Trading Up (24 page)

Writers Guild standards specifically call for the delivery of an Untitled
Screenplay within 90 (ninety) days from the date of the contract or the date of
payment, whichever shall come first. If the Untitled Screenplay is not delivered
within 90 (ninety) days, the contract shall be considered null and void, and the
Writer in breach of said contract. In such case, Writer must remunerate to Studio (Parador Pictures) all of the monies received by Writer within 30 (thirty)
days of the date of breach of contract.

According to our records, you have not delivered said Untitled Screenplay,
nor have you made any attempt to do so. As eighteen months have passed from
your receipt of the payment for an Untitled Screenplay, we must therefore ask
that you return all the monies paid to you, specifically in a check written out to
Parador Pictures for the amount of $30,000.

If you have any questions, or if you have, in fact, delivered an Untitled
Screenplay, or if there has been some misunderstanding on this issue, please feel
free to contact us.

Yours Sincerely . . .

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George smiled to himself, folding up the letter and placing it behind him on the windowsill. There was obviously much more to the story than the letter itself revealed, and studying Janey’s face, he wondered how much of the truth she would tell him. “Well,” he said. “What does Selden think?”

“Selden?” she said, unable to keep a note of exasperation out of her voice. She checked herself; she was clearly gearing herself up to put on a show. Lowering her eyes and looking up at him like a child who knows she’s done wrong, she said, “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been able to
tell
Selden . . .”

“So you’d tell me, but not your husband,” he said.

She sat down next to him on the radiator, forcing him to move to the edge. “If Selden found out . . . ,” she began, then quickly looked away.

“But Selden knows all about these kinds of contracts,” George said reasonably.

“He’s probably sent out one or two of them himself.”

“That’s just the problem,” she said, prettily covering her face with her hands. “If Selden found out . . . ,” she said again, placing her body in an attitude that practically screamed for him to comfort her.

George’s dull brown eyes gleamed with interest. “Ah, I get it,” he said. “It’s not really about business.”

“That’s right,” she said with relief. She lowered her hands and looked frankly into his eyes. “The only problem is . . . Can I trust you, George? You have to promise not to tell anyone . . . not even Selden.”

“Cross my heart,” George said reassuringly.

“I was really stupid,” she said, gazing off into the middle distance. “I didn’t have any money and I didn’t know what I was getting into . . . and Comstock Dibble took advantage of me!”

For a moment, he was taken aback—he’d had no idea she’d been involved with Comstock Dibble—but on the other hand, it made sense; people did say she’d been with everyone. Masking his surprise, he said, “Go on.”

“I met him at a party,” she continued. “It was a while ago, and, well, let’s just say that I was a little bit down on my luck. Comstock came on to me . . .”

“As he always does with every woman,” George said sympathetically.

“And he was very persistent,” Janey said, nodding. “I did like him at the time, and I wasn’t seeing anyone . . . and I
thought
he wasn’t either.”

“And you didn’t think about his reputation?” George asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I take people as I see them, George. I never pay attention to their ‘reputations,’ ” Janey said, her voice taking on a slightly injured tone. “So when he told me he loved me, I believed him.”

“He told you all that . . .”

“And more,” she cried. “He said he wanted to . . . marry me.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 131

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On that point, George thought, he was sure she was lying. Nevertheless, he asked, “And what did you say?”

“Well, I told him it was impossible, of course. I’d only just met him. And little did I know . . .”

“That all the while he was engaged to someone else.”

“That’s right,” Janey said, looking away as if the memory wounded her.

George nearly laughed, but he had made it a policy never to be cruel unless he had to be. Instead he asked, with as much dispassion as he could muster, “So did you sleep with him?”

“George!” she said, pretending to be shocked.

His face hardened. “You want me to help you, Janey. So I’ve got to know the truth about the situation.”

“Of course I did,” Janey said, giving him such a seductively bold glance, he thought she might unzip his pants and go down on him. “I had no reason not to. I thought we were dating exclusively. I thought he was serious about me. And then, well, he must have started feeling insecure. There’s nothing worse than a man who feels insecure . . .”

“Especially Comstock Dibble,” George said.

“He offered to help me,” Janey said. “It was his idea that I should write a screenplay, and then he . . . gave me thirty thousand dollars to rent a house for the summer.” She suddenly put her hand over her mouth and leaned forward as if she were about to be sick. “I just realized how terrible that sounds. You must think . . .”

George leaned against the wall, nodding his head wisely. “Thirty thousand dollars is a lot of money, no matter how you look at it.”

“But I was totally innocent!” Janey protested. “I had no idea . . . I genuinely thought he wanted to help me.”

“And did you write the screenplay?” George asked smoothly.

“That’s not really the point,” Janey protested. She was willing to show George the letter, but the screenplay opened up a whole different can of worms. “The problem was that I broke it off, at my sister’s wedding, when I found out he was engaged. And frankly, I didn’t think of it again until I got the letter.” Janey lowered her voice so George had to lean forward to hear her. “You’re a rich, powerful man, George. You don’t know what it’s like to be a single woman. These kinds of things happen all the time, and you have no one to defend you. All I could do was shrug my shoulders and go on.”

“I see,” George said.

“He can’t stand the fact that I’ve gotten married. And I’m happy,” Janey continued. “The other night, when I saw him at the mayor’s Humanitarian Awards, he 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 132

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actually came right out and said he wanted to start sleeping with me again. Naturally, I laughed in his face, but then I started getting these letters!”

“So
you
think he’s blackmailing you?”

“He
is
blackmailing me,” Janey said. And as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she became convinced they were true. “I wouldn’t mind fighting him myself,” she said, tracing a pattern with her finger on her pant leg, “because I know I’m right. But if I do, it’s bound to come out in the press, and think about how that would look for Selden.”

“Sure,” George said, nodding his head. “It makes his wife look like a whore.” Janey gasped—until that moment, she hadn’t really considered how the situation might look to others, only how inconvenient it was to herself. And suddenly, as if on cue, her eyes opened wide and she turned to George with an expression of shock as two tears dribbled down her face.

George didn’t know what to think. He suspected she was weeping crocodile tears, but found himself somewhat moved by her performance.

“Here’s the thing, Janey,” he said. “No matter what Comstock’s motivations really are, the fact is that he’s probably completely within his rights sending you that letter, and the best way to get rid of him is to just pay him back the money. Pretend it’s a loan he made you . . .”

Her face blanched and she held her stomach, as if the thought were too sickening for her to entertain. She took a deep breath and stood up. “That would be fine . . . for
you,
” she said accusingly. “But the fact is, I haven’t got the money.”

“Come on,” George said smoothly. “You must have the money. You’re a famous model. You must have thirty thousand dollars lying around . . .”

“I don’t have money ‘lying around,’ ” she said coldly. “Models don’t make as much money as everyone thinks. My agency takes twenty-five percent, and after that, the government takes half. I’m lucky if I take home a hundred fifty thousand a year . . . And in case you’ve forgotten, that’s barely enough to cover rent in New York.”

“You do have Selden,” he said mildly.

“I think it’s cheesy for a woman to be completely reliant on her husband,” Janey said, giving him a pointed look.

Oh Jesus,
he thought, running his hand over his hair. If she had that kind of pride, she would never give back the money. And as she made a show of picking up the letter and slipping it into her bag, he was torn between wanting to help her and wishing he could wash his hands of the situation.

“If it’s a question of thirty thousand dollars . . . ,” he said.

She spun around. “I’m not going to take money from my husband’s best friend,” she sneered, struck by the irony that in the past, she certainly would have.

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But this wasn’t about money, she told herself now, it was about principles. She was sick and tired of being messed with by the Comstock Dibbles of the world.

“Besides,” she asked, “don’t you see that if I do pay him there’s nothing to prevent him from making up some other claim against me in the future?” And she began walking toward the door.

“Here’s the problem,” he called after her.

“Yes?” she asked. She stopped, but didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s one thing if
I
have a problem with Comstock Dibble,” he explained. “But it’s a completely different kettle of fish getting involved in someone else’s problem . . . If I called him on the phone, he’d probably tell me to fuck off.” She turned her body halfway around, looking at him over her shoulder. “I totally understand,” she said coldly. “I’d like it if you’d do me one small favor, though—if you don’t mind, could you pretend that we never had this conversation?” George suddenly laughed. She
wasn’t
exactly how he’d imagined after all—she certainly had more guts than he would have given her credit for. Standing up and taking a step toward her, he said, “Admit it, then. The truth is you just want to give that little fucker a kick in the balls.”

Their eyes met in mutual understanding. “That’s right,” she said, inclining her head.

“You should have said that from the beginning,” George said roughly.

“I would have,” she replied, “but you didn’t give me the chance.”

“It’s settled then,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket and feeling around for his keys—a gesture that implied he was ready to go. “I’ll have my lawyers tell his lawyers to call off the dogs.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything; in another second, he was convinced that she would fall into his arms, which might be a problem because he was beginning to think that he liked her more than he was prepared to. He began walking toward the elevator and she fell in beside him, their footsteps echoing in the empty apartment.

“I can’t imagine what it would be like to live in a place like this,” she commented, looking around her.

“Mimi’s probably one of the few women in the world who can handle it,” he said. “Not that you couldn’t . . .”

“Oh,
I
don’t know anything about houses or decorating,” she protested modestly. “All I know how to do is show off a bra.” If her intent was to make him think about her breasts, she had certainly succeeded, he thought, as they got into the elevator. Trying to change the topic, he said, “Can I ask you to do me some little favor?” meaning to ask her to keep the secret of the apartment from Mimi. But she apparently thought he was asking for 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 134

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sex, because she moved closer (in the tiny space in the elevator, they were nearly touching anyway) and, turning her head so that her mouth was practically in his ear, said, “Of course I’ll do you a favor, George. I’ll always be grateful to you . . . All you have to do is ask.”

And then the elevator door opened and they spilled out into the lobby.

Buswell held the door open to the street. “Goodnight, Mr. Paxton,” he said.

“Goodnight, Buswell. I’ll be back next week,” George said.

“Well then,” George said, when they were out on the sidewalk. He held out his hand, but Janey pulled him forward, offering up her cheek for a kiss. As he moved forward to touch his lips to her face, she tilted her head to the side, so that the kiss landed—he was sure intentionally—next to her mouth.

“Good-bye, George,” she said gaily. And as she walked off, turning back once to wave at him, George had the not-unpleasant realization that he’d just been thoroughly and completely manipulated. . . .

“I’m not sure you want to wear that to a dinner party in Greenwich,” Selden said.

“What?
This?
” Janey said, looking down at her dress with calculated innocence.

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, leaning forward in the mirror as she tilted her head to the side, clipping a large, gold hoop onto her earlobe.

“It’s just a little . . . ,” Selden said helplessly, faltering in the face of sartorial description.

“A little
what
?” Janey asked. “It’s terribly chic.”

“Isn’t it the kind of dress you would wear to a nightclub?” Selden asked.

“I guess I could,” Janey said, frowning. “But the fact is I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

“I see,” Selden said, shaking his head as he exited the bathroom. He didn’t want to get into a fight with his wife about a dress; on the other hand, he didn’t want his wife going to a corporate dinner in Greenwich looking like a Russian hooker.