from bed and had never been able to understand the coffee-shop and public-space dwellers.
I accelerated my walking cadence and made it to my destination in ten minutes. The swimming pool is on the rooftop of the Eastern Columbia, overlooking the building’s turquoise and gold-embellished clock tower. Sadly, the elevators were still not functioning and by the time I made it to the rooftop, I was sweating and breathing heavily.
It wasn’t even that hot, but David was lounging on a lawn chair, his computer propped on his lap, his T-shirt missing.
If this was some sort of strategy on his part to look sexy and make me ogle, he was succeeding.
Extremely.
“Have news about the pecs—about the death!” I stumbled. My subconscious has always been treasonous.
“Please sit down and tell me,” he said, smiling and signaling the lawn chair next to him.
Let me restate that he was shirtless.
“I have conditions,” I managed to say firmly, standing at a distance and trying to look only at his face. I don’t think I managed. I also don’t think anyone was buying my pretend apathy toward him.
“Of course you do,” he said, putting his laptop aside and sitting upright.
