At first when I’d taken over Trip’s office, I spent more time staring out at the sunshine than doing any work. I daydreamed. I called Dad. I called Lisa.
My best friend was such an enabler during that time. She’d call every few hours with questions about the Academy Awards. Who was hotter in person; how tall was so-and-so really? I told her a few stories, but kept most of the slimy stuff to myself for the time being. I didn’t want to tarnish her impression of the glamorous Hollywood fa?ade that she’d come to know; the shiny, star-studded lifestyle of her imaginings. Besides. Lisa was never one to let me get more than a few words in edgewise. I was saving the details for when I got home.
I was also, apparently, saving my productivity for another time. I did everything but work during those first days.
I watched every one of Trip’s movies that I hadn’t yet seen, then I watched the ones I already had. I collected all the entertainment magazines that had covered the Oscars and clipped any pictures I found of Trip and me together.
I swam. I cooked. I organized my notes.
I was totally stalling.
Finally, out of nowhere, inspiration struck and I spent three solid days banging away at my keyboard, barely coming up for air. Trip was busy preparing for his movie, so I was able to get some words down without feeling too neglectful. But even so, when an idea for a book finally sets off a creative spurt, I have no choice but to run with it.
My big epiphany had come from that read-through the other day. After meeting Patrick Van Keegan, I’d come up with a story about a washed-up Hollywood actor in the days leading up to his suicide. I’d hardly call Patrick Van Keegan a has-been, but seeing him that day gave me the idea. You just never know when a muse will present itself. I’d already titled it “The Last Act,” and the ideas for it just wouldn’t stop flooding my brain.
I’d called Diana with the pitch, and she just went nuts for it. That added motivation was what had me tapping away on my laptop the past few days, practically nonstop. Which was a good thing, because between the fiction novel for Diana and the memoir for Trip, I had a lot of writing to do.
I was starting to burn out.
But I had to keep going. Not only was I on a self-imposed deadline, but I truly loved it. I knew, though, that I had to find my balance between loving it and loving Trip at the same time. It was too easy to get lost in him, and I didn’t want that to happen.
Trip seemed to be stressing a bit as well. I had walked in on another heated phone conversation that morning and quickly realized it was Bert coercing Trip into doing his film. It wasn’t the first call like that, and I knew Trip was tired of the incessant pressure and schmoozing. My impression of Bert at the Oscar after-party still lingered, and I felt it was pretty insane that either of them would even consider working together after almost trading fists.
But this was Hollywood. Things were a little different out there.
Bert was a complete ass, but a talented director, and Trip thought that the script was amazing. The whole situation was absolutely crazypants to me. Where else on Earth can a potential employee threaten to beat the shit out of a potential employer and still be pursued for the job? I thought the man was a skeeze and I hoped Trip would flat-out turn him down. But it wasn’t my decision to make. Trip wasn’t even surprised to find that the guy still wanted to work with him, which was more than a little disconcerting. He’d become almost used to the way things were done in that city. I didn’t think I ever would.
His moody outbursts had become more frequent over the past few weeks, but I made a point to remind myself that it wasn’t personal. The old Layla would have assumed she had done something wrong; the new Layla trusted that he would come to me if I were the source of his frustrations. Striving for better communication wasn’t always easy, but our recent efforts had been an improvement between us, and that certainly counted for something.
Between his dealings with Bert and his preparations for his upcoming movie, Trip was burning out, too. He must’ve finally decided to take a break from studying his script as he made his way into the office and slumped down in a leather chair across from the desk. I looked up just long enough to acknowledge him as he shot me a contented smile. He didn’t interrupt my frenetic pace and just sat there watching me for a while. It was nice having him there, his silent presence a cozy encouragement.
I was in my zone and had barely registered that he was even still in the room when he asked, “Hey. You in the mood to catch a concert? The Chili Peppers are playing at the Bowl. I can get us tickets.”
I had a pencil between my teeth and didn’t even look up from the keyboard. “Can’t. Writing.”
“How ‘bout some dinner? You want to go out or stay in?”
“Hmm. Sounds good, hon.” I registered that I wasn’t really paying attention to whatever it was that he was asking, but whatevs. We’d talk about it later. Tapatapataptap.