“Okay,” she sighed. “Please.”
“Please what?” Tyler said, confident of victory.
Wendy rolled her eyes. “Please go to your room and get ready for school.”
The boy’s face took on a crafty expression. “Pay me,” he said.
“What?” Wendy asked, open-mouthed.
“Pay me,” he said again, patronizingly, holding out his hand.
Wendy grimaced. “How much?” she asked.
“Five dol-lah.”
“Three.”
“Deal.” They shook hands and Tyler ran to his room, gleeful at having scored once more against his mother.
“Money,” the baby said. The baby was a she, seventeen months old, and, Wendy swore, her very first word was “money” as opposed to “mommy.” But what could you do?
“Money. That’s right sweetheart. Moh-ney. It’s a good thing,” Wendy said, marching into the bedroom. Like the rest of the loft, it was sparsely furnished with only the bare necessities, and yet still managed to exude an air of encroaching clutter. “Money is a good thing, isn’t that right, baby?” she said pointedly, fixing an evil eye on her husband, Shane, who was still lying in bed.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” Shane asked.
Oh God. She could tell by the tone in his voice that he was going to be grumpy again. She didn’t know how much more of him she could take. Ever since last Christmas, for practically the past year now, his mood had been fluctuating between oblivious and hostile, as if he had somehow become a hostage in his own life.
“Can you help me, babe?” she asked, her voice just bordering on annoyance. She ratcheted up the blind like a pirate running up a flag. She wanted to yell at him, but after twelve years of marriage, she knew that Shane didn’t respond well to female aggression—if she screamed, he would only become more obstinate.
Shane sat up, made a face, stretched his arms, and yawned oafishly. Despite the fact that he was being an asshole and she was pissed at him, Wendy felt a sickly sweet rush of love for him. Shane was just so good-looking and so sexy, and if she hadn’t been holding the baby, she probably would have tried to have sex with him. But she mustn’t reward him for his bad behavior with blow jobs. “Tyler is being a brat,” she said. “And I haven’t seen Magda . . .”
“She’s probably in her room, crying,” Shane said dismissively.
“And we’re all going to be late,” Wendy said.
“Where’s old Mrs. Wassername?”
“Mrs. Minniver,” Wendy said, correcting him. “I don’t know. I guess she’s late too. The weather’s shitty . . . Can you please take the baby? So I can at least take a shower?”
She thrust the baby at him. The baby grabbed onto his spiky, metrosexualized hair (Shane had had hair transplants seven years ago, which she’d paid for) and pulled gleefully, while Shane, equally gleeful, rubbed noses. Wendy paused, touched by the heartwarming spectacle of father and daughter—could there be a better father than Shane?—but the mood was immediately broken when Shane said, “You’re going to have to take the kids to school today. I’ve got a meeting.”
“What meeting?” Wendy asked incredulously. “A meeting at nine a.m.?”
“Nine-thirty. But it’s at the restaurant. So there’s no time to get from the school all the way across town.”
“Can’t you make it later?”
“No, Wendy,” he said, with faux patience, as if he’d explained this to her many times before. “It’s with the contractor. And the building inspector. Do you know how hard it is to get a meeting with those guys? But if you want me to change it, I will. And then it will be at least another two months before this restaurant opens. But what the hell, it’s your money.”
Oh God, she thought. Now he was going to sulk. “It’s our money, Shane,” she said gently. “I’ve told you that a million times. The money I make is for our family. For us. You and me.” If the situation were reversed, if he was the one who made all the money and she didn’t make a penny, she wouldn’t have wanted her husband holding it over her head and saying that all the money was his. She paused. “I just think . . . maybe you’re not happy doing this restaurant. Maybe you should go back to writing screenplays . . .”
This was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. “Fuck it, Wendy,” he snapped. “What do you want?”
She paused, and her jaw tightened. Her first thought was that she wanted a vacation away from him and the children, but she quickly realized she didn’t want a vacation, she just wanted to make more movies. If she was really honest, she wanted one of her movies to win Best Picture at the Oscars (so far, five of her movies had been nominated but none had won), and she wanted to walk down the red carpet and get up onto the stage and thank everyone (“And I’d especially like to thank my loving husband, Shane, without whose support I couldn’t do this”), and be celebrated afterward. But instead she said quietly, “I just want you to be happy, Shane,” and after a beat: “So we can all be happy.”
She went into the bathroom, turned on the taps, and got under the shower. Jesus Christ, she thought. What the hell was she going to do about Shane?
She blinked under the hot water, feeling around for the bottle of shampoo, and holding the bottle up to her face so she could see it, was grateful that there was still some shampoo left. Soaping up her hair, she wondered what more she could do to help Shane. After all, he was a grown man. He was thirty-nine years old. (Although most of the time he seemed younger. Much, much younger. She liked to joke that he was her fourth child.) Was he freaking out about turning forty? Or was it really about money, and the fact that Shane hadn’t made any of his own for at least ten years?
But this was nothing new. She’d been supporting him almost from the day they’d met fifteen years ago. She was a development girl at a movie studio, and he was going to be a big-deal filmmaker. Not a director, a filmmaker. He was three years younger, which was quite daring at the time, a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a twenty-four-year-old man, and he was good-looking enough to be an actor. But acting wasn’t intellectual enough. It was beneath him. He was living with three guys in a shack of a house on a walking street in Santa Monica, which wasn’t conducive to a relationship (or even an affair), so he’d moved in with her after two weeks. He was, he said, a creative genius. She was the practical one. She didn’t mind. He was so gorgeous. And sweet. But always a little high-strung. He was writing his screenplay and trying to get money for his independent movie. She helped him. It took two years and $300,000 to get it made, and then he went to Sundance, and it was sort of a hit, so they got married.
But then, in typical Hollywood fashion, nothing happened. Shane was commissioned to write screenplays, but none of them ever got made. The truth was, they weren’t very good, a fact she kept to herself. She told herself it didn’t matter—he was supportive of her and a great father and they had fun, so she didn’t care. And for reasons she could never quite understand, her career kept getting bigger and bigger. It was huge now, as a matter of fact, but she didn’t like to dwell on it. Her position was only important because it meant that they didn’t have to worry about money, even though she secretly worried about money all the time. She worried that she would get fired, or her money would run out, and then what would they do? And now Shane, who had gone from writing screenplays to writing a novel (unpublished), was trying to open a restaurant. She had already put up $250,000. She didn’t know that much about the project because she didn’t have time. It would probably be a disaster. But then she could deduct the money from her taxes . . .
She stepped out of the shower, and as she did so, Shane came into the bathroom and handed her her cell phone. She looked at him curiously.
“It’s Josh,” he said, making a face.
She sighed in annoyance. Josh was one of her three assistants, an arrogant twenty-three-year-old who didn’t bother to cover up the fact that he thought he should have her job. She had tried to make it clear to Josh that the early mornings were family time
, and she wouldn’t take calls before nine a.m. unless it was an emergency. But Josh never listened, and usually called her at least three times between seven-thirty and nine-fifteen, when she arrived at her office.
She put the phone to her ear while toweling off her legs. “Bright and early, as usual, Josh,” she said.
There was a momentary silence that was like an accusation. It was incomprehensible to Josh that people might have lives outside of their work, and, if they did, his attitude seemed to say, they shouldn’t be in a position of power—especially above him.
“Vic-tor Mat-rick just called,” Josh said, enunciating the syllables for emphasis. “I thought you’d probably think that was important.”
Fuck, she wanted to scream. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Victor Matrick was the CEO of Splatch-Verner, which now owned Parador Pictures, of which she was the president.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him that you were unavailable at the moment, but that I would try to reach you.” He paused. “Should I try him back now?”
“Give me a second, will you?” She wrapped the towel around her chest and hurried out of the bathroom, past the open-plan kitchen. Mrs. Minniver had arrived and, scowling, was feeding the children bagels with cream cheese; miraculously, Tyler and Magda were both dressed for school. “Good morning,” Mrs. Minniver said grudgingly, in her clipped English accent. Her salary was $150,000 a year, and Wendy liked to joke that while most nannies were paid $100,000, Mrs. Minniver’s accent cost an extra $50,000. Wendy waved frantically and hurried into the small back room they called the office. Inside were a metal desk, a brand-new computer, several unpacked boxes, toys, various DVDs, a large treadmill (used once), and three pairs of skis. She sat down in the padded office chair. “You can try Victor now,” she said, into the phone. The towel slipped off and she looked down at her chest. God, her breasts were really sagging. They used to be her pride and joy, but now they were like two large flattened pears. She was going to have to seriously consider having them done . . .
“I have Victor Matrick for you,” Josh’s half-snide, half-sycophantish voice said over the line.
“Hello, Victor,” she said heartily.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Victor said smoothly.
“Not at all.”
“This movie we’re screening. The Spotted Pig. I’m assuming it’s a movie I can bring my grandchildren to?”
What the fuck? What the hell was he talking about? “I suppose that depends on how old your grandchildren are, Victor,” she said cautiously. Was it possible he didn’t know anything about the movie? “It’s our big romantic comedy for December release . . .”
“So it’s not a children’s movie,” Victor said.
“No-o-o-o,” Wendy said carefully. “It’s a romantic comedy that centers around a trendy restaurant in the West Village. Jenny Cadine and Tanner Cole are the stars . . .”
“I knew Jenny Cadine was in it, and I kept wondering why she’d agreed to play a pig,” Victor exclaimed, and (thank God, Wendy thought), guffawed loudly.
“That’s something I’m sure most of America would love to see, but actually, Victor, ‘The Spotted Pig’ is the name of a restaurant.”
“Well, Wendy,” Victor said, having recovered from his laughing fit, “I’ll look forward to seeing you at five.”
“Right, Victor. Five o’clock,” she said smoothly, wanting to scream. The screening had been scheduled for four o’clock for the last two weeks.
“I thought that screening was at four,” Josh hissed, as soon as Victor had rung off. It was standard procedure for assistants to stay on the line, so they could take notes on the conversation if necessary.
“It was,” Wendy said sarcastically. “But now, I guess, it’s five. So you’ll have to call everyone and change the time.”
“What if they can’t make it?”
“They’ll make it, Josh, believe me. Just tell them Victor Matrick changed the time.” She hung up and sat back in her chair with a groan. For years, people had been saying that Victor Matrick, whom everyone called the Old Man, was going insane, and this morning’s phone call seemed to be proof. It was all she needed: If Victor went insane and was forced to step down as CEO, the company would bring in someone to replace him and she’d probably be the very first person to get fired. People in her position always were. No matter how good her numbers were, the president of Parador Pictures would be a vanity choice for the new CEO. And then what would she do? What would happen to her children? To Shane?
Goddammit, she thought, picking up the towel. It meant she was going to have to work even harder, and she was going to have to be smart about it. They’d probably replace Victor from within, which meant she was going to have to start cultivating the various department presidents and CEOs who reported to Victor. The timing couldn’t be worse. Parador released sixteen movies a year, all of which she oversaw—from buying the rights to the material, to hiring screenwriters and directors and the actors and crew, to okaying budgets, making visits to the sets and locations, watching the dailies and giving notes to the editors, and then deciding on the advertising budgets and promotions and finally, attending the premieres—but on top of all of this, she was now in preproduction on the movie that she considered the most important of her career. It was called Ragged Pilgrims, and was scheduled to begin shooting in two months. Ragged Pilgrims was the Big One—the movie that everyone in the business dreamed of making someday—the kind of movie people like her lived for, that made you want to get into the movie business in the first place. But right now, Ragged Pilgrims was like a little baby. It needed constant attention—bathing, feeding, and diaper changing—if it was going to survive to the next phase of its life. The last thing she had time to do now was to be out there schmoozing . . .
Her phone rang and, checking the number, she saw that it was another call from the Splatch-Verner building. Was Victor calling her back? “Hello-o-o-o?” she said brightly.
“Wendy?” a small voice said cautiously on the other end. “It’s Miranda. Miranda Delaney? Nico O’Neilly’s assistant . . . ?” She sounded as if she had all day (which she probably did, Wendy thought), and she said briskly, “Yes, Miranda, how are you?”
“I’m fine . . .” Miranda said slowly. And then, clearing her throat: “Nico wanted me to check with you to see if you could make it to lunch today. At Michael’s?”
“Oh right. Lunch,” Wendy said. She’d forgotten about lunch and probably would have canceled, due to the screening, but she quickly changed her mind. If Victor self-destructed, Nico’s support would be invaluable. Especially as Nico was rising up at Splatch-Verner, secretly angling to become president of the entire magazine division, which would put her just under Victor in terms of power. She only hoped Nico could get the job before Victor lost his mind.
* * *
SITTING UPRIGHT IN THE back of the Town Car on her way to the East Side heliport, Nico O’Neilly was, she thought, perfectly in control. She was wearing a black ruffled shirt that set off her golden complexion, and a dark, navy blue suit that was made in Paris by one of Victory’s special seamstresses. The suit was deceptively simple, and its beauty lay in the fit, which was custom-tailored to skim her body perfectly. She had at least fifty of these suits (some with pants), in fabrics ranging from white silk to brown tweed, which meant that she could never gain a pound, but which also meant that she never had to worry about what to wear in the morning. Her sartorial consistency gave her staff and co-workers a sense of always knowing what they were going to get with her, and gave her the peace of mind in knowing that every day was going to start out the same . . .
Oh God, she thought.
The car was on the FDR drive now and, turning her head, she glanced out at the bleak brown buildings of the projects that stretched for blocks along the drive. Something inside her sank at the sight of all that sameness, and she suddenly felt defeated.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. In the past year, she’d started
experiencing these moments of desperate emptiness, as if nothing really mattered, nothing was ever going to change, there was nothing new; and she could see her life stretching before her—one endless long day after the next, in which every day was essentially the same. Meanwhile, time was marching on, and all that was happening to her was that she was getting older and smaller, and one day she would be no bigger than a dot, and then she would simply disappear. Poof! Like a small leaf burned up under a magnifying glass in the sun. These feelings were shocking to her, because she’d never experienced world-weariness before. She’d never had time. All her life, she’d been striving and striving to become this thing that was herself—the entity that was Nico O’Neilly. And then, one morning, time had caught up with her and she had woken up and realized that she was there. She had arrived at her destination, and she had everything she’d worked so hard for: a stunning career, a loving (well, sort of) husband, whom she respected, and a beautiful eleven-year-old daughter whom she adored.
She should have been thrilled. But instead, she felt tired. Like all those things belonged to someone else.
She took the heel of one spectator pump and pushed it down hard on the toe of her other foot. She was not going to think like this. She was not going to allow some random, inexplicable feeling to get her down.
Especially not this morning, which, she reminded herself, was so potentially important to her career. For the last three months, she’d been working on getting a meeting with Peter Borsch, the new CEO of Huckabees, the giant retail chain that appeared poised to take over the world. Huckabees didn’t advertise in magazines, but there was no reason why that shouldn’t change. It seemed obvious to her, but she was the only one in the magazine division who had thought to try to approach Huckabees, a company that most people at Splatch-Verner considered “down-market.” Nico, however, wasn’t a snob, and she’d been following Peter Borsch’s career for years through mentions in the Wall Street Journal. Peter was a man-of-the-people type, but he was also a graduate of Harvard Business School, which he’d attended on full scholarship. With Peter installed as CEO, she was sure he was going to make big changes, and she wanted to be in on the action from the beginning. But to even get a meeting had required weeks and weeks of wooing Peter, sending him handwritten notes and articles and books in which she’d thought he might be interested, including a rare, first-edition copy of The Art of War—and finally, just five days ago, Peter had called himself and agreed to see her.