“I’m tired,” she said. “Too many spreetzes.”
“Okay,” he said. “But read it in the morning.”
She drifted off within seconds and awakened to find sunlight streaming through the partly open drapes. She could hear Dan in the bathroom, in the tub. She picked up the screenplay.
It was awful. Each scene was engineered to produce maximum tears. A young couple in the South, the girl rich, the boy poor, separated by their families. She had finished by the time he came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
“It’s horrible,” Maddy said. “Why did Rachel want you to read it? She wants a rewrite?”
“She wants me to replace the director,” he said, and began to put on his clothes with his back to her.
So this was what all the quiet talk was about the night before, out on the terrace, while she was in the kitchen with Steven and the cooks. “And what are you going to tell her?” she asked.
“I’m going to do it. I don’t think it’s that bad. There’s a lot of potential.”
“But this isn’t your brand at all. I Used to Know Her was an honest movie. This is just—schmaltz. Worse than schmaltz. Dreck.” She couldn’t understand why he was so eager to take the job, no matter how much they were offering. He had just gotten a distribution deal. The two of them were going to finish The Nest. He had a Hollywood agent sending him scripts. This was the kind of job some washed-up has-been director would take when no one else would hire him.
He put on his sweater, sat on the edge of the bed, and named the two young stars who played the leads, both on the rise. “It’s a chance to make something a lot of people will see,” he said. “You’re being a snob. You get an audition for Walter Juhasz, and all of a sudden you’re an elitist.”
“I’m not an elitist. I just know how to read. I get that you want to work, but you have a quarter of a million dollars coming to you. You don’t have to take the first offer.”
“I think you’re jealous,” he said, going toward the sitting area. “You want Hollywood success, but you don’t want me to have any.” He stared at the fireplace, though the fire had gone out the night before.
“That is not true. Since I met you, all I’ve wanted was for you to be successful.”
“So you understand why I’m going to take this. Mad, I can make an entire independent feature with the money she’s offering. I won’t see most of the Apollo money for a year.”
“Slow down a little, okay?”
“You just want a fixer-upper.”
“What?”
“I was a failure when you met me. Now this good stuff is happening. I’ve been supportive of you signing with Bridget. Auditioning for Juhasz. But now that I have an opportunity, you’re being a bitch about it.”
“I only want what’s good for you!” She went to him, to touch him, but he turned his body away. “Why don’t you ask Rachel to find you something else?” she said. “I’m sure Bridget would help.”
“Because they need someone now. A huge part of working in Hollywood is getting someplace first.”
“You never used to say things like that.”
He left the room. Downstairs, she found him in the dining room eating Venetian biscuits and drinking cappuccino with Rachel Huber, Steven, and Bridget, plus the comedian and Albertina. She wondered if Albertina had spent the night in Steven’s room.
A server put a cappuccino in front of Maddy. She took one sip. It was perfect, but she couldn’t enjoy it. All the breakfast talk was about Dan and The Valentine. He had already said yes while she was upstairs. Or maybe the previous night, before she’d even read a word. Somewhere between Mile’s End and Venice, he had stopped seeing the two of them as a team.
A few hours later—after Dan, Bridget, and Rachel sped away on a boat toward the airport, and the other guests had left, too—Maddy stood on a terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. Steven came out. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I will be. It just happened so fast. He just got here, and now he’s left.” She wasn’t sure how much Steven would want to hear about her missing Dan.
“This is a good city to be in when you miss someone. Now come with me.”
“I need to prepare for my audition. I only have two more days.”
“You need to get out of your head.”
A half hour later, they were on a private boat in the canal, with a captain named Marcello. Steven said he wanted to give her a tour of the Lido. “You don’t get seasick, do you?” he asked.
“Of course not. I love boats. I grew up on a lake. We were more into canoeing, though. My dad was an old hippie.”
“There’s nothing I enjoy more than being on water. The wind. The quiet. On my boats, there’re no casting problems or production delays or infighting.”
They stood on the deck of the motorboat. She wore a cable-knit sweater he had lent her. Here she was in frigid February, in the Venice lagoon with a movie star, wearing a borrowed sweater like a girlfriend, when a month ago she had been trudging from the Atlantic Avenue stop in a hostess dress, counting the blocks till home.
The Lido was deserted and gray. Steven took the wheel, Marcello next to him, and pointed out the various hotels, including Hôtel des Bains, where Visconti had shot Death in Venice.
“You have a sailboat in L.A., right?” she asked. He was always talking about his boat in interviews.
“Yeah. When I need to get away, I take her out.”
“What’s she called?”
“Jo.”
“After Little Women?”
“After Jo Van Fleet. I saw Cool Hand Luke when I was starting out as an actor and she blew me away. She and Newman were only ten years apart and she played his mother. I got the boat after Bridget booked me my first commercial. Now I realize it’s corny to name a boat after an actress, but it’s bad luck to change it.”
He said his father had taught him to sail on Lake Michigan; his only happy memories of his dad were from the boat. His father had been a depressive auto-parts factory worker who got laid off and became a big drinker.
“Is he still alive?”
“He died when I was a teenager. Heart attack.”
“And your mom?”
“She died three years ago. She was eighty-two when she went.”
A vaporetto came at them, veering dangerously close. Marcello cursed at the other captain through the glass as he steered out of the way. “He has good instincts,” she said.
“Everyone who works for me,” Steven said, “has better instincts than I do.”
Over the next three days, Maddy and Dan communicated mostly by text, about work—her audition and his movie. He was overwhelmed with production details. He said it was a good cast, and they seemed to like him, but his days were long. When they spoke by phone, it was brief. He would begin to describe a scene in the movie, then add that he was boring her because she had hated The Valentine. “I didn’t hate it,” she said during one talk. “I just didn’t understand why you wanted to do it.”
“It’s a woman’s story, Maddy, just a different kind.” She wondered if she had been too hard on him, not understanding the toll of all those years of struggle.
Whenever Maddy wasn’t preparing her scenes, she toured Venice with Steven. He took her to Santa Maria della Salute and the Guggenheim. They walked backstreets of the city and dined in small trattorias. He translated snippets of the newspaper aloud for her, explaining that the Italian penchant for exasperation was apparent even in the construction of sentences.
At first she was uncomfortable spending so much time with him, but he was so gallant, she told herself he was merely being a good host. If she allowed herself to believe that he wanted to sleep with her, then she had to believe that the audition was somehow illegitimate. And she had to believe that it was legitimate in order to want to get it.