chapter 8
CHRIS
After I allow myself a good fifteen minutes of laying in the sheets and breathing in the still-lingering scent of her, I consider the possibilities.
I could go to Sam’s apartment right now, but the paparazzi would follow, and I can’t imagine that Hallie would appreciate that.
I could call the private investigator that FFG uses.
Not yet.
Then, it hits me. It hadn’t made sense the week before, when Marcus called me to scream that optioning the Rage series was career suicide.
“You’ll ruin your career, Jensen, the career I’ve carefully made for you despite all of the dumbass moves you’ve made in your life. It’s trash. Who wants to read about some a*shole who takes a journey through post-apocalyptic America with his dog, his best friend, and some zombie-vampire hybrid things?”
“The millions of people who read the books?”
“It’ll never transfer to the screen.”
“The millions of people who f*cking loved that book and that dog would beg to differ, Marcus.”
“I’m not doing it. Use Jeff as your agent, if you want. You know he’ll never be able to get half the deal that I would have gotten, but that’s not the point. I am out. And you better hear me on my next point, because it’s important. If you choose to do this, you have to realize that this is going to cause a serious f*cking problem between the two of us. So, you better ask yourself whether this movie is worth it, Jensen. Whether it’s worth throwing away almost ten years of a partnership. Whether it’s worth losing your agent and your best friend.”
I did think about it. But my desire, my need for the Rage series was too powerful. The last movie I produced had been a box-office hit, but it was trash. I was on the verge of becoming Alan, someone who made movies that were nothing but explosions and bombs and aliens/zombies/vampires/spies. Of course, Rage and its sequels had those elements, too, which was why we could spend a hundred million or so on each of the movies, but the screenplay had something different, an element of truth, of reality, that my last films had lacked. It was my chance at redemption, my chance to create something that would do more than make money.
It had gone on like that for a week, back and forth between us, until he and I had finally exchanged a series of words that had seemed to destroy everything.
“I’m out, Chris. I’m tired of corralling you, of treating you like some fragile object that I’m afraid to break. You know I love you, man, but this is the last straw. I’m done. End of the line. Go it on your own. You’ve always done that anyway, haven’t you? You’ve known what’s best, and I’m just here to help you make a quick buck.”
“I think I helped you make a quick buck, too, unless you’ve totally forgotten about one whole aspect of our little relationship: the fact that I’m the talent, and you’re nothing but an agent. You need me.”
Marcus took a deep breath, and his next words were a whisper. I heard each one, as if my photographic memory had suddenly transferred into one that audio records voices.
“That makes this easier. You’ve turned into a world-class prick, Jensen. World-class. And I can say that with absolute certainty, because I work in Hollywood, where there are a higher percentage of pricks per capita than anywhere else in the world. It’s impressive, really. Sayonara.”
Those words stung hard. We haven’t spoken since.
He must have known about Hallie. About Ben. About all of it. I grab my phone.
U have 5 mins to call me and tell me about H. After that, ur fired. For real this time.
My phone rings almost immediately.
“F*cking shit, Jensen. I was in the middle of a goddamn meeting and you spring that shit on me? What the f*ck? Don’t you know that I’m trying to do serious work here?”
“She’s the reason why you wouldn’t do the deal for the Rage series, isn’t she?”
I wait for Marcus to say something, but he’s utterly silent until his next words come out in a gasp.
“Who told you?”
“I saw her. At the meeting for Rage.”
He mutters incoherently under his breath and his next words come out garbled. “I was hoping she wouldn’t be there. Are you okay?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about her and Ben? About Ben?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”
There’s a little click coming from his line, and I can practically see him grabbing a cigarette from the pack he keeps in the bottom-right drawer in his desk. He doesn’t smoke, hasn’t in years, and thinks it’s a disgusting habit, but he keeps them around in case his latest conquest has decided to exist on a diet of cigarettes and pills. I’ve only caught him smoking one once, after his second wife left him for a producer at one of the big studios. It only serves to underline the seriousness of the conversation.
“I know exactly why I didn’t tell you, Chris.”
The certainty in his voice takes me by surprise, even though he doesn’t offer any other explanation.
“I’m waiting here, Marcus.”
He draws in a long puff. “It was simple, really. I asked myself how I was going to tell you that she had gotten married and widowed. I said to myself, now Marcus, how exactly are you going to say that? Maybe, ‘Jensen, the f*cking love of your life has made herself a little fairy tale ending while you were lying in a pool of your own vomit. Oh yeah, and by the way, her fairy tale has been smashed to smithereens.’ It was the wrong question, but in thinking about how you might have responded to that statement, I asked myself another question. This time, it was the right one. What would Chris Jensen do with this information?”
“I would called her. I would have gone to the funeral. I would have created a Ben Ellison foundation. I would have tried to pick up the pieces.”
Marcus’s laughter is clipped. “Right. You would have done all of those things, but in the end, it wouldn’t have mattered, would it have? He still would have been dead, and you still would have been the guy who broke her heart five years ago. I’m not blaming that all on you, because as I remember, she can give as good as she gets, and I think she did a fair bit of heart-breaking, too. But it wouldn’t have changed anything.” He stops and inhales again. “You didn’t see her face. You didn’t f*cking see her face in those goddamn pictures.”
I did, actually. Her face has been immortalized in the endless repository of cyberspace.
I wish I hadn’t.
And I wish he wasn’t right. But he is; nothing I could have done would have made any difference. It would only have hurt her.
I focus on the way his voice is breaking instead, trying to make sense out of it. Marcus has always told me that Hallie leaving was the best thing that ever happened to me. He’s called her any number of uncharitable names on any number of occasions, but his voice is wavering now. His fondness for her is almost visible, even through the phone.
“You don’t think she’s a vapid, ugly bitch, do you?”
“No, Jensen. I never thought she was a vapid, silly, ridiculous, ugly, prideful, spiteful bitch. She made you happy, which I thought was career suicide. People who are truly, honestly happy don’t need to fight for their careers. They just don’t have the same hunger as the miserable types. So, the fact that you were happy and not miserable was an issue for me, but you get over that kind of thing when the girlfriend can squeeze studios out of a couple of extra million by beating the boys on the golf course.”
“Then why did you say all of those things about her? Why did you keep telling me those things, so many times that I was almost able to forget that they weren’t true?”
“Professionally, a broken-hearted, alcohol-addicted actor is an even worse thing that a client who’s in love. We had to pull you out of that, and I figured a little Hallie hate could only help. And personally? A broken-hearted, alcohol-addicted friend is never a good thing, either. So, I conveniently tried to forget that Hallie was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
There’s a long pause, and Marcus’s voice is softer now and filled again with a familiar tease.
“Jensen, I know that you’ve gone and f*cked this whole deal up. You’re probably paying eight times too much for these f*cking books, and you need a real agent to look at the contracts to see if there’s any way the situation can be salvaged. Besides that, you really need a good ass-kicking, which is something I just can’t do from California. So, we’re going to f*cking get a couple of nonalcoholic beers, we’re going to go over the details with a fine-toothed comb, and we’re going try to get you out of the worst financial deal I’m sure you’ve ever made. I’m on the next plane to New York, a*shole.”
He’s slipped back into his normal voice, all bluster and macho enthusiasm, but I know why he’s coming and I’m grateful. It’s not like I’m a sad sack or anything, but I could use his devious brain. And I could definitely use a beer. Even if it is a nonalcoholic one.
“A good ass-kicking sounds like exactly what I need right now.”
* * *
The light is just starting to disappear below the horizon line as I stand on the perfectly manicured terrace outside my apartment. Hallie and I had stood on a million terraces just like this, glancing over the city lights and making up stories about people and places and things, but the night I’m remembering is the first night I met her. She had been hiding behind a planter, trying to pretend like she was invisible. Of course, she could never be invisible.
I had always hoped that she had found her own little corner of the world and made a beautiful life for herself. No matter what, no matter how many times I had fantasized about finding her in a crowded restaurant or in the middle of the busy street and picking her up and throwing her into my arms, the past and my mistakes and her mistakes be damned, I wanted her to be happy. I couldn’t make her happy, not five years ago, and she had deserved better than that. Of course, my visions of that beautiful life all involved her being a nun (an actual nun), but nonetheless…
But Hallie hadn’t found her happy ending, after all.
And I was going to have to do something about that.
Suddenly, I hear a knock at the door, a muffled, “F*ck it,” and the click of a key turning in the lock. Marcus bursts through the door, throwing his jacket over one of the chairs. I spin around, open the glass doors, and grin at him. He must have pulled some serious strings to get his ass here so fast.
“What did you do, Marcus, steal a plane?”
“Called in a serious favor. You owe me one. Or two. Or fourteen.” He flops onto the horsehair sofa. “Shit, Jensen, this thing should come with a ‘do not sit’ warning. It’s a couch, for chrissakes, and it’s stabbing me in the ass.”
“It was a Lena purchase. Sorry, man.”
He pulls a few long white hairs from his sweater, cursing every one. “Just once, you could have screwed an interior decorator and at least gotten something of worth from one of your little flings. This place looks like shit. I’m guessing it’s probably some of Lena’s doing. Tell me this, Jensen. How’d you get rid of Lena ballerina? I’m assuming you are rid of her, of course. I think that’s a fair assumption since you just called me about Hallie Caldwell.”
“Don’t ask.”
“Oh, I most certainly will ask. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to throw the sluts out into the streets. It’s always the same—the crying, the shrieking, the desperate pleas for just one more chance with you. It’s my greatest pleasure in life to see you doing your own dirty work for a change. You have to give me this. Just once.”
“It was expensive.”
“Come on. Details, Jensen.”
“She gets three all-expenses-paid weeks at the Ritz Carlton while she finds alternative living arrangements. I think that managed to soothe her aching heart.”
“And? You can’t tell me that you got off that cheap. I don’t buy it.”
“And a shopping spree at Tiffany’s.”
“Don’t tell me you gave her your credit card. Please. That would be too good.”
I look at him blankly. Had I?
I was in a total daze when I arrived home from the hotel. The only thing I could think about was Hallie and how she had fallen into my arms. And, unfortunately, how she had promptly fallen back out of them. It was an extremely unpleasant surprise to find Lena, my latest conquest, making plans for the redecoration of my apartment. She was hustling the delivery men around like she owned the place. Honestly, I didn’t even remember giving her the key. It must have been an oversight in my eagerness to get the Rage project up and rolling. After a certain amount of hollering and shrieking and one serious slap that’s probably left a permanent mark on my face, I managed to extract the key I had given her before slamming the door. I wasn’t so sure about the credit card.
Marcus’s laughter is coming out in gulps and spurts now, and he’s struggling to get air.
“Cancel it. If you didn’t give it to her, she probably stole it. You never give them the credit card. Never.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
He’s still howling as I walk over to the bar. Although it had been devoid of any actual alcohol for more than two years, the fancy bottles remain, filled with water and food coloring. I pour him a glass of water from the sink and hand it to him.
“Wouldn’t want you to choke, now.”
Although he’s still only barely able to cover his laughter, Marcus finally manages to get some words out. “I warned you about shitty bitches, man.”
“A dime a dozen.”
We both say it at the same time, and he raises his glass before peering into my face more closely.
“Time is money, Jensen. And every minute I’m here is f*cking thousands of dollars going down the drain. So, tell me. How’s Hallie?”
I can’t even think of how to begin to answer that question, so I sigh instead.
Marcus groans. “Fine. At least tell me if she’s still f*cking hot.”
“She’s beautiful. A thousand times more beautiful than she ever was. And sad. Grown-up. Sophisticated. Alluring. Infuriating. Lovely. Devastated. Broken into a million pieces but unwilling to let anyone make it right. F*ck.”
“So, where is she? Wouldn’t mind laying my eyes on Hallie Caldwell, all grown up.”
“She’s gone.”
“Hallie remains immune to your charms? I know I’m shocked.” Marcus gives me a knowing look. “Jensen, we’ve been through this. You and she were like a f*cking Rockwell painting, minus the weird little dogs and the 1950s tableau of the perfect happy family. You were perfect for each other. And then you f*cked up and she f*cked up and it was a downward spiral of anger and jealousy and alcoholism. You can’t go backwards, man. That will never work.”
“I know that, Marcus. Of course I know that.”
I shake my head in annoyance and look away, burying my head in my hands. He’s incredulous as the realization hits him.
“Oh, shit. Tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”
I don’t say anything, but I do give him a measured look. We’ve been friends for long enough that he knows what it means.
“No way. You have got to be the dumbest person on the planet. Not this time, bro. I’m not about to spend the next five years of my life trying to help you get over Hallie Caldwell. Again. That is definitely not what I signed up for.”
“What do you want me to say? It just happened.”
“What just happened, Jensen? You just fell into bed with her? Yeah, of course you did. You two could never keep your hands off each other. Damn it. F*ck.”
He jumps up from the chair and starts pacing across the carpet, muttering to himself, before he turns to me.
“Just tell me one thing. Is it over? Can the healing process start, or am I really here to help you come up with some half-cocked plan to dive back into the wreck of you and her?”
“It’s not over for me.”
“You still love her.”
His voice is resigned, not surprised, but there’s still a question there, one that I need to answer, for him and for myself. For the first time in a long time, I don’t have to think about whether my next words are the truth or just another manifestation of whatever person that I’m pretending to be.
“I thought that I could live without her, that I would be satisfied just knowing that she was out there somewhere, living her life and being happy, and I wouldn’t have to know anything about what exactly was making her that way. But I saw her and she isn’t happy. I might just be fooling myself, but I think I can do that. I think I can make her happy.”
“You are one dumb motherf*cker, Jensen. You have everything any red-blooded male could want. Fame. Money—lots of it. You can have any girl or woman that you want.”
“I want Hallie Caldwell and I need you to help me figure out how to get her back.”
I cross the room and reach into the drawer under the bar and pick up an old Polaroid that’s worn around the edges. It’s a damn shame that you can’t buy those cameras anymore, because there’s something comforting in touching the white edges and feeling the thickness of the picture in your hands. It makes it more real.
Every time I’ve wanted a drink, every time I thought maybe a swig of whiskey or the quick buzz of tequila would soothe the temporary pain of bad box office numbers or a lost part or, more frequently, the realization that whichever girl was occupying my bed was never going to suddenly morph into Hallie, I’ve looked at that picture. It’s from that stupid party at Sam’s, the masquerade. Our masks are pushed up onto our foreheads, and she’s grinning up into my face like I’m the answer to every question she’d ever thought to ask.
It hurts, every time, to look at it. But it reminds me of what I’ve lost. More importantly, it’s kept me from trying to drown away all of the sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.
“I want her back,” I repeat. “You have to understand that.”
“I’ve had a couple of Hallie fantasies myself, so I guess there’s some very tiny part of me that can understand the impulse. But are you sure, really sure, that you want to go down this path? I know you don’t remember much from London, but I do, and I’ll tell you right now, it wasn’t pretty. Neither was LA. Or Morocco. Or any of the places we went after she left you. Any places for about three years. Not a good scene, man. Not good at all.”
“Let me ask you this, Marcus. You’ve seen me almost every day for the last five years. Whether this ends all tied up in a neat little bow or not, who am I now? Who am I without her? Is that any prettier than what happened in London, or Morocco? Or after?”
“I can tell you right now who you are. You’re a f*cking movie star.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“What does that mean? Have you lost your damn mind, Jensen? You’re on your way to being one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood, and let me tell you, that shit don’t come around often. Not the twenty-five million a picture kind of bankable, and that’s what you’ve got going for you at this very instant. I know you hate those shit movies that we make, but they make you and me a hell of a lot of money. So, the way I see it, given that you want to keep on being a movie star, and you’d have to be a f*cking idiot to not want that, you have a couple of options. You can make more shit movies and stick the cash away in a bank account. Then, you can just pay someone to punch the lights out of anyone saying that you’re a sell-out. But, hey. If you’re not happy hearing the whispers about selling out, you can lose thirty pounds to play the crackhead brother in one of those boring-as-shit art movies. You might even be able to snag yourself an Oscar. Then, you can make some more boring movies about ‘real life historical situations’ and somewhere along the line, you can direct one. Everyone will call you some kind of genius.”
“Those are possible career paths, Marcus. That’s not a life.”
“It is a life. Do you really think all those people in the suburbs with two and a half kids and an early midlife crisis have lives? Hell no. They’re buying cheap red convertibles and trying to pretend they’re you. I can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t trade places with you in a heartbeat, Jensen. Why do you think we sell so many goddamn tickets to your shit films? We’re selling you. The lifestyle of a young, rich, ridiculously good-looking New York kid who hit the big time and went through some bad shit to emerge as America’s hero. Even the rehab thing was just a bump in the road. Everyone goes to rehab these days.”
“Even if I’m buying all of that nonsense, and I’m not saying that I am, I’ve still only got another ten good years of getting the parts, as long as I make the right choices and don’t send my career into the shitter. What then? Twenty years of playing the dad in some bad comedy about taking care of the kids while Mom goes on a girls’ weekend? Eventually, if I’m really lucky, I get to put the old tux back on and head out to a bunch of stupid banquets where they put my name on a trophy and call it a lifetime achievement award. All the while, you and I are sitting around in some uppity restaurant, reminiscing about the good old days, when I was a real movie star, and you were a real agent. We do all of these things to avoid talking about the fact that we’ve become old hacks who are past their prime and can’t stop telling stories about girls and booze and all the shit that goes along with it. Do you really think that’s enough for me? Would it be enough for you?”
“It was enough five years ago.”
I take a deep breath.
“It’s not now. Jesus, maybe I’m getting old.”
Marcus claps a hand on my back and smiles faintly. “I think I see some wrinkles. I know a guy who can take care of those for you.”
“I’ll let you know.”
His smiles falls away and his face darkens. “Are you sure about this?” He shakes his head in disgust. “Captain f*cking obvious over here. I don’t know why I even asked. Of course you’re sure. You win, Jensen. If I know you, you already have some kind of grand plan to convince Hallie Caldwell that you’ve changed. And if I know me, I’m going along with it.”
“As a matter of fact, I do have a plan. What would you say to a little party?”
“You know I’m always down for a good party.”
I pull the embossed invitation that I managed to extract from the garbage can. I flash it at him.
“Want to be my plus one?”