Page 39 of The Spirit of Love
“It was a joint effort,” I manage to croak out, suddenly feeling like I might be sick. Holy Catalina. Jude de Silva is here because ofme.
“Sure,” he says, “but you got the credit, which means it was yours originally. I checked. That’s why I wanted to talk to you today in particular. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for what feels like a long time. Although I have to say, you’re not exactly what I expected.”
I narrow my eyes. “Meaning?”
“You’re younger than I guessed. Also, more…female.”
“You thought I was an old man because I’m funny?”
“That’s not what I mean. I couldn’t tell from your name, and IMDb doesn’t have a picture.” His eyes pan my face, like he’s uploading the missing photo with his mind.
“Also,” he says hesitantly, “what happened in Rich’s office this morning threw me for a loop. What was that about?”
He’s looking at me for an explanation, but I don’t owe him anything. He should see the loop he threw me for. I’m still in it, shrieking inwardly, begging to be let off. And now I can’t even blame him. He clearly doesn’t know I was meant to direct this season and he’s ruining my life because I wrote a good episode. I brought this on myself.
“Gardens are closed,” a green-jacketed security guard says,rounding a bank of blue agave. He points a flashlight toward a wide path and says, “Exit’s that way.”
“So ends our film noir,” I say to Jude.
“ ‘I steal,’ ” Jude whispers.
“What?” I ask, startled.
“That’s the last line ofI Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang,” Jude says. “My favorite film noir.”
Ilovethat movie, too. Edie and I used to watch it with my dad on the couch in our garage, but I don’t tell this to Jude de Silva. Even if he’s not just here for the paycheck, even if he does claim to be a fan of the show, he’s still my competition. Not my colleague. Not my friend.
Chapter Ten
“Wow, rough day?” says thewoman in the pantsuit who opens the door when I buzz at LouLou’s Bridal.
“It’s that obvious?” I’d planned to make it inside the shop, and hopefully into the comforting arms of my friends, before my total emotional breakdown. But this woman—with her blond ponytail pulled regulation tight and her taupe lipstick matching her taupe uniform—tells me with one look of her pale-blue eyes that she can read me like a billboard.
I spent the drive from the Huntington Gardens to the bridal shop imploding like the big bang in reverse.
Because the reason for my crisis is entirely my fault. I did the thing I’ve spent my whole life trying to do: I moved someone with my work. The poetic justice is a little absurd.
Sure, Rich and the president of CBS helped out by being douchebags. By sidelining me because they know I’ll wait my increasingly long turn. By bowing to the industry’s overinflated idea of Jude’s worth compared to mine. But the real shock here is that my current situation isn’t actually Jude’s fault. All he did was laugh at my jokes.
I imagine him in his living room, fighting over quinoa salad and my writing with some beautiful girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.
And now that I know all this, I have to go back to worktomorrow, demoted, but I don’t even get to hate him for it. Which leaves me feeling a little adrift. If I can’t blame Jude de Silva for stealing my job—if I am, in fact, the master of this disaster—then what the hellcanI blame him for?
It’s his eyes I can’t stop thinking about—and believe me, I have tried. At sunset tonight, I was sure of it: same color, close in shape, similarly unforgettable brows as Sam.
And yes, I know it’s impossible.
Maybe everything that happened today was so shocking, it was the emotional equivalent of a blunt blow to the head. And now I’m concussed and confused, wishing I had amnesia.
Google failed to help me sort it out. She served up plenty of Getty images where I could study Jude de Silva’s eyes from the safety of my car. Google was scarcer on images of Sam, whose last name I somehow never caught. His face didn’t pop up when I tried his first name + a slew of reasonable keywords.
Sam+Parsons Landing
Sam+Search and Rescue
Sam+carpenter+Jet Ski+sex stallion
In sum, I couldn’t do a proper side-by-side comparison, which means I’m having to rely on my memory of Sam.
