‘She is wonderful because you treat her wonderful,’ Julia once told me in her still-shaky English.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Emily is wonderful because she is simply wonderful.’
By the age of three she was picking up books and saying things like: ‘Mommy loves books – and I love Mommy.’ Or she would climb into my lap when I was in my desk chair at home, grading papers, and would try to read the words I had written on the essays.
Every weekend, I made a point of bringing Emily somewhere cultural, but fun. The Science Museum, the Zoo, the Museum of Fine Art (she actually pointed to a Rothko hanging on one of the walls and went: ‘Nice’), even the Wiedener Library at Harvard, where a friend named Diane who worked in the cataloging department brought us on a tour of the vast array of stacks. Emily found it all a bit claustrophobic and labyrinthine, and clung to me as Diane patiently explained to her how the books found their way onto shelves and how there were shelves for books about stories and shelves for books about things that happened in the past and shelves for . . .
‘I write stories,’ Emily suddenly announced.
‘I’m sure you do,’ Diane said, beaming.
Again I was told how poised and delightful my daughter was. On one snowy day I decided against taking the car and brought her to the crèche by the T. During the journey she happily colored away in her
Sesame Street
book, occasionally stopping to show me her handiwork, and an elderly woman sitting opposite me actually leaned over and said: ‘I have grandchildren and they don’t know how to behave in public and are always kicking up. But your daughter is just exceptional . . . and a great credit to you.’
Now I know I’m sounding just a little too fulsome here. But Emily made me feel fulsome. For the first time in my life, there was someone who was more important to me than anyone else in the world. A sweeping statement, but an accurate one. She was the great love of my life.
Meanwhile, her father was otherwise engaged. From the moment I transferred the $50,000 into the Fantastic Filmworks account, Theo was largely AWOL from our lives. With the money I gave them he rented an office with Adrienne off Harvard Square for $1,200 per month. It struck me as something of an extravagance.
‘Harvard Square is the most expensive corner of Cambridge,’ I told him.
‘That’s why we have to be there. Adrienne says that we’ll have no street cred with the big-deal distributors if we’re operating in some second-floor walk-up elsewhere. Everyone knows Harvard Square.’
‘It’s still fifteen thousand dollars a year in rent.’
‘Don’t sweat it. Adrienne says we should have an easy hundred Gs in our account within four months. Then you’ll get your fifty back – and we’ll have no more cash-flow problems.’
‘You already have cash-flow problems?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
They flew off together to Milan for a big meeting there. Theo assured me – but only when I asked to be reassured – that they’d be sleeping in separate rooms.
‘Don’t sweat it. I’m not her type, she’s not my type . . . and anyway she’s got this guy she’s seeing right now.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Todd something.’
‘What’s he do?’
‘He’s a journalist on the
Phoenix
, I think.’
I checked the masthead of the
Boston Phoenix
. There was no one with Todd as his first name listed there. I called their editorial office and asked them if they had someone named Todd who wrote for them. The woman on the other end of the line said they didn’t divulge such information, but if I checked out all their back issues online, I might find what I was looking for. I did just that, using their search engine to check if there were any Todds with bylines. I went back two years. None whatsoever. If you were named Todd you were evidently barred from writing for the
Phoenix
.
I mentioned this to Theo. He got annoyed.
‘What are you turning into – Edward G. Robinson in
Double Indemnity
?’
‘I’m not trying to be a bloodhound,’ I said, getting the reference.
‘Yes, you are – otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to find out if this Todd guy wrote for the
Phoenix
.’
‘Well, he obviously doesn’t.’
‘So?’
‘So she doesn’t have a boyfriend named Todd.’
‘No – she
definitely
has a boyfriend named Todd.’
‘But he doesn’t work for the
Phoenix
.’
‘I obviously got that wrong.’
Theo did bring me back a fantastically expensive pair of black Ferragamo boots from Milan.
‘They’re magnificent,’ I said, ‘but far too indulgent.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it looks like we have fifteen grand upfront for Italian theatrical.’
But the boots cost $1,500 (again the internet told all) and I was somewhat unnerved when I thought that he’d blown one-tenth of his first sale on me. Yet I decided not to challenge him on it as there were other more pressing concerns to be confronted.
‘Hello there, thanks
sooo
much for calling Fantastic Filmworks.’
This voice – hippy dippy with those decidedly ‘out there’ inflections one associates with far too many hallucinogenics – greeted me when I called Theo at his office one afternoon.
‘Who was that?’ I asked when Theo came on the line.
‘Our assistant, Tracey-Spacey.’
‘You hired an assistant?’
‘She’s only part-time.’
‘But she’s still
an employee
. And what sort of name is Tracey-Spacey?’
‘We need an assistant. Between my job at the archive and Adrienne being on the road all the time . . .’
That was another thing that was grating on me – Adrienne constantly being elsewhere, flitting between London and LA and Milan and Barcelona, and me occasionally receiving a phone call from the
grande dame
, all specious affability and reassurance.
‘Jane, hon, you would not believe how damn expensive London is right now. I mean, eight bucks for a frappuccino in a Starbucks over here. Who pays that sort of money?’
‘You evidently do.’
She began to laugh that hyena laugh of hers.
‘You are such a card!’ she said. ‘But do I detect a teeny-weeny bit of worry-worry in your voice?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Look, the point of this call is . . . I’ve got goody-goody news! Ever heard of the Film Factory? One of the biggest distributors in the UK. They are ready to pony up two hundred and fifty thousand for theatrical rights in Britain.’
‘And what about DVD rights?’
‘They want to sell those on – but we’ll have a forty percent share in that sale.’
‘And they’re thinking what sort of price?’
‘Will you listen to you . . . Madame Business Head!’
‘Thirty percent of two-fifty is seventy-five thousand. Not exactly riches beyond avarice, given that the UK is such a major English-language market.’
‘It’s a great price,’ she said, a tone of annoyance coming through.
‘They got seven-fifty for the UK theatrical sale of
Kill Me Now
,’ I said, mentioning the name of a recent super-grisly horror film that had been a box-office phenomenon in thirty countries.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I know how to use a search engine. The search engine sent me to
Variety
, which had a story in their archive on the UK deal for
Kill Me Now
. Given that you’ve only been able to realize thirty-three percent of that price for UK theatrical distribution of our film—’
‘You know,’ she said, interrupting me, ‘this wasn’t
the deal
I agreed to when I accepted your investment.’
‘You
accepted
my investment,’ I said, sounding angry – which is exactly what I was. ‘You came to me with my partner, begging me—’
‘I have eighteen years’ experience in the film business. I have been called the most important person in independent film distribution by the
Village Voice
. Anyway, two-fifty is a great price.’
‘It’s a mediocre price.’
‘It pays back your investment.’
‘There is that, I suppose.’
Theo came home that night, emanating passive-aggressive anger.
‘I never knew you had such great experience in film sales,’ he said, his voice mildness itself.
‘I know how to compare a good deal maker and a bad deal maker.’
‘And do you also know that Adrienne phoned me up from London in tears?’
‘Am I supposed to be affected by that? I mean, I just pointed out that her deal wasn’t up to snuff.’
‘You’re not to question her judgment in the future.’
‘Is that an order,
sir
?’
‘Let her do her job – which she’s very good at.’
‘Not if she got sixty-five percent less than—’
‘No one knew at the time that the film-sales market would take a small dive. You’ve worked in finance, you know everything comes down to risk management, risk assessment. So why get all exercised about a good deal that isn’t a great deal? You’re getting your money back.’
But I didn’t get my money back. Four months went by. Theo and Adrienne went to Los Angeles and the American Film Market, where they rented a convertible Mustang and took a suite in a hotel on the beach. How did I know such things? Because I saw the photographs that Theo took of himself and Adrienne posing by the electric-red Mustang, and a party they threw for assorted film types in their suite – which had (also in true Hollywood style) a very nice veranda facing the beach in Santa Monica. The reason I saw the photographs is because Theo had left his spiffy new Leica camera on the kitchen counter at home, with the image of himself and Adrienne (arms around each other’s shoulders) in the digital display below the viewfinder.
Was I disconcerted by this? Just a little. As he’d left the camera out there for me to peruse I didn’t think twice about picking it up and rolling through the other photographs that had been stored within. That’s when I saw the pictures of the oceanfront suite, of the party they threw, of their carousing with assorted other partygoers on a king-sized hotel bed.
Why the hell had he left the camera out on the kitchen counter? The answer was an obvious one: he wanted me to find it. He wanted to share with me the fact that he was now sleeping with Adrienne. In that time-honored tradition of male guilt, he had to let me in on his grubby little secret – and, as such, transfer whatever guilt he was feeling onto me.
But when he arrived home that night and I confronted him about the photographs, his reaction was one of cool disdain.
‘Why did you look at the pictures?’ he asked.
‘Because they were left out for me to see.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said, all calm. ‘The camera was simply left out. You chose to pick it up.’
‘And you chose to leave it out with a picture of you and Adrienne locked in an embrace.’
‘We had our arms around each other’s shoulders, that’s all.’
‘That’s all? You were sprawled out on a bed in a hotel suite.’
‘There were many people sprawled out on that bed.’
‘But you had her head in your lap.’
‘Big deal. We were all smashed.’
‘You were in the same hotel suite.’
‘That’s right,
a suite
. As in a hotel apartment with many rooms. And there were two bedrooms. One for Adrienne, one for me.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t really care if you do or don’t. It’s simply the truth of the matter.’
‘Even if – as you keep alleging – you haven’t slept with the woman, it’s also very clear to me that the two of you are engaging in absurd profligacy.’
‘Oh God, this song and dance again.’
‘Yes – this song and dance again. Because the seed money for the convertibles and the fancy hotel suite and all the extravagant travel came from me. And I’ve yet to see a penny of it back.’
‘That’s because we’ve yet to see any of the money from all the contracts signed.’
‘How many territories are gone so far?’
‘You’d have to talk to Adrienne. That’s her division.’
‘Her
division
? What are you, some multinational corporation with
divisions
in thirty countries? Surely you know exactly how many contracts you’ve signed to date.’
‘Can’t say that I do, really. A half-dozen, I think.’
‘You
think
. And the States – the really big contract . . . ?’
‘Well, I was going to come to that. New Line might be offering us a cool million.’
This stopped me short.
‘When did that happen?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because it wasn’t certain. And I didn’t want you to be disappointed.’
‘I’m an officer of this company. Surely I should have been told.’
‘All right, it was an oversight. And I’m sorry. But aren’t you pleased?’
‘Of course I’m pleased. That’s three hundred thousand to us. It’s great news.’
‘So you shouldn’t be worrying about the money we’ve been spending to get the film sold. If we’d gone to the American Film Market and stayed in some Motel 6 and had been driving a rented Buick, everyone would have written us off as bit players. As Adrienne says, you throw some money around to make some money. That’s the way the game works.’
‘I still would like to see a full set of accounts for all the travel and all the signed contracts.’
‘No problem,’ he said, sounding evasive.
Evasive he remained. Every two weeks I would remind him that he still hadn’t shown me the accounts or the contracts. He would promise them in a few days. When this went on three times too many, I blew up at him and said that he was to either show me the paperwork or face questions from my lawyer. And I would really like to know why the hell my fifty grand hadn’t yet been refunded to me.