Four Blondes

“Goddammit, Janey. You’ve only known that I wanted to be a movie producer since I was eight!” Patty screamed.

Janey smiled, picturing Patty gritting her teeth in frustration, the way she had when she and Janey were kids and they would fight, which was basically every minute they were in a room together.

“Oh, really?” Janey said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t know that.”

“Christ, Janey. I’ve only been working my butt off for five years. I need a break. I’ve been trying to meet Comstock Dibble for-ever . . . Janey,” she pleaded, “If you told him I was your sister . . .”

Janey went into her tiny bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. “I don’t mind introducing you, but as a matter of fact, he’s already helping me.”

“He is?”

“I’m writing a screenplay for him.”

There was silence.

“You’re not the only smart one in the family,” Janey said viciously.

“I think that’s . . . awesome,” Patty said. She spoke to someone else in the room. “Hey Digger,” she said. “Janey’s writing a screenplay for Comstock Dibble.”

Digger got on the phone. “Janey?” he said. “That’s way cool.”

“Thank you,” Janey said primly.

“Hey,” he said. “Why don’t you come over to our house for dinner.”

“I’m in the Hamptons,” Janey said patiently.

“So are we. We’ve got a house here. Where’s that place we have a house?” he called to Patty.

“Sagaponack,” Patty yelled back.

“Sagaponack,” Digger said. “Shit, who can keep up with these Indian names?”

Janey winced. Sagaponack was only her favorite area in the Hamptons. How had Patty gotten a house in Sagaponack?

“Come this Saturday,” he said. “I’ve got the guys from the band staying here. Oh, and, hey, if you do this thing with Comstock, you should think about making Patty a producer. And bring Comstock on Saturday night too.”

“I’ll try,” Janey said. She should have been pissed off, but she was actually pleased.

Janey wrote twenty-five pages, then thirty, then thirty-three. She wrote in the morning, and in the afternoon, around one o’clock, she would hop on her bicycle and pedal to the beach. She knew she made a pretty picture cycling down the tree-lined streets with her blond hair flying out behind her and her bicycle basket filled with books and suntan lotion. One afternoon she ran into Bill Westacott. He was standing in the middle of the beach, looking troubled, but then again, that was probably his normal state. Janey tried to avoid him, but he spotted her anyway.

“Janey!” he called. She stopped and turned. Christ, he was good-looking. He was wearing a wet suit, tied around his waist; he certainly kept his body in good shape. He’d behaved stupidly the summer before, but on the other hand, he was a screenwriter. A successful one. He might be useful down the road.

“Hello,” Janey said.

He marched over, looking sheepish. “I should have called you. After last summer. But I didn’t have your number, and I didn’t want to ask Redmon for it—I called information and you weren’t listed—”

“How is Redmon?” Janey asked.

“He hardly talks to me, but that’s okay. We’ve had these things before. Over women. He’ll get over it.” He moved closer and Janey felt the heat between them.

“How’s your wife?” she asked, swinging her hair over her shoulder. “Will she get over it?”

“She hasn’t gotten over it for fifteen fucking years. And I suspect she won’t get over it anytime in the future. I could be a fucking monk and she wouldn’t get over it.”

“That’s too bad,” she said.

“Janey,” he said.