Grabbing the Julian Kingsley proposal from my desk, I head decisively toward Ed’s office, where I wait outside the door for him to notice me. Glancing up from his phone call, he waves me in, saying to someone, “Well, don’t call me again until you got it figured out, okay? I’m serious! Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grumbles at the person, and I wonder if it’s some arch-nemesis from the corporate side until he says, “I love you, too. Bye.” His wife. Check.
“Whatcha got?” he asks, leaning so far back that I momentarily fear his swivel desk chair might topple unceremoniously into the award-filled bookcase behind him.
I give a Cheshire Cat smile. “Something that’s going to make your Monday very, very happy.”
He lifts an eyebrow, goatee turning up at the edges in a devilish grin. I can’t help feeling a thrill as I hand him Julian’s proposal, the option recommendation on top, knowing I’m about to score major points with my boss.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he declares, fumbling for his pack of Marlboros without looking. “How in hell’d you pull this off?”
Briefly, I wish I could take all the credit, but this is my best friend’s moment to shine. “Trevor, actually. He and Julian are old friends.” Ed’s black eyes lift upward. “Trevor was his assistant back in London. Kept all his correspondence, did research for his early novels.”
“Bosom buddies, eh?” Ed assesses caustically, his own particular conclusion about the matter already reached. He flips the pages of the proposal quickly. “Who else has this thing?”
“No one. Our exclusive ends today.”
“What’s it gonna take?”
Chewing my lip, I contemplate the figures I’ve been mentally crunching since Saturday. “Near as I can tell, Beautiful, But Me closed at a ceiling of almost a million. Just ballpark.”
Ed whistles loudly. “Damn, that’s a lot of money.” He drags on his cigarette for a contemplative moment, the Marlboro temple filling with a little more hazy smoke. “Ah, hell. Do it. I don’t want this one to get away. Start low, work your way up. Who you dealing with? TMA?”
“His literary agent’s in England, but yes, they’re co-agenting the film side.”
“Do it. Tell me when it’s closed.”
This stuns me; the other times I’ve optioned properties, Ed has been a control freak, obsessively watching over all my movements. “Are you sure?” I’m unclear about his motives, and feeling skittish about being offered this sudden freedom on such a big deal. He waves me off with his cigarette, leafing back through the proposal, this time ready to give it his true attention. “Yeah, yeah. You run with this one, babe. I trust you. Show me what you can do.”
Okay. This absolutely reeks of a power moment. He just lent me his knee, and hoisted me up the corporate ladder by a few critical rungs. And Ed can do that; he’s got enough muscle to make me if he so chooses. Raking a hand through his disheveled hair—it never ceases to amaze me that a slob like Ed can wield such a mighty saber—he glances up. “O’Neill, is there a problem?”
“No, not at all.” I shake my head. “I’ll get right on it.”
Is it my imagination, I wonder, stumbling like a zombie out of his office, or has my whole life just taken a fairly surreal direction? As if everything that was on a disastrous, or at least mediocre, course for so long is now completely going my way.
Only problem is that the heroine of every movie always has a sunshiny, riding-high moment like this one—right before the end of Act One, when her entire world goes to hell in a hand basket.
Still, I think I’ll keep walking on sunshine, thank you very much. I’ve had enough freaking trauma and rain to last all three acts.
Chapter Eight: Michael
“I don’t know why we have to keep coming here,” Andrea whines as we step into the small Burbank office where we meet our therapist once a month. The receptionist closes the door behind us with a hushed promise of the doctor’s imminent arrival, leaving us in silence.
“How come we do?” My daughter stares up at me like she half-expects a reprieve, a look I pointedly ignore. We don’t have a choice about being here today, and it’s not like I’m wild about it either. But I do want a breakthrough with her, which means I’m willing to put up with almost anything to get to that.
“So why, Michael?” Her breathy voice grows more impatient. “Why do we have to come?”
“Because it’s good for us,” I explain wearily, searching for a way to rationalize dragging her here despite how useless it often seems. “Kind of like spinach. Not all that tasty, but it makes us stronger.”
The corners of her mouth turn downward into a scowl, forming what Alex always termed her “disagreeable face”.
“Spinach is yucky,” she announces, obviously missing my point as she flops on the sofa. “Totally yucky.”
I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose to subdue my tension headache. “Like exercise, then.”