XXVI Jack
XXVI
Jack
Seat belts are fastened, baggage is stowed, tray tables are in their upright and locked position, and the plane is ascending into the California sky, hurtling me toward London. I sigh and look out the window, feeling—for the first time on a flight to Heathrow—that I am leaving home instead of returning to it.
An unspeakable number of hours later, I open the door to a flat that Delia’s assistant secured for me for filming. I can’t believe I am back here: in another blandly nice short-term rental that leaves me once again rudderless. I used to tell myself that I liked this sort of freedom—or perhaps I really did. Having no ties to anywhere, able to pick and leave for a job at a moment’s notice, seemed ideal until I learned what it feels like to have someone you don’t want to leave behind.
It’s Christmas Eve, and all I want to do is wallow. I told Tom I’d be with my family for the holiday, and I told my family that I’d be with Tom in the States. It’s a ruse that’s left me to my own devices: Strongbow, takeaway, Hitchcock’s filmography, tears.
From here, I am off to the races, making a very, very busy schedule out of feeling sorry for myself: waking up around noon, parking myself on the couch, and flipping on the TV. Promising myself just one more movie, just one more, one more movie, as the day slips into night and the next one does too.
When I drag myself into bed, I replay another movie in my head, this one called Jack Was in a Happy Relationship with a Woman He Loved, and He Fucked It Up . I see all the things that were right and exactly where I went wrong. I know CJ well enough to know she would hate me involving myself in her work in this way, and I did it anyway, unthinking.
On day three, I charge my phone for the first time since my pity party began. There are texts from my parents asking me how my holiday with Tom was; from Tom asking me how my holiday with my parents was. Messages from friends congratulating me on the casting news. An invite to a New Year’s party from Ginny—“want you to meet my new boyf, if that’s not awkward.” Nothing from CJ.
I ready myself for Delia’s barrage. From the 26th: “Hope the prep is going well. Will miss you at Gatsby premiere next week. Studio loving the early response. Will be in London next month. Drink then?”
From the 27th: “With all the buzz around Gatsby and Cecily Close picture, couldn’t hurt to get your name back out there. Let’s discuss your event schedule?”
By the 28th, today, she’s given up on subtlety and has forwarded media requests and details on parties in London where I can and should be spotted. Jack Felgate, a Man About Town once again.
I roll my eyes and return to the task at hand: choosing my next movie. After days of the same recommendations from the streaming service’s highly sophisticated algorithm, it serves me something new: The Bee’s Knees . CJ’s breakout that she refused to watch with me while we were together.
I press play before I can consider how much sadder this might make me, and within minutes, I’m too caught up to worry. It’s a live-action movie that incorporates stop-motion elements, like an early Tim Burton, about a young girl who retreats into an imaginary world within her mind. It is rich and inviting, with a color palette like a children’s book.
I want to ask CJ how she figured out the right scale for the furniture. I want to quiz her about working with the costume department. I want to thank her for somehow lifting my spirits and making me hopeful about anything at all from five thousand miles away after she unceremoniously showed me the door and cracked my heart clean in half.
I think back on how I searched for her name—Cara—at the end of every film for years after we first met. And how now I know not just her work—and the name she actually goes by—but also everything she worked through to achieve it: mourning her mom, raising Agnes on her own. I think about how someday she might watch this Richard Thomson movie, or probably Stuart will, or, ten years from now, maybe Agnes will. As The Bee’s Knees ’ credits roll, a giant pit in my stomach forms: What the fuck am I doing? Whether or not CJ wants to be with me, I desperately need her to be proud of me. I need to be proud of myself. I need to get it together for this role.
I turn the TV off and flip open my laptop, queuing up articles about Richard Thomson that a PA has been emailing to me since I signed on for the film. I have a week and a half and three Zoom sessions with Cecily to nail down the character before shooting begins. I can do this. For myself, for CJ, for Cecily Close, and for the distant fantasy that if I can prove myself in this job, I never need to let Delia roll me out for a photo op ever again.