Mr. Love: A Romantic Comedy (13 page)

36

Jonas Blunt sits with his tan Cordovans on his vast desk, fingers steepled beneath his fine nose, staring out over Central Park.

Jane, who hasn’t been invited to sit, hovers, marveling at how fresh and crisp Jonas looks, even with his punishing schedule of cross
country trips, gallery openings and Broadway shows.

“You’re aware, of course, that I have no issue?” Jonas says.

“No issue with what?”

He barks a laugh and swivels his chair, looking up at Jane.

“Issue as in
offspring
, Janey. No little snotty nosed brats. No son and heir.”

“Yes, I know that,” Jane says, thrown by this conversation.

He blinks at her.

“Good
God, Janey, sit. Sit. Sit.”

She sits.

“You’re thinking: why the devil is Jonas sharing this with me? Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m building an empire, Jane. Blunt is no longer merely the pre-eminent literary agency in this increasingly illiterate and benighted land, it is branching out into the world of
entertainment
. I am not going to be one of those myopic bookworms bemoaning the dumbing down of America—I can not only see the writing on the wall, I have damn well grabbed a spray can and added my tag to the peeling brickwork.”

He stares at her.

“Why are you doing an impersonation of a goldfish feeding, Janey?”

Jane closes her gaping mouth.

Then opens it to say, “I’m a little confused, Jonas.”

He throws his long arms wide.

“Then let me be plain: books are so
yesterday
. Boo hoo. We have to look to the future. Therefore, our role as production partner in
Ivy
the motion picture is now cemented. And it is just the beginning.”

“Congratulations.”

“Indeed! Indeed!” He rubs his hands together. “What it means, Jane, is that I will be spending the lion’s share of my time in Los Angeles. I have already taken an apartment in Pacific Palisades and soon there will be a West Coast office, staffed—no doubt—by teenagers with tans and belly rings. Kiddies who speak the
lingua franca
of the all-powerful 18 to 30 demographic. For it is with them that our future—and our fortune—lies.”

“What will happen
to Blunt Literary?” Jane asks, terrified that his answer will be that it is to be closed.

That she will be out on the street.

“Blunt Literary is going to undergo a metamorphosis.”

He smiles at her, his vampiric canines gleaming.

“Hence my waxing lyrical about my lack of progeny. I may have no biological child, but—and I kiss your smooth little cheeks,
mwah
,
mwah
—I have you.”

“You do? I mean: you do.”

He narrows his eyes.

“How does
Blunt Cooper
sound to you?”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“What I’m
saying
, Janey, is that you have outstripped all my expectations on this
Ivy
deal and I’m going to let you have a great deal more responsibility. Of course the training wheels will be on for a tad longer but I see the day, Jane, in the not-to-distant future, when your name will join mine on the door.”

“Jonas, this is all a little too much to digest.”

“Well, chew on it, Janey. There’s time. We’re talking a period of transition, not a
fait accompli
. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now onto matters most pressing. Raynebeau Jones is jetting up from L.A. with Yul Egorov.”

He sees her blank expression.

“
Frat Party 1
through
5
?”

Still blank.

“
Campus Booty Call
?
Freshman Yo
?”

She shakes her head.

“I presume those are movies?”

“Not just movies, Janey. Mega blockbusters. Reviled by the critics and consumed with an almost carnal voracity by youth from
Boston to Bangkok. And Yul Egorov scripted and helmed them all. To call him
hot
is a bit like calling the sun
warmish
. He’s on
fire
. And he’s Raynebeau Jones’s current love interest.”

“So he’s going to be directing
Ivy
?”

Jonas snaps his fingers.

“Bingo. And he’s adapting the book. They’re coming up to visit the little burg where
Ivy
is set. Eastwick or whatever it’s called.”

“
East Devon.”

“
East Devon. They’re going to visit, soak up the ambience and Raynebeau will converse at length with Lizzie Rushworth, drawing from her everything she can to bring Suzie Ballinger to life on the screen. A camera crew will be sticking to them like limpets and I believe MTV has already signed off on a reality show called
So Raynebeau
.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Isn’t it just? A tremendous buzz-generator for the movie. Anyway, their helicopter will be leaving East 34th Street Heliport at noon, to zoom them up to . . .”

He clicks his fingers
again.

“
East Devon,” Jane says.

“Yes. And you’ll go with them. Lubricate their interaction with Lizzie Rushworth.”

“If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“They’re going to stay over in East Devon?”

“Yes. For the night. Tomorrow they’ll shoot
Raynebeau taking in the town and then in dialogue with Lizzie before they decamp for a whirlwind tour of the Harvard campus.”

Jane says,
“I must warn you, the accommodation in East Devon is pretty nasty.”

Jonas laughs.

“We’re talking Hollywood royalty here, Janey. A crew of flunkies has already invaded the hamlet. By the time the chopper lands magic will have been wrought. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“
That’s a relief.”

“What you need to do is to make sure that the face-to-face between
Raynebeau and Lizzie is a true meeting of minds. Remember that Raynebeau is a product of the San Fernando Valley and her references are a little, shall we say,
limited
. She and Lizzie may, in the broadest definition, share a mother tongue but they will be as unalike as a Swede and a Swahili. You’ll be the interpreter. The
facilitator
. Is that clear?”

“It is. I’ll do my best.”

He beams at her.

“Oh
, I know you will, darling Janey. You have my complete confidence.”

He wags a languid hand.

“Now run along and pack a toothbrush or whatever. Showbiz awaits.”

His nose is in his iPad by the time Jane, more than a little shell
-shocked, leaves his office.

37

Gordon, driving Bitsy’s Volvo down to the store to buy provisions, thinks that he’s hallucinating.

That the last
mad weeks have left him bereft of his senses.

For, as he reaches the end of their street, he sees a house floating by.

Gordon closes his eyes and opens them slowly, one at a time.

The house is still there.

And it’s still floating.

Then, through a break in the trees, he sees the cab of a semi and realizes that he is watching a mobile home being transported, the flatbed hidden by the hedgerows.

On impulse Gordon follows the semi to a field on the outskirts of town.

In Gordon’s youth the field had belonged to a crusty old Yankee named Ebenezer Yates and you
risked a butt-load of buckshot if you cut through his land to the pond.

Now the land lies fallow and Gordon sees a litter of shiny trucks and SUVs parked where once Yates had farmed apples.

The semi wheezes to a halt and a crew of men surrounds it.

The mobile home on the flatbed is like none Gordon has ever seen: it has a pillared porch and at least six rooms, its glossy wooden exterior painted in a pale yellow, with a roof of
teal colored tiles.

Gordon winds down his window and s
peaks to a large man in jeans and a check shirt.

“What’s going on?”

“Hollywood’s comin’ to town,” the man says before walking away.

On cue Gordon’s cell phone rings.

Jane Cooper.

“Hi Jane,” he says. “I hear we’re about to be invaded by
Tinsel Town?”

“How do you know?” she says.

“I’ve just seen a mobile home floating through the fields.”

She laughs.

“A little surreal, isn’t it?”

“To say the least.”

“Yes, Raynebeau Jones and some director named Yul Egorov are coming in by helicopter this afternoon. I’ll be accompanying them.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.”

“Gordon, this is going to be pretty intense. A camera crew will be following Raynebeau wherever she goes and I’m told that she is really high maintenance. Will you try and prepare Bitsy as best you can?”

Gordon turns the
Volvo back toward town, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear.

“She’s not going to relish this, Jane.”

“I know, but it’s unavoidable. Is it okay if I come over this evening and talk things through with Bitsy?”

“Of course. I’ll do my best to get her into Lizzie mode.”

“Thanks, Gordon.”

She’s gone and as Gordon rattles into town he is overtaken by the tour bus that besieged their house yesterday, hearing again the amplified voice of the tour guide, waxing lyrical about Viola Usher and Suzie Ballinger.

Gordon parks the Volvo outside the liquor store.

The best thing to do, he decides, is to get quietly but thoroughly hammered.

38

As Jane approaches the helicopter crouched on the pad at the East 34th Street Heliport a guy with a video camera on his shoulder appears before her, walking backward, the lens in danger of bruising her nose.

Embarrassed
, she tries not to look at the camera.

She hears a voice bellowing from behind her: “She’s nobody! She’s nobody!”

Jane turns and sees a jockey-sized man with a bald head and a pencil mustache, dressed in a pinstripe suit and red T-shirt, his body festooned with so much bling that she fears the helicopter will plunge into the East River when it tries to ascend.

Yul Egorov, she presumes.

The director, his braying voice a cross between Minneapolis and Minsk, says: “You shoot only me and Raynebeau! Raynebeau and me! You hearing me?”

Jane is relieved when the camera swings from her and settles on the woman who totters after Egorov, a woman hobbled by high
heeled boots, her famously enhanced breasts threatening the stitching of a tight scarlet blouse, her face obscured by a mane of blonde hair.

All Jane can see are giant sunglasses and a pair of lips frozen in a balloon-like pout.

Raynebeau Jones.

When Jane tries to introduce herself, Yul Egorov says, “Yeah, yeah,
Bookgirl, get in the damn chopper, will ya?”

Jane ducks under the rotors and clambers aboard, finding herself strapped in opposite the vile couple.

The cameraman follows them on board, his lens consuming Raynebeau until she waves him away with a taloned hand.

With a scream of jets the helicopter lifts off and soars into the air, leaving Jane’s stomach somewhere on the
FDR Drive.

Jane closes her eyes and tries to quell her queasiness.

She feels somebody shaking her knee.

Jane blinks and sees Egorov crouched over her leg like a terrier about to mount it.

“Hey, hey Bookgirl! Raynebeau’s talkin’ to ya!”

“I’m sorry, Ms.
Jones,” Jane says. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“This book. This
Ivy
. You read it, right?” the actress asks.

“Well, yes, I’m the editor.”

“Okay. So is it, like, a biography?”

Yul Egorov says, “Auto.”

Raynebeau stares at him, chewing gum.

“Huh?”

“
Auto
biography.”

“Whatever. Is it?”

Jane composes herself.

“Well, in my experience, you get two kinds of writers: those like F. Scott Fitzgerald—”

“Who?”

Egorov says, “The
Gatsby
guy.”

“Okay. Cool.”

Jane says, “Those like Fitzgerald who use their own lives as material for their books, and those like Lizzie Rushworth who’re observers.”

Raynebeau
stares at her, chewing.

“So she, like, didn’t do any of this sex stuff?”

“No,” Jane says.

“Bummer.”

“But she observed.”

“So she was, like, a . . . a
voyager
?”

Jane blinks in confusion.

“Voyeur,” Egorov says.

“Oh, right,”
Jane says. “Well, in a manner of speaking. I think she reported what she saw.”

“Okay. So this girl, what’s her name . . . ?”

“Suzie. Suzie Ballinger.”

“Right, Suzie. Suzie. Suzie.”
Raynebeau turns to the director. “I’m not lovin’ that name, Yul.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not feeling very, you know,
Suzie
.”

“Hearing you, babe. Hearing you.”

“But
Ballinger
. Now I’m liking
Ballinger
. Sounds kinda like
balling
. Which is what she’s all about, right?

“Well, for part of the book
,” Jane says. “But towards the end—”

Raynebeau
halts Jane with a series of frantic zip-it gestures in the vicinity of her swollen mouth

“Hey, whoa, no spoilers!”

Jane stares at her.

“You haven’t finished
Ivy
?”

Raynebeau
drops her sunglasses and raises her eyebrows.

“Hello, it’s, like, a
book
.”

Jane looks at her blankly.

“It’s, like,
reading
.”

Jane is still blank.

“It’s, like,
time
.”

Egorov says, “I’ve read it
, though. Almost twice.”

“And what are your feelings,” Jane asks.

He wobbles his hand dismissively.

“Meh.
” He shrugs. “Anyways, when I adapt I use the book only as a kinda trampoline to bounce off of.”

“I see,” Jane says.

“I’ve got to
own
that bitch,” Egorov says, underscoring his words with rapper-like arm movements. “Make it mine. Tear out its guts and hold them in my hand and then shove them back and stitch it up and do what I do the way I do it. You understand?”

Jane understands very little of this but she says, “Of course. You have your creative process.”

“Yul’s a genius,” Raynebeau says and kisses his bald head. “He’s the most, like, creative person I have
ever
met. Ev—
uh
!”

“
Wonderful,” Jane says.

“No, seriously. He is.”

Jane nods like a doggy in the back of a car.

Feels that if she stops nodding she’ll scream.

Raynebeau says, “I have never met anybody more in touch with the, like, hidden artist within.”

Yul shrugs, taking this as no less than his due, his beringed hand delving into
Raynebeau’s groin.

Jane looks away
, down at the countryside, willing this flight to end.

Two hours later the helicopter lands in a field near an incongruously suburban-looking house. The mobile home Gordon
told her about.

Jane follows
Raynebeau and Yul out of the helicopter, the ever-present cameraman crouching and bobbing.

A retinue of flunkies appears
, waiting to do their bidding.

Raynebeau
looks at the woods surrounding them, the trees wearing their radiant plumage.

“What’s with that, like,
color
?” she asks.

“It’s
Fall,” Jane says.

Raynebeau
stares at her, shaking her head.

“The leaves are turning,” Jane says.

“Turning into what?”

“They’re dying, baby, they’re dying,” Yul
says.

“
Eew
. Gross.”

“We’re gonna have to go digital with that,” Yul says, “since we’re shooting in spring. And we’ll be workin’ in
New Mexico.”

“
New Mexico?” Jane says.

“Yeah. Getting a wack of New Mexic
an money.”

“Isn’t
New Mexico a little, well,
dry
?”

“
I’m God,” he says.

Jane waits for the punch line.

It doesn’t come.

Yul just repeats: “
I. Am. God.”

Then he grabs
Raynebeau by the haunch and walks her into the mobile home.

Jane
gets the keys to a rental car from one of the minions and drives off toward town and the Rushworths who will seem entirely sane and normal after this bizarre Hollywood power couple.