Bruce Wagner - I Met Someone

Larissa opened up about her divorce.

“He’s a film editor. Work has definitely slowed but he still manages pretty well— fairly . Derek’s a little older than me. Mostly, he gets jobs from directors he’s had long relationships with. But they’re getting older too — a lot are in their seventies now. They were kind of his mentors but really aren’t doing features anymore. And the cable shows and Web stuff — everyone’s so much younger. All the new technology, bla. He’s kinda freaked, but he usually lands on his feet… though he’s had sort of a dry spell. The next time he lands on his feet, he might need a walker!”

Dusty thought it was a funny line — no doubt a staple of the routine .

“Do you have kids?”

“Two. Our son’s twenty-three. He’s kind of on his own planet… or maybe he’s just orbiting . But it’s been so hard on my little girl — the divorce. Rafaela. She’s thirteen. Our little ‘surprise.’”

“What happened? With you and Derek.”

“In October , he texted me that he’s in love with his intern— so cliché.”

“He texted you.”

“He texted me! Oh my God, such a cliché, you know, like a joke , except when it’s happening to you. And she’s a baby ! Our son’s age!”

“Wow.”

“Derek’s sixty-one! And I’m really doing okay. But it’s only now that I’m, just, beginning to — it’s been tough. I mean, for a while it was… fuckin’ brutal . And poor Rafaela! She’s in therapy now. Which is a good thing, apart from everything that’s happened, because I’m a total believer , I almost became a therapist — still might! But he’s losing his IATSE insurance and I had to really go after him to get him to pay. For her shrink. It just really hit her hard.”

“I’ll bet.”

“’Cause she’s very much a daddy’s girl and she is so angry , Dusty. I mean, she really gets it and is so pissed , on so many levels. Because we had the whole family and lifestyle thing, right? I mean, we were always living above our means — hey, old L.A. tradition, right? — but… we were a tight-knit little unit, family unit. You know, us against the world and all that. And Derek and I were best friends . At least, I thought we were! And I think that for Rafaela, on some level — all levels! — it just didn’t— doesn’t —compute. (I guess it doesn’t compute for me either.) We used to go away twice a year — Hawaii, Santa Fe, Napa. The whole ring-a-ding-ding deal. We had a pretty good life! Then: enter the intern .”

“Maybe he’ll come back. You know, once it’s out of his system.”

“I don’t think so. I wouldn’t take him back. At this point.”

“Men are weird.”

“Tell me about it! Hey, if I could have gone down your road, I would have.”

It was said offhandedly but the innuendo was there and Dusty let it ride.

“Your daughter’ll be okay.”

“Oh, I know she will. She’s a survivor, like her mom.”

“Children are incredibly resilient. She’s thirteen?”

“Almost fourteen — going on forty-two. Did you ever want kids?”

She was glad Larissa hadn’t pretended not to know she was childless. “I think there was a moment . Man, we tried. Recently, even.” Her words surprised her; sometimes “opening up” went both ways. “I guess my career always seemed to come first. I never wanted to be one of those monsters you read about in some spawn-of-celebrity tell-all . You know, whose presence was defined by their absence.”

“Then it’s probably a good thing. That you didn’t.”

“Right? No kid, no memoir!” They laughed too hard, as if defusing a tension. “But hey, people do it — the kids-and-career thing — and do it well . So maybe I’m just… full of shit.” They laughed again, then Dusty paused to silently reflect while the enthralled Larissa took it all in.

“Would you ever adopt?”

“We’re not ruling it out… though I’m not sure that’s something either of us have a passion for. It’s kind of a crapshoot though, right? Like, people never seem to get one that becomes a doctor or a lawyer. It’s always either junkie or serial killer —”

“Or both—”

“Or actor!”

Larissa practically belly-laughed. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens to Maddox and Zahara.”

“Angelina’s amazing, I have total respect. But it’s not the little African babies who go south, it’s the Americans . The white Americans!”

“You could always get yourself a little Russkie.”

“Nun- uh . Fetal alcohol syndrome.”

“China?”

“The holiday card photo always looks… awkward.”

Larissa spit-taked her oolong tea then laid her head on the table in a summer storm of giggles. Dusty really liked this lady.

She dropped the actress at her car on a residential street behind the Yoga Center, thanking her for the “playdate.” They were shooting tonight from suppertime till dawn and commiserated about the inverted schedule; it could really do a number on your body and your head. They lingered like that, running their merry mouths about circadian rhythms, fractured menses and aging vessels , and even while they spoke, Dusty mused how it’d been ages since she met a peer, someone who’d been around the block a few times but was still open-hearted, still game, still interested . It was way sexy. The thought of fooling around crossed her mind — she could lean over and kiss her right now, just swamp her — but these days that was dangerous, for all kinds of reasons. The omnipresent, cockeyed slaves to fame were a-tweeting, and all the cocksure paparazzi were using drones. Plus, she’d never cheated on Allegra, not really, in any way that counted. There’d been the low-grade emotional affair or two (she took that as an elder’s prerogative) and maybe that time in Pebble Beach when she let herself come during a massage. The masseuse never even knew it, though maybe that was just an absurd lie she told herself.

No, if she was going to be unfaithful, she’d feel better about waiting until her spouse wasn’t so miserable, so vulnerable. It was just too easy.

—

Dusty waited in the car.

She thought Allegra had been holed up in the pool house for the last few days working on her script, when actually she’d been tirelessly sketching perfume bottles. She stepped from the house, in vintage Chanel (her version of a power suit), a green leather portfolio tucked in her arm. That touch — the portfolio — broke Dusty’s heart.

“Do they know I’m coming?” asked Allegra.

“Of course they do,” she lied. The Swiss were thrilled to be having the meeting at all. They wouldn’t have cared if Dusty brought a mob of violent, mentally ill homeless people along.

The Bartok offices were just off Civic Center Drive in that leafy, oddball business park on the edge of Beverly Hills. An employee waited for them on the sidewalk. Their youngish escort, face flushed by the surreal proximity of a movie legend on a quiet Sunday, was charmingly beside himself. He shepherded them through a series of empty lobbies with a wabi-sabi aesthetic — Le Corbusier spaces and furnishings fit for a high-fashion zendo . They finally entered a vault-ceilinged room where a dozen elegant men and women sitting around an enormous ebony conference table instantly rose to their feet. It took a few minutes for the marrieds to shake everyone’s hand.