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.”
* * *
—
Once, years before, I’d stayed on for a few days after the Emmys ceremony, moving from the downtown hotel where the network put us up to an oceanfront room at a boutique hotel in Santa Monica. This was early on in the time when I could have afforded such a thing, and I’d done little during my stay—I’d read, and walked on the beach, and eaten takeout on the balcony—and, pretty much continuously, I’d experienced disbelief at my good fortune. I didn’t live in Missouri or North Carolina anymore! I didn’t work for a medical newsletter! I wasn’t married to a man who thought I wasn’t funny! I was a TNO writer who had been nominated for an Emmy and could stay at a hotel that cost four hundred dollars a night!
Returning to the same boutique hotel, I tried to remind myself that these facts were still true—by now, I’d won Emmys and could afford to stay at a hotel that currently cost five hundred and thirty dollars a night—but I felt bereft. Though the beach was open, the pier, which I could see from my balcony, was eerily empty, and the streets nearby were quiet. A powerful sense of misgiving had begun to grip me in Noah’s guest room, as I set my clothes in my suitcase then loaded my aunt Donna’s car, which I hadn’t driven since pulling onto his property. He had walked out to the driveway with me, and as he kissed my cheek with an unfamiliar formality, I wondered if I’d lost him already. My regret hadn’t been total as I wound south around the roads of Topanga. But my regret was already strong, and grew stronger as the minutes and hours passed. Why had I voluntarily left? What was I proving, and to whom? Was this when my interlude with Noah would begin to recede as a pandemic fever dream?