Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
I SIT UNDER MY DESK WHERE IT’S SAFE. THERE’S NO place left to fall when I’m down here. It’s where you’d sit in an earthquake. My office door is closed, and I just need a minute in this small space to regroup. The hard plastic mat that my chair rolls around on feels cool under me. My knees are pulled up to my chest, and I look up at the underside of my desk drawer where I’ve written the word “please” six times since my promotion. I can’t say exactly why making it in this business means so much to me. Show business was a lifeline for my mom and me when I was a kid, and I mean that literally in the way a lifeline can be food and shelter. But it was also such a weird way to grow up, on television, always being a joke. I just want to be taken seriously for once, and preferably in the world I was raised in. I can’t bear the thought of being part of the next round of layoffs, sent home with a cardboard box and a pity smile. I want Hollywood to give me a hug or a gold star, or at least a better table at the Ivy.
My current office has a view of the very top of Pantheon Television and the soundstage where Pop Rocks was filmed. The show followed four middle schoolers, unlikely friends, who started an after-school band and became pop stars. If I get a film made, there’s a chance I will move to an office on the other side of the building, where I won’t have to look at it. Inside that studio was our fake high school classroom, fake recording studio, and fake auditorium where we were discovered and given our own fake record contract.
My character, Janey Jakes, is immortalized as a meme, the one you send your friends after they accidentally reply all or pull out of a parking lot with a bag of groceries on their car. Oof! I’m thirty-three now, and people seldom recognize me, but it happens. They see me at Starbucks making my famous oof face while trying to force open the cream container, and they sing the familiar show ender: “Poor Janey, do do do do do do” I smile politely at their joke and pose for their selfie, but honestly, it’s a nightmare.
Hailey Soul, the lead singer, went on to be a soap opera star and is now a Manhattan mom of three kids with a million Instagram followers (including me) who like to see what she’s wearing and harvesting in her urban garden. Hailey has long legs. She has a dad who used to surprise her on set and calls her Cricket. Hailey and her husband have a meet- cute story that involves a horse. Hailey is the haver of good things. Hailey is an eternal frontliner. Even in sweatpants plucking leaves off her basil plant for the camera, she is a star.
Like Jack Quinlan, Hailey is a measuring stick for me. It’s not healthy, but I scroll her Instagram and keep score. Me: one small house; Hailey: two large ones. Me: an awkward side hug after a third date with an orthodontist; Hailey: a surprise trip to Lake Como for her fifth wedding anniversary. My Manifest a Solid Partner project was born just after her third child, when she posted a photo of the baby in her arms, wrapped in cashmere and bathed in the soft light of her East Hampton firepit.
I reach on top of my desk for a pen and write “please” one more time on the bottom of the drawer before crawling out and standing up like a normal person.
I check my inbox, and Nathan’s secretary is confirming our nine a.m. appointment. She’s always very formal, like she works for the king. I pull my copy of the script out of my bag. “True Story,” it says in the typewriter font that still makes me think something exciting is about to happen.
“You look pretty in red.” Mandy, my assistant, is standing in my doorway with a pink smoothie.
“Thank you,” I say. “Big day.” I straighten up in my chair in case there’s any part of my posture that would suggest I’ve recently been crouched on the floor.
She plops down on the sofa across from my desk. “So, Nathan at nine. In his office. With the director he’s considering, some guy named Rodney Whistler.”
“Yeah, I knew about him. But what I didn’t know is that Nathan’s also brought in Dan Finnegan as cinematographer.” Besides this being a total disaster, it’s weird that he invited a cinematographer to this meeting. Nathan has a little man-crush on Dan’s last movie, which won some awards and which Dan probably calls a “film.” I try to push away the thought that Nathan is looking for his opinion on this script.
“Dan with the man-bun who ruins everything?”
“The very one. Well, I made up the man-bun part.” I don’t really like the look on Mandy’s face. There’s pity there, as if we just opened a window and watched my big break fly away. I fold my hands on my desk in a vaguely presidential way to suggest the sort of calm and focus associated with a person who’s got this.
“I’m sorry, this could have been a really good movie,” she says. When I don’t say anything, she goes on. “I mean, he might not shit all over it?”
I laugh a not-giving-up laugh.
When she’s left, I bury my face in my hands and press my fingers into my forehead. I can feel the cog in my brain that’s popped out and snagged my entire system. Dan is a giant loose cog in my life, out of nowhere. I have no idea why he has this effect on me. I have to go into this meeting calm and dignified. I have to reply to his criticisms with be- that-as-it-mays instead of shut-up-you-stupid-jerks. Dan gets under my skin. And honestly, the whole purpose of skin is to keep things out.
*
NATHAN HAS A huge corner office, which is supposed to convey his general importance, though I’ve never seen more than four people in there at a time. He normally likes to conduct meetings in the conference room next door with lots of food, specifically a large bowl of peanut M&M’s and a platter of wrap sandwiches. There’s always one of each kind—tuna, egg salad, turkey, ham, and one completely delicious grilled vegetable with mozzarella and the exact right amount of pesto. Unfortunately, today we are meeting in his office with four club chairs set around a coffee table and absolutely no snacks.
His assistant announces me at the door. “Jane Jackson, sir,” she says.
He takes off his reading glasses. “Come, sit,” he says and directs me to the club chair across from his. Behind him is a floor-to-ceiling window that almost perfectly frames the Hollywood sign in the distance. I think about this every time I go to his office, the almost of it. If this building were moved four yards to the right, that sign would be perfectly centered. I wonder if this drives Nathan mad.
“I’m excited about the script,” I say.
“Yes. We paid less for the option than I thought we would.”
“Good, that’s good,” I say. I smooth my dress over my knees and then squeeze my hands together. Calm, confidence. Inexplicably, I think of Hailey Soul for the second time in an hour, and I mimic the way she rolls her shoulders back and looks just the right amount bored.
“Yes,” he says, though it sounds like no, just as Dan and Rodney appear in the doorway.
I squeeze my hands together tighter as Dan takes the seat next to mine and Rodney sits across from him.
“Jane,” Rodney says. “Nice to see you again. I think this script was a great find.”
“Thank you,” I say. And it’s just what I needed. A compliment, an affirmation. This is a great script and I’ve brought it here. Showtime, people. I stop myself before I turn to Dan and smirk.
Nathan says, “I wanted to meet and hear your thoughts on casting and how and where this thing gets filmed, but I was talking to the head of the green light committee last night, and there’s a little concern that this film won’t be commercial enough to make sense for us.”
“It’s plenty commercial,” I say without really thinking. “Super commercial.”
“It’s not, actually,” says Dan. He’s leaning forward in his chair with his forearms resting on his knees. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, and there’s a thin bracelet around his wrist, just a piece of string. Literally everything about Dan is annoying.
“It is,” I say and then force myself to take a breath. “I mean, why would you say that?” I turn my body toward him and rest my hands in my lap, trying for the gesture of someone who has just completed a delightful yoga class.
“The casting doesn’t lend itself to big stars,” he starts.
“Which is great because we don’t have the budget for them,” I say and turn back to Nathan. “This film is funny and different and irreverent. It’s like spring break in movie form.”
“Spring break?” asks Rodney.
“Yeah, like a big, great time,” I say.
Dan lets out a breath. “I don’t really know what script you read.”
I’m not sure what’s happening with this conversation right now, but there’s something moving through my nervous system that is dangerously close to proving that Dan’s right about my being completely unhinged. My challenge and best revenge is to stay hinged.
“The same one you did, Dan.” I say his name like it’s a joke.
He rolls his eyes at me and says to Nathan, “Of course this is a comedy, but what I love is the quiet romance that’s growing in the background. When all the laughs and music die down, it ends with the two of them. And that’s the beauty of this script and the thing people are going to connect to.” He lifts his hand and almost places it on his heart, but doesn’t.
“People want superheroes,” Nathan says. “Explosions and disasters. They’ll only go for this kind of film if it’s got huge stars, like every big star. And I don’t think we can pull that off.”
Rodney nods.
Dan lets out a breath and sort of scrunches up his eyes as if he’s not sure he should say what he’s about to say. “That’s all very loud,” he says. “People want love. They want to feel connected and like they’re okay.”
“In real life, maybe,” Nathan says. “But people aren’t paying movie theater prices for that.”
“I think they would pay for this one,” Dan says. The balls on this guy. I mean all the balls in the world. But I agree. This script makes me feel like it’s possible that even I could be connected and okay someday.
“I do too,” I say. I’m surprised by the sound of my voice because it’s calmer than I am currently feeling, and because I’ve agreed with Dan out loud. “It’s a very funny script, but it’s the love story that gives it weight. And if people don’t want the weight, it still feels like a big, raucous comedy that will turn any cast into stars.”
“Again, you might be missing the point,” Dan says to me. “The bigness and the raucousness is ironic, Jane. It’s in-your-face to hide the vulnerability of the characters.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dan. I forgot this was our American lit seminar and that you’re the guy with the man-bun who smells like weed.”
And just like that, I have lost my cool.
Dan laughs. “Yes, the man-bun was huge at Brown ten years ago.”
“You went to Brown?” asks Rodney.
“No.” Dan laughs that annoying, smug at-you-not-with- you laugh. “Listen, Jane. I’m not going to let you turn Casablanca into The Hangover.”
“Let me?” I say, too loudly.
“See! The Hangover had stars,” says Nathan. “And a tiger. Jane. That’s what this thing needs. A megastar and a tiger.”
Dan leans back in his chair like he’s given up. He’s watching me as I sit stick straight, squeezing my hands together and listening to the roar of blood in my brain. I don’t understand how the opinion of a glorified cameraman keeps derailing my career. Hailey has a beach house. Jack has a gold album. I can feel this moment slipping away. Nathan slaps his knees as if he’s about to say, Thanks for stopping by, and shoo us all out. Rodney is looking at his phone, and Dan’s watching me with that unnerving intensity. We might both be concerned that my head is about to explode.
“I know Jack Quinlan.” I don’t say it as much as I toss the words onto the table in front of us. Like it’s the title of an essay I haven’t written and I’m just floating the idea.
Nathan leans back in his chair. “Oh?”
All eyes are on me, and I can actually feel where the runaway train has clicked back onto its track. The roaring of blood in my head slows. “Yes, since I was a kid.”
“Does he act?” asked Rodney. “He’s plenty commercial.” He laughs at his understatement.
I’m not entirely sure what I’ve started or where I’m going with this. But Nathan’s countenance has changed from No to I’m listening.
“No, but he could write a song for the soundtrack,” I say. Nathan and Rodney are looking at me like I am going to solve this problem, like they respect my leadership here. This is exactly the feeling I was hoping for when I walked in today.
Dan, however, rolls his eyes. “How are you going to pull that off?”
I have an image in my head of me trying to climb a ladder while a little raccoon is after me, gnawing on my shoe. I need to shake my foot to get free and maybe give that raccoon a black eye in the process.
“I talk to him all the time,” I say. “He’ll totally do it.”