SHE’S IN LOVE… BUT WHERE DID HER BESTIE GO?
Simon
This may bemy first Sunday with Bea, but I have decided that every Sunday from here forward shall be my favorite Sunday ever, so it is simply my first favorite Sunday.
We laughed through washing all of the honey off her in the shower when we returned home sometime after two a.m., slept in, had a leisurely breakfast with lively debate over whether tomatoes should be served with breakfast, and now we’re lounging by the pool while the boys and a few of their friends splash about.
I’ve provided the script she requested yesterday—printed from a newly acquired, state-of-the-art, current-model computer and printer that I bought this past week as well—and she’s smiling and giggling her way through it as I scribble notes for a new concept that struck me in a dream.
“This isn’t what I thought it would be,” she says when she’s halfway through.
“Iama professional, darling,” I say with the barest degree of haughtiness that has her smiling at me again.
“I know.” Her eyes gleam with more mischief, though not nearly as much as they should. “I mean, I donow.”
I take her hand and press it to my mouth. “But you didn’t know my process when you stumbled upon the first draft. And you’ve had experience in being betrayed recently. I would have come to the same conclusion.”
She bites her lip. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always, my love.”
“I think your dialogue is a little saggy here. I mean, compared to the rest of the script. What if she said something more sarcastic likeso you’re an expert on wildflowers now too?It just feels like it would be hilarious with the dry delivery I’m hearing in the rest of her lines.”
I blink at her.
She holds her face in a cringe. “Or not. You’re the expert.”
“No, no, that’s excellent. Much better line.”
“Simon. Don’t humor me.”
“Truly, I hate the line because it makes the scene better, and you know how much I detest being anything above adequate.”
She’s smiling as she rolls her eyes. “Regardless, you should give this to the studio,” she tells me.
I hold her gaze. “No.”
“Yes. It’s funny?—”
“Which suggests the studio will undoubtedly have some dreadful director in mind who would insist upon converting it into a space drama.”
She raises a brow. “Aren’t they giving you producer credits? Doesn’t that mean you have some sway on who the director is?”
“Yes, yes, fine, I have sway. Infernal success has made them believe I have some modicum of show business sense.”
“You should give this to them,” she repeats. “If it’s a success, you’re just going to have to learn to live with that. Possibly even enjoy it. For yourself. Because you deserve to honestly take pridein your work without giving a second thought to who else might have opinions about your success.”
We embark on a staring contest.
She doesn’t waver.
This is the Bea who kept her brothers in line at much too young of an age, when she should have been out going to parties and driving young men mad with those dimples and exploring all of the courses in the world to discover what her path should have been.
The Bea who will not take no for an answer because she knows in her heart what’s right.
What’s best.
“If I send this script to the studio and they accept it, which I would only do if you also tell me what else is wrong with it, because I prefer my co-writers to pull their weight?—”
