Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (20 page)

“Wait!” said Marjorie. “What am I doing here?” Gus sighed, as if he was wondering the same thing. She was getting annoyed: Should she have miraculously intuited the details? “You don’t have to groan; just explain.”

“It’s simple. The boxes are filled with DVDs from three upcoming small film festivals.” He spoke at a maddeningly slow pace, as if she might be too dumb to understand. “They’re still old school. No streaming. The programmers send us screeners beforehand, so we can get a jump on reaching out to filmmakers and make our pitch for anything we like. You need to open those boxes, then create spreadsheets for each festival. For each movie, log the title, date, running time, filmmaker, and contact information. Leave a column open for notes. And list whatever log line they include.” He turned to leave and then pivoted back. “A log line is the one-sentence description or synopsis of the film.”

“I know what a log line is.”

“Kudos.”

“Is that it?”

“Yup. E-mail me the spreadsheets as they’re finished. Gus at ggfilms dot com. Think you can handle that?”

Marjorie was incredulous at his arrogance. “Yes. Because I’m not a fucking moron.”

Gus was momentarily taken aback, but then nodded sharply. “That remains to be seen.” Leaving, he mumbled loudly enough for her to hear, “Michael sure knows how to pick ’em.”

Alone in the conference room, Marjorie wondered what had possessed her to curse at an
employer
when she so badly needed work. In the nine years she’d worked for Brianne, she had never come close to speaking that way, and that woman had thrown mugs at her head.

She inflated her cheeks and let the air drain, with a whistle, from her lips. She tossed her bag on a chair, picked up the “scissor,” and got to work.

Pulling packing tape from the boxes’ seams turned out to be the stimulating part of the job. Logging was mind-numbing. Three hours later, Marjorie was sorting the second festival’s haul. The air conditioner was set at “frigid” and she hadn’t brought a sweater; she shivered violently. No way she would give Gus the pleasure of admitting discomfort. She was rubbing her hands together to boost her circulation and wondering about symptoms of hypothermia, when Lydia popped her head in.

“Holy Jaysus! It’s faaareeezing in here! Aren’t you cold?”

Marjorie nodded, teeth chattering. “They should put the polar ice caps in here. Might save the polar bears.”

“I have an extra sweatshirt! Come with me.” Grateful for the kindness, Marjorie followed Lydia into the hallway, a Bahamian resort by comparison. “We had you set up in the extra office, but Gus e-mailed us to move the computer after you arrived. I don’t know why. He knows the building keeps the conference room arctic on hot days. It’s like torture!”

That’s exactly what it’s like, thought Marjorie.

Lydia ducked under the reception desk and pulled out a baby blue sweatshirt with
SEXY BEAST
ironed on the front. It looked stupid over Marjorie’s dress, but it was warm. If only she had footie pajamas, maybe she’d have a fighting chance of feeling her toes again one day.

“Poor thing! You’re like blue!” Lydia rubbed her hands clumsily over one of Marjorie’s, more slapping it around than anything; a sweet gesture nonetheless. “Kate! Come help me defrost Marjorie!”

Kate popped her round head out. “You want some tea?”

“Or hot chocolate?” suggested Lydia. “And OMG you must be starving! I have protein bars.”

“I have an extra yogurt too.”

Marjorie felt her stomach groan. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Then, yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

The three ladies huddled in the kitchen, as Lydia began rummaging through the cabinets. “Where did that chocolate powder go, from that LA place that Gus loves? What’s it called?”

“Coffee Bean,” said Kate.

“Right! Together we have one full brain!”

“And one full lunch. Ish.”

“So, you guys met here?” asked Marjorie.

“We’re both film majors,” answered Kate, “so we already knew each other, but we’ve gotten closer here.”

“Kate is my best friend!” Lydia smiled.

“For eva.” Kate held up four fingers.

Lydia was like a sweet but manic jack-in-the-box, while Kate seemed of sturdier stock—and not just because she was built like a tank. They complemented each other.

At the sound of footsteps, the three girls looked toward the corridor, catching Gus on his way out.

“Going somewhere?” Lydia raised an eyebrow.

“That Fox Searchlight thing. Hold down the fort.”

“We’re busy saving this poor girl from hypothermia. The conference room is Abu Ghraib with icicles!”

“It’s not that bad,” he mumbled, then loped out of view.

The door banged closed. Lydia giggled. “Of course, Gus might spell the end of our friendship.”

“Really? Why?” Marjorie tore the wrapper off a s’mores-flavored Luna bar.

“Because! We’re in love with the same man! A classic Shakespearean tragedy.”

Kate nodded. “Tragic.”

“Yeah, right,” grunted Marjorie. “Love, love, love.”

When she looked up from her power bar, the girls were eyeing her curiously.

“You don’t think he’s dreamy?” asked Lydia.

“Honestly? I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You didn’t notice his arms? His biceps alone are catfight-worthy.”

“He’s got the guns of a gladiator,” seconded Kate. “And by that I mean Russell Crowe. But not as bulky.”

“I guess that’s true. But isn’t he kind of … a jerk?”

“So he likes to pretend,” said Lydia. “But he can’t help but be sweet. He practically forced cab money on me last week when I suggested taking the train uptown by myself at nine o’clock!”

“When my grandfather had a stroke, he took me to the airport and sent my mother this enormous fruit and cheese basket,” reported Kate. “He made her day. My mother really likes Gouda.”

“Also, Michael says Gus can play the guitar like really well. And that’s just hot.”

“So, have you told him you like him?” asked Marjorie. “Either of you?”

“Oh, no. He is way too proper for that!” exclaimed Lydia. “He’d never. That’s part of why we adore him.”

Marjorie was having trouble reconciling this characterization with the man who had dismissed and berated her earlier. “He must not like me.”

“Don’t worry,” said Lydia, “he’ll warm up to you.”

“I hope so. Otherwise I might freeze to death.”

Marjorie returned to her igloo soon after and worked until Gus popped his head in, hours later. He looked surprised. “Oh. You’re still here.”

“No one told me to leave and I’m not done, so…”

“Sorry. I’m used to the girls coming and going on their own. I didn’t think to let you off the hook.”

“It’s fine. I’m about finished with the second box. I’ll send you the spreadsheet now.” Biting her lip in concentration, Marjorie entered one last date, then saved and attached the file and e-mailed it.

When she looked up, Gus was watching her. He glanced away, as if caught.

“What?” Marjorie brushed at her mouth. Did she have leftover crumbs on her face from the three protein bars she’d eaten for lunch?

“Nothing,” Gus said, his face redrawn in a scowl. He looked her up and down.

“What?” she repeated. “What is it?” Marjorie chided herself silently for her tone, but the man was infuriating.

“Nice sweatshirt. You look like a twelve-year-old mall rat, Train Wreck.”

“It’s not mine!” she yelped. “And that’s not my name!” But he’d already stalked back to his dungeon.

23

Marjorie had no time the next morning for an argument with her mother or a face-off with her former friend.

She’d arrived home the previous evening around 9:00, planning to gorge herself on sesame chicken and dumplings with her roommate—compensation for the day’s deprivation. But Fred had a last-minute gig, so she’d have to wait for the scoop on Gus’s attitude problem. Mac was hosting a St. Germain cocktail–sponsored party at DIRT in honor of a new coffee table book and the socialite author’s ease at calling in favors.

Left to her own devices, Marjorie channel surfed, lamented the suckiness of summer TV, then gave up. In her room, she applied a blue clay face masque, then lit her candle, more for entertainment than contemplation.

Bored, she turned to cyberstalking. Gus’s Facebook profile revealed no clues as to why he hated tall redheads. His wall was blank except for perfunctory birthday greetings and posts from Michael, ribbing him about the Phillies. He was tagged in some pictures: on a beach at sundown, in a dark bar, manning a BBQ—all with hot women. He was good-looking, she conceded. He had options. Propriety was probably not the only thing keeping him from a “love affair” with Lydia or Kate.

Marjorie made a turkey sandwich for work the next day, soggy bread being preferable to protein bars. Then she climbed into bed and fell fast asleep.

By 9:30 the next morning she was back in the conference room in cutoffs and a tank, but with layers close at hand, sorting the third box of DVDs. Kate was at a class and Gus was at a meeting, but Lydia welcomed her back with a tooth-cluttered smile and the offer of a caffeine fix.

“There’s a coffee machine here?”

“Of course! Did you think we were heathens?”

Marjorie got the sense that Lydia only feigned addiction to project sophistication. “I noticed Gus with a cup from somewhere else yesterday.”

“Yeah, something about liking the place’s owner? He’s a mysterious man.” Lydia floated back to reception.

At half past noon, Marjorie sent the final spreadsheet to Gus. She opened the door of her cave; the front desk was unmanned. In the kitchen, she pulled her now gloppy sandwich from the fridge and ate it standing up, tossing the crumb-filled ziplock into the garbage. Then, on second thought, she moved it to the recycling bin; on second thought
again,
she moved it back to the trash. Who could keep the rules straight?

With time to kill, she explored the cabinets and settled on a cup of Twinings English Breakfast tea. Playing a solo game of bartender, she added nondairy creamer, brown sugar, cinnamon, and honey, then sipped, winced, and tossed it.

Empty-handed, she wandered back to her “office.” Gus hadn’t responded in the fifteen minutes that had passed. She checked her personal e-mail—just a note from her mother, solidifying future dinner plans. At a loss, she turned to Instagram. Perusing the feed, her heart sank: Pickles had posted a picture with Vera and Brian from July 4th. So they
had
gotten together without her. She was officially odd woman out. And, sitting in a foreign office in July, wearing a fisherman’s sweater and skullcap, she looked like the odd woman too. She stared at their sun-kissed faces, reminding herself that Pickles likely spent the weekend delivering fascistic lectures on the importance of breast-feeding and the dangers of vaccinations, while the others name-dropped and exchanged dull stories about boats and traffic patterns. Marjorie didn’t want to be there anyway.
Right?

Suddenly, she was desperate for distraction. Pushing down nerves, she left the conference room and approached her boss’s half-open door. Inside, Gus looked anxious. His hands were planted on either side of his head, fingertips pressing into his temples. He grumbled an expletive and pulled his palms down his face, kneading his eyes like a sleepy baby.

“Knock, knock,” she said and immediately regretted it. Why not just
knock
?

Gus glared at Marjorie like she was the most annoying person on earth, a Hayden Panettiere–Rush Limbaugh–Carrot Top hybrid.

“I finished the spreadsheets and, since you’re paying me, I thought you might want me to do something else.” She crossed her arms over her chest
.

“Whatever.”

She exhaled. “Look. You’re clearly stressed.
You
look like a train wreck. I don’t really care, but maybe I could help. If the problem is work-related, that is. If it’s to do with your personal life, from what I’ve witnessed of your social skills, I’m sure that would require years of professional intervention.”

He shrugged. “I guess I have no alternative.”

“I’m gonna choose to ignore that. So, shoot.” She paused. “That’s an expression, BTW. I’m not sure how much you hate me, so to be clear: I’m not inviting you to shoot me.”

“The films you’ve been logging are from festivals we need covered.” Gus leaned back, his chair sighing. “We’re supposed to have four days to review them before other distribution companies get access. That’s important because we can make early offers.”

“Right, I get that. Remember when I said I wasn’t a moron?”

“Remember when I said that remains to be seen?” He paused. “Anyway, now they’re saying we only have two days.”

“Are these important festivals?”

“They’re not flashy, but they’re big ones for short films, and our bread and butter is from licensing those to airlines and cable networks.”

“So now you have to go through hundreds of movies in two days.”

“Yup.”

“And Michael isn’t here.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you ask Lydia and Kate for help?”

“They both have class this afternoon and all day tomorrow. And even if they were available, we’ve tried to farm stuff out to them before. They’re both whip smart, especially Kate, but they’re not that sophisticated yet.” He covered his face with his hands again, as if their youth was the final insult.

Marjorie brought a hand to her hip. “Well, here’s a crazy idea, boss. Why don’t you let
me
watch some?”

“You?” He peeked through his fingers. “But you don’t know anything.”

“Why, thanks.”

He dropped his hands to his lap. “No. I mean you’ve worked here for less than two days. You don’t know what we need for our markets.”

“I’ve seen movies before. It’s not that rarefied a concept. Let me watch some. Since I don’t know your buyers, I’ll write up minidescriptions with recommendations about whether they’re good and you can decide which to bother rewatching.”

Gus frowned. “Like coverage. Not a terrible idea.”

“Occasionally, I have a decent one.”

“I’ll start you off with something unimportant in case you suck at it.”