Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

Perry knew she wouldn’t want to go out to some fancy restaurant for Christmas dinner, yet he didn’t want her to have to cook in his tiny kitchenette with its all-electric appliances (like all real cooks, she preferred gas burners). He even considered making the stew she had taught him how to make when they met, yet felt it wasn’t festive enough.

Ravenna had of course been the one with the answer to solve this culinary dilemma as she had all others: she knew a gourmet caterer who made up a splendid dinner of duck à l’orange with wild rice and puree of chestnut, and apple tart for dessert; all you had to do was heat it up.

They drank two bottles of fine Chardonnay with dinner and had brandy after, and when they went into the small bedroom to lie down for a nap, their hands met and fingers interlocked. When Jane arrived the night before, she was too exhausted and too tense to make love, and besides, they still felt awkward with each other. Now, in the darkened bedroom, full of food and spirits, they moved toward one another, explored each other as if renewing acquaintance, rephrasing their bodies’ rapport, and joined, a bit awkwardly, after all that time of separation, but tenderly.

They didn’t talk about “it” till the next day. Their future.

They walked the water’s edge of the beach in Venice, as they had when they first came out. That was almost a year ago now. More like a century it seemed.

“I miss you,” he said.

“Seriously?”

“Like fury.”

“You managed to hide it pretty well. I mean, I didn’t hear from you much, till the last few weeks.”

“Well, I was all tied up with the show till then. All the upheavals. The whole mess.”

“So you really mean you missed me when you didn’t have the show any more.”

“Dammit, Jane. I don’t want to argue. I love you.”

“I’m sorry. I love you too. I miss you all the time.”

He stopped and hugged her to him, stroking his hand on her back.

“Let’s be together.”

“That’s what I want.”

She took his hand and they began walking slowly again down the beach, in step with each other.

“You know what my fantasy is?” Jane asked, pressing his hand.

“Let’s see—that I throw you down in the surf and ravage you to insensibility as the tide comes in.”

“Not sexual fantasy. I mean the ‘daily life’ kind.”

“Whatever turns you on, love.”

“Seriously. I was thinking, maybe you could get together on some project with Mona Halsted. She loves your stories, and I bet she’d love an excuse to come out and stay awhile.”

Perry stopped walking and stared at Jane. She turned toward him and smiled as she continued, eagerly.

“You could work at home, and Mona would come out and go over the script with you, and then you could fly back here for network, meetings if you needed to.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Perry asked.

“I’m talking about the possibility of your working on a television project with Mona Halsted.”

“Who’s she?”

“Don’t you remember? That wonderful woman producer we met at the Vardemans’ party. She went to Middlebury, and she loves Vermont. I know she would jump at the chance to come out on business, and besides, she’s a real fan of yours.”

“Darling. That really is a fantasy, I’m afraid.”

“Why? Why can’t it be true?”

“There’s about a million reasons, believe me. I’m trying to do a feature right now, not television. Mona Halsted is nobody.”

“She’s a bright, sensitive woman.”

“I’m not going to argue with you about Mona Halsted’s virtues. That’s beside the point— she’s beside the point.”

Jane turned and started walking again, faster now, and Perry kept up alongside her.

“What is the point?” Jane asked.

“The point is I need you here. I want you to come back and stay with me through the spring. To the end of summer at the latest. Then I guarantee we go back to Vermont for the fall semester.”

Jane stopped again and folded her arms across her chest, looking at Perry with a squint.

“I can’t believe you,” she said.

“You don’t think I’m telling the truth?”

“Oh, I know you are. I just can’t believe your proposal.”

“What’s so weird about it? That I want my wife to be with me while I finish some important work?”

“Important enough to give up your tenure for? This is it, you know. They won’t extend you any longer, and I don’t blame them.”

“Love, this is the script for the Vardemans. This is real tenure—more money, in one lump, than I’d make for teaching for the next five years!”

“So to hell with your obligation to Haviland. All the stories you told me of your loyalty to them, how they took you in when no one else would, gave you a home.”

“I’m going back there next fall. Even if I only teach one course. I’ll be much more valuable to them.”

“Because you’ll be rich?”

“Because I’ll have done more, accomplished more, and in a way that will bring national acclaim!”

She looked at him as if he had turned into Dracula’s nephew.

“My God,” she said.

She turned and started running down the beach. Perry ran after her, angrily, tackling her on the sand. Both of them were heaving, puffing, glaring, wanting to pound each other. Without a word, they stood up and brushed themselves off. They drove back to the condo in silence.

That night was the Vardemans’ annual wassail buffet.

Jane refused to go.

Perry explained that he had no choice; it was business.

“I understand,” Jane said.

He left her lying on the couch, reading the Flannery O’Connor essays she had given him for Christmas. He kissed her on the cheek and promised to get back as soon as he could. He wanted to try to pick up the pieces, see if they couldn’t work something out, now that they’d had the explosion and got the hysterics out of their systems.

The Vardemans’ wassail buffet seemed very restrained; there was more talk of deals than of Christmas. Vaughan introduced Perry to Evan Shurtleff, the Unified Films mogul. He was a crisp, pale-looking man with thin lips and piercing eyes.

“I understand you worked with Archer Mellis,” he said.

Perry felt the tips of his ears go red.

“Yes, I did. Unfortunately, we didn’t part on the best of terms.”

“So I understand.”

“Still, if it weren’t for Archer, I wouldn’t be here. He’s a brilliant guy, and I owe him a lot.”

“Of course.”

Perry was going to change the subject to “The Springtime Women,” but Shurtleff turned his head slightly and smiled at someone who waved at him.

“You’ll excuse me?” he said to Perry.

“Of course.”

Perry chugged his cup of wassail and got another. Damn. He wondered if Archer Mellis was bad-mouthing him around town. The arrogant prick. To hell with it. If this cold cucumber from Unified didn’t like him there were plenty of other places to go with a hot project like “The Springtime Women.” Especially with Harrison Ford wanting to do it. He looked for the popular star but didn’t spot him among the wassailers. He saw Meryl across the room and decided to go over and introduce himself and mention “The Springtime Women.” Maybe Vaughan had an extra copy of the book upstairs and could lend it to her.

Perry started edging his way through the crowd, shoulder first, when he bumped into the last person he wanted to encounter right now.

Cyril Heathrow. He was wearing a tweed suit with knickers, looking like some damn Dickens character.

“Ah, Mr. Moss,” he intoned, lifting his chin. “I understand you’ve bid adieu to the world of television. Or it, to you?”