“We sailed down to Key West. We’re not turkey people.”
I’m not sure if he means Celeste or Savannah, so I just say, “No, me neither. I’m making Cornish game hens.”
“Will you be serving it with Kathy’s artery-clogging gratin?”
I breathe through this dig at my mother. “And a shitload of wine.”
We can at least agree on wine.
“Well, listen, toots,” he says. “I wanted to give you a quick update onBusted.”
Ah. That would explain why he deigned to call. Trust Roger Marks tomaterialize with demands at the rudest time possible. At least I can stop worrying about it.
“Hold on, let me grab my notebook,” I say, brushing flour off my hands.
“No need,” he says. “I’ll make it quick.”
I get a bad feeling. When it comes to his vaunted work, he’s never quick. “Okay. What’s up?”
“Scott has decided to go in a different direction.”
I relax. Just more revisions. I don’t mind. Editing is my favorite part of writing.
“No worries,” I say. “Should we set up a call to discuss it, or will he send notes?”
“Top-line is he thinks your version is too feminine. So you can stand down.”
“Stand down?”
There’s a very, very long pause.
“Lion Remnick is going to take over from here.”
Lion Remnick is a leading writer of superhero movies, car chase movies, and other movies in which things frequently explode. He’s not even a hack. He’s good at it. He’s the kind of person whose success I compare with my own, and come up short.
It’s not shocking for a script to change hands midway through development. It’s happened to me plenty of times before.
But this script is for myfather.
“Wait, is this Scott’s decision?” I ask, my voice shaking. “You’re an executive producer. He can’t just fire me if you don’t agree with him.”
“I do agree with him,” he says flatly. “In fact, if you must know, I’ve had misgivings since the previous draft, and Lion became available unexpectedly, so—”
“So you brought on someone else behind my back? Because I’m toofeminine?Isn’t that why you hired me in the first place? To write a woman who wasn’t just a stick figure with botched boobs?”
“Look, Molly, it’s show business. I shouldn’t have to tellyouit doesn’t always work out.” The implication being, of course, that nothing of mine has worked out in a while. Not that he would be impressed with another rom-com even if it had.
“Are you serious, Dad?” I yell into my phone.
“You’ll still get paid your fee, of course,” he says calmly. Like this is about money.
“I don’t care about my fee. I care that my own father isfiringme on Thanksgiving.”
“It’s not personal, Molly,” he says with a long-suffering sigh. “I have to do what’s right for the franchise.”
I shake my head at my own reflection in the kitchen window, because I needsomeoneto join me in marveling at how offensive this is.
“Okay, it might not be personal to you. But does it occur to you that it’s personal to me? Do I register to you as a human being at all?”
