I hit send and then freeze.
Hugs? Why did I write that?
I spend a few minutes poking around to see if my email app has some sort of “I regret sending that please delete before the recipient sees” function, but no dice.
Oh well. Hugs!
CHAPTER 13 Molly
I wake up at 1:00 p.m. on the first day of this blessed year with a hangover and acute postparty anxiety. I brought in 2019 at Margot Tess’s annual bash at her estate in Los Feliz. She’s a big deal right now, and the crowd there was glitzier than the industry people I usually hang out with. Consequently, I networked my face off and am now a crumpled ball of emotional toilet paper.
My relationship with parties is complicated. I dread going to them, because I’m an introvert who prefers to spend her time alone or—once socially starved—with the same four to six close friends. But since so much of my job is reliant on networking, and social and business relationships are so intertwined in LA, I do have to force myself out of the house when the occasion arises.
And then, I’m like that guy from The Mask. I glam myself up and walk into a room and remember that I’m attractive and funny and good at banter. I dole out compliments, offer favors, introduce people, fetch cocktails, and collect numbers until I’m in a fizz of party energy and don’t want to go home. I am the girl who ends up at the after-party bumming cigarettes and slinging take-it-to-the-grave gossip with the die-hards. By 4:00 a.m., I have eight new best friends.
But then—then—I wake up in the morning (or, in this case, afternoon) and second-guess every single thing that I did. Was it rude of me to introduce myself to that producer? Did my manic energy make me seem drunk, or crazy? And, oh God, what do I do with all these numbers I collected? Should I follow up with invitations to coffee or drinks? And what on earth will I do if my new acquaintances say yes?
I drag myself out of bed, grab a sugar-free Red Bull from the fridge (an unparalleled hangover cure), and settle myself on the couch to reread my texts from last night in hopes of remembering who I ensnared in my web.
Seven people. Sob.
I brace myself and check to see if I did any more damage by email.
Seth’s name is at the top of my inbox.
I didn’t expect to hear from him again after my deranged decision to contact him over Christmas. I open it, and it’s a sweet message about my new movie.
I consider not replying. As someone who had no business contacting him in the first place, I really don’t want to give him the wrong idea. But the gesture is so kind that I owe him at least a quick response.
From: mollymarks@netmail.co
To: sethrubes@mail.me
Date: Mon, Jan 1, 2019 at 1:45pm
Re: Subject: Congrats!
Thanks, Seth—that’s nice to hear. My last couple of scripts have been trapped in development hell for years, and producers are pivoting away from original screenplays and optioning books instead, so this is the first big gig I’ve had in a while. I’m excited about it.
I consider deleting all this—my hangover jitters are making me a bit too sincere—but this is Seth, who is a thirteen out of ten on the sincerity scale, so I keep it, and just add:
You good?
xo
Molls
I close my inbox and move on to sending dreaded follow-up texts to my new friends and associates and eating soothing, delicious carbs.
I’m just about feeling normal, if tired, when I get a text from my father.
Dad: HNY toots
Dad: Saw your news re the movie. Not bad.
Not bad. I smile, despite myself. This, from him, is the compliment of the century.
No one is more dismissive of my career than my father. He thinks rom-coms are “fluff” and tells me I’m wasting my time with “indie bullshit” when I should be going after “the big stuff.” He considers himself an expert on such matters because his books have been adapted into movies. Specifically, they’ve been adapted into a huge blockbuster film franchise that grosses hundreds of millions of dollars a picture.
I suppose here is where I should disclose that my father is Roger Marks. Yes. The guy who writes those sleazy potboilers about Mack Fontaine, the Florida private eye who’s always catching serial killers in swamps and seducing hot blondes with dangerous pasts. The one whose books you’ve seen at every supermarket checkout line in the country.
Because of his status as a premier author of novels with one-page chapters and plots about exotic pet–smuggling rings, he also credits himself with my success as a screenwriter. He loves to tell me I get my talent from him, and to imply that the Marks name has gotten me where I am.
It has not. I’d rather die than name-drop Mack Fontaine, and my father is a narcissist.
But in my darker moments, I wonder if he’s at least a little bit right about the talent part. It’s possible I do get my best professional qualities—my creativity, my ease with words, my ability to be charismatic at parties—from him. And this worries me. Because if I’ve inherited his best qualities, there is a strong possibility I’ve also inherited his worst. His incurable sarcasm. His ice-cold approach to relationships. His ability to hurt people without even noticing.
I don’t text him back. I’m already on edge, and engaging with him will only make it worse. Instead, I check my email to see if there’s anything new from Seth. A hit of his optimism might level me out.
And there is a new message. But it’s surprisingly lacking in perkiness.
From: sethrubes@mail.me
To: mollymarks@netmail.co
Date: Mon, Jan 1, 2019 at 6:52pm
Re: Re: Subject: Congrats!
