“I’ll congratulate you when we make your film.”

“We?”

“If you ask nicely. Here. My direct line.”

He’d handed her his card, and she’d laughed to cover her repulsion. Had Jerry known how many women felt the way she did? Had he cared? Or had it been enough to hand out business cards like they were sticks of gum and know that there would always be girls who were desperate enough to call?

Three years later, after watching Ted’s career engulf hers, she’d finally been desperate enough.

“Where are we going?” Phoebe had asked Jerry’s assistant, who met her in the lobby of the Chateau Marmont the day of the meeting and zipped along the colonnade outdoors, past the tables on the terrace. Phoebe tried to catch up, to catch the woman’s eye, but she couldn’t.

“His bungalow,” the assistant said over her shoulder. “He left his notes on your script in his room, so he just thought it would be easier if I brought you there.”

“But...dinner? I thought—”

The assistant waved her hand, dismissing whatever Phoebe thought. “We can have dinner served for you guys in the room. It’s no problem.”

Phoebe followed her down the narrow, overgrown paths that wound away from the castle, past the pool, around the backs of one-story, clapboard buildings with heavy eaves under which, Phoebe imagined, hid daddy long legs, the damp, the ghost of John Belushi. Finally, they reached the door of the last bungalow. Loud music was playing inside and the assistant opened the door and stood back.

“Phoebe!” Jerry called out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Phoebe walked inside the shitty little living room, even though all the alarms inside were going off, telling her to Leave! Go! Run! But if she did, the deal would be dead. Then it would be Ted producing Warrior Bride after all. Maybe she wouldn’t mind so much when people congratulated Ted on discovering her. Maybe it wouldn’t sting when every conversation about her work began with his name. Maybe by her third or fourth film, she’d be taken seriously. Or she could stay and fight for this film. She could fight for herself just as hard as she’d fought for Ted. It wasn’t a choice. It was an imperative. And it obscured how light-headed and strange she felt, the atmosphere thin up inside her head where she was scrambling for a plan, while down below her body was jettisoning itself, plummeting down, down, down to the great dark ocean.

Twenty years later, she was still scrambling for a plan, still fighting for herself. Dana From Netflix had her drink now and was on the move, which meant Phoebe was on the move, too. She headed her off at the bottom of the terrace steps, where Dana stopped to move her phone from one hand to the other so she could take a sip of her drink.