Sellevision - Augusten Burroughs [75]
“Leigh! Finally! Please, don’t hang up. I need to tell you something.”
“Make it quick.”
“The divorce proceedings are already in progress, it should be final in a month. It’s over between me and her.”
“No thanks to you,” she said, the Peking duck still quite fresh in her mind.
“Leigh, you don’t understand, I have nothing without you. Sellevision fired me, the house is in my wife’s name, and I can’t stay at this hotel forever. Please, what about us?”
Leigh shook her head is disbelief. “Howard, you are a selfish fucking bastard is what it comes down to. And you’re getting exactly what you deserve. I loved you, I really did.” Then softness entered her voice. “Okay, and maybe part of me still loves you. But that doesn’t mean you’re right for me and it doesn’t mean I’m going back to you.”
Howard began crying into the phone. Leigh heard ice tinkle in a glass.
“Please don’t do this to me, Leigh. I need you now more than ever.”
Leigh pictured him sitting at the desk inside his room at the Marriott. His face was probably still swollen from the stitches, a few bottles of Dewar’s from the minibar in the trashcan under the desk. She could see his toiletries lined up on the bathroom counter; his Egoist cologne, his Armani undereye gel and moisturizer, his Todd Oldham shaving mousse. She could see his suitcase on the floor of the closet, and she knew which pieces of clothing were in it. He probably still had the picture of his wife in his alligator wallet, and she was certain he had the tie that she gave him for his birthday last year.
She also knew that the marriage was over, that he was hers now—if she still wanted him. It would be so easy to just get in her car, drive the twenty minutes to his hotel, and be with him. And it was true that she had basically ruined his life with her little stunt; all the papers had covered it. And her own phone was ringing off the hook: A Current Affair, Today, the literary agents from New York.
“I’m sorry, Howard, I really am. I never imagined this, but I just really think you were wrong to have lied to me and I was hurt, and I did what I did out of anger and hurt. Because I loved you so much.”
“And I love you so much, Leigh, I do.”
“It’s over, Howard. Good-bye.”
“No, please don’t hang up, please.”
Leigh hung up. I do love him, she thought. But that’s not reason enough.
She then went back to her computer and put some finishing touches on a letter she’d written to Peggy Jean.
Dear Peggy Jean,
Amanda told me you’re at the Anne Sexton Center for a while, and I just wanted you to know that my best thoughts are with you. I know that we never spoke much or were close or anything, but I just wanted you to know that I care. You’re a wonderful host, and I’ve always admired you. My mother was an alcoholic and she’s been clean and sober for fourteen years. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
I’m thinking of you and praying for your recovery.
Leigh
“Three parts Oil of Olay Age Defying Series Revitalizing Eye Gel, one part sugar, and half a part non-dairy creamer,” the prop stylist told Max.
“It looks so real,” Max said, leaning over and inspecting the artificial semen in the plastic cup.
“That’s the point, honey.” The prop stylist had set up his little semen factory on a box right next to the craft service table that was piled with crackers, cheeses, fruits, and various other snacks. A cooler below the table was filled with sodas and bottled water.
“Follow me,” Ed said. “I’ll give you a little tour.” Then, “Obviously, this is the prop area, and over there . . .” He pointed to an illuminated set in the far corner of the soundstage, a set that resembled a pizza parlor. “. . . that’s where we’re shooting today.”
Ed introduced Max to various people, most of whom were dressed in jeans and T-shirts and had crackling walkie-talkies clipped to their belts. A thin, dark-haired boy sat on a folding metal chair reading Vanity Fair.
“That’s Shaun. He’s a fluffer.”
“A fluffer?” Max asked as Ed led him over to the boy.
“Hey Shaun, tell Max here what it is you do on the set.”
The boy looked