Chapter Three Kim #2
He gave her a playful kiss. “Okay. I mean, it ruins the whole game, but... it’s sweet, actually, and pretty damn cute.”
And soon they were in bed. Whatever raw emotions hadn’t been dulled by the weed added a tinge of tenderness to their sex, yet Jane still couldn’t inhabit her own body.
She was thinking about how Teddy could be so carefree, while she was so laden with cares.
Their sexual routine had become so familiar to her, she knew all his moves, as well as her own.
Because it was rote, it was easy to disassociate, yet still manage to climax.
Jane never slept well after any weed intake—inhaled or edibles—so it had taken her a long time to wake up this morning.
Yet despite running late, this morning, like every morning, Jane trepidatiously stepped onto the scale, then looked down at the number and shrugged, realizing once again that this was pointless, but also feeling helpless to stop.
On some days, Jane felt okay, almost confident, about her looks.
She could be grateful for her thick chestnut hair, which she wore a few inches below her shoulders; perhaps her pale skin was a nice contrast to the tumble of dark hair; maybe her hazel eyes were intriguingly mutable.
She was an assiduous exerciser, so even though she wasn’t exactly body positive, objectively she knew she was in good shape.
Nevertheless, her daily weigh-in reigned as the most pernicious quantifier of self-worth, and Jane had tried many different modes of measurement.
She’d taken a personality test, which diagnosed her as—surprise!
—a perfectionist. She’d done hydrostatic body fat testing, supposedly the most accurate fat measurement of all.
When she went into a tailspin about the result, Teddy tried to console her—couldn’t she just look in the mirror and see how gorgeous she was?
Of course she couldn’t, but she didn’t tell him that.
Realizing the weed hangover was making her slightly brain-foggy and irritable, Jane forced herself to bring her attention back to Kim’s desk and plucked a private school bill from atop a pile of papers. Twenty thousand dollars was only half a year’s tuition. Wow.
Kim had perched nearby at the dining room table, dispiritingly close to the threshold of the office, and the piercing tone of her voice set Jane on edge.
“Tom, I can’t get this movie made unless Sally does another pass on the script.
That’s simply the facts.... It feels—musty.
... Yes, I was on with her earlier, and I was trying to give her my thoughts, but she is very defensive and doesn’t seem to get it.
... I mean, I actually think it’s kind of misogynistic.
... Yes, Tom, women can be as guilty of misogyny as men.
Listen, I can’t tell her how to fix it, I can only tell her what’s not working.
I mean, I spent a lot of time trying to get her to a deeper place. ”
Jane was reminded of why she made the decision to ditch show business.
It attracted deeply insecure people desperate to prove they were talented and worthy.
Not only the actors and writers and directors, but also the agents and executives and producers.
It was a clusterfuck. Kim’s demeanor was probably a shield for her core bundle of insecurities.
But if you are insecure, why go into a field that provides absolutely no security? Was it bravery? Ego? Stupidity?
Jane was glad she got out before it was too late. And on a good day, she thought of her organizing work as a kind of noble public service. But it was going to be very hard for her to keep her new resolution. She was finding a lot to loathe about Kim but so far could not find a single thing to like.
Jane had spent the better part of an hour sorting scripts, letters, legal pads, bills, prescriptions.
The screenplays were dog-eared and often wine-stained.
The legal pads were blanketed with frightening doodles.
There were lots of stray pills. She found correspondence with the tutors and teachers about her son’s ADHD and emails pertaining to Kim’s acrimonious divorce from her Spanish husband.
He had sired her two children, then promptly picked up and gone back to Madrid, and now was trying to get spousal support from her.
Jane noticed that Kim’s Beverly Hills divorce attorney was none other than Kelsey’s father, which made perfect sense and was also disturbing: the world could be too small.
The simple act of sifting through all this stuff made Jane unexpectedly sad. Even, perhaps, sad for Kim, who was still on the phone. She was being whiny, then plaintive, then strident—an atonal symphony of aggravation, the perfect soundtrack for the ninth circle of hell.
“Okay, Tom, listen—I’m really upset. I have put a lot of my time into this project and if Sally thinks I’m a bitch, well.
.. no, I don’t want to take her to lunch.
She needs to figure out how to address these notes.
I am on her side! Please let her know that.
I don’t love being the messenger, but—someone has to!
Okay, do what you need to do. Thanks, sweetie, bye. ”
Kim went briefly into the kitchen, then emerged holding a bowl of green grapes. She took a bite of one, then put the other half back in the bowl.
“How’s it going? Oh god, all those papers.”
She was so thin. Too thin. Jane waffled between worry and jealousy.
“Do you ever freeze them?”
“Huh?” Kim seemed startled by the question. Was it impertinent? Too personal? Jane was only trying to be friendly.
“My mom used to freeze grapes and eat them as like, you know, diet food.”
“Oh, no, I don’t need to diet because I’m not an eater. But are you hungry? Would you like something?”
This sounded somewhere between a challenge and an accusation.
“No, I’m good, thank you,” Jane said. Time to change the subject. “So, your papers. I sorted them—scripts, notes, legal, bills, miscellany—and organized by date when possible.”
Kim eyed the stack warily.
“So you didn’t organize them by project?”
“This is just the first step.”
“But did you do any culling?”
Jane suppressed an urge to bolt. “Well, probably better we do that together.”
Kim scowled, defying all the neurotoxins that had been injected into her forehead.
“You can’t do that for me?”
“I’d be happy to do it myself.” Indeed, she would have been; it was preferable to spending any more time with this woman. “But I might mistakenly toss something of importance.”
“So you can’t discern what’s important and what’s irrelevant?”
Her questions were minefields. Jane struggled to find a way to respond that would not sound defensive or patronizing and couldn’t. Which was fine, because Kim kept talking.
“I mean, that was the problem with my assistant: she had no idea what to prioritize. I can’t even tell you.”
Jane felt her cheeks burning.
“I am not sure you understand the parameters, Kim. I am not an assistant. Or a secretary. I am an organizer. You have to be willing to explain what your needs are so I can try to meet them.”
She didn’t bother revealing she’d once been an assistant in the entertainment business. People like Kim were the reason she got out of it.
“Whatever, I really don’t have time to tell you how to do your job.”
Jane felt a chill down her spine. This constant undercurrent of recrimination was reminding her of her mother.
When she’d returned home for Christmas break during her freshman year of college, her mother had given her a cursory hug, asking, “What did you do to your hair?” Jane had a new short haircut with curtain bangs, which she had thought looked edgy and adult. What should she say?
Her father came to her rescue. “Leave her alone.”
“I’m only trying to understand. Her long hair was an asset, and a girl needs every advantage she can get.” Jane did like it longer, but now it was—and would forever be—tied to her mother’s opinion, and she didn’t want her mother to be right.
Yes, Kim and Jane’s mother brought the same note of disapproval to every declaration and gesture.
It was a disturbing legacy to have gotten from a parent—and so unpleasant, besides.
Jane wondered what Kim’s mother must be like, and then an even more disturbing thought surfaced: What if Jane was actually like her own mother, projecting a default disapproval of everything?
The thought was so unnerving. Jane felt trapped and vertiginous. She needed to get out.
“Kim, I am so sorry.... I’m not sure I can offer what you want. I need to clear my head and think about the best approach.”
“Okay, well—then why don’t you just go. I hope I am not expected to pay for any of this.”
“I was thinking I could take a quick walk, which helps me think, and maybe I could come up with some solutions.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I could also come back another day—”
Jane did not like feeling defeated. She was a pro, after all.
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
Jane drove down the hill toward Ventura Boulevard.
She felt angry, humiliated, and sad. All these emotions lodged in her throat, then her whole body seized up into a kind of living rigor mortis as she quelled incipient tears.
No, she would not let this woman make her cry.
Tears were drops of weakness, a leakage of spirit.
She was stronger than that, she was better than that.