XXVII CJ
XXVII
CJ
“Cut!” the director, Carrie Carpenter, calls out.
“Hey, let me know what you think of this setup.” Carrie turns to me, and I tug my seat next to hers behind the monitor to take a look. We’re working together on a film about a former mob wife who becomes the mob boss, and tonight’s set is a historic old steakhouse downtown that was once a favorite of actual crime families. It was a big coup to secure it, and the locations manager and I worked together to pull it off.
I look up and see that a nearby grip is observing me curiously. I make eye contact, then break it swiftly.
My thoughts drift to Jack, on another set somewhere, halfway around the world. As far as I know.
I silently reprimand myself for letting him take up my attention, but I know by now that never prevents my thoughts from circling back to him only moments later. I haven’t had time to grieve this relationship, and I won’t. I have work to do. I have Agnes to raise. Being upset about him around her isn’t an option. I have enough regret about letting him into her life to begin with.
With that thought, my frustration with him transmogrifies into something else: anger at myself. It’s my fault for letting him into my life. My fault for dating someone who could impact my career. My fault for falling in love with someone who lives a completely different life and for thinking that maybe it will all just figure itself out when I know better: I have to figure things out.
The day after Jack left, knowing how difficult it would be to tell Agnes that he was gone and wanting to rip the Band-Aid off, I woke up early. I did yoga to center myself. I showered. I made pancakes and fried bacon.
“Where is Jackie?” Agnes had asked innocuously as she picked up a square of her chocolate chip pancake and dunked it into the large pool of syrup on her plate.
“Agnes, fork,” I instructed as I sat down next to her, preparing. “Jackie isn’t going to come over anymore.” I smoothed my fingers through her hair to comfort her and felt my throat tighten remembering the tense conversation that took place only a few feet away.
“I’m gonna miss him,” Agnes said simply and reached for her utensil.
I rubbed her cheek with my thumb. “I know he’ll miss you too.”
I felt relief that I got it over with, conveniently forgetting that with a five-year-old, I would be having the conversation again and again.
“Where’s Jackie?” she asked from the back seat when I was driving us to the Tar Pits.
“Is Jackie coming?” she asked when we were on our way to see Aristocats at the New Beverly.
“Do you still kiss Jackie?” she asked when we were snuggled up in bed.
Each time, it was difficult to tell her the same thing—without detail, both because I didn’t know what to say and because I didn’t know the point—but it was worse when she stopped asking.
Yet somehow, the conversation with Stuart had been much, much harder.
He came over for Movie Club a few nights after Jack left, and he found me in ratty sweatpants, with unwashed hair and a bad attitude while Agnes played in her room.
“What’s going on?” Stuart asked. “Where’s Jack?”
“He’s gone.”
“What do you mean, ‘he’s gone’?” Stuart sat down next to me on the couch and folded his hands in his lap. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“He got cast in a Cecily Close film.”
“Cecily Close is directing again?” Stuart asked, surprised. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Neither did I. Neither did he. They offered him the lead, so he’s off to London.”
“Well, that’s fantastic. We should all go out there over Agnes’s spring break. I assume you want to visit sooner, though? I’m happy to take care of her here for a week, or she could even stay at mine, if you think she’s old enough. The guest bedroom just—”
“We broke up,” I pronounced.
“Why?”
“He tried to throw his weight around to get me a job on the movie.”
I watched the confusion register on Stuart’s face. “So, you broke up because he tried to help you out with a job?”
I nodded slowly.
“Wow, what a monster,” Stuart said sardonically.
“It’s more complicated than that,” I insisted. “Everyone on set would’ve known that the star was my boyfriend.”
“Everyone is someone’s boyfriend. Or wife. Or son. For God’s sake, look at Timmy Gray—you didn’t write him off. I’m not saying you were wrong to turn it down, but at least realize he was only doing what he thought was right. And you have a tendency to... push people away.”
“I don’t push people away,” I insisted. “I have high standards, but I don’t push people away.”
“Cara. Darling.”
The accusation stung coming from Stuart, who had dipped in and out of my life for three decades before becoming a permanent fixture. “I don’t! You’re here, aren’t you?”
“That’s because I forced myself in.”
“It’s not like you were around when I was growing up for me to have welcomed you then.”
Stuart hung his head. “And you know I regret that every day. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought harder for you. It was complicated, between your mother and me, but she would want—”
The wound of Jack leaving was much too fresh to put salt in it. “Don’t talk to me about what she would want.”
He saw the hurt in my eyes and retreated. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But I have to say, Jack is special. He is not someone you could have planned for, and that it is hard doesn’t mean it is not worth it. Take it from someone who took the easy path for far too many years. You’re not committing a grave sin by letting this man be part of your life and maybe even change the shape of it.”
I don’t want to hear Stuart, so I don’t. “If you need to get back to your place tonight, don’t worry about it,” I said, but what he and I both knew I meant was that it was probably a good idea for him to go. He promptly took his leave. If I push people away , I thought, maybe it’s because they deserve it.
After we wrap the scene—early, even—Carrie pulls me aside.
“I appreciated having your input on that. Thank you.” Carrie, close to my age with a cropped pixie haircut and big laugh, feels more like a peer than any director I’ve ever worked with.
“Always happy to. Thank you for making this set... almost zen.”
“It’s amazing how that feels like a miracle, when it doesn’t have to be.” She looks me over, finger to her lip. “OK, I’ve been wanting to ask: Have you ever thought about directing?”
Since my conversation about it with Jack, the idea has gone from a piece of sand rattling around in my thoughts to a pearl: something smoother and maybe a little precious. But it’s been only mine. What if this is something I actually want? And what if it doesn’t work out?
“I’ve... had the thought.” My heartbeat picks up. “I don’t know that I’m qualified or where I would start—assistant director, I guess? Production design is always what I saw for myself. But over the years, I’ve realized that I, uh, certainly have opinions on how other things should be done.”
“Well, you should consider it,” she says good-naturedly. “It seems like it comes naturally to you. Besides, how many male directors do you know that think they need to keep their heads down and pay their dues?”
We both laugh.
“You know, with Gatsby about to be in theaters, I think you’re going to have a lot more doors opening for you.” I’ve been surprised, but gratified, at all the positive buzz that Timmy’s movie is getting. The studio is doing a limited rollout in select cities as a last-ditch attempt to qualify it for the Oscars; it seems like it could end up being big for all of us, cast and crew.
Through the start-and-stop traffic on my drive home, I think more about Carrie’s comment. Maybe it is time for me to make significant considerations about my career. My head swims with the possibilities of what it might be like to helm a movie, to take what I know about creating something from nothing and apply it to scripts and actors. I’d have more control over my schedule. I might be able to take longer breaks from work. I could run sets where everyone feels safe and heard. I could surround myself with no bad actors, in the literal and figurative sense. But I would also have to delegate more than I do as production designer—rely on others to execute my vision. I would have to let more people in.
I turn my key in the lock to our front door. Stuart is asleep on the couch, stubbornly refusing to let our stalemate affect his time with Agnes. All of my resentment and anger with him over our fight a few days earlier is harder to summon in this moment, with him sprawled out, a copy of Sight and Sound open on his chest. I gently pull the magazine off him and adjust a throw pillow under his head before making my way to check on Agnes and tuck myself into bed.