Chapter 51 Verity
FIFTY-ONE
Verity
“Are you sure?” Sheila asks. “It’s been years since I was on a pitch call with you.”
“I know, but this is the first idea I’ve pitched since I signed this deal. It would just be nice to have you there.”
I pace my bedroom with the phone pressed to my ear and my hand pressed to my chest, my heart pounding like a talking drum through the muscle, skin, and bone. I can’t tell her, just like I couldn’t tell Monk, the whole truth.
That I’m terrified.
Whenever I’m approaching mania, I have these brief, blessed moments of clarity when it’s like I’m observing myself from afar, and I clearly see the signs, like someone standing on the shore watching a towering tsunami roll in.
Yesterday after Monk left for New York and I found myself cleaning his entire house, top to bottom, even though it was already immaculate and I had only slept a handful of hours in three days, I stood on that shore.
Bent over a spotless floor, hands tucked into rubber gloves, and the pungent scent of Clorox burning my nose, that clarity came.
I have been going days without much sleep and working feverishly.
Burning the candle at both ends with these two projects has disrupted the routines that keep me stable, especially as we approach spring.
I’ve even missed a few days of meds, which I’d never let happen if I was on top of things.
The world has been more vivid—colors brighter, sounds more mellifluous, tastes and textures richer—in that way that is magnificent, but not necessarily… normal.
My mind is sharper; like there was a cork in my imagination that popped, and so many ideas gushed forth, that my brain can’t hold them.
It’s why the pitch I came up with over the last two days is better than anything I’ve written in a year, certainly in the last four months of banging my head against a keyboard.
It’s a waking dream, that glorious state of just before that has deceived me in the past. It’s been years since I let it go this far, get this close, but if that’s what this is, I shouldn’t get on this call by myself.
I need Sheila there to make sure I don’t sabotage the career I’ve just gotten back on track.
“I haven’t even heard this idea,” Sheila says, her curiosity evident. “It’s different from what you’ve been working on?”
“Yeah, but I love it. I hope they will, too.”
“Well, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Thanks, Sheila.” I catch sight of my bedraggled appearance in the mirror propped against my bedroom wall. “I know this is a video call, but even my head and shoulders aren’t presentable yet, so let me go get ready for this meeting.”
When we disconnect, I make a quick breakfast of avocado toast and eat a bowl of berries for good measure. I shower and make sure to take my meds. My blue blouse feels respectable, but I keep on my booty shorts for comfort.
“Business up top,” I mutter to my reflection. “Party down below. They’ll never know.”
I run through the pitch while I scoop my hair into a loose updo and apply a little makeup. I want to be familiar enough that I can go off script if necessary. I want to fully convey my passion for this new idea. Prepared but not rehearsed.
I glance at my phone. Still nothing from Monk.
He texted me when he landed in New York, sharing his address in case I change my mind, but no more since, even though I’ve pinged him a few times to check in.
I keep telling myself he’s simply busy, but there is a part of me worried he saw through my protests the other night and knows what’s really going on. That it’s exactly what he thought.
And that it will be too much. That I’m too much and he’ll say Fuck it. I’ve seen this show and nobody asked for the reboot, the sequel.
I just got him back. We just restored and restarted and this happens?
God, I’m gonna scare him off.
He thinks he can handle this, but it would devastate me to find out that he can’t.
I set the phone to the side, pull up the video app on my laptop, and place the iPad on its stand in my line of vision so I can refer to the notes when needed.
“Verity,” Sloan, the VP of United’s scripted division, says, smiling into the camera. “We’re all excited to hear what you’ve come up with.”
What we’re getting for that seven-figure deal we inked with you.
She doesn’t say that, but it’s parenthetical. Nobody’s handing out deals like candy in this ever-shrinking market. I better deliver.
“I’m excited to share.” I scan the six faces onscreen, all executives from United. “Um, I don’t see my agent, Sheila, here yet.”
I push down my panic and keep a smile in place.
“I’m sure she’ll be on in a sec,” Sloan says. “But I have a three o’clock. You mind getting started and we can catch her up when she joins?”
“Oh, sure.” I close my eyes briefly and squeeze Mama’s pendant between my fingers to anchor myself, even as the buzzy bravado starts humming in my blood. I can feel it swelling in my veins, trying to break through my skin.
“Sorry!” Sheila says, popping into her little square onscreen, her cheeks flushed. “My last meeting ran long, but I’m here.”
I give her a grateful smile and she winks.
“I have a concept to share today,” I begin, “that encapsulates so many of my favorite things. It’s called Black Pearl.”
My phone screen lights up with an incoming call from Tessa, temporarily distracting me. My thoughts splinter into worry for my best friend and the immediate need to focus on this presentation. I’ll call her back as soon as I’m done.
For the next twenty minutes, I lay out the world that has been forming in my mind since Valentine’s Day.
A world set in the black-and-white of the 1940s, but awash in the vivid seaside aesthetic of a Southern oceanfront.
A neglected chapter of Black leisure and luxury.
A mystery with the highest stakes: life and death.
An old love that is as lost as the beloved daughter, but found even as they search.
An unexpected connection between two men that blossoms even as it’s forced to hide.
“And that’s what I envision for season one,” I conclude, not straying from what I’ve written, though a thousand more words tremble on my lips and clang at my teeth trying to get out.
“Brilliant!” Sloan says, turning to the team. “You guys have questions?”
Before anyone can respond, the next words tumble out of my mouth without my permission.
“The amazing thing about this series,” I gush, “is the opportunity to excavate memory, while creating something so bingeable and entertaining. It further reiterates that in an era where Black people were being terrorized all over this country, not only through groups like the KKK, but also through state-sanctioned violence, we created havens for ourselves, where culture, our culture, blossomed and thrived. A space that was ours alone and showcased legendary performances from James Brown, Ray Charles, and so many other towering talents. Atlantic Beach was one such place.”
“Love that,” Sloane says. “So if we—”
“Setting the show in Atlantic Beach in that era provides an opportunity to demonstrate leisure as language, refinery as rebellion, rest as resistance. Not merely expensive houses and life of the elite, but that free time was a relatively new tradition for Black folks. We weren’t even a hundred years removed from slavery, the monstrosity of forced labor that is literally this nation’s scaffolding.
My ancestors couldn’t have imagined a world in which we frolicked on the beach.
Oh, my gosh. The word frolic always does something to me.
Ya know? It encapsulates this sense of playfulness and abandonment that can seem antithetical to Black bodies during this era, but I see a real opportunity to project Black joy, even as we explore style and family and, of course juxtaposed with the crime element. This will definitely be—”
“Oh, I love all of this, Verity,” Sheila cuts in, her smile looking a little waxy. “But let’s save some for later.”
“But I was just going to say that—”
“I think we’ve left them with plenty to chew on,” Sheila breaks in again, her gaze shifting to Sloan. “Thank you all for your time, but I should have mentioned that Verity and I have another meeting immediately after this and need to go.”
I literally have to bite my tongue to keep the barrage of words from spewing out. I sink my teeth into the lining of my jaw until I taste blood. I pinch the skin of my thigh, distracting my errant tongue with the pain.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
Sloan pings her eyes onscreen between my agent and me.
“Sure. We’ll think all this over, but I love this direction.
We can refine some next time. Verity, you think you can have it tightened some for next week?
There are a few other folks who I’d love to hear what you just shared.
I think Black Pearl could be a marvelous first project for our partnership. ”
“Amazing,” Sheila cuts in. “Verity, we really have to go.”
I nod and force a smile before logging off. I sit at my desk, hands shaking and stomach churning like a windmill.
That went well… until it started going off the rails. I wonder if anyone noticed the forced speech there at the end.
My phone rings, and of course it’s Sheila.
“Hey,” I answer, prepared for a tirade. Yelling. Admonishment.
“Are you okay?” she asks, the gentle concern so far from what I was braced for.
“Um, yeah.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “No. I’m not sure. Yes, right now.”
“Was that garbled answer supposed to reassure me?” She manages to sound vaguely amused instead of panicked.
“I’m not fully manic, but I’m not exactly… stable. The world just feels like my oyster right now. I haven’t bought Christmas gifts for the entire staff at my ob-gyn’s office yet, so there’s that.”
“You did that?”
“Um… no?”
After a beat, we both laugh because I think she realizes I did indeed once wipe out half my savings buying expensive gifts for all my medical providers.
“Was it really bad?” I chew on my thumbnail and close my eyes while I wait for her answer.
“No. It was kind of like… is there something going on here? Maybe yes, maybe no. I think we caught it before everyone realized you were not completely yourself.”
Something about that phrasing—not completely yourself—doesn’t sit right with me.
Of course I know what she means, but through years of therapy and living with this condition, I’ve had to accept that the manic is part of me.
It’s the part of me that digs through my imagination for overlooked treasures, things I never would have otherwise.
It’s the part of me capable of being bright and vivacious and optimistic.
I can’t give it free rein, but it is part of me and there is value there, too.
My phone beeps with an incoming call.
Mel.
Shit. I didn’t call Tessa back.
“Hey, Sheila, thanks for the save. We’ll see what they come back with, but I gotta take this other call.”
“Sure you’re okay?” she asks, concern lingering in her voice.
“Yeah, I am. Um… I will be! Bye!” I switch over. “Mel? What’s going on?”
“Verity,” Mel says, her voice barely recognizable through the sobs. “You need to come to New York.”
Dread grips me by the throat and I can barely get the words out.
“Is it?” I croak. “Is she—”
“Just come. It’s bad.”