phone in front of a convenience store in a corner mini-mall and pulled into the parking lot in front.
“This is Edith Strunk from the Valley Sentinel calling for an update on the condition of Rosa Aguilar.”
I was put on hold. I waited in a state of heightened awareness of the dryness in my throat, my speeding pulse, and racing heart, while listening to “Rocky Mountain High, Colorado” on the phone. When the Muzak stopped, I heard the shuffling of papers and muffled voices before a woman spoke.
“Rosa Aguilar died at approximately 6:40 this morning.”
My vision dimmed then ended, like a fade out. I felt myself falling, but I clutched onto the pay phone. I must have staggered towards the alley because the next thing I knew I was leaning against the dumpster, retching and heaving. The smell of my own vomit mingled with the smell of rotting garbage brought me back to life—or what would pass for my life from then on. I looked up to see a red-faced, bare-chested homeless man watching me. He seemed not much older than me with long hair and wild red eyes. He held a cardboard sign that said “Why lie? I need a drink,” but he held it by his side as he watched me puke.
I straightened up, standing on shaky legs, and realized I had thrown up on my Armani suit, and I’d have to reschedule lunch with Brad. The tinny computerized version of “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” let me know that my cell phone was ringing. It was Jonathan in New York.
“We did it, babe—we got the pick-up!”
There was silence as he waited for my reaction, but I was too disoriented to respond. A wave of nausea swept over me, my legs felt wobbly, and I thought I might throw up again. Jonathan was too elated to notice and went on, his voice high and fast with excitement.
“A full twenty-two! And we keep our time slot! Marty loves us! The advertisers love us! I’m so proud of you!”
I tried to murmur something appropriate. Jonathan was elated enough for two.
“I couldn’t do anything about the license fee, s we’re still stuck with the seven-day shooting schedule. But you’ve turned them out fast enough so far, and I told them you’d have no problem with that. Gold ring, babe, just like I told you! I love you.”
I got off the phone, called my secretary, and told her to reschedule Brad Castleman. Then I called my doctor and got a refill for Xanax.
CHAPTER 3
Jonathan flew home the next day. His plane got in at five. The plan was that he’d go to the house, shower, and change, and we’d all go out for dinner when I got home. I managed to leave the office just after seven. But I stopped in at La Fonda del Sol for a drink first. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Jonathan about what had happened or whether or not I’d tell him. In any case, I felt the need to fortify myself, and I always enjoyed the camaraderie among the grips and gaffers who mingled there after work. By the time I got home, it was after nine. Afraid I’d appear drunk, I snorted a line in the car.
Jonathan was hungry and angry. I arranged my face into what I hoped was a smile. His face fell when he saw my inebriated state.
“Julia was hungry; I ordered take-out. Have you eaten?”
I managed to kiss him, apologize, and mumble something about needing to address the network notes, which were predictably stupid but had to be done.
Our large kitchen was the primary family room. At its center was a full size work station with stools around it for kibitzing with the cook; more often than not we ate there rather than at the dining room table. Large copper pots and pans hung from a circular rack above it. Jonathan took out the containers of Thai food he’d already put back in the refrigerator and set them out for me. He took two plates from the cupboard—hand-painted ceramic plates we’d bought on our last family vacation in Italy. As he served me he told me his ideas. The pickup gave us a platform. The studio and network were solidly behind us, willing to spend money on guest stars, promotions, tie-ins. Now that it was an integrated media universe, we could cross-pollinate.
“Sounds sexy.”
He laughed, giddy with excitement at the fulfillment of our dreams. I got a beer from the fridge and picked at my food with chopsticks, pretending to eat. Jonathan was too excited to notice. He said that Marty had promised to open the Poseidon purse for us. Kate McKenzie, the actress who played Jinx Magruder, would be featured on every talk show on all the Poseidon networks and channels. There would be stories about her in every Poseidon magazine and fan book compilations in the bookstores. He even talked about a cartoon spin-off for Poseidon’s kid network. With Poseidon behind us, there was no limit to the saturation we could achieve.
When Jonathan and I had first begun developing the show, he’d been working for Trident, a small independent studio. By the time we sold the pilot, the studio had been bought by Poseidon, a conglomerate that was quickly becoming an entertainment behemoth. Last year, Poseidon had bought the network as well, so both studio and network were under the same ownership. Marty Nussbaum, Poseidon’s driving force and CEO, held power over a vast entertainment universe, and liked to keep, as the saying about him went, “a finger in every eye.”
Poseidon owned publishing companies, radio networks, cable channels, theme parks, hotels, newspapers, magazines, Internet portals, and a satellite and distribution service that allowed it to broadcast its product into every reach of the globe. All entertainment short of daydreams. If they could figure out a way to sell ads during REM sleep, they would. Once they decided to publicize us, there was little chance of any person in the world not being aware of our show.
As I listened to Jonathan, I imagined telling him that while he was away, I had killed someone in a hit and run accident and not (yet) gotten caught. I pictured his expression. Horror, shock, revulsion. Anger, disappointment, helplessness. Would he remember that he loved me? Or only feel the loathing I now felt for myself?
“Marty has ideas about a new direction for the show. Just a few changes, a slightly different slant, which I assured him would be fine with you.”
“What kind of changes?”
I knew that once I came forward, our show would forever be branded with my crime. Even with Poseidon money behind us, I would go to jail. I should go to jail. It would be the end of everything Jonathan had worked towards. Telling him would break his heart. And if I told him and didn’t come forward? I’d burden him with a secret whose weight I was only beginning to fathom.
“Now, don’t get defensive. Just some ways to broaden the appeal. Bring up the ratings. I’d rather you hear it from him directly.”
How could I live with him and not tell him?
“Let me guess. He wants to find more ways of getting Jinx Magruder into a wet t-shirt.”
How could I live with him once he knew?
I could see Jonathan’s annoyance with me for not getting on board with his excitement.
“I wish you wouldn’t dismiss his ideas before you’ve even heard them. It’s just possible they might be good. You can’t deny his track record.”
Our conversation was interrupted by Julia bursting into the kitchen.
“You got the pick-up! That’s so awesome!” She sat on one of the stools and picked a peanut from a Styrofoam container of Pad Thai. “What are we going to do to celebrate?”
“What do you think we should do?” Jonathan’s face flushed with pleasure at our triumph and at the sight of his daughter, who, since his wife had died, had been the love center of his life.
“Whatever you guys decide. You’re the ones who sold the show.”
Jonathan went to a calendar we kept in the kitchen, which showed, in addition to play dates, doctor’s appointments, and family obligations, our production schedule, around which everything else needed to be arranged.
“Let’s see...we’re finished with post on the twenty-third, and we don’t have to