I had an idea. “Have you tried Saint Jude?”
“What?”
“Saint Jude. You could light a candle.” Josh looked at me blankly. “Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.” My grade school nuns would’ve been proud. Not that I necessarily believe in that stuff. But if the Astros had never won the World Series, it wouldn’t hurt for Josh to light a candle to Saint Jude, would it?
“I’m not Catholic,” Josh said.
“Oh.” I tried to remember whether that mattered or not. I wasn’t sure. “I don’t think that matters,” I said. I wanted to be encouraging. Plus it really
shouldn’t
matter. In my opinion.
Right about then the food came. And let me tell you, it was amazing. Josh was absolutely right: I had never eaten real Italian food before.
“Anyway,” Josh said, somewhere near the end of the buffalo mozzarella—which by the way means the cheese is made from buffalo milk, not that it comes from Buffalo, New York—“if I were going to ask Saint Jude to help me with a lost cause, I wouldn’t waste it on the Astros.”
“But then you could stop wearing that hat,” I said. Let’s face it: Keeping your promises is terribly important, but it was a real pity for him to cover up such nice hair.
“That’s true,” he said. “But I could ask for something that means even more to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting my movie made.”
17
I
almost dropped my fork. Which would’ve been a shame, because those wild mushrooms were unimaginably delicious, even if they were
funghi.
But the point is, did you ever see in the movies where somebody has a flashback to ten different scenes in two seconds, and all of a sudden they put the pieces together and figure something out? I had one of those moments.
Flash.
I meet a man in my hotel, which is full of Movie People for my movie.
Flash.
We’re on the street, and he tells me his name. “I’m Josh,” he says.
Flash.
I start to read the screenplay Elliot Schiffter sent to me. The bottom of the cover page says Copyright J. Thomas.
Flash.
Josh and I walk into the restaurant. The hostess kisses his cheeks and says “
Buona sera, Signore
Tomahs.”
Tomahs
must be how an Italian person says Thomas.
Flash.
Josh says maybe he’ll ask Saint Jude for something that really means a lot to him. “Like getting my movie made,” he says.
Flash.
First name, J. Last name, Thomas. J. Thomas.
Josh Thomas.
Who wrote
The Importance of Beating Ernest.
My movie was Josh’s movie.
Only wait a second. “You said you went to law school,” I said.
“That’s right,” Josh said.
“So . . . are you a lawyer?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he said.
No no no!
That was the wrong answer. He had to be a writer, not a lawyer. People who have those flash moments in the movies and put all the pieces together never get it wrong.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m kind of a
recovering
lawyer.” He took another drink of Chianti. “These days, I’m really more of a . . . screenwriter.”
Yes yes yes!
He was the right Josh Thomas. The man who wrote the screenplay that had brought me to Paris. The wonderful, funny, romantic screenplay I loved. I had come all the way from Kirland, Indiana to Paris, France, and who wound up saving me from a hostile exchange rate and taking me to dinner at the most adorable, authentic Italian restaurant but screenwriter Josh Thomas. It was an incredible coincidence. Except as I have told you, I am not much of a believer in coincidence. Coincidence or not, though, the romantic potential of the whole encounter seemed, well . . . unlimited.
Suddenly I saw him in a whole new light. I had already started to like him quite a bit. But now he practically glowed. I wondered what to say next. Because I did not want to say the wrong thing to this handsome, romantic, glowing man.
I decided not to let on that I had any idea who he was, or that I had anything to do with the movie. Although I had to control myself, because my first impulse was to tell him how much I loved his screenplay, and that I was going to find the perfect dress so Gerard Duclos could film the climactic party scene and make the movie.
The reason I did not tell Josh those things is quite simple: I was
really
starting to like him. And I sensed that he might feel the same way about me. Maybe it was fate, or karma—or magic, I thought, remembering Grandma’s dress. Whatever it was, it was a completely new feeling for me, and I wanted to make it last. So I figured,
Let me save this for that very magical moment of the evening, when I would know the time was right.
Then I’d say, “We have something very special in common.” And when I told him, he’d say, “That’s wonderful!” He would be so grateful I was helping his movie, he’d give me a big hug, maybe even a kiss, and of course I’d kiss him back, and after that . . . Well, just thinking about it made me tingly.
It was too early to tell him. It might be a nice moment, but not
the
moment. That’s why, when Josh told me he was a screenwriter, I just said, “Really?”
“Really. Although if you ask my mother, she’s hoping this is temporary. She says, ‘You’ll get it out of your system.’ Like it’s the flu. She says writers starve, and people in the movie business are bums.”
“Do writers starve?” Well excuse me, but I was curious. Because the clothes he was wearing were pretty nice. Expensive nice. John Varvatos, maybe. Nice shoes, too. Most guys don’t bother spending the money on nice shoes. Let me also say this: I would not date a man solely because he makes a lot of money. On the other hand, if he is already a man I wanted to date, the fact that he makes a lot of money certainly wouldn’t be a deal breaker.
“Starve? Not so far. You would not believe how much producers and movie studios will pay just to option a script.” I guess I looked blank, because he explained. “ ‘Optioning’ means they pay you just for the right to decide whether to make a movie. If they actually go ahead and make it, they pay you a whole lot more.”
“So you get paid for writing movies that nobody makes?”
“Ouch,” he said.
The last thing I wanted to do was be mean to this very special, creative, romantic man, who I was liking more every minute. But I guess maybe it came out that way.
Anyway, he said, “Yes. You can make a very good living writing movies that nobody makes. Only you don’t feel like you’re
really
a writer until you get your first movie made. At least, I don’t. And you wouldn’t believe the stupid reasons movies don’t get made.” He winced, and I got the feeling I had opened an old wound. “My last script came within three days of the start of principal photography.
Three days.
”
“What happened?”
“The director read the script.”
“Hadn’t he already read it?”
Josh looked at me like I was from Mars. Or Venus. Anyway, some other planet. “Of course not.”
“So . . . when he read it, I guess he didn’t like it?”
“Are you kidding? He
loved
it. In fact, he told the studio it was so good, they had to dump the guy who was supposed to star, and give it to George Clooney.”
“So . . . I guess George Clooney didn’t like it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He cleared his schedule immediately. In fact, George thought it was so good, he told the studio to double the budget.”
“So . . . I guess the studio wouldn’t do it?”
“Are you nuts? They won’t offend George Clooney. They wrote a check on the spot.”
I was so confused. None of this sounded like a reason a movie
wouldn’t
get made. “So . . . what happened?”
“They had a bigger budget, so they hired a new cinematographer. A buddy of George’s. They play basketball at George’s villa. Anyway, three days before they start filming, George and the guys are playing three-on-three. George steps on his friend’s foot. The cinematographer calls a foul. George says, ‘That’s no foul. I stepped on your foot; it was an accident, and even if it was on purpose, don’t be such a wuss.’ The cinematographer says, ‘I’m no wuss, but even if I am, at least I’m no pretty-boy prima donna.’ To which George says, ‘Oh yeah, well, if I’m a pretty-boy prima donna, then you’re fired!’ To which the cinematographer says, ‘You can’t fire me; I quit!’ ”
“So . . . no cinematographer, no movie.”
Josh scowled at me. “No no no. Those two guys have been friends forever. They calmed down, poured a couple of single malts, lit up a couple of Cohibas, and agreed they weren’t going to let any stupid movie spoil their friendship. They
both
quit. End of movie.”
I felt like I had just witnessed a train wreck. I felt so bad for Josh. “That’s incredible. I mean, that all those things would go wrong.”
“Nothing incredible about it. Stuff like that happens all the time. It’s a miracle anybody’s movie ever
does
get made.” Then a smile crept over his face. A very attractive smile, I might add. “But this time it’s my turn. That’s why I’m in Paris. They’re making my movie.”
“So that’s why you’re staying at that hotel,” I said.
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m a couple of blocks away, in this great little four-star I read about in the
New York Times.
I can’t believe they’re putting all that talent in a three-star hotel.”
“But everybody working on the movie is staying there. Why aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not exactly . . .
working
on the movie. Movie studios don’t pay writers to watch their scripts get made. I’m here in Paris on my own dime. But I’ve waited a long time for this. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
He looked awfully happy for a guy whose movie wouldn’t get made if the girl from Bumfuck—namely me—couldn’t find the perfect dress. I guessed he was trying to be optimistic.
Josh poured us both some more Chianti. He clinked my glass and took a big drink. “Everybody’s flying in. Kathy Bates is already here.” Then his eyes opened wide. He looked like a kid opening presents. I adored his enthusiasm. I could just tell he was the sweetest man. “Kirk Douglas is coming.
Kirk Douglas
is in my movie. How cool is that?”
I knew right away that Kirk Douglas must be playing old Harold Klein. Which was absolutely perfect. And by the way:
Oh. My. God.
I know he is an old man, but I
love
Kirk Douglas. Did you see him when he got that special Oscar? I cried.
“As soon as Kirk Douglas attached to the project, all these big names came running,” Josh said. “Jude Law is playing Scott Fitzgerald. Can you believe it?” He still had that endearing little-boy look on his face. He was not obnoxious or arrogant at all. He was smart and humble and, as I may have mentioned, very attractive, and I found myself wondering how I could have thought anything bad about him at that cash machine. In fact, he seemed quite perfect. “They’re all doing it for scale.” He was still talking about the movie. “That’s, like, next to nothing. Which is a good thing, because the budget is next to nothing. In fact, if it weren’t for that obnoxious slut, the movie wouldn’t be getting made at all.”
Slut? I knew he must’ve been talking about Nathalie. Totally independently, he and I had formed the exact same opinion of her. Our minds worked alike. We were compatible in every respect. Destiny—and magic—were very clearly at work here.
That was when the Chianti ran out. We talked about getting another bottle, but I wanted to get an early start the next day. I said maybe we should stop drinking. Then I looked at him. He looked at me. Both of us just looked at each other. Then he smiled. An intimate smile. An I-want-to-get-to-know-you-very-well-starting-right-this-minute smile. It was the perfect smile. Suddenly I felt so warm, my fingertips started to sweat.
We switched to drinking grappa.
We also shared a tiramisu. And let me tell you. If you think you have eaten tiramisu, like at the Olive Garden? You have not.
Even in the middle of what was rapidly turning into the most romantic night of my life, I reminded myself that I was in Paris on business. I had to find a dress. So I steered the conversation back to the body that would wear it. “What obnoxious slut?”
“Nathalie Gauloise. She’s this . . . actress.” Josh said the word as though it pained him to say it. “She’s this little French . . . well, bitch.” I giggled. “She
is.
She’s the director’s girlfriend. She’s probably the only reason he’s doing the movie. The thing is, in France the TV networks subsidize the movie industry, so it’s cheaper to make a French movie. The studio in LA figured out they can qualify if one of the stars is from here, and she’ll say a bunch of her lines in French.”
Okay that part was not all that conducive to romance. But you have to remember, Josh was a recovering lawyer.
Right about then a piece of tiramisu fell off my fork and onto the table. Perhaps all that Chianti and grappa had made me a little sloppy. Whatever the reason, I did something I pretty much never do: I picked up the piece I dropped. Picked it off the table with my fingers. Intending to put it right into my mouth, because it was too sinfully good to waste.
It never got to my mouth. Josh reached over and took hold of my wrist. Which stopped me cold. For just a second I thought,
Oh no, my manners are so bad, I have offended him.
Silly me. Gently, but still firmly, Josh pulled my wrist toward him. Until my hand was right in front of his mouth. Then he ate the tiramisu out of my hand.
Then he licked my fingers.
Ooooooooooh.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
18
H
ere is how perfect Josh Thomas was that night.
We did not go running off to his hotel room. Or my hotel room. Or anybody’s hotel room. Even though—and I am being terribly honest with you here—if he had asked me to, I think there is an
extremely
good chance I would have.