Chapter 2
Ingrid Parker scowls, which, if she had a little less Botox, you’d see as a scowl.
She’s sitting in the spa-like office of Dr. Alex Hayes, a concierge doctor she drops five grand a month on—out of pocket—so she can get all her checkups, her Botox, and her fillers in one place.
She hates having to get all this shit done.
If it were up to her, she’d never let another needle near her skin, but this is Hollywood, where they gasp if you show an actual wrinkle.
How many times has the studio called her with concerns about whether an actress was too old?
She’d respond by making her argument that women can and should have a whole life, not just a shelf life.
And everyone would say, Of course, of course, but objectively speaking, can she carry the movie?
Which is how she ended up here in this overpriced waiting cell.
She takes off her white blazer and crosses her legs, shifting her weight on Dr. Hayes’s minimalist steel chair.
She’s trying to do Kegels while rereading the new pitch she just delivered to the studio with one of her writers, Mel.
Ingrid’s been trying to get Summer Rain made for years.
It’s arguably one of the most influential titles in feminist literature.
Ingrid remembers first reading it when she was sixteen; it’s about a housewife who dares ask What now?
after her husband does not fulfill her. Even then Ingrid knew it had to be a movie.
But there was never the right writer and never the right direction until now. This is the moment. She can feel it.
In a way, she’s glad she waited. Now, at the age of fifty-three, she can finally appreciate the abyss that is being undervalued and overlooked by society, certainly more than Tasha Collins, the other major female producer at her studio, can.
A twenty-eight-year-old novelist turned writer-producer, Tasha tripped sideways onto the scene when she insisted on adapting one of her books.
Ingrid likes Tasha. She’s happy for her—they need more female producers in the industry, and at least her movies are not gratuitously violent like the shit that Blake James puts out.
But what does Tasha know about the torture of being passed up?
She’s twenty-eight with an overall deal, for God’s sake.
Ingrid feels the tinge of jealousy spidering up her arm.
There is room for both of them, she tells herself.
And fifty more! Ingrid pulls up Deadline and scrolls the headlines, smiling at all the female-produced movies that have gotten the green light.
It’s amazing how far they’ve come, and she’d like to believe she’s one of the champions of all this change.
With her bold, conversation-driven movies—like Fam, which grossed $306 million worldwide—she proved to the stuffy boomer male executives that stories about women are profitable.
Regardless of what those gossip hacks on xoxohollywooddd say about her, she’s just getting started. Her eyes close briefly as she thinks of how utterly rude and inappropriate they were a few months ago when they posted on the anonymous Instagram account, “Will Ingrid Parker’s deal be her last?”
All because of a passing comment one of her new writers submitted about her, that she was difficult to work with.
It had come from Prisha Singh, an Indian American stand-up comic she’d taken a chance on.
Prisha had no formal screenwriting experience.
She’d never worked on a show or been a writer’s assistant.
Most producers wouldn’t touch someone like that with a ten-foot pole, but not Ingrid.
She’d liked Prisha’s material and thought Why not?
So she gave her an opportunity to write a take for a project she was working on.
It came out OK, but not great. Ingrid asked her to rewrite it. And rewrite it again. Somewhere between rewrite numbers four and five, Prisha got pissed and sent that anonymous tidbit in.
It shocked Ingrid. She remembered getting hot flashes, her shirt drenched, as she called up the studio to explain.
She defended herself. Yes, she is difficult.
When did being demanding become a red flag?
How else are you supposed to make anything of quality?
It’s not supposed to be easy. If it were easy, everyone would be able to do it.
But alas, that’s not the world we live in anymore. Now the word demanding has been degraded to practically a slur. And can we talk about the fact that it’s almost always weaponized against women? It’s never the men who are called out for it. They’re simply leaders and ambitious and passionate.
The studio was sympathetic, of course. They’d made too much money from Ingrid’s movies to throw her under the bus for a disgruntled writer who couldn’t handle coming up with a little take.
A little take! Come on. Charlie, the executive vice president of FYC Studios, even said on the call, “See, this is why producers exist—to sniff out these lunatics who worship at the altar of victimhood culture so we don’t have to deal with their wrath. ”
Still, writers talk. This was a marginalized writer, after all.
Ingrid stops doing Kegels and tells herself not to think about it.
It was just a stupid post on an anonymous account.
No one’s even going to remember it. Prisha’s no longer in the industry.
She doesn’t even live in LA anymore. After Summer Rain gets made, everyone’s going to go back to talking about what a badass feminist icon Ingrid is.
Her phone dings. It’s a text from Charlie.
Emailed you re: Summer Rain
Ingrid smiles. Charlie had better have nothing but a raging hard-on for the Summer Rain take.
She practically got him the job. A charming, whip-smart guy in his forties with a penchant for kissing the asses of studio heads, Charlie had been working in her office as a producer for a few years when she suggested that he work for the studio.
She coached him on who to suck up to and helped him rise, hoping he’d shake up the old boys’ club at the top. Now’s his chance to make it up to her.
Hey Ingrid,
Thanks for pitching this with Mel. I’ll be honest…
I didn’t love it. It just didn’t feel modern.
I know this book was considered cutting edge and feminist back in the 80s, but we’re just in a totally different time now, and women have evolved so much.
Most of the readers of Summer Rain are probably, what, playing shuffleboard now?
Ingrid fights the urge to scream, I’m not playing shuffleboard!
I know we’re coming up to the end of your deal with us and you really want to make this. But I’m confident we’ll find something else. Let’s look into a reboot?
“I don’t want to do a reboot!” Ingrid screams at her phone. “There are so many goddamn reboots, I can’t even remember the boot anymore!”
I know you put a considerable amount of time into this already, but I think it’s smart to cut our losses. Let’s move on.
Best,
Charlie
Fuck! She curses Charlie, trying his cell.
“Hey, I can’t talk,” Charlie whispers.
“I’ll make this short,” Ingrid says. “It’s my deal. This book is a masterpiece of feminism. And I want to make it!”
Ingrid hears several voices protesting in the background. “C’mon, man, I thought we were here to play golf.”
“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m at Lakeview,” Charlie says, muttering the name of the exclusive golf course in Hollywood that still, to this day, only gives full membership to men.
As a woman, you can only play there if your husband is a member, and even then, at limited times.
Ingrid had refused to let her husband, Kyle, join on principle.
“I can’t really talk about feminism here. ”
“No shit you can’t,” Ingrid mutters.
She hears “Blake, it’s your turn!” in the background.
“Are you with Blake James?” She laughs at the irony. “Wow, Charlie. You’re playing golf on an all-men’s golf course, a place I’m not even allowed to be, with a male producer, and you’re telling me that my book about feminism is outdated?”
“Listen, it wasn’t my idea to come here.
I’m with Bob,” Charlie whispers. Bob Schwartz is the president of the studio, a seventy-year-old who came under fire during the writers’ and actors’ strike for saying that the writers and actors were out of touch with reality while disembarking his yacht.
Thankfully another studio head said something even more embarrassing a week later.
“I’m on your side. We’ll find something. Maybe you can team up with Tasha.”
Ingrid seethes at this last part. She gets off with him and immediately dials her assistant, her teeth still clattering. Teaming up with Tasha? Please! Roxanne picks up on the first ring.
“Hiiiiiiiii,” she answers cheerily. Roxanne just joined three weeks ago. She’s a Gen Z hire. As such, she often responds to emails with confusing signatures, such as “Bless up” and “Slay on, queens!” It always throws Ingrid for a second.
“Roxanne, get a meeting with Charlie Cooper ASAP,” she says.
“You got it, chief!” Roxanne says. “What is this regarding?”
“Mel’s Summer Rain take.”
“OMG, it was so good! Did Charlie love it?”
“No, unfortunately. He didn’t.”
“Nooooooo. Why?”
Ingrid knows what Roxanne’s angling for. She wants in. To be a part of the creative conversation. But Ingrid doesn’t want to open the door to having these kinds of conversations with her assistant. She knows other producers are close to theirs. Respectfully, those producers are out of their minds.
An assistant, in Ingrid’s opinion, should assist. Should not wade into conversations or give their two cents on scripts and sets and the state of Ingrid’s hair.
The assistant should know their place, which is to be in this admittedly shitty position for at least two years (Ingrid even has a rule for her staff: no discussions of raises or promotions for the first two years).
It’s not that she believes assistants shouldn’t move up.
She believes in rewarding total loyalty—after people have paid their dues.
“Just get a meeting on the books.”
“Should we schedule a call with Mel? Let her know that the studio’s not going forward?”
Ingrid pauses. She reminds herself she has to be extremely careful what she says to Mel, a Black writer, after what happened with Prisha. The last thing she needs is for marginalized writers to decide she’s not worth writing for anymore.
“Let me think about what to say to Mel first…”
She gets off with Roxanne and gazes out the window. She should never have helped Charlie. She really thought he’d be different.
Ingrid furrows her eyebrows. Well, tries to furrow them.
She wonders what they’re all talking about on the golf course.
Is this about money? Are they discussing how to shore up the studio’s cash for Blake James so he can make another $200 million action movie?
She closes her eyes. She hated the way Charlie shoved her together with Tasha.
Like, Here, you’re both women, why don’t you take these peanut shells and go make a movie together?
Or maybe it has nothing to do with Blake or Tasha. Maybe Let’s move on is not about the project but about her…Maybe this really is her last deal.
Ingrid’s jaw tenses. Resolve hardens on her face. She may be dry, tired, over-Botoxed, and under-Kegeled. But she’s still Ingrid Parker, and she’s not fucking moving on.