Page 23 of Pick-Up
We would stay in New York, not sell out in Hollywood, and be acclaimed for our commercial and artistic success!
In retrospect, if I had only looked for equivalent examples—filmmakers in a romantic couple who rose to great heights together—I would have realized that both members of the duo rarely build equal careers. The reason why seems pretty clear: someone becomes the ritual sacrifice at the altar of finances, children, and real life. Someone has to pay for health insurance.
Nine times out of ten, who do you think that person is?
Cliff wasn’t the most talented filmmaker in our class. He wasn’t top five. I knew that even then. But he was the best operator. Heoverflowed with entitlement, which turned out to matter more. As time went on, and we had babies who someone needed to actually raise, I realized he’d happily throw me under the bus for the chance to direct a lowly Chevrolet ad, let alone write a studio movie. That realization didn’t endear him to me.
I thought he was enamored of me, had my back, but really he was enamored of winning—which, when we were young enough, he thought he could do with me standing slightly behind him. My work became producing corporate videos for fast cash—and he went off to LA more and more often to try to drum up screenwriting work. The rest wrote itself.
Well, actually, the Golden Globes incident was his to own. A truly astounding show of indiscretion, disrespect and grossness that I cannot attribute to fate. By that time, I couldn’t have cared less who he felt up. But I could have done without the public humiliation.
Maybe some people in our film program at college were surprised that Cliff was the highest achiever of us all—with success that came, by the way, largelyafterour divorce two and half years ago. I got to be his shoulder to cry on for decades of struggle and insecurity, during which he often turned red-faced and ugly, blaming me for holding him back. Then, just as we broke up, he was subsumed into some sugary-sweet movie-industry dreamscape. Only then did the money roll in. And it didn’t roll my way since we were already broken up. The terms of the divorce were settled before his financial success was full-fledged, and maybe I should have revisited the arrangement once he was so flush—but I preferred not to need him. Either way, it should have been obvious to everyone that he’d get ahead. For one thing, he wanted it most. For another, he had no pesky ethics to get in the way.
So, a full-time job? With benefits and regular hours and a dependable salary? At an established publishing company with a legit HR department, bonus structures and obligatory holiday parties at the end of each year? The thought of it now gets me hot and bothered. These days,thisis what turns me on. For the briefest instant, my mind flits to Demon Dad in the park the other day. His crooked smile,lean abs. I shake my head clear. Who needs first dates when there’s a 401(k) and a weekly staff meeting to keep you warm at night?
Derek has synched his computer to a giant flat-screen at the front of the conference room and is walking us through dates and line items, all of which I understand like the back of my hand. This is my safe space; my happy place. A set. Production. Lighting. Coverage. A crew.
“We’re imagining the shoot will take about—”
“Three to four days!” interrupts Stephanie.
I think Derek might actually murder her.
Bristling, he moves on to his fourth spreadsheet, this one focusing on next steps, and asks Jackie to lead us through some set decoration details, when I realize I’m missing an essential piece of information:
“I’m so sorry if I missed this, but where did you say we’ll be shooting?”
“Citrine Cay!” Stephanie and Derek say in unison. Finally in agreement on something.
“Citrine Cay?” I repeat. “I’m sorry—I’m sure I’m being clueless—but I don’t think I’ve heard of that.”
“It’s an island!”
“Oh! Like Governors Island?”
They shake their heads.
“Roosevelt Island? Randall’s Island? Long Island? Staten Island?” I am out of islands in the New York area.
“No, silly,” says Stephanie. “Like a tropical island! In Turks and Caicos!”
My mouth drops open, followed by my stomach. “Oh, wow,” I say, trying to keep the deep stress out of my voice. “The Caribbean!” I will need to organize way more than supplemental babysitting and extra after-school hours. But I will make it happen. I need to make it happen. Ineedthis gig.
Stephanie leans in. “It’s this amazing private island! No one has even been there yet. It’s not open to guests until the end of themonth. We’re going to party so hard!” She throws her hands in the air and waves them like she just don’t care.
“She meansworkso hard.” Derek’s lips are pursed.
“Totally,” says Stephanie. When he looks away, she shakes her head at me and mimes taking a shot.
“Anyway, Stephanie is right. It’s a big-deal exclusive. We’re first to the property. And it’s exquisite! We’ve even agreed to shoot without models, though it’s somewhat unorthodox, to let the landscape speak for itself. So, this group here will be our bare-bones crew. Plus, our photographer, Charlie. Our editor in chief may join as well, if schedule permits.”
“Of course.”
“If you don’t have any additional questions for us, we’ll discuss internally and circle back ASAP on the position. But you seem like a fantastic fit. Thanks—”
“So much!” yelps Stephanie.
“For your time.”
