“The kids are fine,” he said dismissively. “We have to talk.”
This didn’t sound good. Dozens of scenarios raced through her mind. Someone she knew was dead; they’d received a letter from the IRS demanding back taxes; his partners had thrown him out of the restaurant . . . She looked up. Victor Matrick was strolling briskly down the hall. How was it that men and mothers seemed to have a sixth sense of when it was most inconvenient to call?
“I have to call you back. After the screening,” she said, in as normal a tone of voice as she could muster, and hung up.
“Hello, Wendy,” Victor said, shaking her hand.
“Good to see you, Victor. We’re all so glad you could make this.” She stood awkwardly for a second, trying to let him pass so that he could enter the screening room first. She was a woman, but he was older and more powerful. Age before beauty, she thought. But after years in the business, she still didn’t know how to handle men like Victor Matrick—the old white men in positions of authority. She hated male authority. Every time she came face-to-face with a man like Victor, she felt like a little girl again, having to go head-to-head with her father. They hadn’t had a good relationship. He was distant and dismissive of her, as if he never really expected her to amount to much (he was still surprised that she had a job, and was even more shocked by the amount of money she made—when he found out she made over three million dollars a year, his only comment was, “I don’t understand the world anymore”). Nico, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do with men like Victor. She used subtle flattery. She spoke to them on their level. She acted as if she were one of them. Wendy could never do that. She wasn’t “one of them,” so it seemed pointless to pretend.
“Do you think we’ve got a hit here, Wendy?” he asked. Victor was one of those old corporate types who said your name again and again, supposedly to make you feel important, but probably more to intimidate you by reminding you that they had a perfect memory and you didn’t.
“Victor,” she said. “It’s going to be huge.”
“That’s what I like to hear from my executives. Enthusiasm,” Victor said, making his right hand into a fist and pounding it into his left. “Let’s play ball!”
Wendy followed Victor into the screening room and sat down in the row behind him. The screen crackled to life, the white light illuminating the back of Victor’s full head of short, yellowing gray hair. Wendy pushed back into her seat, wondering, for a moment, how Victor would have reacted if she went up to him and said, “Right, Victor! Let’s play Barbies!”
* * *
EXACTLY ONE HUNDRED AND eleven minutes later, Tanner Cole leaned over and kissed Jenny Cadine in a horse-drawn carriage racing through the Mall in Central Park. Wendy had seen the ending hundreds of times in the editing room, but she still felt the same rush of tearful satisfaction that can only be achieved when the audience believes the world has been set right by true love. It should have been the easiest ending to achieve, but, in fact, was the most difficult. The rules were rigid: a high-status man falls in love with a lower-status, but worthy and deserving, woman. (Or girl. That was even better.) Fifty years of feminism and education and success had done little to eradicate the power of this myth, and there were times when the fact that she was selling this bullshit to women made Wendy feel uneasy. But what choice did she have? She was in the business of entertainment, not truth, and besides, how many women would eagerly sign up for the opposite: high-status woman (smart, powerful, successful) falls in love with lower-status male . . . and ends up taking care of him?
Nah. It just didn’t have quite the same impact.
Sharline leaned forward and tapped Wendy on the shoulder. “I want that to happen to me,” she whined, indicating the freeze-frame kiss of Tanner Cole and Jenny Cadine over which the credits had begun to roll.
“That is never going to happen to us,” Myra snorted. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
“But I want it to happen,” Sharline objected.
“I want a yacht and a private plane. But I’m not going to get those either,” Myra hissed.
Everyone began standing up. “It’s fantastic, baby,” Tanner Cole shouted from the front of the room.
“Terrific job, everyone,” Victor Matrick said. “Really, really top-notch. Selden, what do you say? A hit?”
Wendy smiled. Her stomach flipped over in a jolt of anxiety mixed with fear and anger. It was her movie, not Selden Rose’s. Selden hadn’t had anything to do with it, other than reading the script and making a few phone calls to secure Peter Simonson as the director. And now Selden had moved over to Victor and was shaking his hand, sucking up to Victor by congratulating him as if it were all Victor’s doing. That fucking namby-pamby Selden Rose with his nappy head of hair and that goofy grin (some women in the company actually thought he was handsome, but Wendy virulently disagreed) was trying to horn in on her credit . . .
She stepped into the aisle, placing herself directly in front of Victor and Selden. It was crucial that she make her presence felt. She wasn’t often in a room with Victor Matrick, and she had to milk every possible second. She cocked her head and smiled at Selden, pretending to listen to him. She’d known Selden Rose for years, from ages ago when he was still in L.A. Selden was known for being ruthlessly ambitious. Well, so was she. Two could play at any game.
“Victor,” she said, sycophantishly (it was sickening but had to be done), “I’ve got to congratulate you on your dedication to quality. The intelligence of Splatch-Verner is all over this movie . . .”
Victor’s eyes glittered—with either the gleam of insanity, old age, or a combination of both—and he said, “My intelligence, Wendy, lies in hiring the best people in the world to run my companies. You’re both doing a terrific job.”
Wendy smiled. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Jenny Cadine and Tanner Cole were moving up the aisle toward her. In about thirty seconds, Jenny would be on top of her . . . and then her conversation with Selden and Victor would be over. Jenny would demand attention. She was a movie star, and therefore took precedence over everyone else.
“Thank you, Victor,” Selden said, catching Wendy’s eye. “Wendy and I work very well together.”
Wendy nearly gasped, but kept her face frozen in a rictus grin. So that was Selden’s game. She suddenly saw the whole picture: Selden wanted to incorporate Parador into his own division, MovieTime. He was angling to run both MovieTime and Parador and position himself as her boss—it was outrageous! Three years ago, when Splatch-Verner acquired Parador and she’d become president, Selden Rose hadn’t wanted anything to do with Parador . .
. there was some kind of nasty business with his ex-wife . . . and it was even rumored that Selden was rooting for Parador to fail. But then she’d turned Parador around by producing five hit movies in the last two years while MovieTime was still limping along—no wonder Selden was out for blood.
Jenny Cadine was nearly on top of her. Wendy breathed in through her nose, hoping to give her brain a boost of oxygen. If she let Selden get away with this in front of Victor, he’d have his grubby little fingers in the crack and he’d keep pushing and pushing until he opened up a chasm.
She had to slam his fingers in the door!
“Selden’s been a big help to me, Victor,” Wendy said, nodding in seeming acknowledgment of Selden’s previous comment. “We only had a couple of meetings on The Spotted Pig, but Selden put us in touch with Peter Simonson, the director.” She smiled as if the whole success of the movie was due to one little phone call. “Who did an amazing job,” she concluded.
She paused, congratulating herself on the perfection of her jab. It was enough to let Selden know that if he planned to cross the line, he was going to have a fight on his hands, while at the same time reminding Victor that, while she was in charge, she was still a team player. And the timing was brilliant. In the next second, Jenny Cadine walked up and draped herself over Wendy’s shoulder, which meant that any conversations not concerning Jenny were over.