Lipstick Jungle

She paused, and her jaw tightened. Her first thought was that she wanted a vacation away from him and the children, but she quickly realized she didn’t want a vacation, she just wanted to make more movies. If she was really honest, she wanted one of her movies to win Best Picture at the Oscars (so far, five of her movies had been nominated but none had won), and she wanted to walk down the red carpet and get up onto the stage and thank everyone (“And I’d especially like to thank my loving husband, Shane, without whose support I couldn’t do this”), and be celebrated afterward. But instead she said quietly, “I just want you to be happy, Shane,” and after a beat: “So we can all be happy.”

She went into the bathroom, turned on the taps, and got under the shower. Jesus Christ, she thought. What the hell was she going to do about Shane?

She blinked under the hot water, feeling around for the bottle of shampoo, and holding the bottle up to her face so she could see it, was grateful that there was still some shampoo left. Soaping up her hair, she wondered what more she could do to help Shane. After all, he was a grown man. He was thirty-nine years old. (Although most of the time he seemed younger. Much, much younger. She liked to joke that he was her fourth child.) Was he freaking out about turning forty? Or was it really about money, and the fact that Shane hadn’t made any of his own for at least ten years?

But this was nothing new. She’d been supporting him almost from the day they’d met fifteen years ago. She was a development girl at a movie studio, and he was going to be a big-deal filmmaker. Not a director, a filmmaker. He was three years younger, which was quite daring at the time, a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a twenty-four-year-old man, and he was good-looking enough to be an actor. But acting wasn’t intellectual enough. It was beneath him. He was living with three guys in a shack of a house on a walking street in Santa Monica, which wasn’t conducive to a relationship (or even an affair), so he’d moved in with her after two weeks. He was, he said, a creative genius. She was the practical one. She didn’t mind. He was so gorgeous. And sweet. But always a little high-strung. He was writing his screenplay and trying to get money for his independent movie. She helped him. It took two years and $300,000 to get it made, and then he went to Sundance, and it was sort of a hit, so they got married.

But then, in typical Hollywood fashion, nothing happened. Shane was commissioned to write screenplays, but none of them ever got made. The truth was, they weren’t very good, a fact she kept to herself. She told herself it didn’t matter—he was supportive of her and a great father and they had fun, so she didn’t care. And for reasons she could never quite understand, her career kept getting bigger and bigger. It was huge now, as a matter of fact, but she didn’t like to dwell on it. Her position was only important because it meant that they didn’t have to worry about money, even though she secretly worried about money all the time. She worried that she would get fired, or her money would run out, and then what would they do? And now Shane, who had gone from writing screenplays to writing a novel (unpublished), was trying to open a restaurant. She had already put up $250,000. She didn’t know that much about the project because she didn’t have time. It would probably be a disaster. But then she could deduct the money from her taxes . . .

She stepped out of the shower, and as she did so, Shane came into the bathroom and handed her her cell phone. She looked at him curiously.

“It’s Josh,” he said, making a face.

She sighed in annoyance. Josh was one of her three assistants, an arrogant twenty-three-year-old who didn’t bother to cover up the fact that he thought he should have her job. She had tried to make it clear to Josh that the early mornings were family time

, and she wouldn’t take calls before nine a.m. unless it was an emergency. But Josh never listened, and usually called her at least three times between seven-thirty and nine-fifteen, when she arrived at her office.

She put the phone to her ear while toweling off her legs. “Bright and early, as usual, Josh,” she said.

There was a momentary silence that was like an accusation. It was incomprehensible to Josh that people might have lives outside of their work, and, if they did, his attitude seemed to say, they shouldn’t be in a position of power—especially above him.

“Vic-tor Mat-rick just called,” Josh said, enunciating the syllables for emphasis. “I thought you’d probably think that was important.”

Fuck, she wanted to scream. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Victor Matrick was the CEO of Splatch-Verner, which now owned Parador Pictures, of which she was the president.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him that you were unavailable at the moment, but that I would try to reach you.” He paused. “Should I try him back now?”

“Give me a second, will you?” She wrapped the towel around her chest and hurried out of the bathroom, past the open-plan kitchen. Mrs. Minniver had arrived and, scowling, was feeding the children bagels with cream cheese; miraculously, Tyler and Magda were both dressed for school. “Good morning,” Mrs. Minniver said grudgingly, in her clipped English accent. Her salary was $150,000 a year, and Wendy liked to joke that while most nannies were paid $100,000, Mrs. Minniver’s accent cost an extra $50,000. Wendy waved frantically and hurried into the small back room they called the office. Inside were a metal desk, a brand-new computer, several unpacked boxes, toys, various DVDs, a large treadmill (used once), and three pairs of skis. She sat down in the padded office chair. “You can try Victor now,” she said, into the phone. The towel slipped off and she looked down at her chest. God, her breasts were really sagging. They used to be her pride and joy, but now they were like two large flattened pears. She was going to have to seriously consider having them done . . .

“I have Victor Matrick for you,” Josh’s half-snide, half-sycophantish voice said over the line.

“Hello, Victor,” she said heartily.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Victor said smoothly.

“Not at all.”

“This movie we’re screening. The Spotted Pig. I’m assuming it’s a movie I can bring my grandchildren to?”

What the fuck? What the hell was he talking about? “I suppose that depends on how old your grandchildren are, Victor,” she said cautiously. Was it possible he didn’t know anything about the movie? “It’s our big romantic comedy for December release . . .”

“So it’s not a children’s movie,” Victor said.

“No-o-o-o,” Wendy said carefully. “It’s a romantic comedy that centers around a trendy restaurant in the West Village. Jenny Cadine and Tanner Cole are the stars . . .”

“I knew Jenny Cadine was in it, and I kept wondering why she’d agreed to play a pig,” Victor exclaimed, and (thank God, Wendy thought), guffawed loudly.

“That’s something I’m sure most of America would love to see, but actually, Victor, ‘The Spotted Pig’ is the name of a restaurant.”

“Well, Wendy,” Victor said, having recovered from his laughing fit, “I’ll look forward to seeing you at five.”

“Right, Victor. Five o’clock,” she said smoothly, wanting to scream. The screening had been scheduled for four o’clock for the last two weeks.

“I thought that screening was at four,” Josh hissed, as soon as Victor had rung off. It was standard procedure for assistants to stay on the line, so they could take notes on the conversation if necessary.

“It was,” Wendy said sarcastically. “But now, I guess, it’s five. So you’ll have to call everyone and change the time.”