Romantic comedy, p.25
Romantic Comedy, page 25
“Okay,” he said. “Baby, you don’t know how beautiful you are. You’re so perfect, I never thought I’d find this, am I in heaven?” When I laughed, he said, “Do you know what that’s a reference to?”
“Yes.” I leaned in and kissed him. “And I do think it’s funny.”
“But you also get that it’s really how I feel? That’s why I think of it whenever we’re in bed.”
“Thank you for your delusionally generous view of me. What’s the other joke?”
“This one is a little crude.”
“Even better.”
“I’m so happy that I can’t wipe the smile off my penis.”
This time, I really, really laughed, and he said, “Seriously, the sound of you laughing—there’s nothing else like it.”
* * *
—
To my surprise, the first person to contact me about the photos wasn’t Henrietta; it was Danny. Yo Chuckles, read his text, which arrived that night just after 10 p.m. Pacific time. He’d included a link to an online tabloid with the headline “Noah Brewster Spotted on Hike with Mystery Woman.” Noah and I were watching a movie in the sitting area off the kitchen but had paused it while he got up to pee.
Danny’s next text was Aren’t u a dark horse
Weird huh? I replied. How are you doing?
From Danny: Trying to hide how much I dig the pandemic. This was followed by a photo of a placid, empty pool in the foreground, then some well-manicured hedges, then part of a vast white brick house that I assumed to be Nigel’s Hamptons mansion, an assumption confirmed when Danny added, Nigel likes to keep it at a sweet 81 degrees
The pool? I replied. Or all of the Hamptons?
From Danny: Are u and NB cuffed?
I replied with the shrugging brown-haired white woman emoji then added, Pretty sure Noah keeps his closer to a sweet 75 degrees
Danny: To each his/her own sugar daddy
I didn’t love this, nor was I convinced that the implication was unfair.
Btw he and Annabel never really dated back in 2018, I wrote.
Danny: Old news Chuckles
Danny: Good to see u enjoying yourself for once
The next text was indeed from Henrietta, after a screenshot taken of a different online gossip site: My fav hetero headline ever! This one was “Does Noah Brewster Have a New Girlfriend?”
I skimmed both articles. I could see that already there were many more, all regurgitating the same minimal information—Noah, debuting a newly shorn look, and the unidentified woman took a hike in the celeb-popular Temescal Canyon Park….Brewster, who was last linked with jewelry designer Louisiana Williams…Noah Brewster, almost unrecognizable without his signature long hair, and his brunette date were all smiles following the afternoon stroll….The photos, of which there seemed to be just three, were of us before we’d realized the paparazzo was there, when we were holding hands and both looking slightly downward at the path in front of us, except in one Noah was facing me and speaking. Though I’d been wearing what I thought of as my cutest and sleekest leggings, my thighs looked lumpier than they did in my mind’s eye. On the gossip site, some of the photos helpfully included superimposed bright green arrows pointing at the absence of Noah’s hair under his baseball cap.
I could hear Noah returning, and I had the impulse to toss my phone behind a cushion, but I hadn’t done so by the time he appeared. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
I hesitated then said, “I think the photos are online. I mean they are online.”
He looked displeased. “Can I make a suggestion? Ignore it completely, and let’s let my publicist deal with anything that needs to be dealt with tomorrow.”
I hesitated—I didn’t want to upset him, but it felt odd for him not to know—then said, “Are those the first photos since you shaved your head?”
He grimaced. “Is that what they’re making this about?”
“Partly. Is that also some of the reason you didn’t want your picture taken?” Had my essential mistake been the assumption that his displeasure in the parking lot was at all connected to me?
But he shook his head. “When I had Covid, I wondered if I was going to die. Or, I know I told you this, but if I was going to permanently lose my voice. And compared to either of those, if they’re going to mock me for a haircut”—he shrugged—“so be it.”
“They’re treating it more as breaking news than mocking it. But yeah.” He was still standing, and I held open my arms. “Fuck ’em,” I said. He sat and leaned into me, letting me enfold him from the side, and I hugged him tightly.
But my ability to keep things in perspective was short-lived. I’d placed my phone on the table in front of the couch, then after the movie ended, I glanced at it and recoiled; I had twelve new texts, which was a lot for me, especially at this hour. While Noah was brushing his teeth, I set my phone on the floor in the hall outside his bedroom and closed the door. We cuddled without having sex before he fell asleep (I guess the passion is gone forever, I thought), then I lay awake for a solid two hours, fell asleep briefly, awakened, and scurried to the guest room to read every article and every comment. Among the comments, blatant insults such as Nhoa Brewster would never date a women who looks like that shes obvously his assitant and His music sucks he looks so old with no hair now no wonder he cant get hotties were interspersed with backhanded compliments along the lines of In our superficial times I respect Noah even more for not caring what his GF looks like! I also read every text and email I’d received overnight from about fifty people, including my college roommate, Denise; a childhood babysitter; and a co-worker from the credit card magazine. Also from my agent, manager, and the director of publicity for TNO; apparently, at some point, I’d been identified by name and occupation, and the online articles had been updated to reflect this information.
There was one email unrelated to the photos, and it was from Jerry; the subject was Food For Thought. Dear Sally, he’d written, Do you know there is something called “pupcakes”? They are cupcakes for dogs! Most of the ingredients are suitable for people, but they put a bone on top for “decoration.” Sugar and I miss you! Love, Jerry
If I had responded to any of the messages, this was the one I’d have chosen. But I was too agitated from bingeing on gossip about myself, exhausted and immobilized. I responded to nothing and left my phone in the guest room when I returned to Noah.
* * *
—
Two days passed, days during which both of us communicated a preposterous number of times with our respective agents and managers, and they all spoke to each other. The tone of these conversations could have made an observer conclude that we were discussing a topic of major significance—a respiratory pandemic, say, or systemic racism—but, even as my stomach churned, I found it hard to be dismissive. The consensus was that Noah’s publicist would say nothing for the time being and wait until we were photographed again to make a statement, and the statement, which would be released to a weekly magazine known for its obsequious treatment of celebrities and attributed to a source who knew both of us would be: Noah and Sally developed a friendship when he hosted The Night Owls in 2018. They’re now enjoying spending time together and seeing where it goes.
For us, the conversations to hash out this anodyne non-declaration mostly took place in the sitting area off the kitchen, sometimes on Zoom on Noah’s laptop and other times on Noah’s phone, set on the coffee table on speaker. Before the conclusive one ended, Noah said to the seven other people who’d dialed in, “I know the reason not to shout from the rooftops that I’m madly in love with Sally is that that would be baiting the paparazzi. But to be clear, I’m madly in love with Sally.”
There was an uncharacteristic silence from the agents and managers, then, finally, in a way that belied the sentiment, a female voice that I thought belonged to Noah’s agent said, “That’s wonderful news, Noah.”
After the call ended, I said, “At least now I understand why you dropped my hand in the parking lot.” I’d meant the comment ruefully, but I could hear that it sounded bitter.
He took my hand then, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed the back. “This part blows over,” he said.
* * *
—
It was after lunch the next day—Margit had prepared a spinach frittata and fresh berries—that Noah said, “I have something to show you.” He led me to his study, opened the door, looked at me, and said with a boyish sort of pride, “What do you think?”
As when he’d shown me the room on the day of my arrival, the long and rough-hewn desk was empty except for a dark blue ceramic lamp, and the room was uncluttered. Then I realized that the built-in shelves behind the desk, which had previously been about a third full, were entirely empty. He waved me over to the desk and opened the one large, shallow drawer. It, too, was empty.
“It’s yours,” he said. “This room is your office so you can stay forever and write your screenplays.”
I hadn’t pulled my laptop out of my backpack since getting to his house.
Slowly, I said, “But I have a job.”
“That you’ve been telling me for the last two years you want to quit.”
“But I signed a contract saying I’d go back.”
“Isn’t that what agents are for?”
“But I’m not flaky. I’m responsible.”
We looked at each other, and he said, “I didn’t mean to upset you. I meant to make you feel welcome.”
“If I stayed here forever, what does that even mean? Would I pay you rent?”
“Of course not.”
“So I’d suddenly become a person generating no income while living in some man’s mansion?”
“I’ll be shocked if the studios don’t fight each other to buy any screenplay you write.” His voice was cooler as he said, “And I don’t think of myself as some man, but I guess you do.”
“If I were to quit TNO and stay here, it would cost you nothing. If we break up in two months, or in eight months, you can just proceed like this never happened. But I’d have given up my job and my apartment and my life in the city where I have friends.”
“Then hold on to your apartment.”
“I’d have given up my identity. Instead of being a TNO writer, I’ll be like, Example Seven in an article about nineteen celebs who are totally dating normies. I’ve heard from more people about those parking lot pictures than about any sketch I’ve ever written.”
“I thought you’d like having a place to write, but now I see that I was moving too fast and being presumptuous. Sally, I’m sorry that I didn’t think through how this would look from your perspective.” But in his voice, along with contrition, there was impatience.
“It’s not that you’ve done anything wrong,” I said, “but I don’t know how to do this.”
“This what?”
“I don’t know how to be in a relationship. I think I should go. Like stay somewhere else for a few days and just try to get some perspective. I don’t want to give up my career because of how good it feels when you go down on me.” Immediately, I could see that I had distracted us both with the specificity of this example, that there was an off-ramp for the conversation we were having as well as the course of action I had suggested. And maybe I was being rash but I also was being sincere—I didn’t want to leave TNO because of Noah. I wanted to leave TNO because it was time to leave TNO. As if this resolved anything, I added, “I need to think this stuff through.”
* * *
—
Once, years before, I’d stayed on for a few days after the Emmys ceremony, moving from the downtown hotel where the network put us up to an oceanfront room at a boutique hotel in Santa Monica. This was early on in the time when I could have afforded such a thing, and I’d done little during my stay—I’d read, and walked on the beach, and eaten takeout on the balcony—and, pretty much continuously, I’d experienced disbelief at my good fortune. I didn’t live in Missouri or North Carolina anymore! I didn’t work for a medical newsletter! I wasn’t married to a man who thought I wasn’t funny! I was a TNO writer who had been nominated for an Emmy and could stay at a hotel that cost four hundred dollars a night!
Returning to the same boutique hotel, I tried to remind myself that these facts were still true—by now, I’d won Emmys and could afford to stay at a hotel that currently cost five hundred and thirty dollars a night—but I felt bereft. Though the beach was open, the pier, which I could see from my balcony, was eerily empty, and the streets nearby were quiet. A powerful sense of misgiving had begun to grip me in Noah’s guest room, as I set my clothes in my suitcase then loaded my aunt Donna’s car, which I hadn’t driven since pulling onto his property. He had walked out to the driveway with me, and as he kissed my cheek with an unfamiliar formality, I wondered if I’d lost him already. My regret hadn’t been total as I wound south around the roads of Topanga. But my regret was already strong, and grew stronger as the minutes and hours passed. Why had I voluntarily left? What was I proving, and to whom? Was this when my interlude with Noah would begin to recede as a pandemic fever dream?
I’d checked into the hotel at 3:30, then lay on the bed for a while, planning to read and instead crying myself to sleep for an afternoon nap. When I awakened, I wasn’t sure what time it was, or at first, where I was, and then I realized: 7:18 p.m., and a hotel. I thought of ordering dinner, but instead I texted Viv and Henrietta: Had bad conversation with NB, now in hotel, maybe things are over
From Viv: Oh no what happened
From Henrietta: Are you okay
From me: Weird part is I think he wants a serious relationship/wants me to stay here
From Viv: Of course he does you’re a catch
From Henrietta: Is that what fight was about
From me: Kind of
From me: Would it be crazy if I don’t come back to TNO
From Henrietta: Then who will write my sketches about the 35 year old who hasn’t figured out how to use a tampon
From Henrietta: JK it’s your one wild and precious
From Viv: Do you WANT to stay out there
From me: I don’t know
From Viv: Pretend it’s Monday and you’re about to leave your apt and come to 66 and sit in Nigel’s office for the pitch meeting
From Viv: Are you psyched to be back or are you over it all
From Henrietta: As you inhale the aroma of Danny’s burps
From Henrietta: Or maybe not bc we’ll all be wearing masks?
For almost a minute, I held the phone, biting my lip. Then I wrote, It makes me so sad to think of not seeing you guys in the middle of the night
From Henrietta: FWIW I’m willing to haunt your dreams
* * *
—
In the morning, I went out for coffee and an egg sandwich that I ate standing outside the café, then I walked on the beach before it got crowded, as the surf roared beside me, not washing away my thoughts. Back in the room, I considered texting Noah but instead googled his name. The so-called top stories were about our hike, and I looked at the photos again, and again felt dismayed at the fit of my leggings, though the dismay was almost immediately eclipsed by a nostalgia for this moment four days before, when we’d been casually holding hands, casually chatting.
I took my laptop onto the balcony, sat, and created a new document that I named Pros/Cons. Then I observed the blinking cursor, listing neither pros nor cons of quitting TNO and moving to L.A. I needed some classical music to help me. I went into the room to find my earbuds, and when I returned to the balcony, my phone was buzzing with an incoming text, but it wasn’t from Noah; it was from Viv.
How you feeling today?
Okay, I texted back. Thanks for checking. How you feeling?
She replied with a photo in which she stood in profile in front of a mirror, her belly truly enormous beneath a gray tank top.
Amazing!!!! I replied. You look great
When my phone buzzed again, I assumed it was her, but this time it was a message from Noah: Hey
My heart clutched.
Hey, I wrote back. How are you?
The three dots pulsated for what felt like fifteen minutes but was probably ten seconds. Then finally: The house is really quiet without you
This was so…nice? Mature? Non-game-playing?
As I began typing, another text from him appeared: I’m sorry that I made you feel like I don’t respect your job
From him: I do respect your job
From me: I’m sorry that I failed to express the slightest appreciation about you clearing out your study
From me: That was very kind of you
From me: Even if I turned it into something weird and symbolic
I typed, I miss you, but before I could send it, he texted: About to workout w/ Bobby
From him: Have a good day
I waited a few seconds then deleted I miss you
* * *
—
But by the afternoon, I was looking up how much it would cost to transport my aunt Donna’s car back to Kansas City if I flew directly from L.A. to New York. Although I didn’t usually need to be back at TNO until the last week in September, there were rumors that we’d have additional days of training for the new Covid protocols and that attendance might be staggered because of limits on how many people could be in a room at a time. Plus, I’d been away for four months; maybe it made sense to go back early, to reacclimate to the city in a pandemic. By evening, however, I’d decided that eleven years of pitch meetings—along with eleven years of Tuesday all-nighters and Wednesday read-throughs and Thursday rewrites and Friday rehearsals and, yes, even Saturday shows—was enough. I didn’t need a twelfth year. And there were more reasons I didn’t want a twelfth year than reasons I did.
