Authors: Douglas Kennedy
‘And you told me you never wanted to deal with me again. So why don’t we simply tell each other to fuck off and leave it at that?’
‘Ooh, listen to the cool customer. Back on top of the world, and back treating the little people like
ca-ca
.’
‘I am not at all
size-ist
, Bobby. Even though you are a nasty, duplicitous, short little shit.’
‘And here I was, about to give you some great news.’
‘Go on,’ I said, sounding bored.
‘Remember that ten grand you left on account with me . . . ?’
‘I never left any money with you, Bobby. When I closed the account . . . ’
‘You forgot about ten thousand dollars.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘David, I’m going to say it again:
you forgot about ten thousand dollars
. Got that?’
‘Uh-huh. And what, pray tell, happened to this “forgotten” ten grand?’
‘I bought you a small, but significant position in a Venezuelan dot.com IPO, and hey presto – the stock increased fifty-fold, and . . . ’
‘Why are you telling me this absurd story?’
‘It’s not absurd. You’ve now got $500,000 back on account with Barra & Company. In fact, I was about to get my people to send you and your account guy a statement today.’
‘Do you really expect me to believe this?’
‘The fucking money is there, David. In your name.’
‘That I believe. But this Venezuelan IPO yarn? Couldn’t you do better than that?’
A pause. Then:
‘Does it matter how the money found its way into your account?’
‘I just want you to admit . . . ’
‘What?’
‘That he told you to set me up.’
‘Who’s
he
?’
‘You know exactly who I’m talking about.’
‘I don’t talk about other clients.’
‘He’s not a client. He’s fucking God . . . ’
‘And sometimes God is good. So stop with the sanctimonious shit . . . especially when God’s also paid you $12 mil for four old scripts that were picking up Athlete’s Foot in your sock drawer. And while you’re at it, congratulate me on leaving you $250k better off than where you were when it all went down.’
I sighed. ‘What can I say? You’re a genius, Bobby.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. So: what do you want me to do with the dough?’
‘As in: how do I think you should invest it for me?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
‘What makes you think I still want you as my broker?’
‘Because you know I’ve always made you money.’
I considered this for a moment.
‘You know, after Alison’s commission and the IRS, I’m also going to have about $6 million of the Fleck deal to play with.’
‘I had done the math, yes.’
‘Say I wanted to take that $6 million – along with the half-million you just made for me – and put it all in a trust fund . . . ?’
‘We certainly do trusts. They’re not the sexiest kind of investment . . . ’
‘But the funds can’t somehow get switched into an Indonesian IPO, can they?’
Now it was his turn to sigh loudly. Instead of making a
retort, however, he said: ‘If you want safe, blue-chip investments – with iron-clad permanence – that’s easily do-able.’
‘That’s exactly what I want. Ultra-safe. Rock solid. And to be put in the name of Caitlin Armitage.’
‘Nice one,’ Bobby said. ‘I approve.’
‘Why, thank you. And while you’re at it, thank Fleck for me too.’
‘I didn’t hear that.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re going deaf?’
‘Hadn’t you noticed? We’re all falling apart. I think it’s called
life
. Which is why, my friend, it’s best to maintain an amused attitude at all times – especially during the bad ones.’
‘And you’re a philosopher to boot. How I’ve missed you, Bobby.’
‘Ditto, David . . . with bells on. Lunch next week?’
‘I suppose there’s no avoiding it.’
But I did keep avoiding Sally’s phone calls. Not that she was as persistent as Bobby. But her name kept appearing on my call sheet once a week for my first three weeks back on the job. Eventually, a letter arrived for me on Fox stationery:
Dear David
I simply wanted to write and say how pleased I am to see you back in business after that dreadful campaign of vilification by Theo McCall. You are one of this industry’s major talents – and what happened to you was nothing short of appalling. On behalf of everyone at Fox Television, congratulations on overcoming the worst possible adversity and triumphing again. Sometimes the good guys do win.
I also wanted to let you know that Fox Television is extremely interested in moving forward with the comedy series idea,
Talk It Over
, which we discussed some time ago. Your schedule permitting, it would be nice to meet up for lunch and chat things over.
Hope to hear from you soon.
Best,
Sally
PS You were brilliant on
Today
.
I didn’t know if this was Sally’s way of sending me an apology. Or if this was some carefully veiled hint that (as I was now bankable again) she’d like to
chat things over
. Or if she was simply playing the canny television executive and chasing the so-called ‘talent’. I didn’t care to find out. But I wasn’t going to be rude or triumphalist either . . . because, quite frankly, there was nothing to be triumphalist about. So I sat down and – using official FRT stationery – wrote the following businesslike reply:
Dear Sally
Many thanks for your letter. Pressing work on the new series of
Selling You
means that I won’t be available for lunch. And my writing commitments are such that I am not interested in pursuing any work with you for the foreseeable future.
Sincerely
And I signed my entire name.
Later that week, there was one final piece of good news. Delivered to me by Walter Dickerson, who after months of negotiating with the other side, finally got what I’d been longing for.
‘Okay,’ he said when he called me at the office. ‘Here it is: you’ve got your physical access back.’
‘Lucy actually relented?’
‘Yes – she finally decided that Caitlin needed to see her father. I’m just sorry it took so damn long. But the good news is: not only can you have your regular access back, she’s not insisting that it be supervised . . . which is often the case in a situation where access has been suspended for a while.’
‘Did her lawyer give any reason why she changed her mind?’
‘Put it this way: I’m certain Caitlin played her role in changing her mother’s mind.’
But there was another reason – and one which I only discovered when I flew north for my first weekend in eight months with my daughter.
I drove a rental car from the airport to Lucy’s house in Sausalito. And rang the bell. Within a nanosecond, the door flew open and Caitlin fell into my arms. I held her for a very long time. Then she nudged me with her elbow and said, ‘Did you bring a present?’
I laughed – both at the splendid impertinence of the comment and at her extraordinary resilience. Eight freakish months had gone by – yet here we were again, father and daughter. As far as she was concerned, nothing had changed.
‘The present’s in the car. I’ll give it to you later.’
‘At the hotel?’
‘Yes – at the hotel.’
‘The same hotel we stayed in once – up in the sky?’
‘No – not that hotel, Caitlin.’
‘Doesn’t your friend like you anymore?’
I stared at her, bedazzled. She remembered everything. Every detail of every weekend we spent together.
‘It’s a very long story, Caitlin.’
‘Will you tell it to me?’
But before I could find a way of answering that little question, I heard Lucy’s voice.
‘Hello, David.’
I stood up, still holding Caitlin’s hand. ‘Hi.’
An awkward silence. How can you exchange pleasantries after all that enmity, all that horrible legal stupidity, all that useless damage?
But I decided I should make an effort, so I said, ‘You look well.’
‘So do you.’
Another awkward silence.
A man emerged from the rear of the house and came into the doorframe where Lucy was standing. He was tall, lanky, in his early forties, dressed conservatively in that standard issue WASP weekend uniform: a button down blue shirt, tan Shetland sweater, khakis, boat shoes. He put his arm around Lucy’s shoulder. I tried not to flinch.
‘David, this is my friend, Peter Harrington.’
‘Nice to finally meet you, David,’ he said, extending his hand. I took it, thinking: at least he didn’t say, ‘. . .
and I’ve heard so much about you
.’
‘Nice to meet you too,’ I said.
‘Can we go, Daddy?’ Caitlin asked.
‘Fine by me.’ I turned back to Lucy. ‘Six o’clock on Sunday.’
She nodded, and we left.
On the drive back into San Francisco, Caitlin said:
‘Mummy’s going to marry Peter.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘And what do you think about that?’
‘I want to be the bridesmaid.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged. Do you know what Peter does?’
‘He runs a church.’
‘Really?’ I said, mildly alarmed. ‘What kind of church?’
‘A nice church.’
‘Do you remember the name of it?’
‘Uni . . . uni . . . ’
‘Unitarian, maybe?’
‘That’s it. Unitarian. Funny word.’
Well, at least, as religions go, it was civilized.
‘Peter’s very nice,’ Caitlin added.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And he told Mommy that you should be allowed to see me again.’
‘And how did you know that?’
‘Because I was in the next room, playing, when he said it. Did Mommy stop you from seeing me?’
I stared out at the lights of the bay.
‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s the truth?’
Caitlin, you don’t need to hear the truth.
‘Yes, sweetheart. That’s the absolute truth. I was away, working.’
‘But you’ll never be away that long again, will you?’
‘Never.’
She extended her tiny hand. ‘Deal?’ she asked.
I grinned. ‘Since when did you start working in Hollywood?’
She ignored the wisecrack and extended the hand further.
‘Deal, Daddy?’
I took her hand and shook it.
‘Deal.’
The weekend passed in a delightful blur. And then we were back in front of Lucy’s house at six pm, Sunday. When the door opened, Caitlin ran to hug her mother, then turned back to me and gave me a big wet kiss on the cheek and said, ‘See you in two weeks, Daddy.’ Then she charged inside, clutching the assorted Barbies and other useless plastic objects I’d bought her over the weekend. Lucy and I suddenly found ourselves alone on the doorstep, facing into another awkward silence.
‘Good time?’ Lucy asked me.
‘Wonderful.’
‘I’m glad.’
Silence.
‘Well then . . . ’ I said, backing off.
‘Okay,’ Lucy said. ‘Bye, now.’
‘See you in two weeks.’
‘Fine.’
Then I nodded and turned to leave.
‘David,’ she said, making me turn around.
‘Yeah?’
‘I just wanted to say . . . I’m glad things seem to have worked out for you, professionally speaking.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It must have been awful.’
‘It was.’
Silence. Then she said, ‘I also want you to know something. My lawyer told me that, when everything went wrong, you lost all your money . . . ’
‘That’s true. I kind of got wiped out for a while.’
‘But you still managed to meet our maintenance every month.’
‘Had to be done.’
‘But you were broke.’
‘Had to be done.’
Silence.
‘I was impressed, David.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. Then, once again, we fell into constrained silence. So I said goodnight, and walked back to my car and drove to the airport, and took the flight back to Los Angeles, and got up the next morning, and went to work, and made lots of ‘creative decisions,’ and took lots of phone calls, and had lunch with Brad, and found three hours in the afternoon to stare into a computer screen, and manipulated my characters into something approaching life, and actually ended up working on until eight, and closed up the empty office myself, and picked up some take-out sushi on the way home, and ate the sushi and drank a beer while watching the last two quarters of a Lakers game, and got into bed with the new Walter Mosley novel, and slept a reasonably sound seven hours, and got up, and began the entire process all over again.
Somewhere in the middle of all that routine, the
reflection did dawn: everything you wanted restored has been restored. But with that knowledge came another realization:
You’re alone now.
Yes, there were the collegial pleasures of work. And yes, there were the two weekends a month that I was granted access to my daughter. But beyond that . . .
What? There was no family expecting me at home come night. Another man was already playing day-to-day Daddy for my daughter. And though my professional standing had been resurrected, I now knew that success only carried you as far as the next success. Which, in turn, only transported you to . . .
Where exactly? What was the ultimate destination? That was the most puzzling thing about all this. You could spend years struggling to get
somewhere
. But when you finally did – when everything fell into your lap and you procured what you’d so craved – you were suddenly confronted with a strange truth: had you really arrived anywhere? Or were you simply at a way-station, en route to an illusory destination? A place which vanished from view the moment you were no longer considered touched by success.
How can you ever reach a terminus that doesn’t exist?
And if there was a scrap of insight I had picked up along the way, it was this: what we’re all pursuing is some sort of desperate self-validation. But that’s only found through those who’ve been dumb enough to love you . . . or whom you’ve managed to love.
Like Martha.
For the first month, I left her a phone message every other day. I tried a daily e-mail. Eventually I took the hint, and dropped all further attempts at contact. Even though
I thought about her constantly – like a dull, but persistent ache that simply wouldn’t go away.