Bull waves. “It’s fine, you have other things to take care of.” He strides past the garage to inspect the garden site. “Are you kidding me? This still isn’t finished?”
Coco winces. “No one has been here the entire time you’ve been gone.”
“I’m going to have to break some legs,” Bull says. He nods toward the house. “It’s good to be home.”
Coco wishes she’d known Bull was coming back today; she wouldn’t have blown off the fish market. She’ll unpack his bag, separate laundry from dry cleaning. He may want a bourbon; it’s only ten o’clock in the morning here, but on Bull’s clock, it’s ten o’clock at night.
When they step inside, he calls, “Leslee!”
“Oh,” Coco says, putting down the groceries. “She’s not here.”
“Pickleball?”
“No,” Coco says. She focuses on the arrangement of lilies on the pedestal table in the foyer. Leslee has instructed Coco to remove all the pollen from the stamens with a wet paper towel, but one of the lilies has just opened; Coco will have to take care of that. Her head is as heavy as a bowling ball. She woke up in her own bed that morning but she has no recollection of getting home. When she checked her phone, she saw pictures of her and the bartender from Cru, whose name she’s forgotten, sent from Kacy’s phone. “She’s… well, she and Lamont sailed over to Martha’s Vineyard.”
“When will they be back?”
Coco shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
Bull smiles at her. “Come to my office. I want to talk to you about your script.”
Oh my god, Coco thinks.
Bull sits behind his desk and Coco takes one of the leather chairs. He brings Coco’s screenplay out of his briefcase. It’s battered-looking, which means… he read it. Coco’s stomach squelches. This is it, she thinks. The moment.
Bull pats the title page. “You’re talented,” he says. “The writing in this is extremely good.”
“Thank you,” Coco says. Her headache is miraculously gone, replaced by a sparkling clarity.
“I thoroughly enjoyed it,” Bull says. “I learned a lot about you?” He ticktocks his head. “Maybe, maybe not?”
“Maybe,” Coco says. “Maybe not.”
“Well, I very much look forward to reading your next effort.”
“My next?” Coco says. “What about this one? You just said you enjoyed it.”
“Oh, I did,” Bull says. “But ultimately, it’s too… small.”
“Small,” Coco repeats, and suddenly she feels herself shrinking. “I realize it’s about a small town—”
“No one will ever make this,” Bull says. “Maybe back in the nineties it could have been picked up as an indie, but those days died with Kurt Cobain.”
Coco flinches. “What about Hillbilly Elegy?” she says. “What about The Glass Castle?”
“Both of those were bestselling memoirs first,” Bull says. (Coco is impressed he knows this.) “Though you’re right, if I were to pitch this, I’d say it’s Hillbilly Elegy meets The Glass Castle with a dash of Ozark thrown in—and nobody would buy it. You’ve been to the movies, you know what sells—Marvel, DC, Barbie.”
He’s right; she knows he’s right. He read the script, he praised it, she can’t fault him. But neither can she accept his death sentence. She worked too hard. She suffered through the first eighteen years of her life, believing her miserable existence would be worth it when she turned it into art. Her metaphorical blood is all over those pages.
“Doesn’t anyone want to make a movie about people with actual feelings and struggles?” she says.
“There is no story here, Coco. Hollywood loves mystery, suspense, drama. This script doesn’t have any of that.” He comes out from behind his desk and Coco stands to face him.
“There must be someone else you can send it to.” She thinks but does not say: A real producer.
“If I send this to my people, they’ll never take me seriously again,” Bull says.
Coco sucks in her breath. “You could pitch it as the next Winter’s Bone,” she says. “Small, yes, low budget, but we could cast an emerging talent the way they cast Jennifer Lawrence—”
“Calling it the next Winter’s Bone isn’t going to change anyone’s mind,” Bull says. He clears his throat. “Besides which, this isn’t the next Winter’s Bone.”
“Are you even a real producer?” Coco says. “Do you have any influence or are you just the person they come to for money to make you feel like you’re part of something important? I watched Snark, you know. It was dreadful.”
“Agreed,” Bull says. “Dog’s breakfast.” He pauses. “And it bombed and I lost my shirt. Which is why I need the next script I invest in to be a big winner.”
“Please?” Coco says. She can’t have this be the end. That script is not only her goal and her dream, not only her reason for being here—it’s her reason for being, period. She takes a step closer to Bull, which is officially too close. She gazes up at him and considers snaking her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. Is she that desperate? Would that change his mind? They must have some kind of agreement.
Bull takes a step back. “Come on now, Coco. You don’t want to ruin everything. I’m not going to let you. I’m a married man.”
“Married?” Coco says. “Leslee has been playing house with Lamont the entire time you’ve been gone, which can hardly surprise you because she throws herself at him every chance she gets. And what about the little massage she was giving Benton Coe on the boat on the Fourth of July? He hasn’t come to finish your garden because he’s afraid of your wife!” She takes a breath. “That night I met you at the Banana Deck? She had her hand on that guy Harlan’s thigh.”
Bull nods slowly. “I love her,” he says. “And she loves everybody.”
Right, Coco thinks. It’s their kink. It’s what makes them the Richardsons, that along with the Amalfi lemons and the crazy parties and the boats they know nothing about.
“My advice,” Bull says, “is to give yourself five or even ten years, until you’ve lived a little and you have something more to write about, then try again.”
Coco feels tears blur her eyes. Five or ten years? Is he joking? She flees Bull’s office before she either flips him off or says something she can’t take back. Out in the hallway—of course, of course—Coco rams right into Leslee.
