The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Read online

  I had my assistant clip this story and messenger it over to Alison. Attached to it was a Post-it, on which I’d scribbled, “Thinking of you generically. Love and kisses. David.”

  An hour later, a messenger arrived at my office with a padded envelope from Alison’s agency. Inside was a small gift-wrapped box, and a card: “Fuck you . . . Love, Alison.”

  Inside the box was something I had coveted for years: a Waterman Edson fountain pen . . . the Ferrari of writing instruments, with a list price to match: $675. But Alison could afford it, as the deal she’d closed for my “creative participation” in the second season of Selling You was worth just under $1 million . . . less her ten percent of course.

  Alison was quoted in that LA Times profile of me. Per usual, she was deeply droll, telling the interviewer that the reason she never dropped me as a client during all the bad years was that “He knew when to not call—and believe me, there are few writers in this town with that skill.” She also surprised me by saying something touching: “He’s living proof that talent and extreme perseverance can sometimes triumph in Hollywood. David kept at it long after many another aspiring writer would have folded. So he deserves everything: the money, the office, the assistant, the recognition, the prestige. But most of all he’s now getting his phone calls returned, and I’m fielding constant requests for meetings with him. Because everyone who’s smart wants to work with David Armitage.”

  As I was deep in the planning stage of the second season of Selling You, I was turning down most requests for meetings. But, at Alison’s urging, I did go to lunch with a young executive at Fox Television named Sally Birmingham.

  “I only met her once,” Alison said, “but everyone in the industry is earmarking her for the big time. She has a big war chest at her disposal. And she absolutely adores Selling You. In fact, she adores it so much she told me that she would be prepared to give you a quarter of a million for any thirty-minute pilot of your choice.”

  That made me pause for thought.

  “Two hundred and fifty k for one pilot?” I asked.

  “Yep—and I’d make certain it was pay or play.”

  “She knows I couldn’t even look at any new projects until the new season is wrapped?”

  “She anticipated that. And she told me she’s willing to wait. She just wants to sign you up for the pilot now—because, let’s face it, it would also up her market value to have snagged David Armitage. Think about it—all going well, you’ll be taking six weeks off between seasons two and three. How long is it going to take you to knock out a pilot?”

  “Three weeks max.”

  “And the other three weeks, you sit on a beach somewhere, if you can actually sit still so long, thinking to yourself that you just made a quarter of a million in twenty-one days.”

  “All right—I’ll do the lunch.”

  “Smart guy. You’ll like her. She’s superbright and beautiful.”

  Alison was right. Sally Birmingham was superbright. And she was beautiful.

  Her assistant had called my assistant to set up the lunch date at The Ivy. Thanks to the usual traffic jam on the 10, I arrived a few minutes late. She was already seated at a very good table. She stood up to greet me, and I was instantly captivated (though I worked damn hard not to show it). Sally was tall, with high cheekbones, flawless skin, cropped light brown hair, and a mischievous smile. At first, I pegged her as the sort of dazzlingly patrician product of East Coast education and high-end breeding who undoubtedly had her own horse by the age of ten. But fifteen minutes into our conversation, I realized that she had managed to undercut the Westchester County WASP background with a canny mixture of erudition and street smarts. Yes, she had been raised in Bedford. Yes, she had gone to Rosemary Hall and Princeton. But though she was ferociously well read—and something of a cinephile—she also had an astute understanding of Hollywood in all its internecine glory and told me she actually delighted in playing the “player” game. I could see why the big kahunas at Fox Television so valued her: she was a class act, but one who spoke their language. And she also had the most amazing laugh.

  “Want to hear my favorite LA story?” she asked me.

  “I’m game.”

  “All right—I was having lunch last month with Mia Morrison, head of corporate affairs at Fox. She calls the waiter over and says: ‘So tell me your waters.’ The waiter, a real pro, doesn’t blanch. Instead he starts listing them: ‘Well, we’ve got Perrier from France, and Ballygowan from Ireland, and San Pellegrino from Italy . . .’ Suddenly, Mia interrupts him: ‘Oh, no, not San Pellegrino. It’s too rich.’”

  “I think I’ll steal that.”

  “‘Immature poets imitate, mature poets steal.’”

  “Eliot?”

  “So you really did go to Dartmouth?” she asked.

  “I’m impressed by your background research.”

  “I’m impressed by your knowledge of Mr. Eliot.”

  “But surely you’ve picked up the references from Four Quartets throughout my show?”

  “I thought you’d be more of a ‘Waste Land’ kind of guy.”

  “Nah—it’s too rich.”

  Not only did we have instant rapport, but we also talked widely about just about everything. Including marriage.

  “So,” she said glancing at the ring on my finger, “are you married or are you married?”

  Her tone was light. I laughed.

  “I’m married,” I said. “Without the italics.”

  “For how long?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “That’s impressive. Happy?”

  I shrugged.

  “That’s not unusual,” she said. “Especially after eleven years.”

  “You seeing someone now?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “There was someone . . . but it was a minor diversion, nothing more. We both ended it around four months ago. Since then . . . just flying solo.”

  “You’ve never taken the conjugal plunge?”

  “No . . . though I could have done something disastrous—like marrying my boyfriend at Princeton. He certainly pushed the issue—but I told him that college marriages usually only have a two-year life span. In fact, most relationships burn out when passion turns prosaic . . . which is why I’ve never lasted more than three years with anyone.”

  “You mean, you don’t believe in all that ‘there is one person meant for you’ destiny crap.”

  Another of her laughs. But then she said, “Well, actually I do. I just haven’t met the guy yet.”

  Once again, the tone was blithe. Once again, a glance passed between us.

  But it was only a glance, and we were quickly back in our conversational whirl. I was astonished by the way we couldn’t stop talking, how we riffed off each other and shared such a similar worldview. The sense of connection was astonishing . . . and a little terrifying. Because—unless I was reading things very wrong—the mutual attraction was enormous.

  Eventually, we got down to business. She asked me to tell her about my proposed pilot. My pitch was a sentence long:

  “The harassed professional and personal life of a middle-aged female marriage counselor.”

  She smiled. “That’s good. First question, is she divorced?”

  “Of course.”

  “Troubled kids?”

  “A teenage daughter who thinks that Mom is a serious jerk.”

  “Nice. Does our marriage counselor have an ex-husband?”

  “Yes—and he ran off with a twenty-five-year-old yoga instructor.”

  “We’re obviously talking about an LA setting.”

  “I was thinking San Diego.”

  “Good call. The Southern California lifestyle without the LA baggage. Is the marriage counselor dating?”

  “Relentlessly—and with disastrous results.”

  “And meanwhile, her clients . . . ?”

  “They’ll raise a smile, believe me.”

  “A title?”

  “Talk It Ove
r.”

  “Sold then,” she said.

  I tried not to smile too broadly.

  “You know I can’t start work until after the second season . . .”

  “Alison briefed me on that already . . . and that’s fine with me. The important thing is I’ve got you.”

  She briefly touched the top of my hand. I didn’t move it away.

  “I’m pleased,” I said.

  She met my stare. And asked, “Dinner tomorrow night?”

  We met at her place in West Hollywood. As soon as I was through the door, we were tearing each other’s clothes off. Much later, as we lay sprawled across her bed, sipping a postcoital glass of pinot noir, she asked me, “Are you a good liar?”

  “You mean, about something like this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, it’s only the second time it’s happened in the eleven years I’ve been with Lucy.”

  “When was the first time?”

  “A one-night stand back in ninety-nine with an actress I met in the book shop one night. Lucy was back east at the time, visiting her parents with Caitlin.”

  “That’s it? Your only extramarital transgression?”

  I nodded.

  “My, my—you do have a conscience.”

  “It is a weakness, I know—especially out here.”

  “Are you going to feel guilty now?”

  “No,” I said without hesitation.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because things between Lucy and myself are now very different. And also . . .”

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “ . . . because . . . well, because it’s you.”

  She kissed me softly on the lips.

  “Is that a confession?”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Well, I have one too. Ten minutes after meeting you yesterday, I felt: this is the guy. I felt it all last night and all today as I counted down the hours to seven o’clock and you walking through my door. And now . . .”

  She ran her right index finger down the curve of my jaw.

  “ . . . now I’m not going to let you go.”

  I kissed her. “Is that a promise?” I asked.

  “Girl Scout’s honor. But you know what this means . . . in the short term, anyway?”

  “Yes—I’m going to have to start learning how to lie.”

  Actually I had already started, having covered my first evening with Sally by telling Lucy that I was flying to Vegas overnight to do a little look-around for a future episode. Sally didn’t even mind when I used her phone at eleven to call home and tell my wife that I was happily ensconced in the Bellagio and missing her terribly. When I arrived home the next evening, I studied Lucy carefully for any telltale signs of suspicion or doubt. I also wondered if she had perhaps called the Bellagio to see if I was actually registered there. But she greeted me pleasantly and didn’t drop any hints about my whereabouts last night. In fact, she couldn’t have been more affectionate, pulling me off to bed early that night. And yes, the guilt chord did ring between my ears. But its reverberations were silenced by an even louder realization: I was madly in love with Sally Birmingham.

  And she was in love with me. Her certainty was overwhelming. I was the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life. We would have brilliant fun together. We would have great careers, wonderful children. And we’d never lapse into the passionless ennui that characterized most marriages—because how could we ever be anything but ardent about each other? We would be golden—because we were meant to be.

  There was only one problem, though—I was still married to somebody else. And I was desperately worried about the effect that any future domestic decampment might have on Caitlin. Sally was completely understanding.

  “I’m not telling you to walk out now. You should only make that move when you’re ready—and when you think Caitlin’s ready. I’ll wait. Because you’re worth the wait.”

  When you’re ready. Not if. An explicit when. But Sally’s definitiveness didn’t disturb me. Nor did I think events were moving too quickly after just two weeks. Because I shared her certainty about our future together. Just as I privately fretted about the pain and damage I was about to inflict on my wife and child.

  To Sally’s credit, she didn’t once pressure me into leaving home. Or, at least, not for another eight months—by which time all my work on the second season was finished, and I had become completely expert in covering my extramarital tracks. When deadline pressure on the three episodes I was writing became particularly intense, I decamped for two weeks to the Four Seasons Hotel in Santa Barbara, on the pretext of needing to lock myself away for a concentrated work blitz. And work I did—though Sally spent one of the weeks with me, not to mention both weekends. When the show moved to Chicago for a week of exterior filming, I decided to stay on for a few days afterward to catch up with my old network of friends, though, in truth, that weekend Sally and I hardly left our suite at the W. Through careful juggling of our respective schedules—not to mention the use of a room at the Westwood Marquis—we were able to spend two lunchtimes a week with each other, and at least one evening at her apartment.

  I was often amazed at just how good I had become at covering my tracks and inventing storylines. Granted, it could be argued that, as a professional storyteller, I was simply practicing my craft. But in the past I had always considered myself an appalling liar—to the point where, a few days after my one previous extramarital encounter in ’99, Lucy turned to me and said, “You’ve slept with someone else, haven’t you?”

  Of course, I blanched. Of course, I denied it all vehemently. Of course, she didn’t believe a word I said.

  “Go on, tell me I’m hallucinating,” she said. “But I can see right through you, David. You’re transparent.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Lucy . . .”

  But she walked out of the room and didn’t mention the matter again. Within a week, my intense guilt (and my equally intense fear of discovery) had dissipated—cushioned by my silent vow never to be unfaithful again.

  It was a vow I kept for the next six years—until I met Sally Birmingham. But after that first night at her apartment, I felt little guilt, little anguish. Perhaps because my marriage had become governed by the law of diminishing returns. Or perhaps because, from the outset of my romance with Sally, I knew that I had never felt so ardent about anyone before.

  This certainty made me an expert in subterfuge—to the point where Lucy never once questioned me about my whereabouts on a night when I was “working late.” In fact, she couldn’t have been more affectionate, more supportive during this time. No doubt our improved material circumstances had enhanced her affection for me (or, at least, that was my interpretation). But once I delivered the final drafts of my episodes and began editing the other scripts that had been written for the new season, Sally began to make increasingly loud noises about “regularizing” our situation and moving in together.

  “This clandestine situation has to end,” she told me. “I want you for myself . . . if you still want me.”

  “Of course I want you. You know that.”

  But I also wanted to postpone the final day of reckoning—the moment when I sat down with Lucy and broke her heart. So I kept stalling. And Sally started getting impatient. And I kept saying: “Just give me another month.”

  Then, one evening, I got home around midnight—after a long pre-production dinner with Brad Bruce. When I walked in, I found Lucy sitting in the living room. My suitcase was by her armchair.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said. “And it’s a question I’ve wanted to know for the past eight months: is she a moaner, or is she one of those ice-maiden types who, despite the drop-dead looks, really hates the idea of anyone touching her?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to sound bemused.

  “You mean, you honestly don’t know the name of the
woman you’ve been fucking for the last seven—or is it eight—months?”

  “Lucy, there is no one.”

  “So, Sally Birmingham is no one?”

  I sat down.

  “That certainly gave you pause for thought,” she said, her voice even-tempered.

  I finally spoke. “How do you know her name?”

  “I had someone find out for me.”

  “You what?”

  “I hired a private investigator.”

  “You spied on me?”

  “Don’t play the moral outrage card, asshole. You were obviously seeing someone else . . .”

  How did she know that? I had been so careful, so circumspect.

  “ . . . and when it was clear from your constant absences that this was something more than just a little ego-enhancing fling, I hired a private eye . . .”

  “Wasn’t that expensive?”

  “Thirty-eight hundred dollars . . . which I will reclaim, one way or another, in the divorce settlement.”

  I heard myself saying: “Lucy, I don’t want a divorce.”

  Her voice remained steady, strangely calm. “I don’t care what you want, David. I am divorcing you. This marriage is finished.”

  I suddenly felt a desperate fear—even though she was doing the dirty work for me and instigating the beginning of the end. I was getting exactly what I wanted . . . and it scared the hell out of me. I said, “If you had only come to me at the outset . . .”

  Her face tightened. “And what?” she said, the anger now showing. “Tried to remind you that we had eleven years’ history, and a daughter, and that, despite all the crap of the last decade, we’d actually come through and were finally living well?”