Lipstick Jungle

  “Now that you’re home, I’m going to take my leave,” she said pointedly.

  Wendy managed to get Chloe and Tyler into the bathroom and Tyler into the shower. She couldn’t deal with the sheets, so she let him sleep in her bed. This was considered a “no-no,” but the people who made up those rules could have never envisioned her situation. Tyler tossed and turned all night, alternatively clinging to her like a crab, or kicking her while he was asleep. Something had to be done, but what?

  She was woken up at six a.m. with a phone call from Hank, her production assistant on Ragged Pilgrims. Hank had the thankless job of being in charge of production for the first couple of weeks, and part of his job was to report in every morning on what was happening on the location. She took the call in a haze of exhaustion. “Bob Wayburn’s drinking,” he said, referring to the brilliant but difficult director. “He was boozing until three a.m. with some locals. There’s already tension between Jenny Cadine and Bob. Jenny wants you to call her. She wants her sister to come to the set and Bob put down this rule, no visitors. She told one of the cameramen that she thinks Bob is trying to shoot her from bad angles on purpose. I know because the guy says he had sex with her last night, and she would only do it anally . . .” The recitation went on in this vein for another ten minutes, at the end of which Hank said, “Look, I can’t handle this anymore. You’re going to have to come over.”

  She looked over at Tyler, who was finally sleeping peacefully, with his hands under his chin and his little mouth open. She wondered if he would grow up to be a snorer like Shane . . .

  “Wendy.”

  “Right, Hank,” she said. She couldn’t tell him that leaving her children right now was impossible—word might spread and then Bob Wayburn would assume he had free rein. If her family situation didn’t improve, he would have it, but for the moment, she had to stall. “I’ll decide after I see the next two days of dailies,” she said.

  She wished she could lie down and go back to sleep, but dragged herself into the bathroom and got under the shower. In the past, she’d always been able to leave in the event of a crisis, but that was because Shane was there. And Shane’s exit was compounded by the fact that Ragged Pilgrims wasn’t any old movie. If Ragged Pilgrims, with its $125 million budget, failed, her career was simply over. Shane knew what the stakes were, she thought wearily; no doubt he had timed his disappearance to cause the most possible damage. She had to get him to come back. Maybe if she bought him a car . . . something fancy, like the new Porsche SUV . . .

  “Mrs. Healy?” It was Mrs. Minniver, knocking on the bathroom door. “I’d like to talk to you about this situation.”

  Was Mrs. Minniver going to quit now too? Maybe she’d be better off bribing Mrs. Minniver with a car instead of Shane.

  “I’ll be right out,” she called.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Jenny Cadine. “I don’t mean to be an asshole, but I’m not happy,” she said.

  Jenny, Wendy thought, did mean to be an asshole, but she let it pass. “I know all about it and I’m going to fix it,” Wendy said, being careful to keep any trace of annoyance out of her voice. “I have a call in to Bob and I’ll call you back as soon as I hear from him.”

  “It had better be now . . .”

  “Mrs. Healy!” Mrs. Minniver demanded.

  “Ten minutes, tops,” Wendy said into the phone and hung up.

  She followed Mrs. Minniver into the kitchen. Jeez. She didn’t even know her first name. Did she even have one? Wendy wondered.

  “We can’t have a repeat of yesterday,” Mrs. Minniver said. “I have my hours, and I must keep to them. Seven a.m. to five p.m. You may not be aware of my hours because Shane would occasionally ask me to stay longer, and I usually obliged. But then, he always did his share of caring for the children.”

  Wendy didn’t know what to say. She felt slimy with guilt. Even her smile felt greasy. “I’m sorry . . .” she said.

  “It’s not a matter of an apology,” Mrs. Minniver said huffily, filling up the coffeemaker with water. “I don’t usually make it my place to criticize my clients, but this household is a mess. The children are a wreck and probably in need of psychological counseling. Magda needs a bra—”

  “I’ll get her a bra . . . this weekend—” Wendy whispered.

  “I really don’t know what you’re going to do,” Mrs. Minniver sighed, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  Mrs. Minniver’s back was to her, and Wendy looked at her hatefully. There she was, in her crisp gray uniform with support stockings (Mrs. Minniver was an old-school nanny, and she never let you forget it), while she, Wendy, the employer, whose life was supposed to be made easier by this person, was standing there with wet hair and a fuzzy old robe with her life unraveling before her. Wendy figured she had two choices. She could scream at Mrs. Minniver, in which case she’d probably quit, or she could throw herself on the mercy of this coldhearted Englishwoman. She chose the latter.

  “Please, Mrs. Minniver,” she said pleadingly. “It’s not like I have any options here. I can’t exactly stop working, can I? How would I be able to buy food for my children?”

  “That’s not really my problem, is it?” Mrs. Minniver asked, giving Wendy a superior smile. “Although I suppose it’s simply a question of getting the work bit under control.” Wendy felt an insane urge to laugh. Since when did Mrs. Minniver become an expert on what it took to survive in the movie business?

  “Maybe I should hire someone extra,” Wendy said carefully. “Someone to come in at five and take over for the evening.” Christ. Two nannies. What kind of life was that for the kids?

  “That might be an idea,” Mrs. Minniver said. “You might also consider boarding school.”

  “Like they do in England?” Wendy asked, her voice rising in disbelief.

  “Magda is certainly old enough. And Tyler will be soon.”

  Wendy heard a gasp behind her. She turned around. Magda had been hovering in the open space between the kitchen and the living room. How much had she heard? Enough, apparently, judging from the expression of hurt and confusion on her face.

  “Magda!” Wendy said.

  Magda turned and ran.

  Wendy found Magda on her bed, huddling with Tyler. Tyler was sobbing. Magda looked at Wendy, an accusingly triumphant expression on her face. “Why, Mommy?” Tyler asked, in between hiccupping sobs. “Why are you going to send us away?”

  “Because you pooped in your pants, stupid,” Magda said. “Now we’re both going to be sent away.” She jumped off the bed. “Like orphans.”

  Wendy’s shoulders drooped. “No one is being sent away, okay, guys?”

  “That’s not what Mrs. Minniver said.”

  “Mrs. Minniver was lying.”

  “When’s Daddy coming home?”

  Two-year-old Chloe came running into the room screaming, followed by Mrs. Minniver.

  And then the next part was just like in the movies, because Wendy got Mrs. Minniver’s coat from the closet and told her that she would no longer be needing her services. The good feeling lasted about two minutes, until she looked at her three frightened children and wondered what the hell she was going to do.

  “Mommy, are you going to fire us?” Tyler asked.

  She called Shane. She had no choice. That’s what ex-husbands are for, she thought bitterly.

  She had been afraid Shane wouldn’t answer. For weeks he’d been asserting his independence by not answering his phone, and then calling her back at his convenience.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Guess what?” she said brightly, trying to make a joke of it. “I fired Mrs. Minniver.”

  “At eight in the morning?” Shane said, yawning sleepily. She pictured him in bed, wondering if he was with another woman, and wishing she could trade places with him. “Smart move,” he said.

  “She wanted to send the kids to boarding school!” Wendy said, outraged.

  Shane arrived at the apartment thirty minutes later, letting himself
in with his key and strolling in as casually as if he’d never left and was just returning from getting the papers. That night, when she came home at seven, order was restored in the household. For once, the children were bathed and fed; Magda and Tyler were even doing homework. While Shane had been gone, she would come home and her children were like baby birds left in the nest, full of desperate neediness. The calm unnerved her slightly. She’d thought it was her they wanted, but it was really Shane. She wasn’t going to complain, however. She’d heard about mothers who freaked out when their children asked for “daddy” instead of “mommy” (indeed, this was a staple screenplay “moment” in which the woman was supposed to realize that her children were more important than her career), but she’d always considered those feelings egotistical and immature, and in her case, also extremely stupid. What difference did it make as long as the children were happy?

  But how long would they be happy? How could she get Shane to stay?

  She went into the bathroom and saw that Shane had restored his toothbrush to its usual place in a small puddle of water next to the faucet on the edge of the sink. She picked up the toothbrush and carried it out to the living room. “Are you staying?” she asked.

  “Yup,” he said, looking up from the DVD he was watching. It was a big-budget action film, not yet released.

  “Oh.” She hesitated, not wanting to jeopardize his decision. “Why’d you leave, then?”

  “I needed a break. To think.”

  “Really?” she said. She did not point out that walking out on your family because you needed to think was not an option for women. “And what did you decide?”

  “That I’m going to take care of the kids. Someone’s got to raise them.” This was a bit startling, and, Wendy guessed, a dig at her ability to handle her job and her children. But she wasn’t going to complain. In fact, she felt an uneasy guilt that it had all been resolved with very little trouble to her.

  And Shane was good on his word. He hired a new nanny, Gwyneth, an Irish girl in her late twenties, who only worked from twelve until five, Shane’s contention being that he didn’t want their children raised by nannies. Wendy suspected that he’d been talking to some of the stay-at-home wives in the entertainment business, who were always discussing the latest trends in child care. This was also, she guessed, where he’d gotten the name and number for Dr. Shirlee Vincent, the marriage counselor. Dr. Vincent charged $500 a session (“I know it sounds like a lot,” she said, her enhanced lips quacking like a duck’s bill, “but it’s what you’d pay for a good haircut. If you can pay that much for your hair, you should be willing to pay at least as much for your relationship. Hair grows back, relationships don’t!”), and had declared their marriage on “high alert—orange,” recommending two or three sessions a week at first.

  “Shane came back,” Wendy told her mother. “He’s decided to become an FTD.”

  “He’s working for a florist?” her mother exclaimed, not understanding.

  “Full Time Dad,” Wendy said.

  “With all that help?” her mother asked.

  “Shane’s doing most of it now.”

  “So he isn’t working at all?”

  “Taking care of the children is work, Mom. It’s a job, remember?”

  “Oh, I know, darling,” her mother said. “Just keep in mind that that’s exactly what all of those women say who end up with those huge alimony payments.”

  I can’t win, Wendy thought. “Shane’s a man, Mother,” she scoffed.

  “Yes, he is,” her mother sighed. “And I’m sure he’s figured out that it’s much more convenient to be with you than it is to be alone.”

  This reminded her of the apartment where Shane had been staying during his absence, which she’d never seen, but to which she’d sent one of her assistants to help Shane gather his things. It was a sublet he’d wrangled from a bartender (Wendy didn’t ask if the bartender was male or female)—a tiny, one-bedroom walk-up with a mattress on the floor and cockroaches in the bathroom—in turn reminding her of the purloined $200,000 Shane had charged to American Express for his restaurant. They hadn’t really talked about it, other than Shane admitting that the whole restaurant thing was a mistake and he was going to drop it. This seemed to be a signal that she should drop it as well. Still, it did bother her a little. It was like one of those sharp mysterious itches that wake you just as you’re about to fall asleep.

  “Hey,” Selden Rose said one afternoon, coming into her office. Ever since that lunch, Selden had developed a habit of popping into her office unexpectedly, breezing past the two assistants in the outer office and Josh in the middle. Each time he strolled in, hands thrust casually in his pockets, she was always on the phone, and she found that she couldn’t help performing a little for his benefit. That afternoon was no exception, even though Shane had returned. With the headset clamped below her chin, she rolled her eyes at Selden and then stared down at her desk with a little frown, then rested her elbow on her chair, leaning her head on her hand; then crossed her legs and raised her eyebrows, catching his eye and pressing her lips into a disbelieving smile.

  And then she swiveled to the side and spoke firmly into her microphone. “Look, Ira, Sam Whittlestein is an asshole and we’re not going to do business that way. I’m not going to be held up. It’s a deal breaker, and if he doesn’t want to play ball, we’re going to move on.”

  She pulled the headset off and stood up, coming around to the front of her desk and leaning against the edge. “Damn agents.”

  “Bottom-feeders,” Selden agreed.

  “Ira would rather blow a deal than not get his way.”

  “Like most guys.”

  “I hope not you, Selden,” she said with a sexy, authoritative laugh, as she leaned one arm back to press the button for the intercom.

  “Morse Bleeber?” Josh asked.

  “Tell him to hold.” She then focused all her attention on Selden. “How’s the premiere coming?”

  “The question is, Who’s coming?” Selden said, putting the emphasis on the word “coming” as if suggesting an innuendo. He hiked his trousers up and sat down on an overstuffed armchair with his legs open.

  Wendy’s eyes strayed to his crotch, where the fabric of his trousers had formed a tent. But that didn’t mean anything. It was probably just the fabric.

  “Meaning?” she asked.

  “Tony Cranley says he’s busy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s busy all right. Or plans to be anyway,” Wendy said, crossing her arms. “With a hooker.”

  “You never know. She might be an aspiring actress.”

  “Do you want me to call him?” she asked.

  “If you think it might help.”

  “It will. I know just what to say to him. Tony’s a sweetheart, but he’s dumb.”

  Their eyes met, and they quickly looked away, knowing that this exchange could have easily taken place over the phone or by e-mail. She ought to tell him about Shane, she thought.

  “You should come,” he said, casually stretching one arm.

  She nodded, pretending to be interested in straightening the pile of screenplays on her desk. His invitation had caught her off guard. It was either a subtle hint at a date, or a canny strategic move, or possibly a little of both. Three months ago, Selden Rose wouldn’t have dared suggest she show up at one of his premieres—her attendance would be the equivalent of a public announcement that she fully supported his project and believed in it. In any case, it would certainly make people talk, especially as she’d made it a point to not attend his premieres in the past.

  “I could do that,” she said, noncommittally. “As long as I’m back from Romania.”

  “Trouble?” he said casually.

  She looked at him sharply. Had he heard about the disastrous dailies? “Just the usual.” She shrugged. “I’ll probably only be gone for three or four days.”

  “Good. I’ll see you at the premiere,” he said, standing up to take his leave. “I always say
no one can turn down a personal invitation.”

  “You owe me,” she said.

  “I owe you already,” he said. “If you get Tony there.”

  She had to tell him about Shane. He was nearly at the door, when she blurted out, “By the way, Shane’s back.”

  He stopped for a moment and turned, and without missing a beat said, “Oh good. Well, it’s good for you, anyway. Makes things easier. Bring him too.”

  Damn, she thought, picking up her headset. Why had he been so nonchalant? She suddenly realized that she wanted him to be a little bit bummed.

  The whole time he was sitting there, she’d been thinking about sex, secretly comparing her feelings for Selden to Shane. Unfortunately, at that moment, Selden was winning. But it was practically no-contest: Ever since Shane had come back, she hadn’t found him sexually attractive at all. This hadn’t prevented her from giving him a blow job just before she left for Romania, however, which was the reason she hadn’t had time to pack.

  “This kind of sucks, Wendy,” Shane said earlier in the afternoon, following her into the bedroom. “I’m back for one week and you decide to take off?”

  “What do you want me to do, Angel? Tell them to stop a one-hundred-twenty-five-million-dollar production so I can get my marriage back on track?”

  “Yes, I do,” Shane said. “If you want our marriage to work, you have to be present.”

  Why was he torturing her? “Angel,” she said patiently. “You know what Ragged Pilgrims means. To us. To all of us.”

  “To you, Wendy,” he said. And added meanly, “It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

  That was a low blow, Wendy thought. Why was it that when men were concerned about making money, they were admirable, while women in the same position were considered suspect? And when it came to money—her hard-earned money—Shane certainly didn’t seem to have a problem spending it. Or simply taking it.

  This was a topic too big and too ugly to get into at the moment, so she kept her mouth shut. As Dr. Vincent would say, “Belittling, Bitching, and Bellyaching only make your marriage Bad.”