Кэндес Бушнелл - Four Blondes

"I don't need to hear this," Janey said.

"Yeah? Well, you do. Because you've been hearing a lot of drivel from Comstock Dibble. Jesus, Janey. The guy wants to fuck you. You're a smart girl, or at least you pretend you are. You know men will say anything to get laid.”

"He doesn't need to.”

"Oh. So you'd just fuck him anyway? Who are you kidding, Janey? We both know how you are. Did he pay for this house?”

"He's in love with me.”

Bill pulled deeply on the joint. "Janey," he said, holding the smoke in his lungs and then exhaling. "Comstock Dibble is one of the most ruthless men in the movie business. He's incredibly charming until he gets what he wants. When he's finished with you, he'll drop you so fast you won't know what hit you. You'll turn around and every door will be locked and bolted behind you. Get it?”

"I don't believe you," Janey said. "I'm so sick of hearing this kind of shit from people. You're just jealous because he's more successful than you are—”

"I know actresses who have slept with him. Beautiful actresses. Do you think you're the only one who wants to sleep with him? Do you think you're doing him a favor because he's ugly? Get a clue. Does he fuck you up the butt? And only fuck you up the butt? Because That’s what he does. So there's no risk of anyone getting pregnant.”

Janey was silent.

"Considerate, ain't he?" Bill said. "If there's one thing an old Hollywood hand knows, it's how to avoid those messy situations called life.”

"Get out," Janey said quietly.

"I'm going," he said, standing up and pulling on his shirt. "I've said my piece.”

"I knew I shouldn't have talked to you on the beach that day.”

"That’s right. You probably shouldn't have.”

“You want to destroy everyone else's dreams just because your own have been destroyed.”

"Oh Janey," he said sadly. "Where do you pick up that kind of sentimental crap?”

"I'm just trying to do something with my life!”

“So do something with it. But at least be honest about it. Put in an honest day's work and take your lumps like everybody else." He went out and banged the screen door behind him. Then he came back.

"You're right about one thing," he shouted through the screen. "We are alike. We're both pathetic!" They didn't speak for a week, but then they ran into each other on the beach again. They pretended that nothing had happened, but it seemed like a pall had been cast over the summer. Every day was ninety degrees. The little cottage was stifling, and the attic bedrooms were unbearable at night, so Janey had taken to sleeping fitfully on the couch. She tried to write in the mornings, but found, after thirty-eight pages, she couldn't go on. She had gotten to the part where "the girl" (as Janey had come to think of the main character) is on the movie set for the first day, and the director comes into her trailer and guilts her into giving him a blow job. The story was supposed to be about her life as a model and actress and the struggles she'd gone through to be taken seriously as a person, but it seemed to have no point. Where would it end? Everybody said you had to have sex in Hollywood to get ahead. Why had she believed it? It hadn't helped her. But once you did it a couple of times, it got you over the shame of having to do it again.

Or so you thought.

A strange incident happened. She was in the King Kullen supermarket when she spotted Helen Westacott in the condiment aisle. Janey hurried past with her head down, hoping that Helen wouldn't see her, but when she looked back, Helen was staring at her with a strange, conniving expression on her little face. Janey kept thinking that she saw Helen out of the corner of her eye—in front of the soft drinks, by the meat counter, near the toothpaste; but every time she looked up, Helen wasn't there. Janey did her shopping quickly, picking up the few items she'd come in for, and when she was checking out, her cart was bumped softly from behind.

Janey looked up. Helen was behind her, her hands on a cart, her two sons next to her. Helen said nothing, just stared. The two boys, who were beautiful and dark-haired with large brown eyes, gazed at her curiously. Janey gave Helen a half smile and noticed with horror that her cart was empty.

Helen followed her out through the parking lot. Janey wanted to run, but realized this would give Helen too much satisfaction. Then Helen veered off and got into her car.

Janey went to parries, but the people at the parties were always the same, and everybody had run out of things to say to one another. They asked her about her screenplay. "I wrote five more pages," she'd lie. She got drunk a lot.

Comstock left to stay on some movie star's yacht in the Greek islands. Janey was hoping he'd ask her to go with him, but when she mentioned it, all he said was "I already got you a house." This was not a good sign. Then she asked him if they could have sex the regular way, and he said he wouldn't be able to get a hard-on. This was not a good sign, either. He promised he'd be back in three weeks, in time for Patty's wedding on Labor Day weekend. "I'm just trying to be your friend," Bill said. "Do you know what a big deal that is for me?”

It seemed like the summer would never end.

"A^kay, everybody! Remember, at the end of the day, it's just another party." The wedding planner, a slim young man with floppy dark hair, clapped his hands. "Do we all know our places? Patty, I know you know what to do. Any other questions?”

Janey's mother, Monique, raised her hand. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox?" the young man said faux patiently.

"I do not weesh to walk barefoot. I weesh to wear my shoes.”

"Mrs. Wilcox," the young man said, as if he were explaining to a small child, "we all decided that no one is going to wear shoes. Ifs a barefoot wedding. It said so on the invitation.”

"But the feet. They are so ugly.”

"I'm sure your feet are very beautiful, Mrs. Wilcox, just like the rest of you." The young man paused for a moment, looking around the room. "This is the social event of the season, folks. So let’s make it dazzle!”

There was a round of applause. Janey looked over at her mother. She was just as bossy and self-centered as ever. Almost since the moment Monique had arrived for the wedding two days ago, she'd been nothing but trouble, questioning the caterers, flirting with the cameraman (someone was making a documentary of the wedding for Lifetime), and terrorizing Digger's mother, Pammy, to the point where Pammy, a small gray-haired woman with a perm, a flat midwestern accent, and a Samsonite suitcase full of Keds sneakers, now refused to come out of her room.

"Janey," her mother had said within an hour of her arrival, "what is this nonsense I hear about you writing something? Petty is the smart one. You must work on your modeling and on finding a husband.

In two years it will be too late for the children and then you will not be able to find a man. A man does not want a wife who cannot bear his children.”

“Maman, I don't want a husband," Janey said between clenched teeth.

"You girls are so foolish," her mother said, lighting up a cigarette (she chain-smoked Virginia Slims). "This business of living without a man is nonsense. In five years you will be very, very sorry. Look at Patty. She is the smart one to marry this Deegar. He is young and he is reech. You don't even have a boyfriend.”

"Well, Patty always was the perfect one, Maman," Janey said bitterly.

"No, she is not perfect. But she is smart. She knows she has to work at life. You are very beautiful, Janey. But even if you are very beautiful, you must work at life.”

"Maman, I do work at life," Janey said. "That's why I'm writing.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and blew smoke out her nostrils. Her hair was perfectly coiffed into a blond helmet, and she still wore frosted pink lipstick.