Romantic Comedy(78)
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.”