Yes, Gracie had friends, writer friends—or the occasional oddball who had a trust fund that was barely enough to pay rent on a studio apartment. But the majority of her friends worked two or three jobs, keeping themselves solvent until the big payday when their scripts would be optioned, that network pilot would be picked up, or they packed it in and went back to graduate work—or to marrying the high school sweetheart they left behind somewhere in the middle of the country.
Gracie could go days without saying more than “I’ll have the chicken soup, please,” to one of the gruff elderly waitresses at Canter’s. She was an only child; her gentle, beloved father had died suddenly of a heart attack when Gracie was in her senior year at college, living off-campus. Her mother, the youngest of four girls, had never lived alone and was not prepared to do so now, in her fifties. She had moved shortly thereafter to Seattle, where her favorite older sister lived, away from the smog and the freeways and the memories and the crime. But also away from her daughter. They rarely talked. Gracie thought of herself, when dreariness and self-pity consumed her
thoughts (she allowed herself this luxury about once a week), as the world’s oldest living orphan.
When Kenny appeared in Gracie’s life, with his grand plans, his sheer velocity, she was swept up like a tumbleweed in a desert windstorm. Gracie went quietly, as resistant as melted butter, a shining example of Stockholm syndrome. “Tell me where to go,” her brain whispered as she looked at Kenny speaking with conviction, with energy, with life, on any given subject, any at all. “I’ll go,” her eyes revealed.
On her first date with Kenny, he’d picked her up at her apartment, knocking on her door like machine-gun fire. He was five minutes early and her dating clock was five minutes late—she’d taken a full hour to get dressed. Not counting the make-out session with the lanky college student from Germany who lived across the street, this was her first date in six months.
Gracie had quickly tugged Kenny in, away from the prying eyes of her widowed neighbor, and he’d waited in what she called her living room—a plaster square replete with a two-seater couch, a small TV on a stand, and a coffee table.
She heard him poking around the kitchen as she slipped on her heels, cognizant of the scuffs that pinned her as a girl on the rise or slipping badly. She came out to find Kenny looking into her minirefrigerator and shaking his head.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a good meal?” he’d asked. She looked at him, her mouth open. Gracie had almost burst into tears, for it was a question a mother would ask. A question no one had asked her in a long, long time.
Kenny had taken her to legendary Spago, where he was greeted by “Wolfie” and where they had eaten foie gras four ways and crab cakes and some kind of architecturally challenging beet salad and drank a bottle (two bottles?) of Cabernet
and platefuls of desserts, and when she spied the bill, before Kenny flipped his American Express (business) card onto it, she was shocked to see the price of the meal.
She had eaten two months’ rent. And had been completely seduced. She felt like Pretty Woman; but instead of the hottest hooker on the planet, Gracie was an attractive, if a bit mousy, scribe.
Once they were married, having her own identity set her apart from her peers, her fellow wives. Sure, there were a few wives who had outside interests—baby photography, a clothes boutique—and they talked about their interests at length in various fashion magazines, where they would be photographed in the glamorous setting of the studio they rarely used, the eponymous boutique they seldom frequented.Their jobs were more like very expensive, well-publicized hobbies.
Gracie surmised that Hollywood Wives had the highest unemployment rate in the country.
Let it be said that Gracie hadn’t written anything in a while. “A while” translated into half a decade, give or take a year. She hadn’t been seized with an idea that demands you run to your computer before it recedes into the fabric of what Hollywood people loved to call their “crazy busy” lives. She hadn’t met the boy at the bus stop, so to speak. Gracie had sat in front of her computer many days, jabbing at keys, willing an idea to fall out of the sky and drizzle out through her fingertips.
At first, Gracie figured it must be the demands of having a baby. She and Kenny had a baby girl almost four years ago, after years of trying. Of course a baby is a distraction. Of course a baby makes life more full, and of course a mother has less time to write than a nonparent.
But deep down, Gracie knew her dry spell, the endless
desert of her unproductive days, had a different genesis. It wasn’t pregnancy brain, it wasn’t postpartum, and it wasn’t her beautiful Jaden.
(Okay, the name. Time to come clean. Jaden was named after Jada Pinkett and Will Smith’s child. Kenny, at the time, was casting a Vietnam War movie that needed a young, black, powerful lead. Will didn’t wind up taking the role, of course, and Gracie in the meantime had a child whose name was looted from movie-star off-spring.)
Gracie’s well of ideas had run dry. Gracie’s talent, her personality, her gumption, even her anger, were fading. She felt like a pencil drawing that was being slowly, methodically erased.The demands of a life filled with petty concerns—
Why are the tennis court lights on at eight a.m.? The air-conditioning went above 72 degrees in the guesthouse sitting room! We need new flower arrangements twice a week.Why won’t the remote (that cost as much as a new Toyota) turn off the Flat Screen TV in the bar? What is the proper ratio of studio to talent for a dinner party? The orchids in the foyer are dying. Should we serve lamb or salmon at our third dinner party this month? I want a phone on the left side of the master toilet. Who has (imaginary) food allergies? The pool is overflowing. Who doesn’t eat meat? That painting doesn’t work with the new couch. Who doesn’t eat bread? I need another iPod (preprogrammed with Julia Roberts’s favorites). The gardener cut the grass too low. The made-in-Tibet screening-room curtains won’t open
—had devoured not only Gracie’s creativity but, more important, her spirit.
Gracie’s comatose state was starting to lift as she looked up at the ex-stripper, whose full figure and full attention were on Kenny as she bobbled her head like the dog figurines Gracie would see in the back of the rusty Toyotas owned by the Latina nannies in her neighborhood.
The Stepford wives had nothing on the Wives Of, Gracie thought ruefully. Amateurs.
Onion rings that everyone agreed to order but no one would eat, thanks to Zone oppression, arrived at the table. Kenny stood to greet someone famous whom Gracie didn’t recognize—Gracie could tell this person was famous because Kenny had forgotten to introduce his wife. He wasn’t trying to be rude. Kenny had Celebrity Alzheimer’s: His brain went on the blink when approached by a celebrated face. Kenny was blinded by fame, fascinated by those on the lit side of the camera. He would often forget that his civilian wife, who would never be found in the pages of
People’
s 50 Most Beautiful! edition, was standing right next to him.
Gracie stared at this girl, a petite, anemic, pretty blonde like so many petite, anemic, pretty blondes on screen, and made a game out of trying to place her. She considered celebrity naming a sort of virtual crossword puzzle:
Is she on a sitcom? In a movie? Action movie? Romantic comedy? Is she British? One of the hundreds of Australians? (Does anyone in that country not act?) Does she sing? Under thirty? Over thirty? Dating a tennis star? Dating Ben Affleck? Just broken up with Ben Affleck? Pregnant with Ben Affleck’s twins?
After she’d turned forty, Gracie realized that she was recognizing fewer and fewer “recognizable faces.” Gracie had no interest in a network called the WB—Gracie wasn’t even sure what WB stood for—and they had no interest in her. FOX left her cold, except for that show with Kiefer Sutherland, whom Gracie still expected to look like the Lost Boy she lusted after when she was young, not the grizzled Manly Man (whom she still lusted after) he’d become. NBC and ABC were passable. CBS? Gracie didn’t know what that was, but apparently she would in her retirement years. And Gracie didn’t understand—was
it her, or were there just so many more “famous” people than there were fifteen years ago?
And was Gracie the only one who wasn’t famous?
Gracie was midway through dinner by the time she was up to her third witty remark—she had finally met her self-imposed quota. Maybe Gracie would go beyond the expected and dole out four, although she usually kept herself to three per dinner, so as to not appear as detached as she felt. During their years of courtship and marriage, Kenny and Gracie had attended hundreds of affairs and endured endless hours of small talk. So much small talk that Gracie had developed a foolproof method for dealing with it. She’d even broken down the elements of these nights into categories of engagement:
There are no parents more obsessed with getting their kids into Harvard than the Hollywood parent, though few had gone there themselves, and if they had, had probably been fired from their jobs by now. Here’s a tip: Moving to Hollywood? Keep your Ivy League degree to yourself.
Religion? Seldom brought up unless someone was trying to get his child into a private school with a religious affiliation. For example, a person could say, “I’m trying to get into Wilshire Boulevard, but I have to join the Temple.” Or, “I need to be a parishioner for two years before I get into St. Stephen’s.”
Kenny and Gracie had scrambled onto the guest list of every party for those between the ages of twenty-five and seventy five. For the last few years, they had attended, without fail, four events or dinners a week.
Gracie calculated as the network executive jumped into the conversation guns blazing—four times fifty-two weeks equals two hundred and eight, multiplied by ten equals two thousand and eighty outings, not including this one.
As the network executive labored through his dubiously masculine account of a recent white-water rafting trip, Gracie experienced Past Life Regression.
Kenny wasn’t always so very Kenny. Gracie was clearheaded enough to remember when Kenny would groan about having to go out all the time, even if Gracie never quite believed that he resented the demands on his time. Gracie never really bought that he hated talking marketing with David Geffen or Barry Diller. Did Gracie wonder that he was miserable being away from her on her thirtieth birthday because he had to catch a private jet with Spielberg to see a screening in San Diego? No. Did Gracie think for a moment that he hated going back to work an hour after their daughter was born because Billy Bob Thornton was fighting with the director on his Western? Not a chance.
Kenny was a low-man-on-the-totem-pole development executive when Gracie met him. He had phoned her out of the blue. “Kenny Pollock here,” he’d said, “Pollock like the fish.” “Not the artist?” Gracie had asked. She’d recently been to
a LACMA exhibition of the artist’s most famous works. She’d stood for hours, staring at … what? Drops, lines, webs, colors, streams … And yet, she stood. Mesmerized. She’d gone back twice. The greatest emotional involvement she’d had in years—and it was with a painting.
“Artist?” Kenny had cracked. “Don’t tell anyone in Hollywood I’ve got an artist’s name, they’ll run me out of town.” He talked her up for half an hour about optioning her first children’s book for no money for a never-to-be-made movie. Gracie was charmed by the way his voice cracked while toiling under the tenor of false bravado. Gracie had no idea what he looked like; she imagined he was small boned and fidgety and dark—just her type. He invited her for sushi in a place called Brentwood. Gracie had never had sushi and had rarely ventured west of La Cienega. When Gracie met him for this sushi lunch, she walked right past him toward another man sitting at the bar. Kenny tapped her on the shoulder, and Gracie turned around, stunned to see a tall galoot with football player shoulders and a child’s grin, and more stunned when he bear-hugged her and planted a big kiss on her cheek. Gracie wasn’t yet accustomed to the typical Hollywood greeting; she generally consigned her kisses and hugs to family members and lovers. Gracie soon learned she was a prude, that in Hollywood a kiss carries as little weight as a blow job from a call girl. Gracie learned to hand out kisses to maître d’s and studio chiefs as easily as she’d kiss her own mother. Except that she had never kissed her own mother on the lips.