Been There, Married That, page 13
Your life becomes more disconnected and less meaningful as the normal daily, monotonous tasks fall away. You’re not connected to your food, your transportation, your waste, your own kids.
Nice work if you can get it, you’ll say. What’s to complain about? Kids? Kids are overrated. The pay sucks.
Who wouldn’t trade normalcy for living large in a giant house where no one (except housekeepers and gardeners and assistants and dog trainers and orchid handlers) can hear you scream?
Meanwhile, the spouse making all the money works long, stressful hours, wineglass-thin ego on the firing line, ready to be (publicly, humiliatingly) shattered 24-7.
The spouse who’s not bringing in the big bucks thinks, I’m going to be a different kind of wife (or husband). I’ll fill those hours with meaning. I’ll be unique. I’ll be super-interesting. I’ll change the world (if not my underwear—leave that to someone else.) I’ll meditate. I’ll become a yoga teacher working in prisons. I’ll write more. (And I did. Not more. Just spread out, like a word every twenty minutes.)
When you don’t have to worry about rent or heating bills or putting food on the table, the only person you can blame for that nagging discontent is, guess what … that clown in the mirror. You.
But in Hollywood, we don’t blame ourselves.
So the blame falls on the other. The person lying in bed next to you.
Hi. Have we met?
Suffice it to say (or write), in practice, this theory cuts both ways. The comedy director married to the scowling news addict who blamed him for ruining her “photography career.” The action star whose makeup artist wife blamed him for her not becoming the next Laura Mercier. The vegan whose body burst in a full bloom of eczema after her studio chief husband stuck to the no-kid clause in their prenup. (They later divorced after she was past her childbearing years; he remarried a young pastry chef; their Christmas cards include twins. Her Christmas cards include a rescue cat.)
And so on.
I can only speak for me. Agnes. I could only dance so fast and jump so high and bob and weave for so long—mid-race, I dropped the baton, tripped over my feet, and skidded down the marriage track.
Still, there was a time I thought we could beat the odds.
Trevor and I, in the first years of our marriage, would sip our Ivy margaritas and marvel at all the issues other Hollywood couples had. They had nothing to talk about. They weren’t interested in each other. She’d let herself go. He’d let himself go. She was on antidepressants and drinking. He was gambling millions. She was bipolar. He was bi. Their marriage was bye-bye.
We’d have a dinner date at least once a week, just the two of us. Other couples would gaze at us from their group tables and ask, “How did we do it after six, seven, eight years? How?”
This was my marriage. This was it. There were none before; there’d be none after.
Then this chick sneaked up on us. Stealthy beeyotch.
Hollywood.
She wanted everything. Your time. Your attention. Your undying devotion. She played on your fears and dashed your hopes. She’d throw you a bone every once in a while, then steal it back.
Hollywood attracts a certain type of person. Bright but not chemical engineering bright. Charming. Socially adept. High self-regard but low self-esteem. Pleasure-seeking rule-breakers.
Just your basic, everyday sociopath.
“One in twenty-five Americans is a sociopath,” Liz told me when we discussed a HuffPo article on dating sociopaths. Something about the diagnosis seemed familiar.
“And they’re all in my neighborhood,” I said.
* * *
I left word for Trevor, again. Pep had finally texted me back that she was with her dad and where did you go, Mom? Dad said you went 2 spa? I kno u hate massages Auntie Fin said you were kidnapped by elves she’s funny
Auntie Fin is hilarious, I texted. Wasn’t exactly a spa we’ll talk about it. When ur 30.
Dad wants me to be an influencer
A what no no no no a what?
he says I need more followers
you don’t need more followers no one “needs” followers. You shouldn’t even have an IG account. Go to sleep honey, I love you.
Okay but maybe it’s a good idea he said medical school is hard
Everything is hard, honey. Everything. I love you.
A second later.
Did you brush your teeth? I asked. I love you so much!
I slipped into bed, exhausted. Not enough energy to brush my teeth or smooth on one of my 153 face creams that kept multiplying like guppies on my bathroom counter. Almond rehab seemed so far away and like it happened to some other wife.
I dialed Trevor one more time.
Click. Someone answered. I heard breathing.
“Hello?” I sat up in bed, blinking in the darkness. I could see canyon lights twinkling and Jay Leno’s fifty-car garage built into a hillside from our room. “Trevor?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t just take Pep—”
“Yes, I can. She’s my daughter, too. She’s mine. And you were supposed to be gone for weeks.”
“I don’t need rehab; you know that. You have to bring her back.”
Pause.
“Okay, but only because I have meetings all day. Can you take her to school? She needs lunch. And pick her up?”
I could see lights on in the Katzenberg mansion, where lights were always on because success doesn’t sleep. I could hear samba music coming from Matt Damon’s Mediterranean, and I wondered if he were really that happy or just mocking the rest of us.
“Of course,” I said. “And she doesn’t need to be an influencer, okay? That’s a ridiculous term, and it’s way too much pressure. Our daughter is actually smart. She can do real things with her life.”
“Bob’s daughter is an influencer. She’s got over a million followers. She’s not even cute. Jason’s daughter, too. I’m just trying to be helpful so she’s not some weird loser with her head stuck in a book.”
“Good night, Trevor,” I said. “Oh. You canceled my credit cards, right?”
“I don’t want to talk about it; you know my rule—no bad conversations after 5:00!”
“Last question, I swear. Just to be clear,” I asked. “We are getting divorced?”
Pause.
“I was talking to Kevin Bacon, and he said our marriage sounded shaky.”
“Well, then,” I said. “Um, I guess I’ll see you … well, hopefully, we can be civil—”
“Gotta go; Geffen’s calling,” he said and hung up.
* * *
I woke up with a sense of calm, peace, and relief that I hadn’t felt in years. I could breathe. It was like a six-foot, 165-pound weight with 4 percent body fat had been lifted off my chest. It didn’t matter anymore if I didn’t ace my perpetual marriage SATs. I’d never need that virtual number 2 pencil again in my life.
“I guess it’s official if Kevin Bacon has weighed in,” Liz said as we hiked up the bike trail into the Santa Monica Mountains.
“Trevor can be Trophy Dad,” I said. “He can see Pep whenever he wants, take her on exotic vacations. I’ll be the boring, reliable oak, making sure she’s well fed and doing her homework and chores.”
“Trophy Dad,” Liz said, rolling it around her mouth. “I think you can sell him on that. Got a nice ring to it.”
“Do you know any kids who do chores?” I asked.
“Yes,” Liz said. “They’re east of the 405.”
I stopped and took a breath. “I’m feeling pretty good about all this.”
“What does your lawyer say?”
“Oh, I don’t have a lawyer yet,” I said as we reached the peak of the hiking trail where the vista opened up all the way to the coastline and Nobu Malibu. “I was going to look into it this week, maybe post something on Nextdoor.”
Liz grabbed me. “You need a lawyer. Today.” She took out her phone and started punching numbers. “Damn it,” she said. “The reception here is shit!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, panicked.
“We have to run back,” she said as she started running back down the bike trail.
“At least I’ll get some cardio in before I go down!” I yelled, but she was already halfway to the bottom.
* * *
“You need a land shark,” Liz said, scrolling through her phone as she sat at my desk in my favorite chair; I briefly wondered if I could sneak it out before I lost everything. “The meanest thousand-dollar-an-hour son of a bitch you can find. This is your job!”
“I’m a writer, not a divorcer.”
“You’re fired. Do you think Trevor wouldn’t try to have your hands broken if he could? To stop you from working? He wants revenge!”
“Revenge for what?”
“For scaling the wall,” she said.
“I can’t even scale a fish.”
“Have you read the malignant narcissist handbook?”
“The WME directory? I’m not even the one asking for divorce,” I said, my throat tightening.
“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters,” she said. She tapped her phone twice. “Sit down. We’re going lawyer shopping.”
I started pacing; my phone buzzed.
Briarwood. I answered.
“Mrs. Nash,” the head of school said, and I immediately pictured his florid cheeks and beaver hair. “Could you please come down to the school?”
* * *
“Pep has never cheated in her life,” I said. “She’s never needed to.”
I was seated next to Pep, slouched in front of Dr. Hanley’s desk. Trevor, tapping his long fingers on his chair, was there when I arrived.
“I admitted it,” Pep said, blowing a strand of red hair from her eyes. “So when do I get kicked out?”
“Pep has always been a top student,” Dr. Hanley said. “She’s always gotten straight As. I’m not sure what happened here. And it was so obvious.”
“I took out my phone and tapped in questions,” she said. “Obviously, I need to be punished. I’d say at least a suspension.”
“I think this is because my wife—” Trevor said. “Well, my current wife—”
“We’re getting divorced,” I explained.
“What?” Pep said. “You said you were just taking a break.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, grabbing her hand.
“Well, that might explain sudden behavior patterns,” Dr. Hanley said.
“What behavior patterns?”
“Pep refuses to participate in PE,” he said. “She’s been lying down during track. On the track. She claims she’s a dolphin. A stranded dolphin. And she can’t breathe.”
“Oh, well, I love dolphins,” I said.
“I don’t belong here. The whole thing makes me so tired,” Pep said. “Why are you getting divorced?”
“You’ll have to ask your mom,” Trevor said. Pep and the president eyed me with a flicker of accusation.
“Excuse me?”
“Am I getting kicked out or not?” Pep asked.
“Of course not, dear,” the president said. “You’ll have to take the test again, obviously. And you’ll be on probation.”
“Oh,” Pep said, her shoulders slumping. “What does it take to get kicked out? Pull the fire alarm? Pinch Mr. Marcucci’s butt?”
Mr. Marcucci was the eighty-year-old science teacher with a single-haired comb-over.
“Pep, what’s this all about?” I asked.
“My wife just got out of rehab, if you have to know,” Trevor said.
“Are you kidding?” I said, and I turned to the president. “Trevor sent me to rehab because I eat almonds! A lot of almonds, but still!”
“Stacy’s mom went to rehab,” Pep said. “And Manny’s mom. And Collette’s dad.”
“Honey, I don’t have a drug problem.”
“That’s okay, Mom,” Pep said. “It’s totally fine.”
“But I don’t—”
Trevor pretended to be drinking out of his thumb.
* * *
“A lot of our moms are having Pinot and Perco issues,” Dr. Hanley said. “It’s an epidemic, frankly. Mrs. Nash, I wish you all the best. I know how hard this journey can be. We’re here for you. Think of us as family.” He smiled, and I stared at the gap between his front teeth. He stood and shook my hand.
“That’s okay,” I said. “I already have a family, and they’re a pain in the ass.”
His face froze. “Pep, head to your next class,” he managed. “I expect you to be on your best behavior. No more shenanigans.”
Trevor stepped past as Dr. Hanley gave me a parting sad glance. “Mrs. Nash, have you considered therapy?”
* * *
I headed to my car in the visitor’s parking lot. Briarwood was housed in the old Masonic lodge on Sunset. We snagged a coveted spot for Pep when she was a nameless fetus, which, even then, was late in the game. Trevor, eager to get his zygote into the same school as his peers, had breakfast with a board member and promised his kid a part in a movie.
(Yes, there was diversity at Briarwood; at least 15 percent of the parents of the student body were agents.)
The Holier-Than-Thous, carpool moms wearing Chanel bracelets, Alo tights, and expressionless faces, stood in a perfumed, selfie-ready, judgmental clump, watching as I fumbled with my car keys.
“Agnes Nash?”
A young woman with a bright, open face and a streak of pink in her hair tapped me on the shoulder and smiled. She looked like one of our newer teachers.
“Yes?”
She slapped an envelope against my chest.
“You’ve been served,” she said, all sparkly, and trotted off to her awaiting Honda, the engine still running. Lucky me, the judgmental clump witnessed the whole exchange.
Perfect, I thought, I’ll be starring in an Instagram story.
I hopped in my car and peeled out onto Sunset before pulling over to a side street. I ripped open the envelope as a gardener wearing a giant leaf blower worked the patch of grass in front of an apartment building.
The first page of the beginning of the end, in black and white. The name of Trevor’s attorney at top left. Ulger Blecks.
“Sorry you didn’t use it, Dickens,” I said.
Page upon page with tiny boxes marked with an X and Trevor’s giant, wriggly signature at the bottom of the last page. Irreconcilable differences. I mean …
My phone buzzed.
“Darling,” Karyn said. “Are you coming to RAPE?”
“What?”
“RAPE Committee? Did you not get the email? Are you still using your same name?” she said. “We’re at Le Pain. The meeting started fifteen minutes ago.”
“Oh, I forgot all about RAPE.”
“I heard you just got served; so sorry, how awful,” she said. “I’m afraid you might be too distracted for RAPE.”
My divorce was trending on Hollywood Twitter.
“I’ve never been too distracted for RAPE,” I said
“I’ll sign you up for Ancillary RAPE Committee,” she said. “It’s not as brutal.”
* * *
I googled Liz’s list of Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Divorce Lawyers. Three were obese, with hollow-point eyes. Two had pitted faces, deep scars from the ravages of teenaged acne, partially hidden with scraggly beards. One appeared to have scurvy.
“Why are they all so … appearance-challenged?” I asked. “Am I just being looksist?”
“The job does it to them,” Liz said. “Every single one would sell their firstborn to a Chinese skin factory for a deposit. This woman, right here, modeled to get through law school.”
She pointed to a photo of a truck with ears.
* * *
I punched in my first number.
“Hi, this is Agnes Nash,” I said.
“Can you repeat that?”
“Agnes Murphy Nash?” I said. “I’m calling to talk to Magnus Nelson.”
“Hold, please,” she said.
A second later, she came back on the phone.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“That’s okay,” I said. “We can talk later.”
“Um,” she said. “No, that’s not what I’m sorry about. Mr. Nelson can’t speak to you. He’s already spoken to your husband.”
Confusion. Sweaty palms. Dread.
“But … he’s not representing my husband.”
“He met with your husband.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I know,” she said, sighing. “Mr. Nelson can’t meet with you because your husband has already paid him for a meeting. Conflict of interest, ’kay? Have a nice day!”
I made five more calls. It seemed the same receptionist was working at each firm and they’d all expected me to call.
Can’t I have a fun divorce? Like in the movies, where perimenopausal divorcees dance in nightclubs and meditate on mountaintops and screw housepainters in Italy. Can we fast-forward to the housepainters?
I called Liz. I could hear women cawing in the background over restaurant clatter.
“Trevor cockblocked me,” I said. “He took a ten-minute meeting with each lawyer and gave each a nominal check.”
“Okay. Don’t panic! Do not panic!” Liz said, sounding like someone had lit her hair on fire. “Do you know who he’s hired?”
“Ulger Blecks.”
Liz whistled. I think it was the first time I’d heard her whistle.
“Find someone. Anyone. Today,” she said. “Remember Angela, Lilo’s ex? Remember her?”
