fic: mutual assent (rpf)
MUTUAL ASSENT
rpf. everybody here’s got a familiar face; everybody knows your name. ensemble; rose byrne, diane kruger, matthew goode, michael fassbender, hugh dancy, etc., etc. rated pg-13. 3236 words.
notes: as usual: lies, lies, lies. but fun lies. and that's what's important, right?
ALL THESE PEOPLE DRINKING LOVER’S SPIT.
(broken social scene)
AN INTRODUCTION (CREDITS AND THE OPENING THEME):
You strike metal against metal long enough you’re bound to get sparks. This is science. This is inevitable.
They’ve all known each other too damn long. And where there is history, there is controversy.
You fuck what you know. That part’s easy.
They all agreed to this at first.
THE FIRST ACT, THERE IS A PARTY:
“I’ve been trying so hard,” was what Rose told Diane over the phone earlier. The other woman had not asked her what that meant, because like the saying goes: that’s what friends are for. They’re there to be an even uglier reflection of yourself when the time calls for self-loathing and an honest sounding board when the time calls from advice, needed and heeded or not.
Diane had been trying too, but that’s a different story. Diane is better at keeping her mouth shut than Rose is - she is better at dulling the sharp emotions behind her eyes and when she says, “I’m fine, it’s fine,” you are almost apt to believe her.
That night at the party Rose isn’t trying anymore.
Hugh is a married man now and someone thought it would be a good idea to invite her to the party.
(And by someone, she thinks she means Claire and not Hugh; Hugh is smart and too clever but never intentionally cruel, at least not to her. She does not think the same can be said of his new wife).
(What she does not know and what she will finally piece together by the end of the night - after Diane leaves and after the bartender raises an eyebrow and she slurs, “another,” after the coat check, because where they live it is a celluloid world and the things the normal person would only expect on the screen she encounters on a daily basis - is that it was Hugh who invited her, that Hugh really can be just that cruel).
Rose brings Diane with her to the party. “Safety in numbers,” Diane teases and squeezes Rose’s arm.
She does not elaborate and the two of them have begun to do this more and more often: they will state half-truths and oblique references to what they actually mean without going the extra step to full disclosure. Rose does not know when this happened. She used to be so open.
There is champagne and Rose drinks two in earnest. Diane sips slowly, cautiously and her eyes watch the doorway.
Diane leaves, that same flute of champagne still clutched in her hand from when they first arrived. “Are you okay here?” Diane asks first, but her eyes aren’t focused on Rose and her cell phone is clutched tight in her hand. Rose gets it. Rose isn’t really trying anymore. She switched from champagne to white wine and there is a giggle caught behind her teeth. She shouldn’t be here. Her mouth tastes too sweet and acidic, but she smiles and nods, despite the manic feeling crawling up her throat.
Diane leaves, but Rose doesn’t talk to Hugh. She hasn’t talked to Hugh since mid-summer, where every conversation of theirs was chaperoned by a morning or late-night talk show host. Rose doesn’t know what she’d say. She thinks a congratulations is the appropriate thing, but it hurts to think she could say that and mean it.
“She looks very beautiful,” she hears people say of Claire, and it’s true: she does. Billie Holiday is piped through the speakers and Claire looks beautiful and Rose is sort of lost.
At the end of the night, Hugh grabs her by the elbow.
“You look beautiful,” he tells her. “You look very beautiful.”
She fucks Hugh in the coat check, and maybe because this is his party that means no one will interrupt them.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters against her temple. The words feel wet and hot, and he won’t stop saying them as he pulls out of her. Rose lets her arms hang limply at her sides, and she wants to slap him across the face. Hugh won’t stop apologizing and she is pretty sure he doesn’t mean to address her.
Rose pushes away from him and crosses her arms over her chest. Hugh is watching his feet and it is suddenly very cold and there are goosebumps pimpled along her bare arms.
“Why did you invite me here?” She is drunk and she knows she sounds small. The carpet is rough under her bare feet and her inner thighs ache.
Hugh runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says and shrugs.
“I don’t love you,” she says suddenly. Hugh looks more curious than offended. Rose laughs, bitter and sad. “I was originally, what I was going to say was ‘I don’t love you anymore,’ but that’s silly, that’s a lie, because I don’t, I never loved you.”
“Are you trying to offend me?” Hugh asks blankly.
“No. I’m just trying to be honest.”
“Baby steps, huh?” Hugh slides his hands into his pockets. “I know, for what it’s worth. I never thought you did. I blame Goode for that one.” Rose jerks her head up. She stands among the coats and stares at Hugh.
“I am drunk,” she hears herself saying. “I am very, very drunk and I think I should go home now.”
She slips her feet into her shoes and stumbles, her ankles weak, the arches of her shoes impossibly high. Hugh reaches out a hand to steady her and she swats it away. He obeys and takes a step back. The room smells like expensive perfume and stale smoke that has lingered on the collection of his guests’ coats. Rose stands there and doesn’t re-adjust her clothing, doesn’t fix her hair or the smudged mascara.
“Congratulations,” she says dumbly.
Hugh gapes. “For what?”
She stands in the open doorway. “Your marriage.”
In the cab, she hiccups and blinks back tears. Her fingers are clumsy with the cell phone as she dials. It rings.
“Well, well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure? This is most unexpected. Hmmm, what are you wearing, love?”
Rose sniffles. “I fucking hate you,” she says.
Matthew laughs. “Don’t shoot the messenger, peach. The curse of self-fulfilling prophecies, am I right? Well, cheers, love. You’re a big girl now.”
A FLASHBACK:
In Sundance Hugh wore oxford shirts with heavy sweaters over top. Rose wore heavy boots and outside it had snowed.
Hugh’s hand had tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck and he pulled a little and she had gasped.
He kissed with his eyes open wide and that had surprised her.
The fact she felt nothing surprised her even more. Rose kissed back harder and dug her fingers into him, desperate to prove herself wrong.
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, I:
“You’re a stupid, fucking wanker,” Matthew said. “I could knock your front teeth in. I should.”
Hugh swallowed down the last of his pint. “Rose tell you?”
“‘Course not. Old girl’s a bloody steel trap. Need the goddamn Spanish Inquisition to get bollocks out of her.”
“Who then?”
“What’s it matter? You know how the rumor mill works well as I do. You shag someone, word’s gonna get out. Shag someone moderately famous while you yourself are moderately famous? For fuck’s sake, mate. Fucking New York Times might not pick it up, but the rest of us still gonna hear about it.”
“Who fucking told you?”
Matthew leaned in. “Crudup,” and then he laughed. “Wonderfully ironic. The ex-boyfriend of your fiancée, who, might I add, said fiancée left for you, you bloody tosser, was the one who told me. O. Henry couldn’t make this shit up. Billy fucking Crudup was the one to tell me.” He leaned back and ran a hand over his mouth. “That you slept with Rose.”
“You’re angry.”
“Fuck yeah I’m angry. How daft are you?”
Hugh shrugged and frowned. He picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s not like anyone really belongs to anyone anyway.”
Matthew laughed. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That doesn’t even mean anything. Real nice sentiment, Romeo, but when some fucker starts sticking it to your Claire, I’d kill to see your face. Hell, if she was my type, I’d do it myself.”
“Rose isn’t yours,” Hugh said quietly after a moment.
“Yeah? Think I don’t know that? You really think I am unaware of that little fact? Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you. Fuck you.”
Hugh shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll be damned. I’ll be goddamned. You’re in love with her.”
“Oh, fuck you. And fuck her.”
“Too late, yeah?” Hugh joked weakly. Matthew glared. “Too soon?”
Matthew smiled despite himself. “You motherfucker.”
A FLASHBACK, II:
“What time is it?” Rose had grumbled.
“Pre-sunrise,” Matthew had answered. The knuckles of her curled fist had bumped against his elbow weakly. It wasn’t a lie; there was still dark and night at his window and the entire room was bathed in gray.
“That’s not a real time,” she said. The words were muffled by his skin, the bend of his shoulder pressed against her mouth. Neither moved, and he remained flat on his stomach and she remained curled around him. “I want a number,” she said. Matthew had snorted.
“3.14…um, one, five…something, something…”he trailed off. “Can’t be arsed to remember the rest.”
“Nerd.”
“You love it, don’t deny it.”
They had been quiet and the room had been gray, the bed warm.
“I have a flight,” Rose had said quietly. Her voice had been reluctant, or at least that’s how Matthew remembers it.
He had rolled her underneath him and nipped along her jawline.
“Not yet,” he had said. “Not yet.”
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, II:
“Billy, bloke. How goes it?”
There was the start of a laugh on Billy’s end of the line and then he cleared his throat. “Things are good, man. Things are real good.”
“So why call then, hmm?” Matthew lit a cigarette and exhaled loudly. “You’re the bloody equivalent of the goddamn Grim Reaper. Never hear from you unless it’s bad news, so let’s have it.”
Billy chuckled and then almost felt bad for it. It was a cool morning in Los Angeles.
“I, uh, I was, well. We had the premiere the other night, so the cast headed out for some drinks. And I’m sitting there, right? With, uh, Marion, you know, Marion and that blonde chick Diane was there with her guy, and Marion and Diane got to talking, both drunk as fuck, right? And Marion asks about Rose, and Diane just starts laughing, says something to the effect of, I don’t know, fuck, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, I haven’t even been to bed yet, man.”
The smoke was thick in Matthew’s mouth. “What did Diane say?” he asked, quiet and restrained.
“She was, she was joking, man. She said to Marion that Rose was fucking her way through the Queen’s territory and Marion asked her what that meant, and Diane said - fuck. Dude, I’m sorry. Rose slept with fucking Hugh Dancy.”
“Is that all?”
“What the fuck, man. What do you mean ‘is that all’?”
“I don’t, I don’t quite have the words for what I’m trying to say,” Matthew said. "I guess."
“There’s a first,” Billy snorted and then sighed. “Can’t help you then, kid.”
OLD FRIENDS BECOME ENEMIES BECOME FRIENDS AGAIN, 2 DRINK MINIMUM:
“Diane! I was not expecting that I see you tonight,” Marion said.
“Hi,” Diane said and smiled wan, and Josh nodded at her side.
“I’m gonna,” he started and stopped, gestured to the left and Diane smiled wider. Josh stepped off and a man slapped him on the back in greeting.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I am good. I am very good,” Marion answered. “And you? How are you?”
“Marvelous. Winning and wonderful and - ” she paused and her smile faltered. She smiled again and took a long sip of her drink.
“I have not seen you since London. That is a long time ago.”
Diane laughed. “Not that long. Long enough, I suppose.” There was something cold to her eyes and Marion kept her face friendly.
“And where is your Michael this evening?”
Diane had smirked. “I imagine I could ask something similar about my former husband?”
“He is in New York.”
“Let’s pretend Michael is there too.”
“How is your friend doing? The pretty one - Rose, yes? Last time I see her with you she looks so sad.”
Diane leaned in.
"Well..."
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, III:
“Oh god,” Rose said. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this. But if I don’t tell you or if I don’t tell somebody I know myself and I’m just going to start running around and telling everyone. Or Brendan.”
“And that would be bad?”
“That would be bad.”
There was a pause.
“I slept with Matthew.”
Diane slammed her coffee cup down. “Now why’d you have to go and tell me that?”
“What?”
“‘I slept with Matthew,’ Jesus Christ, Rose. What the hell do you want me to do with that? This, this is like a conflict of interest. This is majorly a fucking conflict of interest.”
“What the hell are you talking about.”
“I know Matthew. And now you’ve fucked Matthew. That’s just, that’s weird. That’d be like me saying I slept with Hugh or something.”
“Shut your fucking mouth. It’s not like that at all. You never slept with Matthew.”
“And you slept with Hugh?”
“Fuck. I thought I told you.”
“Um. No. No, you most certainly did not.”
“Irrelevant. You saying you slept with Hugh would be like me saying I slept with Guillaume.”
Diane scoffed. “That’s what Marion says. Or what she would say. If she wasn’t so French.”
“But you’re not friends with Marion.”
“No. No, not really. I wouldn’t call us friendly exactly.”
“And you don’t do brunch with her and she doesn’t sit and tell you the juicy details about a guy that you used to sleep with a lot.”
“This is hardly comparable,” she drawled. “I mean, call a fucking spade a spade: he was my goddamn husband. That’s a little different than your British bed-hopping or whatever the hell you’re getting yourself up to these days.”
“Oh fuck you. Not all of us can be so perfect and have our perfect little boy toys and all the perfect little pictures of you two being all perfect and perfectly fucking happy.”
“I fucked Michael,” Diane spat out.
Rose grinned, all Cheshire Cat. “Now this? This we can talk about.” She leaned back against the faux red leather on her side of the booth. “Waitress? More coffee. Please.”
A CAR CHASE FOR THE HERO & THE HEROINE:
There are people who line the hallways and want to know their names.
You are you and she is she, you are you and he is he and that is him and that is she, they say and call. There is a rhythm to it, a tide that beckons and catches their turned heads.
You are Diane, they say, and fewer still say: You are Michael.
This is London and this is a hotel. This is him and this is her, and there is her ex-husband and there is a woman who once was her.
When Diane first met him, she had thought this:
He looked the way a man should look. Because this was Hollywood, and there were some rules, rules that didn’t govern ethical behavior or the bracketed line of morality, but rules that dictated what men should look like. And a man should look like him: cut jawline and muscles set on edge, primed for action.
When Diane first met Michael it was not on the set of a Tarantino film.
When she met him it was after she shot her first film and she was a stranger, a skinny blonde who once modeled, and he was a stranger, too. He chain smoked all night and she bummed two off of him. This was New York. That night it rained and they stood on a front stoop, a party behind the door they leaned against, and she could feel the vibration of the bass against her shoulders.
After she finished the second cigarette he kissed her.
But this was a long time ago.
In Berlin, Diane said:
“I forgot all about you.”
Quentin had laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? You two know each other?”
Michael had grinned, his teeth as sharp as she remembered.
“May auld acquaintance be forgot…” he teased.
Later he called her a liar. Later he would come to call her a liar often. But that is later.
After dinner in London - one table, him and her and Guillaume and Marion - Diane wraps her coat tightly around herself and steps outside. She hears the flick of a lighter and doesn’t turn around; she smiles anyway.
“I have a car coming,” she says by way of explanation.
“Didn’t ask,” Michael says around his cigarette. They stand in a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncompanionably tense. Michael smokes and Diane keeps her hands in her pockets.
A black car pulls up and Diane steps down off the curb. It is a cold night and there is the bite of snow on the air and Michael breathes it in deep.
The driver opens the door for her and Diane glances back over her shoulder.
“Put that out if your coming,” she says and then she gets in.
Michael’s lips twist in a closed smile. He grinds the cigarette out under his heel.
He closes the door behind him.
Michael was right:
She is a liar.
She never forgot about New York.
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, IV:
“I saw your film,” Guillaume said. Michael quirked a brow.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The Basterds,” Guillaume said with a dramatic flair. “Real good. You were fantastic.”
Michael smirked. “Well. Yeah. Thank you.”
Guillaume shifted forward in his seat and rested his forearms against the edge of the table.
“How is Diane?” he asked.
“Marvelous,” Michael said. And then he lit a cigarette. “She’ll be in town later tomorrow.”
Guillaume smiled. “And you know this…?”
Michael smiled. “I know this.”
THE END IS THE BEGINNING (& NO ONE GETS WHAT THEY CAME FOR):
They were in a bar with no name in a town with all too well-known a name: New York City.
Diane and Rose and Matthew and Rose and Diane and Matthew.
Diane introduced Rose to Matthew. Diane introduced Matthew to Rose.
Maybe everything started here.
Maybe Diane has always been prone to fall for bad advice and maybe these two were the best at offering it. Maybe Matthew knew he loved Rose then, and maybe she didn’t know or care. Maybe Diane was still a married woman and maybe Matthew had yet to become a father. Maybe: such a problematic, ugly little word.
Diane introduced divorce to the conversation and Rose infidelity and Matthew had laughed.
“How I do love conflicts,” Matthew had said then. “Always leads to so many delightful surprises.”
This came first.
THE MUSIC LIFTS, A DIRECTOR IS NAMED:
There are no strangers here.
(You want to love what you know. That part has never been easy enough).
THE END
rpf. everybody here’s got a familiar face; everybody knows your name. ensemble; rose byrne, diane kruger, matthew goode, michael fassbender, hugh dancy, etc., etc. rated pg-13. 3236 words.
notes: as usual: lies, lies, lies. but fun lies. and that's what's important, right?
ALL THESE PEOPLE DRINKING LOVER’S SPIT.
(broken social scene)
AN INTRODUCTION (CREDITS AND THE OPENING THEME):
You strike metal against metal long enough you’re bound to get sparks. This is science. This is inevitable.
They’ve all known each other too damn long. And where there is history, there is controversy.
You fuck what you know. That part’s easy.
They all agreed to this at first.
THE FIRST ACT, THERE IS A PARTY:
“I’ve been trying so hard,” was what Rose told Diane over the phone earlier. The other woman had not asked her what that meant, because like the saying goes: that’s what friends are for. They’re there to be an even uglier reflection of yourself when the time calls for self-loathing and an honest sounding board when the time calls from advice, needed and heeded or not.
Diane had been trying too, but that’s a different story. Diane is better at keeping her mouth shut than Rose is - she is better at dulling the sharp emotions behind her eyes and when she says, “I’m fine, it’s fine,” you are almost apt to believe her.
That night at the party Rose isn’t trying anymore.
Hugh is a married man now and someone thought it would be a good idea to invite her to the party.
(And by someone, she thinks she means Claire and not Hugh; Hugh is smart and too clever but never intentionally cruel, at least not to her. She does not think the same can be said of his new wife).
(What she does not know and what she will finally piece together by the end of the night - after Diane leaves and after the bartender raises an eyebrow and she slurs, “another,” after the coat check, because where they live it is a celluloid world and the things the normal person would only expect on the screen she encounters on a daily basis - is that it was Hugh who invited her, that Hugh really can be just that cruel).
Rose brings Diane with her to the party. “Safety in numbers,” Diane teases and squeezes Rose’s arm.
She does not elaborate and the two of them have begun to do this more and more often: they will state half-truths and oblique references to what they actually mean without going the extra step to full disclosure. Rose does not know when this happened. She used to be so open.
There is champagne and Rose drinks two in earnest. Diane sips slowly, cautiously and her eyes watch the doorway.
Diane leaves, that same flute of champagne still clutched in her hand from when they first arrived. “Are you okay here?” Diane asks first, but her eyes aren’t focused on Rose and her cell phone is clutched tight in her hand. Rose gets it. Rose isn’t really trying anymore. She switched from champagne to white wine and there is a giggle caught behind her teeth. She shouldn’t be here. Her mouth tastes too sweet and acidic, but she smiles and nods, despite the manic feeling crawling up her throat.
Diane leaves, but Rose doesn’t talk to Hugh. She hasn’t talked to Hugh since mid-summer, where every conversation of theirs was chaperoned by a morning or late-night talk show host. Rose doesn’t know what she’d say. She thinks a congratulations is the appropriate thing, but it hurts to think she could say that and mean it.
“She looks very beautiful,” she hears people say of Claire, and it’s true: she does. Billie Holiday is piped through the speakers and Claire looks beautiful and Rose is sort of lost.
At the end of the night, Hugh grabs her by the elbow.
“You look beautiful,” he tells her. “You look very beautiful.”
She fucks Hugh in the coat check, and maybe because this is his party that means no one will interrupt them.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” he mutters against her temple. The words feel wet and hot, and he won’t stop saying them as he pulls out of her. Rose lets her arms hang limply at her sides, and she wants to slap him across the face. Hugh won’t stop apologizing and she is pretty sure he doesn’t mean to address her.
Rose pushes away from him and crosses her arms over her chest. Hugh is watching his feet and it is suddenly very cold and there are goosebumps pimpled along her bare arms.
“Why did you invite me here?” She is drunk and she knows she sounds small. The carpet is rough under her bare feet and her inner thighs ache.
Hugh runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t think you’d actually come,” he says and shrugs.
“I don’t love you,” she says suddenly. Hugh looks more curious than offended. Rose laughs, bitter and sad. “I was originally, what I was going to say was ‘I don’t love you anymore,’ but that’s silly, that’s a lie, because I don’t, I never loved you.”
“Are you trying to offend me?” Hugh asks blankly.
“No. I’m just trying to be honest.”
“Baby steps, huh?” Hugh slides his hands into his pockets. “I know, for what it’s worth. I never thought you did. I blame Goode for that one.” Rose jerks her head up. She stands among the coats and stares at Hugh.
“I am drunk,” she hears herself saying. “I am very, very drunk and I think I should go home now.”
She slips her feet into her shoes and stumbles, her ankles weak, the arches of her shoes impossibly high. Hugh reaches out a hand to steady her and she swats it away. He obeys and takes a step back. The room smells like expensive perfume and stale smoke that has lingered on the collection of his guests’ coats. Rose stands there and doesn’t re-adjust her clothing, doesn’t fix her hair or the smudged mascara.
“Congratulations,” she says dumbly.
Hugh gapes. “For what?”
She stands in the open doorway. “Your marriage.”
In the cab, she hiccups and blinks back tears. Her fingers are clumsy with the cell phone as she dials. It rings.
“Well, well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure? This is most unexpected. Hmmm, what are you wearing, love?”
Rose sniffles. “I fucking hate you,” she says.
Matthew laughs. “Don’t shoot the messenger, peach. The curse of self-fulfilling prophecies, am I right? Well, cheers, love. You’re a big girl now.”
A FLASHBACK:
In Sundance Hugh wore oxford shirts with heavy sweaters over top. Rose wore heavy boots and outside it had snowed.
Hugh’s hand had tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck and he pulled a little and she had gasped.
He kissed with his eyes open wide and that had surprised her.
The fact she felt nothing surprised her even more. Rose kissed back harder and dug her fingers into him, desperate to prove herself wrong.
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, I:
“You’re a stupid, fucking wanker,” Matthew said. “I could knock your front teeth in. I should.”
Hugh swallowed down the last of his pint. “Rose tell you?”
“‘Course not. Old girl’s a bloody steel trap. Need the goddamn Spanish Inquisition to get bollocks out of her.”
“Who then?”
“What’s it matter? You know how the rumor mill works well as I do. You shag someone, word’s gonna get out. Shag someone moderately famous while you yourself are moderately famous? For fuck’s sake, mate. Fucking New York Times might not pick it up, but the rest of us still gonna hear about it.”
“Who fucking told you?”
Matthew leaned in. “Crudup,” and then he laughed. “Wonderfully ironic. The ex-boyfriend of your fiancée, who, might I add, said fiancée left for you, you bloody tosser, was the one who told me. O. Henry couldn’t make this shit up. Billy fucking Crudup was the one to tell me.” He leaned back and ran a hand over his mouth. “That you slept with Rose.”
“You’re angry.”
“Fuck yeah I’m angry. How daft are you?”
Hugh shrugged and frowned. He picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s not like anyone really belongs to anyone anyway.”
Matthew laughed. “What the fuck is wrong with you? That doesn’t even mean anything. Real nice sentiment, Romeo, but when some fucker starts sticking it to your Claire, I’d kill to see your face. Hell, if she was my type, I’d do it myself.”
“Rose isn’t yours,” Hugh said quietly after a moment.
“Yeah? Think I don’t know that? You really think I am unaware of that little fact? Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you. Fuck you.”
Hugh shook his head and chuckled. “I’ll be damned. I’ll be goddamned. You’re in love with her.”
“Oh, fuck you. And fuck her.”
“Too late, yeah?” Hugh joked weakly. Matthew glared. “Too soon?”
Matthew smiled despite himself. “You motherfucker.”
A FLASHBACK, II:
“What time is it?” Rose had grumbled.
“Pre-sunrise,” Matthew had answered. The knuckles of her curled fist had bumped against his elbow weakly. It wasn’t a lie; there was still dark and night at his window and the entire room was bathed in gray.
“That’s not a real time,” she said. The words were muffled by his skin, the bend of his shoulder pressed against her mouth. Neither moved, and he remained flat on his stomach and she remained curled around him. “I want a number,” she said. Matthew had snorted.
“3.14…um, one, five…something, something…”he trailed off. “Can’t be arsed to remember the rest.”
“Nerd.”
“You love it, don’t deny it.”
They had been quiet and the room had been gray, the bed warm.
“I have a flight,” Rose had said quietly. Her voice had been reluctant, or at least that’s how Matthew remembers it.
He had rolled her underneath him and nipped along her jawline.
“Not yet,” he had said. “Not yet.”
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, II:
“Billy, bloke. How goes it?”
There was the start of a laugh on Billy’s end of the line and then he cleared his throat. “Things are good, man. Things are real good.”
“So why call then, hmm?” Matthew lit a cigarette and exhaled loudly. “You’re the bloody equivalent of the goddamn Grim Reaper. Never hear from you unless it’s bad news, so let’s have it.”
Billy chuckled and then almost felt bad for it. It was a cool morning in Los Angeles.
“I, uh, I was, well. We had the premiere the other night, so the cast headed out for some drinks. And I’m sitting there, right? With, uh, Marion, you know, Marion and that blonde chick Diane was there with her guy, and Marion and Diane got to talking, both drunk as fuck, right? And Marion asks about Rose, and Diane just starts laughing, says something to the effect of, I don’t know, fuck, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, I haven’t even been to bed yet, man.”
The smoke was thick in Matthew’s mouth. “What did Diane say?” he asked, quiet and restrained.
“She was, she was joking, man. She said to Marion that Rose was fucking her way through the Queen’s territory and Marion asked her what that meant, and Diane said - fuck. Dude, I’m sorry. Rose slept with fucking Hugh Dancy.”
“Is that all?”
“What the fuck, man. What do you mean ‘is that all’?”
“I don’t, I don’t quite have the words for what I’m trying to say,” Matthew said. "I guess."
“There’s a first,” Billy snorted and then sighed. “Can’t help you then, kid.”
OLD FRIENDS BECOME ENEMIES BECOME FRIENDS AGAIN, 2 DRINK MINIMUM:
“Diane! I was not expecting that I see you tonight,” Marion said.
“Hi,” Diane said and smiled wan, and Josh nodded at her side.
“I’m gonna,” he started and stopped, gestured to the left and Diane smiled wider. Josh stepped off and a man slapped him on the back in greeting.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I am good. I am very good,” Marion answered. “And you? How are you?”
“Marvelous. Winning and wonderful and - ” she paused and her smile faltered. She smiled again and took a long sip of her drink.
“I have not seen you since London. That is a long time ago.”
Diane laughed. “Not that long. Long enough, I suppose.” There was something cold to her eyes and Marion kept her face friendly.
“And where is your Michael this evening?”
Diane had smirked. “I imagine I could ask something similar about my former husband?”
“He is in New York.”
“Let’s pretend Michael is there too.”
“How is your friend doing? The pretty one - Rose, yes? Last time I see her with you she looks so sad.”
Diane leaned in.
"Well..."
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, III:
“Oh god,” Rose said. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this. But if I don’t tell you or if I don’t tell somebody I know myself and I’m just going to start running around and telling everyone. Or Brendan.”
“And that would be bad?”
“That would be bad.”
There was a pause.
“I slept with Matthew.”
Diane slammed her coffee cup down. “Now why’d you have to go and tell me that?”
“What?”
“‘I slept with Matthew,’ Jesus Christ, Rose. What the hell do you want me to do with that? This, this is like a conflict of interest. This is majorly a fucking conflict of interest.”
“What the hell are you talking about.”
“I know Matthew. And now you’ve fucked Matthew. That’s just, that’s weird. That’d be like me saying I slept with Hugh or something.”
“Shut your fucking mouth. It’s not like that at all. You never slept with Matthew.”
“And you slept with Hugh?”
“Fuck. I thought I told you.”
“Um. No. No, you most certainly did not.”
“Irrelevant. You saying you slept with Hugh would be like me saying I slept with Guillaume.”
Diane scoffed. “That’s what Marion says. Or what she would say. If she wasn’t so French.”
“But you’re not friends with Marion.”
“No. No, not really. I wouldn’t call us friendly exactly.”
“And you don’t do brunch with her and she doesn’t sit and tell you the juicy details about a guy that you used to sleep with a lot.”
“This is hardly comparable,” she drawled. “I mean, call a fucking spade a spade: he was my goddamn husband. That’s a little different than your British bed-hopping or whatever the hell you’re getting yourself up to these days.”
“Oh fuck you. Not all of us can be so perfect and have our perfect little boy toys and all the perfect little pictures of you two being all perfect and perfectly fucking happy.”
“I fucked Michael,” Diane spat out.
Rose grinned, all Cheshire Cat. “Now this? This we can talk about.” She leaned back against the faux red leather on her side of the booth. “Waitress? More coffee. Please.”
A CAR CHASE FOR THE HERO & THE HEROINE:
There are people who line the hallways and want to know their names.
You are you and she is she, you are you and he is he and that is him and that is she, they say and call. There is a rhythm to it, a tide that beckons and catches their turned heads.
You are Diane, they say, and fewer still say: You are Michael.
This is London and this is a hotel. This is him and this is her, and there is her ex-husband and there is a woman who once was her.
When Diane first met him, she had thought this:
He looked the way a man should look. Because this was Hollywood, and there were some rules, rules that didn’t govern ethical behavior or the bracketed line of morality, but rules that dictated what men should look like. And a man should look like him: cut jawline and muscles set on edge, primed for action.
When Diane first met Michael it was not on the set of a Tarantino film.
When she met him it was after she shot her first film and she was a stranger, a skinny blonde who once modeled, and he was a stranger, too. He chain smoked all night and she bummed two off of him. This was New York. That night it rained and they stood on a front stoop, a party behind the door they leaned against, and she could feel the vibration of the bass against her shoulders.
After she finished the second cigarette he kissed her.
But this was a long time ago.
In Berlin, Diane said:
“I forgot all about you.”
Quentin had laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? You two know each other?”
Michael had grinned, his teeth as sharp as she remembered.
“May auld acquaintance be forgot…” he teased.
Later he called her a liar. Later he would come to call her a liar often. But that is later.
After dinner in London - one table, him and her and Guillaume and Marion - Diane wraps her coat tightly around herself and steps outside. She hears the flick of a lighter and doesn’t turn around; she smiles anyway.
“I have a car coming,” she says by way of explanation.
“Didn’t ask,” Michael says around his cigarette. They stand in a silence that is neither comfortable nor uncompanionably tense. Michael smokes and Diane keeps her hands in her pockets.
A black car pulls up and Diane steps down off the curb. It is a cold night and there is the bite of snow on the air and Michael breathes it in deep.
The driver opens the door for her and Diane glances back over her shoulder.
“Put that out if your coming,” she says and then she gets in.
Michael’s lips twist in a closed smile. He grinds the cigarette out under his heel.
He closes the door behind him.
Michael was right:
She is a liar.
She never forgot about New York.
INTERLUDE - A CONVERSATION, IV:
“I saw your film,” Guillaume said. Michael quirked a brow.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The Basterds,” Guillaume said with a dramatic flair. “Real good. You were fantastic.”
Michael smirked. “Well. Yeah. Thank you.”
Guillaume shifted forward in his seat and rested his forearms against the edge of the table.
“How is Diane?” he asked.
“Marvelous,” Michael said. And then he lit a cigarette. “She’ll be in town later tomorrow.”
Guillaume smiled. “And you know this…?”
Michael smiled. “I know this.”
THE END IS THE BEGINNING (& NO ONE GETS WHAT THEY CAME FOR):
They were in a bar with no name in a town with all too well-known a name: New York City.
Diane and Rose and Matthew and Rose and Diane and Matthew.
Diane introduced Rose to Matthew. Diane introduced Matthew to Rose.
Maybe everything started here.
Maybe Diane has always been prone to fall for bad advice and maybe these two were the best at offering it. Maybe Matthew knew he loved Rose then, and maybe she didn’t know or care. Maybe Diane was still a married woman and maybe Matthew had yet to become a father. Maybe: such a problematic, ugly little word.
Diane introduced divorce to the conversation and Rose infidelity and Matthew had laughed.
“How I do love conflicts,” Matthew had said then. “Always leads to so many delightful surprises.”
This came first.
THE MUSIC LIFTS, A DIRECTOR IS NAMED:
There are no strangers here.
(You want to love what you know. That part has never been easy enough).
THE END