Chapter 33
33
Saturday, February 24th
I t was early Saturday morning, and I was the doomedest woman in Hollywood. I was convinced I was never going to be allowed to sleep past 7 a.m. again. That’s what you get when you’re a bad woman who keeps two boyfriends and breaks up with them on the same day. All those thoughts were clouding my mind as my cell phone kept insistently ringing.
“Hello?” I finally managed to answer. I’d checked two things before answering it even in my heavy somnolent state: time and identity caller.
It was 6:34 a.m. on a fucking Saturday, and Beatrice was responsible for interrupting my dreams.
“Good! You’re up!” she said, way too much pep in her voice for that early in the morning.
“Not really,” I assured her, still lying in bed and sounding like a heavy smoker. My voice was coarse.
“If you leave now, you’ll manage to get there on time-ish,” she said, and she clearly didn’t realize I wasn’t following—or going anywhere outside of the confines of my own bed.
“And where am I supposed to be going?” The sarcasm was unmistakable in my tone. Yet she succeeded in ignoring it.
“You’ve been invited to join Fred Appleton during his morning hike in Griffith Park.” I didn’t have time to protest. “Now, don’t get agitated. I’m assured it’s just a one-mile loop at an easy pace, so even exercise-shy people can endure it.”
I guess the implication was that I was exercise-shy and completely out of shape, and that may be somewhat marginally true. But I still got offended. And I still wasn’t completely following what Beatrice was telling me. I wasn’t even fully awake.
“Elena, I know it’s a bit early,” Beatrice conceded.
“So you realize that calling me before 10 a.m. on a Saturday is not normal?” Had I not been so fucking asleep, I would have also wanted her to know that it was completely uncool of her.
“Fred is moving to New York, flying there tomorrow actually. And he’d love it if you could join him for a walking meeting. He promised to honor my deadline. You still have till 5 p.m. today to decide about joining NYC Misconducts , but he’d love to chat with you this morning,” Beatrice explained, trying to maintain a reasonable tone.
“When?” I asked, resigned.
“His daily walk starts at 7 a.m.,” my agent said. When she realized I was about to revolt, she added, “Even if you decide not to work on NYC Misconducts , he still knows plenty of people and is a good friend to have. You may not know who your next showrunner is going to be, but I’m sure Fred could introduce you to anyone in town.”
Aargh!
…
Seven minutes after hanging up with Beatrice, I was picked up by a smiling Uber driver who looked much more aware of his surroundings than I was. There was no chance I’d be driving in the state I was in. I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—no, I hadn’t undressed when I got home the night before and now it came in handy because I literally had no time for anything. I was still very much unshowered, unshampooed, and un-everything. I had brushed my teeth, but that was all the effort I’d put in. The truth is, I hadn’t even put much effort into that. I may have fallen asleep on the bathroom sink while brushing.
Oh, and I was pissed. With the world. With my parents for having uprooted us so many years before. I was sure I’d be a model citizen if we’d stayed in Barcelona (or at least for sure a person who showered every day. People were big into grooming in Europe, no?). I was pissed with the city of Los Angeles for having good traffic only during early mornings on weekends when I was always invariably sleeping. Pissed with Beatrice for waking me up. With Fred for being a fucking pain in the ass who couldn’t take No, I don’t want to work on your TV show for an answer. But mainly and most ardently, I was pissed with David for being a conniving, insufferable liar who’d gotten me addicted to sensational sex and had turned out to be a suspicious and sloppy non-killer and a careerist of the worst kind.
I was still fuming when the Uber driver dropped me off at the meeting point Beatrice had so generously sent to my cell phone. It was an empty parking lot in the heart of Griffith Park with nothing in sight but a presiding fig tree at its center, a neighboring golf course, and the skyline of downtown Burbank and the San Gabriel mountains in the far hazy horizon. I don’t think I can reiterate enough how much the place was the middle of fucking nowhere.
I thanked my driver and left the car reluctantly.
I checked the time on my cell phone: 7:01 a.m. Fred was late. Because who is early for a 7 a.m. meeting? Not a screenwriter if you’ve met one in your life. We’re always fashionably late, unfashionably dressed, and carrying a cup of coffee. Which reminded me: Why hadn’t I stopped for some coffee?
While I was waiting for Fred, I did what any other high-functioning millennial does if faced with the horror of having to kill some time: I immersed myself in my cell phone.
I was about to open Instagram to check some videos of cute kitties to soothe my temper and then I remembered I’d left my sister’s place the previous night and never bothered telling her that I wasn’t going to be there when she got home. So I texted her, knowing well that she was way smarter than me and always remembered to silence her cell phone before bed. I had been violently woken up. I didn’t want to do the same to a dear relative.
Fought with David yesterday. Don’t ask him to tell you about it. I want you to have my version FIRST
He’s a master manipulator!!
Also, he’s wanted for murder but don’t worry. I wouldn’t have left him with you if he was guilty. I ran all the events of Wednesday night in my mind again and there’s no chance he killed Henry.
I can’t go over them with you because it’s a bit awkward
Btw, I’m already awake because Fred Appleton wanted to meet me for a “walking meeting”
I hate Hollywood
I guess I’d been really immersed in the one-way message conversation with my sister because I didn’t see Fred arriving, parking, and getting out of his car.
“What a beautiful morning,” he told me out of nowhere, and I almost dropped my cell phone from the fright.
“Morning,” I grumbled in reply as I judged his iced Erewhon latte. Out of absolute spite and pure prejudice, I assumed it had to be packed with sweeteners and not strong enough. Also, who drinks cold coffee in February?
“I was so glad to hear you wanted to join me for a walk this morning,” Fred said, and I think, for the first time in years, I genuinely wished my parents would have never moved to Los Angeles. For one, I know for a fact no one has any kind of work meetings on Saturdays in Barcelona, no matter the time let alone seven in the fucking morning. But also, there I would have been able to forgo the niceties and simply say what I wanted to say: I never wanted to be here. You requested my attendance .
We headed for the steep dusty trail, and I realized this wasn’t going to be an easy walk. And I wasn’t wearing the right shoes, clothes, or attitude.
As I tried catching up with Fred’s power walk cadence, which was definitively no easy pace, I made up my mind. I had it with Hollywood. I had it with California. I had it with everyone. I was moving back to Barcelona where I’d be able to sleep in on weekends and actually bathe on the beach during summer. I was so immersed in my inner ideal future life in Barcelona, I didn’t hear anything Fred was telling me.
“Elena, are you feeling okay?” he finally said.
“Uh, sure.” I snapped out of my Barcelonian fantasy, which wasn’t as much a desire as a sort of pretend daydream. “Just incredibly sleepy. I worked until late last night and my agent called me early this morning. I had no clue this meeting was happening.”
Heh, Elena Freire Valls was finally fed up and had decided to abandon her polite California ways.
“Sorry about that,” Fred said, uncomfortable.
“So, you wanted to talk?” I just wanted to get over that conversation and head straight to my bed.
“Wondering if you’ve heard about my next project...”
“ NYC Misconducts , is it?” I tried to sound a bit more civil when I remembered Fred knew a bunch of people who could potentially become my next boss or my next producer.
“Exactly. It’s going to be a complete departure. A fresh new concept. A new challenge full of opportunity and creativity.” I promise you I did my best not to roll my eyes. But come on! He was talking about a fucking spin-off of a procedural show that had been molded around so many other pre-existing properties already. Could we at least stop pretending that what we were talking about was original!
“And I hear you want to be completely based in New York,” I said because I literally couldn’t think of anything else.
“It’s integral for the inception and development of the show that its team be based in Gotham City,” Fred said, and I think here I did let my eyes do all the rolling they wanted.
“I see.”
“I hear you’re not a big fan of the Big Apple,” Fred said.
Fucking Beatrice . I was surrounded by blabbermouths and gossipmongers.
“On the contrary, I love New York,” I said. And that was true. I loved going there every year. I attended a bunch of Broadway shows, went to more museums than I could remember, saw some friends, walked to the extreme of exhaustion. And then I returned home and put the mufflers, scarves, and mittens back at the bottom of the closet.
“So I’ve been misinformed then,” Fred said, and I’m aware that I was making things a little bit unpleasant with so much confrontation. But I really couldn’t give a damn. And I sort of liked the sensation.
“Are you attending the SAG Awards tonight?” I finally decided to change subjects.
“Yes. Amelia is nominated for the movie that me and Archie produced with her. Are you her plus one?”
“I think I’m supposed to be her plus one for the after party.” I suddenly remembered. And I guessed that at some point between then and that evening, I really needed to squeeze in that shower. Maybe even do something with my mop of hair.
“Well, let’s talk tonight then,” Fred said. “Beatrice said you’ll be more open to talk about your future then.”
How do you answer such a bunch of coded words and indirect terms?
“Let’s.” That’s how. I guess.
“And I hear you’re working on something else at the moment?” He was doing all the heavy lifting, carrying the weight of the conversation. But my mind was fried. I was tired and dragging my feet, and I really just wanted to be sleeping. Also, his fucking question reminded me of David, and that only made things worse.
“Been working on my spec,” I said, but what screenwriter wasn’t doing that? “And dabbling as an investigative reporter.”
“Really?” Fred sounded genuinely interested, and I couldn’t avoid feeling pleased about it. I can’t stress enough how much constant praise and reassurance writers need all the time. We’re needy.
“Well, since Dashing died in my building, as I’m sure you’ve read about it”—I didn’t leave him the option to comment on that—“I’ve been investigating on the side. See if there’s a movie to be written about it.”
“About how he died?” Fred asked.
“And who killed him,” I said. Even if I wasn’t anywhere near an answer for that, Fred was also a producer and I’d be needing one at some point. So I really needed to sell the hell out of the screenplay I hadn’t written—or even outlined—yet. “I mean, the story has everything: a Hollywood backdrop, a whodunnit, a controversial famous figure, and the whole true crime angle, which now is golden.”
“Do you know who killed him?” Fred asked and his interest was piqued for sure.
“Getting closer,” I bluffed.
As we continued with the power walk for a few more minutes, I finally breathed in relief when I recognized the parking area where we’d first started our hike. The loop from hell—and one of the most inconvenient meetings in my career—was finally about to be over. One good thing about Americans: they know how to do a proper quick sendout.
I was debating whether to ask Fred to drop me off somewhere a bit more convenient to hitch a ride from there or simply try my luck asking for an Uber to pick me up in the middle of nowhere with the advantage of having to wait for my transportation alone.
There weren’t that many cars parked at the structure that time of the morning. But one of them stood out even if it shouldn’t have. It was a perfectly common silver Toyota Prius. I recognized the red and green sticker right away. And Fred was heading to that car.
“Did you drive?” he asked me.
“Oh, I just Ubered.” My mind was on overdrive. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What was I supposed to do?
“Want me to drop you off somewhere?” he offered.
Somewhere even more remote where you can chop me up never to be found by my family again because I just bluffed?
“No, thank you. I think I’ll walk.” Believe me, I know. Worst excuse possible. It would have worked in New York, actually. But not in LA. It was probably a two-hour walk from where we were to the Southern limit of Griffith Park. And, from there, two and a half more hours on foot to my place, plus crossing a couple of freeways. So you get the incongruity.
“Elena, not so fast. Walking from here is madness! You’re not even wearing proper gear!” Fred tried stopping me, and my heart leaped into my throat. I tried to pull away, but his fingers clamped around my arm.