Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (28 page)

“No way! I’m here for my career, but I’m totally a New Yorker at heart.”

“You visit a lot?”

“I’ve never been. But I watch tons of
Sex and the City
reruns with my girlfriend. Actually, I better go find her.”

“You have a … girlfriend?”

“Melody. The one with the great chin, remember? We’re in a polyamorous relationship, but Blake is at a v-o audition. Wait! Is that Jeremy Piven? I gotta say hi! I walk his aunt’s poodle. We haven’t met, but we’re practically family. Instagram me! @Stardom4EVA.”

Marjorie stood slack-jawed, as Gus approached. For once, he seemed like a friendly face. “You ready?” he asked. “Looks like you didn’t even start your drink yet.”

“I think it’s probably safer if I don’t.”

Marjorie was grateful to return to what Gus described as “the real LA.” They arrived at an unassuming sushi restaurant, Hama, in Little Tokyo and, despite a substantial number of people waiting, were seated right away. Their “date” had put his name on the waiting list long before.

“Of course,” murmured an amused Marjorie, as she followed Gus over to a middle-aged man who might have been the Unabomber with his salt-and-pepper beard, misshapen pharmacy sunglasses, and baseball cap.

“Marjorie, this is Benny Hamish.”

“Nice to meet you.” He nodded, taking her hand in his warm own.

As they settled across the table, he tucked a
New York Times
underneath his chair and frowned at Gus. “This guy doesn’t know squat about economic recovery. He’s a goddamn used-car salesman, a haircut, telling people what they want to hear, swindling them out of their last dollars.”

Marjorie peered around. What guy? Benny seemed more like an eccentric uncle than a film festival organizer.

“Mitt? We’ll see if he releases those back taxes, I guess.”

“Yeah, right!” exclaimed Benny, slamming his fist on the wooden table, causing the soy sauce canister to toggle. “This guy? This guy! He’s never gonna do that. And our guy—he needs to step it up in the debates. Show this overprivileged, ass bag bully what’s what.”

“Ass bag,” said Marjorie before realizing she’d spoken out loud. Benny peered at her, as she tried to recover: “That’s new for me. I like it. Adding it to my repertoire.”

He laughed, more a shout than anything joyful. “I like this one. She’s got moxie. Where’d you find her?” Like Marjorie was a great umbrella or a new iPhone app.

“Two for one at Walmart. I picked her up and also this shirt.” Gus pulled at his forest green T-shirt.

“Well, good choice. How long you been dating?”

“No!” Marjorie and Gus both protested, practically leaping across the table to correct him.

“We’re not dating.”

“She’s my employee.”

Benny shrugged. “She looks like your type.” To Marjorie, he said, “But you’re in film. Much more interesting.” He took a sip of water. “That’s funny, fucking Walmart. Don’t get me started on goddamn them.”

Against the odds, Marjorie found herself liking Benny—though not quite as much as the albacore sashimi. (This was the best sushi she’d ever had.) He was gruff and unpolished, but also substantial in a way she was coming to appreciate. When they parted ways later, he gave her a bear hug.

“You sure you’re not dating?” he repeated, retreating down the block.

“Yes!” they chorused.

“Then you’re idiots.” Benny shook his head and continued toward his tiny Fiat.

Marjorie turned back to Gus, whose brow furrowed as he examined an e-mail on his BlackBerry.

“You know BlackBerry is going out of business, right? You’re a dinosaur.”

“They’re easier to type on,” he grunted, not bothering to look up.

“It gets—”

“Yeah, I know.” He rolled his eyes. “Everyone says it gets easier, but I don’t think typing on my phone is a skill I should have to cultivate.”

“Fair enough.”

“Anyway, I saw your hardcover book on the plane. How come you don’t have a Kindle or iPad or whatever the kids are using these days?”

She smiled. “’Cause I’m a dinosaur too.”

They strolled back toward the car. The air had turned chillier and Marjorie hugged herself for warmth. She looked at Gus—his gait loping and slouched, his T-shirt a little wrinkled as always. Was that sloppiness a tiny rebellion?

“So,” she nudged, “I’m your type, huh?”

He looked up from his BlackBerry and groaned, “I
knew
you were going to say that. Benny doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He barely knows me.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s superficial, anyway. I happen to have dated a few taller girls with that kind of hair or whatever before.”

“I’m sorry, that kind of hair?”

“You know”—he gestured toward her head—“that color.”

“Auburn.”

“Whatever you call it. I’m not a wordsmith.”

“‘Wordsmith?’ Hey, Gus, 1890 called. They want their lingo back.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” He patted her shoulder, his hand heavy with condescension. “It’s not your fault that you’re young and dumb.”

She gaped in mock shock at his insolence. “Older doesn’t mean smarter. You may be demonstrating early signs of senility. Plus, that’s not what Fred said about your type.”

He looked stricken. “What did Fredericka say?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I’m serious. Tell me.”

“That you fluctuated between pretentious girls and dumb bimbos.”

He was clearly relieved. “No. I only like smart bimbos. Why were you talking about my type, anyway?” Marjorie ignored the question.

Back on 3rd Street, Gus parked his car and insisted on walking Marjorie the half block to her hotel. They lingered outside.

“So is Benny a typical festival organizer? Not that I’ve met many, but he’s not super solicitous.”

Gus nodded. “He’s involved, but he actually established a nonprofit foundation that gives grants to the winning filmmakers mostly. It’s his creative outlet, a side project. He made a bundle in supermarket chains, then he opened one of the first medical marijuana dispensaries in Venice. He offers reward cards for return customers. ‘Buy one-eighth, get a joint free!’”

“What? That can’t be real.”

“Oh, that’s real.”

Marjorie snorted. “Ha! Well, now I don’t like LA; I
love
it.”

“Please. You couldn’t handle
normal
brownies at Fred’s party.”

Suddenly, Marjorie was struck with a memory she’d lost from the night she met Gus, before Mac professed his undying … like.

Gus’s hand was on her back for comfort.

“I must look like a mess,” she’d said.

“You look fine. Good, even. I’m thinking you’ve never looked bad. Let’s be honest.” She’d wiped her tears away with a crumpled brownie napkin, as he continued, “At some point, we all go through this—growing pains are a rite of passage. This is what it feels like to be in transition. It’s horrible, but it’s en route to something better.”

She’d watched him talk, this handsome, sardonic, kind stranger. She’d known nothing about him and yet she’d felt comfortable. But now she felt nervous.

“Anyway,” he said. “We should probably both get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”

“See you in the morning.” Marjorie was wide awake and hesitant to retreat alone to her room, but didn’t dare express it. “Thanks for tonight!”

Before she realized her mistake, she threw her arms around Gus’s neck and planted a kiss on his scruffy cheek. It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t hugging her back. His arms remained at his sides, his hands held up, like a crossing guard stopping cars.

Suddenly, she couldn’t distinguish between his warm skin and a panicked heat spreading up her own neck. She willed herself to step back—at least move her face away from his tanned jaw, where she was close enough to see the beginnings of laugh lines—but she couldn’t bear to confront the awkwardness.

Finally, after seconds that felt like years, she let go, sliding down his front. Once on solid ground, she patted his upper arm, as if that final gesture somehow mitigated the rest.

Gus’s phone began to ring. “Um.” Barely meeting her eyes, he picked up the call, listened, then waved good-bye to Marjorie, retreating down the street, head bent in conversation.

Standing alone, Marjorie shifted in her shoes. Why did Gus have to be so stiff and make her feel like some heathen? She imagined a female coworker thrusting a similar embrace upon Mac in an innocent—barely inappropriate—show of enthusiasm. What would he do? Laugh it off, maybe make an off-color joke about his irresistibility. In the old days, before Marjorie, he would have bought her a drink, told her she was
by far
his prettiest employee, then taken her home. She frowned. Either way, he wouldn’t have compounded the awkwardness by ducking away.

One hug and she’d likely undone all progress toward loosening Gus up and making her job easier, more pleasant. One hug and he was a stranger again.

She watched him disappear, then—still blushing—went inside to drown her humiliation in room service dessert.

34

The morning came too soon. When the hotel phone rang rudely, Marjorie awoke with a sugar hangover. (She’d ordered apple donuts and chocolate ice cream, then—while watching a poorly edited version of
Willy Wonka
—dug into gummy candy from the Joan’s on Third-curated minibar.) She reached for the receiver. After a shrill beep, a recorded female voice chirped:
Good morning. This is your 7:30
A.M.
wake-up call. Today is Friday, July 27th. The weather is sunny, with a high of 84 degrees Fahrenheit. Have a great day!

“No,
you
have a great day,” Marjorie grumbled. She slammed the phone back onto its cradle, wishing she too could return to her rightful place, sandwiched between the comforter and pillow-topped mattress.

Outside, the sky was a translucent periwinkle, having pushed the darkness out. All over LA, hungry producers and young actors pulled on Pilates, SoulCycle, and CrossFit gear, dreaming of soy lattes and hemp milk smoothies, taking advantage of extra energy from biweekly B
12
shots. This was for them an average day.

Marjorie’s body felt like lead. Staring down at her rounder than usual belly, she realized it was not possible to eat away embarrassment—only thinness.

She prepared for an uncomfortable interaction with Gus. Why did it feel like she’d pulled up her shirt and flashed him when she’d only pecked his cheek? He was
so damn uptight.
No matter. She resolved to be the model of stoicism from now on.

Awhile later, in the shade of the valet’s overhang, there was a chill. She pulled her sweater over her head, realized it was backward, then got twisted up trying to fix it. When Gus arrived, she had the thing on upside down with one arm through one hole. He smirked. This was not the respectable first image she’d planned to present.

Yanking the sweater off, she slid onto the perforated passenger’s seat and stared forward, her bag perched on her thighs like one of Stardom’s lapdogs. “Good morning.”

“Hey.” The silent car whirred into action. Gus pulled out into the street, nodding toward the cup holder. “I got you coffee from Kings Road Café. It’s the best.”

“Thank you. That’s considerate.”

He narrowed his eyes at her formality. “You’re welcome. How’d you sleep? Is the hotel okay?”

She thought back to the night before: candy strewn around her on the all-white bed, chocolate smeared across her face.

“It was quite nice. You?”

“Fine. I watched
Willy Wonka.
”

“Me too. How amusing.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

“I’m being
professional.
”

“By ‘professional,’ do you mean
weird
?”

“Oh, I’m not the weird one.” She sounded petulant again.

“What does
that
mean?” The car in front of them was driving about three miles an hour. “For the love of God! Is this person going to move?”

“It means that you’re the weird one.”

“Holy shit. Is this person crazy? It’s rush hour in LA! Drive!”

“That’s why you have a horn. Honk it.”

“No. I don’t like horns.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re loud and obnoxious and I don’t like to add to the noise pollution.”

Marjorie was incredulous. “You’re worried about people on the street, but I have to listen to you curse inside the car?” She lowered the window, watching it glide halfway down.

Gus finally wove around the car and stopped at a red light. He looked over at Marjorie, bewildered. “What’s with you this morning? You seem … are you angry or something?”

Marjorie took a deep breath. She needed to let this go. Why was she so pissed, anyway? “Nothing. I must have had bad dreams.”

“That sucks,” he said. “Were they about car horns?”

She glared at him. Then, mercilessly, Gus turned on the radio and they drove in silence the rest of the way to Hollywood.

The American Film Institute sits high above Western Avenue, as the thoroughfare curves dramatically and morphs into Los Feliz Boulevard; it’s as if the cars, racing around the bend at warp speed, have transported themselves onto a different road. The scenery changes too: Gone are Hollywood’s asphalt, graffiti, hopeless cases, and dilapidated storefronts with perpetual security gates. Just north, Griffith Park appears like a revelation, a nourishing explosion of green. The neighborhood is filled with pretty old apartment buildings and homes against a panorama of leaves. AFI seemed to bridge the gap, reigning over both parts of the kingdom, Sodom and Gomorrah and Eden.

As Gus wound up the drive, Marjorie had a fantasy of being in some amazing old movie, crackly, off-speed, and black and white. Instead of climbing out of the hybrid, she would step—with the help of a white-gloved valet—onto the running board of a classic Hispano-Suiza.

No such luck. They parked. Gus introduced himself to the front desk clerk in a main building and, shortly thereafter, a man named Tom appeared and led them to a modern and unromantic edit bay. Three rolling chairs were splayed about, as if punch-drunk. A gnarly old love seat was pushed against a back wall; several screens sat atop a long table with tangled cords hanging down. A box of DVDs waited in a corner. Tom pointed out the bathrooms, kitchen (with water, tea, and coffee), and a vending machine stocked with unsavory snacks, then left Gus and Marjorie alone.