Trading Up by Candace Bushnell Read Free Book Online Page B

pro-claimed was easy, and last summer, in an attempt to put Bill in his place, she’d 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 29
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    boasted endlessly about how well her screenplay was going and how great it was going to be. And now she was in the embarrassing position of having to defend herself to him.
    “Well?” he demanded.
    “Well what?”
    “Did you even finish it?” he asked in a superior tone of voice, as if he knew she hadn’t.
    “I’m almost finished with the second draft.” This was a complete lie, but she couldn’t help it. All along, Bill had told her that she wouldn’t be able to write it, and now there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of having been correct.
    “Really?” he said, as if he didn’t believe her. “You’ll have to let me read it.”
    “Oh, I will, ” she said.
    They looked at each other, locked in a stalemate—after all, Bill couldn’t prove that she hadn’t written the screenplay—and Janey took a step forward as if to signal that the conversation was over. But then she had another shock: Coming toward them and completely unaware of their presence was Comstock Dibble himself, deep in conversation on his cell phone. In a few seconds, he would reach the balustrade and be a mere three feet away, and Janey knew that Bill was just vicious enough to mention her screenplay to him.
    And what would Comstock say? She looked around for an escape, but she was trapped—wedged between a flowering fruit tree and the balustrade, she could either knock Bill over or jump over the railing.
    Bill caught the look of distress on her face and turned around to see what was bothering her. Comstock still had no idea they were there. His face was red with anger, and he was covered in his usual coating of thick sweat. In a raised voice, he said, “If they think they can pull this kind of crap on me, they’ve got another thing coming . . . I’ll fuck with their kids, for Christ’s sake.” Snapping his cell phone shut, he suddenly turned and saw them.
    His eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back into a vicious grin, revealing two front teeth separated by a large gap; Janey had a secret theory that his mother drank when she was pregnant and that Comstock Dibble, who wasn’t more than five feet, six inches tall, had suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome. And then, in mounting confusion, she saw that his smile wasn’t for her, but for Bill, and that he wasn’t even going to acknowledge her.
    “Westacott,” Comstock said, holding out his hand. “My buddies at Universal tell me you did a great job with that screenplay.” Bill suddenly morphed into the Hollywood professional, folding his arms and standing with his legs spread apart, so that he no longer towered over Comstock.

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    “They’ve just given it the green light,” Bill said. “Rupert Jackson’s agreed to star . . .”
    “Really?” Comstock said. “I love Rupert and he’s a fine actor, but you’ll have a hard time getting him out of bed before eleven . . .”
    “I’ve heard that,” Bill said. And then Janey, unable to contain herself any longer, said defiantly, “I’ve just had a long talk with him, and I think he’s a doll . . .” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she realized how stupid they sounded, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to stand there, being ignored, and she looked from one man to the other with an expression on her face as if daring them to challenge her.
    Bill looked at her with mild surprise, but Comstock regarded her blankly, as if he had never seen her before and had no idea she actually talked. “Well . . . ?” she said, faltering. And then Bill, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, said,
    “Comstock, you know the lovely and talented Janey Wilcox, don’t you?”
    “I’ve never had the pleasure,” he said. His words were mild enough, but the expression on his