The Comeback(70)

“Of course it’s not,” I say. “It’s all bullshit.”

“You sure seem to be enjoying it a lot for someone who thinks that,” Esme says sort of smugly, as if she’s won a debate I didn’t even know we were having.





CHAPTER FORTY





In my experience, women who don’t say a lot are one of two things—exceptionally stupid or exceptionally smart. I figure you’re the latter, but nobody has given you the chance to show it,” John Hamilton says as he leans back in the wicker chair on his deck. We are at his house at the very top of the hills, so high up that the air feels thinner and the city unfolds beneath us like a game of Chutes and Ladders. John claims that the house was owned by a famous pop singer before him, the evidence to prove this being four Grammys left behind, because wherever she was going, she didn’t need them anymore.

“Mmm,” I say. The hot tub is bubbling away next to us, but I pretend not to notice. “And that’s just women?”

“Well, women are more extreme than men, wouldn’t you agree? There are a lot of mediocre men in this town, and not enough brilliant women.” John smiles winningly at me, and I can’t work out if what he said was actually an improvement because I’m blinded by his little marshmallow teeth, incongruously set somewhere in the middle of his large, fleshy face.

“You must have met my agent and manager then,” I say, and he just stares at me.

“What?”

“Mediocre men?”

“Ahhh. Ha. Ha ha, that’s funny,” John says, folding his arms across his chest. “See . . . ? You’re smart.”

I nod, wondering if I’m supposed to congratulate him on being smart enough to notice my smartness.

“Speaking of smart, that was a great interview you did,” John says then, and I look at him, surprised that he bothered to read it.

“It’s already Vanity Fair’s most shared piece this week,” I say, remembering now that Nathan told me to mention this. I hope I worded it correctly.

“That’s great. Like I said, it was a good move. So tell me . . . how much weight have you actually put on . . . ten, fifteen pounds?” John asks, his eyes narrowed as he assesses me. I can’t quite believe that this was his only takeaway from the interview, but, then again, maybe I can. I try to keep my face open, even though John must weigh nearly three hundred pounds himself and hardly seems qualified to be making this assessment. He smiles approvingly after a moment.

“Emilia told me it suited you and it does. Some women can’t carry it off, but your face is . . . I don’t know. Less harsh. You look like you could play a suburban mom now instead of the school drug dealer. A beautiful, young suburban mom, but you know . . . Hey, it’s a compliment,” he adds when I don’t respond, because I’m thinking about how glad I am that everyone feels so qualified to comment on my appearance in this way. I wonder whether all women are subjected to the same running commentary on their weight, or whether it’s reserved solely for the complicit, those of us trading in our looks for cash.

“So the project . . . ?” I say after a moment.

“Are you single right now?” John says, leaning back in his chair.

“Excuse me?”

John is sitting with his knees spread wide and his arms behind his head. He is both excessively comfortable in his own space and assured of his own power. I should stand up and thank him for his time, then walk out before he has the chance to demean me any more, but instead I am leaning toward him, my ten-to-fifteen-pounds-overweight body curving in on itself while I work hard to keep my tone light, my forehead uncreased, my jaw defined.

“You and Dylan . . . you guys broke up, right? I was sorry to hear it. I thought about hiring Dylan on this movie, give him that step up into features, but then I heard you guys were done, and I wanted you for the project more.”

“I think Dylan wants to stick to documentaries, actually,” I say, and I can hear how defensive I sound. I start again. “Tell me about the project, John. I really can’t wait to hear about it.”

“All right. You’re focused, that’s a good start. So it’s called Anatopia, and it’s this epic love story set in space. There are four planets that make up the dystopian galaxy of Anatopia: Neutron, Hydron, Platon and Euron. You’re Sienna, queen of Euron, and you’re at war with the other planets, only you’ve fallen in love with the son of the leader of Neutron. Your sworn enemy—”

“What are we at war over?”

“What?” he says, unimpressed at having been interrupted.

“What are we fighting about?”

“We’re still finessing the details,” he says. “We had a script but we weren’t happy with some parts of it, so we’re looking at some different names for a rewrite. Big names.”

“Big names! The biggest names you’ve ever seen!” I say, and he frowns at me.

“What?”

“Trump?” I say, grimacing. “I’m sorry, I think I’m nervous.”

John starts to laugh, thumping his hand against his thigh so animatedly that the housekeeper comes out to check on him.

“Agnes, great. Another La Croix for me—you want one, Grace? And can we get some of those smoked almonds, the ones with the low sodium? Don’t bring them out if they’re not low sodium—I’ll be able to tell.”