lot there,” Jessica said, her tone hardening.
“You?” Celeste asked Lydia.
“It’s all a blur. I’ve been going to movie sets since I was six months old. For me it’s just a way of life. Preproduction, production, postproduction; preproduction, production, postproduction, like spring, summer, fall, spring, summer, fall.”
“You’re forgetting winter,” Jessica said.
“Jess, who does winter? We live in L.A.”
Celeste smiled. “I remember mine. It was two lines in a De Palma film.”
“Two lines. That’s pretty good for a first gig,” Lydia said.
“Thank you, Ezekiel Cohen,” Jessica said.
“Until Ezekiel it’d been cattle-call auditions, absolutely nothing. He got me working in two months—real work. A good agent can do miracles.”
“Yeah, but Cici, you had some God-given talent there, too,” Jessica said.
“These?” Celeste asked, arching her back and pointing to her breasts.
“Not just those.” Jessica laughed. “Real talent! I remember watching your acting reel, all those student shorts you did. You were good. You lit up the screen. Still do.”
Listening to Jessica, Celeste started to tear up. What the fuck is wrong with me today? she wondered. That’s twice in less than an hour and three times in one day. She never cried; she’d given up the luxury of free tears on her third film (she’d cry for a role but never for herself). It was a waste of time and energy, and nothing was that important. She still wore her sunglasses; she hoped neither Lydia nor Jess would notice.
“Cici?” Lydia extended her hand. “What is it?”
Fuck! She hated emotional pity parties; it wasn’t her style. “Nothing, I’m fine, really.”
Jessica and Lydia shared a worried glance.
“I mean, it’s completely ridiculous, it’s Damien. I …” Her voice cracked as pain barrel-rolled through her heart. “He’s—I know he’s fucking Brie Ellison, and that’s not the part that bothers me—I mean, it bothers me, but it is Damien, so I’m not surprised. It’s just …” Celeste took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and gathered her thoughts. “I wanted to marry him, I really wanted to marry him, and now … I don’t understand how I could’ve been so wrong.” Celeste exhaled. She felt better just saying it, acknowledging that her marriage was a mistake.
“You don’t mean wrong about the person that Damien is, do you?” Lydia asked.
Celeste shook her head.
“You mean so wrong about what you wanted?” Lydia asked:
“Yes,” Celeste said softly. She had thought she really wanted the marriage. For two years she convinced herself (and Damien) that their marriage was what she had to have. But it was completely wrong. Celeste wondered how she could be so unaware of her own needs.
“Cici, it’s so easy to lose perspective,” Lydia said. “They write stories in magazines about what kind of underwear you own. That is a little crazy.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m just surprised. I thought I knew myself, knew what I wanted, and when Damien said he was going back to set, it just clicked, you know. That this asshole is not the guy I can spend the next twenty years with.” She glanced across the table toward a surprisingly silent Jessica.
“He’s a dumbass,” Jessica said and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Brie can’t carry the film; I don’t care who he puts opposite her in the male lead. She doesn’t have an audience to support her.”
“She’s cheap,” Celeste said, referring not to Brie Ellison’s tawdry nature but to her acting quote.
“Not that cheap,” Jessica said as their waiter took the remains of their meals. “She got first-dollar gross points.”
“What?! He told me she got a flat fee of a million.”
“Jess, that can’t be right. She’s not a big enough star for first-dollar gross,” Lydia said.
“It’s true,” Jessica said. “Damien pushed it through the studio, told them he wouldn’t make the film with anyone but Brie, and then her
“You?” Celeste asked Lydia.
“It’s all a blur. I’ve been going to movie sets since I was six months old. For me it’s just a way of life. Preproduction, production, postproduction; preproduction, production, postproduction, like spring, summer, fall, spring, summer, fall.”
“You’re forgetting winter,” Jessica said.
“Jess, who does winter? We live in L.A.”
Celeste smiled. “I remember mine. It was two lines in a De Palma film.”
“Two lines. That’s pretty good for a first gig,” Lydia said.
“Thank you, Ezekiel Cohen,” Jessica said.
“Until Ezekiel it’d been cattle-call auditions, absolutely nothing. He got me working in two months—real work. A good agent can do miracles.”
“Yeah, but Cici, you had some God-given talent there, too,” Jessica said.
“These?” Celeste asked, arching her back and pointing to her breasts.
“Not just those.” Jessica laughed. “Real talent! I remember watching your acting reel, all those student shorts you did. You were good. You lit up the screen. Still do.”
Listening to Jessica, Celeste started to tear up. What the fuck is wrong with me today? she wondered. That’s twice in less than an hour and three times in one day. She never cried; she’d given up the luxury of free tears on her third film (she’d cry for a role but never for herself). It was a waste of time and energy, and nothing was that important. She still wore her sunglasses; she hoped neither Lydia nor Jess would notice.
“Cici?” Lydia extended her hand. “What is it?”
Fuck! She hated emotional pity parties; it wasn’t her style. “Nothing, I’m fine, really.”
Jessica and Lydia shared a worried glance.
“I mean, it’s completely ridiculous, it’s Damien. I …” Her voice cracked as pain barrel-rolled through her heart. “He’s—I know he’s fucking Brie Ellison, and that’s not the part that bothers me—I mean, it bothers me, but it is Damien, so I’m not surprised. It’s just …” Celeste took a deep breath, cleared her throat, and gathered her thoughts. “I wanted to marry him, I really wanted to marry him, and now … I don’t understand how I could’ve been so wrong.” Celeste exhaled. She felt better just saying it, acknowledging that her marriage was a mistake.
“You don’t mean wrong about the person that Damien is, do you?” Lydia asked.
Celeste shook her head.
“You mean so wrong about what you wanted?” Lydia asked:
“Yes,” Celeste said softly. She had thought she really wanted the marriage. For two years she convinced herself (and Damien) that their marriage was what she had to have. But it was completely wrong. Celeste wondered how she could be so unaware of her own needs.
“Cici, it’s so easy to lose perspective,” Lydia said. “They write stories in magazines about what kind of underwear you own. That is a little crazy.”
“Yeah, maybe. I’m just surprised. I thought I knew myself, knew what I wanted, and when Damien said he was going back to set, it just clicked, you know. That this asshole is not the guy I can spend the next twenty years with.” She glanced across the table toward a surprisingly silent Jessica.
“He’s a dumbass,” Jessica said and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Brie can’t carry the film; I don’t care who he puts opposite her in the male lead. She doesn’t have an audience to support her.”
“She’s cheap,” Celeste said, referring not to Brie Ellison’s tawdry nature but to her acting quote.
“Not that cheap,” Jessica said as their waiter took the remains of their meals. “She got first-dollar gross points.”
“What?! He told me she got a flat fee of a million.”
“Jess, that can’t be right. She’s not a big enough star for first-dollar gross,” Lydia said.
“It’s true,” Jessica said. “Damien pushed it through the studio, told them he wouldn’t make the film with anyone but Brie, and then her
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