his half (specifically, his 85 percent) for the charming little Spanish bungalow they were renting in Los Feliz. But now he’s gone, and so is the bungalow and so are the martinis, and what has replaced them in the last four months is the credit card debt that compounds daily. And though Margaret had thought she was just paces behind her friends, about to catch up any day, now she knows that she is miles behind. Maybe not even in the race.
Claire is still speaking in her soft little feather voice, but Margaret can’t understand a word she’s saying. Josephine cups her hand to her own plump lobe. “We can’t hear you, honey,” she shouts. “Speak up.”
Claire cranes her neck and speaks louder. A few of her words drift over the music “…Margaret know…celebrating…news about Josephine’s mppffh…?”
Margaret turns to Josephine for translation, but Josephine is looking down at her plate, waving her hand vaguely. “It’s nothing,” Josephine says. “Nothing’s signed yet. It’s all hot air.” Her elusiveness is alarming; Margaret does not like to be the only person at the table who doesn’t know what everyone is talking about.
Across the table, Alexis leans over and shouts, “Josephine’s new screenplay was bought by Disney. They see it as a vehicle for Ysabelle van Lumis. Impressive, right?”
Claire, gingerly pinching a limp pink shrimp by its tail as it drips cocktail sauce, looks up with a horrified expression on her face and stares bullets at Alexis. Josephine coughs, and under the table Margaret feels a shoe graze her shin en route to Alexis’s. “Ouch,” Alexis says. “That hurt.”
“What?” says Margaret, growing increasingly concerned.
“Nothing,” says Josephine.
“Oh, come on,” says Margaret, looking around the table and trying to interpret the stricken looks on her friends’ faces. “You know that I already know Ysabelle van Lumis is going to be in Thruster with Bart. You don’t have to avoid mentioning his name with me. I’m not that fragile.”
There is an awkward silence, and no one looks directly at Margaret. She peers at Alexis, the most likely person to give it to her straight. “Is he dating her? Ysabelle van fucking Lumis?”
Alexis leans in, her brows crumpled, and sighs. “Well, they were seen holding hands during dinner at the Ivy last week. ‘Canoodling,’ according to, well, a certain celebrity magazine whose name we shall not speak for your sake. So read into that what you will.”
Margaret feels a peculiar twisting somewhere around her esophagus. She’s not sure which is worse—the knowledge that her friends (and anyone else reading Us Weekly ) now know more about Bart, the man she lived with for well over three years, than she does herself or the intimation that her ex-boyfriend appears to have bounced back from their breakup so quickly (and with a bona fide movie star, no less!), whereas she has yet to delete his picture from her computer’s screen saver.
“It’s just a rumor,” Josephine says soothingly. “I mean, come on. You know how full of shit those tabloids are. Hand-holding means nothing these days, anyway.”
Margaret knows that hand-holding is not, in fact, nothing, but right this moment she knows that she can decide between feeling even worse than she already does by imagining her ex-boyfriend mid-coitus with a cream-faced underaged starlet, or having another glass of champagne. She decides she would rather have the champagne. She swallows her doubts, tilts the glass back, and lets the last of the bubbles tickle their way along her throat. Josephine quickly refills her flute.
“Tell me what your screenplay is about,” Margaret says, changing the subject.
Josephine cocks her head, puts a finger to her chin, and strikes a pose. “Log line: High-concept teen romance. A modern adaptation of Wuthering Heights in the milieu of a Laguna Beach teen beauty pageant.” She looks at Margaret and wrinkles her nose. “Really, it’s
Claire is still speaking in her soft little feather voice, but Margaret can’t understand a word she’s saying. Josephine cups her hand to her own plump lobe. “We can’t hear you, honey,” she shouts. “Speak up.”
Claire cranes her neck and speaks louder. A few of her words drift over the music “…Margaret know…celebrating…news about Josephine’s mppffh…?”
Margaret turns to Josephine for translation, but Josephine is looking down at her plate, waving her hand vaguely. “It’s nothing,” Josephine says. “Nothing’s signed yet. It’s all hot air.” Her elusiveness is alarming; Margaret does not like to be the only person at the table who doesn’t know what everyone is talking about.
Across the table, Alexis leans over and shouts, “Josephine’s new screenplay was bought by Disney. They see it as a vehicle for Ysabelle van Lumis. Impressive, right?”
Claire, gingerly pinching a limp pink shrimp by its tail as it drips cocktail sauce, looks up with a horrified expression on her face and stares bullets at Alexis. Josephine coughs, and under the table Margaret feels a shoe graze her shin en route to Alexis’s. “Ouch,” Alexis says. “That hurt.”
“What?” says Margaret, growing increasingly concerned.
“Nothing,” says Josephine.
“Oh, come on,” says Margaret, looking around the table and trying to interpret the stricken looks on her friends’ faces. “You know that I already know Ysabelle van Lumis is going to be in Thruster with Bart. You don’t have to avoid mentioning his name with me. I’m not that fragile.”
There is an awkward silence, and no one looks directly at Margaret. She peers at Alexis, the most likely person to give it to her straight. “Is he dating her? Ysabelle van fucking Lumis?”
Alexis leans in, her brows crumpled, and sighs. “Well, they were seen holding hands during dinner at the Ivy last week. ‘Canoodling,’ according to, well, a certain celebrity magazine whose name we shall not speak for your sake. So read into that what you will.”
Margaret feels a peculiar twisting somewhere around her esophagus. She’s not sure which is worse—the knowledge that her friends (and anyone else reading Us Weekly ) now know more about Bart, the man she lived with for well over three years, than she does herself or the intimation that her ex-boyfriend appears to have bounced back from their breakup so quickly (and with a bona fide movie star, no less!), whereas she has yet to delete his picture from her computer’s screen saver.
“It’s just a rumor,” Josephine says soothingly. “I mean, come on. You know how full of shit those tabloids are. Hand-holding means nothing these days, anyway.”
Margaret knows that hand-holding is not, in fact, nothing, but right this moment she knows that she can decide between feeling even worse than she already does by imagining her ex-boyfriend mid-coitus with a cream-faced underaged starlet, or having another glass of champagne. She decides she would rather have the champagne. She swallows her doubts, tilts the glass back, and lets the last of the bubbles tickle their way along her throat. Josephine quickly refills her flute.
“Tell me what your screenplay is about,” Margaret says, changing the subject.
Josephine cocks her head, puts a finger to her chin, and strikes a pose. “Log line: High-concept teen romance. A modern adaptation of Wuthering Heights in the milieu of a Laguna Beach teen beauty pageant.” She looks at Margaret and wrinkles her nose. “Really, it’s
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