Picture Perfect (13 page)

In short, a few days of not giving a damn about Hollywood.

When the cab pulls up outside Justine’s building, she is sitting on the stoop wrapped in a long coat, scarf, mittens, and holding a steaming cup of some sort of hot liquid in her hands. She looks more like an anxious mom waiting for her kid to get off the school bus than a staid professor of poetry.

Before the cabbie can open my door, I jump out with open arms and call, “Justine!”

“Girl, my ass is frozen to this step. You’re gonna have to pry me off it before I can give you a hug.”

The taxi driver hands me my bag, and I rush over to my friend’s side and wrap my arms around her, nearly spilling her cup in the process.

“Watch the chamomile, now,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go inside where it’s
not
ten degrees colder than a witch’s tit.”

“You have such a way with words,” I laugh, too happy to see my old friend to care how damn frosty it happens to be.

“So they say,” she says before wrenching open the heavy front door of the historic brownstone building she calls home, “but I’m more concerned about listening to your sordid tales than reciting any poetry right now.”

I follow Justine up a flight of stairs to her second-floor apartment. “Are you playing host to any other guests at the moment? I’d rather not air my dirty laundry in front of any impressionable youngsters you have tied to your bed.”

“I sent Lucas packing so I could have you all to myself.” Justine opens the door to her apartment and leads me inside. “We are going to spend five days getting drunk on wine and liquor, fat on pizza and truffles, and high on unadulterated, twenty-four-seven, pajama-wearing girl-talk.”

A gumdrop sized lump forms in my throat. “God, I’ve missed you.”

***

“He just walked out? Who the hell is this guy to walk out on
you
?” Justine demands, nearly sloshing her Irish coffee over the side of her mug as she sets it down on the polished wood table.

After she spent the afternoon lecturing NYU students on the use of iambic pentameter, and I tried very hard not to burn down her apartment while stoking the fire in her enormous fireplace (seriously, that cavernous pit is more suited for Hearst Castle than a century old brownstone) and answering Sally’s multitude of texts regarding the calamity resulting from my absence, we’ve come for a hot toddy at a cozy café in the Village. La Lanterna is a dark and moody eatery reminiscent of old world Italy with stone walls, a blazing hearth, and spindly chairs nestled beneath blinking, candle-lit sconces. It is the ultimate hide-out.  

“Just an actor. A very talented, very good-looking actor, but still, just an actor,” I say with a shrug. I filled her in on my confrontation with Jack over the first round of drinks. We’re now on our third, and Justine is a little loose around the edges.

“Pfft!” She waves her hand in the air, as if shooing away a fly. “He’s lucky you don’t fire him for that kind of subordination.”

“Except that I don’t really have the power to fire anyone these days.”

“Nonsense. That phone of yours has been beeping all day long. They can’t even wipe their asses without instructions let alone shoot a movie all on their own. You’ll see. They’ll be begging for your return in no time.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“No need to hope. It’s a fact. You’re the best at what you do and they are quickly realizing that. Really. How many times has your assistant texted you just since we’ve been sitting here?”

She’s right. The production is blowing up, and Jennifer is proving herself wholly unqualified to helm a feature-length film all on her own. Apparently, she was under the impression that once the outside production company took over the reins, all she’d have to do is sign the checks—not settle contract disputes with the director, liaise with the cinematographer’s agent or temper the behavior of one very disgruntled lead actor. Filming hasn’t even begun and the carefully orchestrated production schedule I organized is already unraveling.

Luckily, Sally has jumped in with both feet and managed, under my direction, to appease both the director and cinematographer without having to slash the catering budget to meet their demands. Handling that unruly actor, however, seems to require a little more finesse than she possesses.

It appears that Jack has vowed to go on a hunger strike until I am restored to my position on the project. Which is really pissing me off since I specifically told him not to make any waves lest he screw things up even further for me.

And where does he get off fighting my battles for me? Last time I saw him, he was giving me one hefty dose of judgment with that disapproving look of his from my office door.

Whatever!
   

I throw the last of my Buttery Nipple (it’s a drink, not a sex-food fantasy) down my throat, an ire rapidly building within me. “Damn straight, Justine! Fuck them!”

“Fuck them!” she says, lifting her mug to toast my now empty glass. “Let’s go get some pizza and find a couple of cute boys to
snog
.” 

Having spent her college years at Oxford in England, Justine’s drunkenness can often result in random outbursts of British slang. It was quite terrible before she quit smoking and was always hitting people up for a spare
fag
. At least she doesn’t affect a faux British accent to go with the peculiar behavior anymore. That was really annoying. Now, she’s just adorably quirky.

“Pizza sounds fab. Locking lips with strange boys? Not so much.”

“Who said anything about strange? I said
cute
. Come on, lady. Un-bunch those over-priced
knickers
of yours and let’s go have some fun.”

I cock an eyebrow at her as she scoots her chair away from the table.

“You did come to New York to have some fun, right? To forget about reality for a little while?”

I twist my lips, contemplating her idea of fun.

“You don’t have to abandon reality all together. I’m just suggesting a little holiday from it. I can assure you, it will still be waiting for you when you’re ready to return.” Sensing that I’m not convinced, she continues, “Listen, if anyone needs a fucking excuse to have some outrageous fun, it’s you. Five years married to one of Hollywood’s biggest pricks only to find out he’s cheating on you with your assistant and then trying to smear your name so he can get out of a pre-nup? If that doesn’t call for Spring Break-inspired recklessness, I don’t know what does.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t gotten involved with Jack—”

Justine cuts me off, throwing her hand up in front of my mouth. “I don’t want to hear it. Stop rationalizing everything. Stop over-thinking everything. The universe is trying to tell you something. It’s time to listen to what it has to say.”

Justine also often waxes philosophical when she’s drunk. And it’s usually an incoherent stream of yoga-inspired rhetoric touting the wisdom of the universe. Generally, I just roll my eyes at her, but today, I feel like calling her out.

“So, the universe’s advice would be to get plastered and sleep with as many cute, young boys as I can seduce in the next five days?”

Justine slumps back in her chair, resolute. “Who are we to argue with the universe?”

“You are so full of shit.”

She shrugs. “I’m just trying to cheer up my best friend. Can you blame me for resorting to two of life’s greatest pleasures, men and alcohol?”

“I guess not.”

“Then what are we waiting for? There is a whole city of filthy good fun just beyond that door,” she says, pointing to the exit.  

“Oh, all right,” I concede and grab my coat from the nearby rack as we head out into the nighttime of a city that doesn’t sleep and a future that may very likely hold some serious repercussions.

***

I am overcome with the desire to vomit, but having emptied the contents of my stomach long ago, all I can do now is groan in agony as my abdominals perform acrobatics not seen since Cirque du Soleil last parked its big blue and yellow tent on Santa Monica Beach. I pry open one eye, a mound of crusted-over gunk practically sealing them shut, and spot Justine curled around the toilet. From my vantage point inside her large claw-footed, antique tub, I can see that she has acquired a pair of trousers and is apparently using them as a pillow.

“Justine,” I croak, my throat burning from the massive amounts of alcohol that passed through it not only on the way down, but also on the way back up.

She moans in response.

“What time is it?” I attempt to sit up, and the room does a magnificent impression of the Tilt-A-Whirl I rode at the Indiana State Fairgrounds when I was fifteen. If I had a corndog in my stomach and was holding hands with a pimply-faced boy named Eric, I’d think I was back in high school. But I’m not. I’m thirty-six years old and lying in my best friend’s tub recovering from a night of debauchery usually reserved for the likes of porn stars and politicians.

This is no way to escape the reality of a nasty divorce and a career careening toward certain disaster. Add to that a growing suspicion that I may have committed heinous acts of desperation in the wee hours of the night (namely,
snogging
cute boys in dark bars and maybe even giving one of them my panties as a souvenir), and you’ve got a solid foundation for a nervous breakdown.  

“Justine,” I mutter, grabbing on to the side of the tub to steady the spinning room, “I think I need a blood transfusion, or at the very least intravenous fluids.”

“You’re fine,” she mumbles, slowly making her way to an upright position. “Lucas is making a hangover cure.”

As if on cue, a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, pant-less boy wearing an argyle sweater over a pair of Union Jack boxers enters the bathroom with two glasses filled to the rim with green glop. He leans down to Justine and hands one to her, which she immediately presses to her lips and gulps down feverishly. He gives the other to me, and I bring it to my nose for a whiff of this peculiar concoction whereupon I commence dry heaving once again.

“She needs the serious stuff,” he says with a British accent reminiscent to that of James Bond circa 1976. And the oddity of hearing that sound coming out of such an all-American-looking young man is so shocking that my stomach stops rolling.

Justine sucks down the last drop of the vile liquid in her glass and points to the medicine cabinet over the sink. “The blue box.”

Lucas retrieves said box from behind the mirrored door and hands it to me. “Stick one of these up your bum, and you’ll be good as new in thirty minutes.”

“What?” I beg, turning the small carton over in my hand. It’s covered in French writing, and the only word I’m familiar with is
derriere
.

This can’t be good.

“It’s a suppository. And it works brilliantly,” Lucas says, retrieving his pants from Justine. “I wintered in the South of France with me mum and dad over Christmas holiday and those little buggers came in quite handy when the eggnog punch proved too much for my constitution.”

I give Justine a quizzical look and she responds with a flat, “Do it.”

I purse my lips as another wave of nausea floats across my mid-section. “Can I have a little privacy?”

“Of course,” Lucas says and bends down to help Justine to her feet. “Just give a shout if you need any help. I was pre-med before poetry got hold of my heart.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumble at him as he walks out with Justine in tow and closes the door after them.

I open the box and shake out a smooth, white object shaped similarly to a small bullet. I hold it between my fingers, inspecting it.

“So, this is how you cope with failure?” I say to myself. “Sticking foreign objects up your butt.”

Thirty minutes later and the dirty deed behind me, both literally and figuratively speaking, I emerge from the bathroom feeling a little more human, but no less humiliated. Having also snuck in a shower during my miraculous recovery-time, I now sport the visage of a fully-functioning human being rather than that of a cast member from
Night of the Living Dead
.

“That really is a wonder drug,” I say to Justine who is now curled up on her plush green velvet sofa with a cup of tea. Lit by the orange glow of the roaring fire in her hearth, she looks almost like a character in a Dickens novel.

“Where’s Lucas? I want to thank him.”

“I sent him home. Like I said when you arrived, this visit is all about girlfriends. You can thank him later. But first, please do something about that phone.” She shoves my iPhone across the coffee table with her foot. “It will not stop beeping.”

I pick it up and discover that not only is it two-thirty in the afternoon, but that I have eighty-seven unread messages. I scroll through them one by one, Sally’s texts weaving a tale of desperation before me. Jack walked out of a table reading, Jennifer fired the director for not being able to control him, Rebecca scolded Jennifer for firing the two-time Emmy winning director and hired the director back who then threatened to fire Jack for breach of contract, and so on and so on. But there was one text message that stopped my heart, and it was from Jack.

I’m coming for you.

Chapter 10

“Honestly, as paranoid as you’re acting, I’d think you were a toker,” Justine says to my image standing behind hers in the mirror. She buckles a skinny silver belt low over a long white sweater dress that hugs her curves like a BMW does a twisty mountain road. She looks like a hip ice princess from some distant, futuristic world heading out to a disco—not a poetess preparing for a reading of her new collection held at the Housing Works Bookstore Cafe in SoHo.

I scan my reflection. Wearing black trousers and a grey cashmere sweater, I look more like a proctor at the Smithsonian than a high profile entertainment executive. Without Giles around to guide me, my wardrobe tends to lean toward the stuffy and my body confidence toward the non-existent. Sometimes I wish I could be more like Justine. Sex appeal comes easily to her for some reason. The woman washes her hair with homemade goop from her kitchen, shops in thrift stores and never steps one foot inside a gym, yet she still looks red-carpet ready with five minutes’ notice. I, on the other hand, require a stylist, nutritionist, manicurist, personal trainer and any number of scientifically formulated creams, lotions, and gels to pull off what she manages to do with little to no effort.