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Authors: Iris Rainer Dart
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Shelly said.
"Good idea," Ruthie said. "Give him a call, and remind him that I'll be in at two and see if he can make it. If not, I'd really appreciate it if
you
could pick me up." She switched on the pink lamp next to the bed and looked for her purse. When she found it, she pulled out her little telephone book.
"Here," she said to Shelly, "I'll give you his number."
"I don't need his number," Shelly said. "He's sitting right here."
7
B ARBARA SINGER looked across the desk at Ruthie Zimmerman. She was certainly not the unattractive girl she kept describing in the story she'd been telling about her life. She was attractive in a funky way. And though she joked through the telling of her story, Barbara, who often used the same device of humor to cover her feelings, recognized it as subterfuge. It all seemed to be leading to something painful and difficult.
"What happened when you got back from Pittsburgh?" Barbara asked her.
"Shelly and Davis met me at the airport and said they both loved me but that they loved each other romantically and they were sure I'd understand. And you know what? I
did
understand. Because I thought both of them were so great, they should be with each other and not me. Kind of like Groucho Marx saying he'd never belong to any club that would have him as a member.
"So Shelly and I kept working together, only he moved into Davis's house, and I bought myself a condominium in Brentwood. I mean basically at that point all we were then was business partners."
"You sound very matter-of-fact about it all. Is that how you felt?"
"Are you kidding? At the time I felt like killing both of them. I hated Davis for using me to get to Shelly. I hated Shelly for taking Davis away from me. I hated myself for being the dumbest woman alive. But I acted like it was okay with me. Shrugged it off and said hey, no problem. Because I just couldn't let go."
"Of what?"
"Of Shelly," she said, and the look on her face made Barbara push the tissue box on the desk closer to her. "I couldn't stand the idea that I could lose him."
One morning they were just finishing a pilot script, working at Ruthie's condo, when their agent called and asked if they wanted to write a movie of the week for Pam Dawber.
"I think you should take it," Shelly said.
Ruthie looked at her watch. "Geez, Shel, it's almost lunchtime and we still don't know what we're going to do for the act break."
"I'm going to stop work for a while," he told her.
"Me too," Ruthie said. "I'm going to pick up my cleaning and get a sandwich. I'll be back around two, and then we have to decide what to do about the second act, and call Solly back about the script for Pam Dawber. You want me to bring you anything?"
"I mean stop for a long time, Ruth. Not do the movie for Pam Dawber or any other project for a while. Because Davis wants me to be around the house more. Work with the architect on the plans for the remodel and—"
No! She couldn't believe this. Now he was going to stop writing with her, too? "And be his wife?" Ruthie flared, feeling as if her whole life was being pulled out from under her. "No, goddammit. No." Shelly didn't flinch. "You mean you'll take over where the former Mrs. Bergman left off? Shel, that's crazy. Don't let him do that to you. You'll end up playing tennis and going shopping every day and not having any self-worth. You can't give up a good career to stay home and just run the house."
Ruthie sat on the edge of her desk, looking out the window. She was tired. They'd been rushing to finish their current pilot, working endless hours, and what she felt like doing now was taking a long nap.
"Hey!" Shelly said, "I like the idea. I've been working all my life, pounding a goddamned piano and writing stupid songs and sketches to make a couple of bucks. I'm just dropping out of a painfully hard business to sleep late, eat great, and redecorate. And in my case it's with someone I love. How bad can that be? Wouldn't
you
take that deal? Goddamned
"Good idea," Ruthie said. "Give him a call, and remind him that I'll be in at two and see if he can make it. If not, I'd really appreciate it if
you
could pick me up." She switched on the pink lamp next to the bed and looked for her purse. When she found it, she pulled out her little telephone book.
"Here," she said to Shelly, "I'll give you his number."
"I don't need his number," Shelly said. "He's sitting right here."
7
B ARBARA SINGER looked across the desk at Ruthie Zimmerman. She was certainly not the unattractive girl she kept describing in the story she'd been telling about her life. She was attractive in a funky way. And though she joked through the telling of her story, Barbara, who often used the same device of humor to cover her feelings, recognized it as subterfuge. It all seemed to be leading to something painful and difficult.
"What happened when you got back from Pittsburgh?" Barbara asked her.
"Shelly and Davis met me at the airport and said they both loved me but that they loved each other romantically and they were sure I'd understand. And you know what? I
did
understand. Because I thought both of them were so great, they should be with each other and not me. Kind of like Groucho Marx saying he'd never belong to any club that would have him as a member.
"So Shelly and I kept working together, only he moved into Davis's house, and I bought myself a condominium in Brentwood. I mean basically at that point all we were then was business partners."
"You sound very matter-of-fact about it all. Is that how you felt?"
"Are you kidding? At the time I felt like killing both of them. I hated Davis for using me to get to Shelly. I hated Shelly for taking Davis away from me. I hated myself for being the dumbest woman alive. But I acted like it was okay with me. Shrugged it off and said hey, no problem. Because I just couldn't let go."
"Of what?"
"Of Shelly," she said, and the look on her face made Barbara push the tissue box on the desk closer to her. "I couldn't stand the idea that I could lose him."
One morning they were just finishing a pilot script, working at Ruthie's condo, when their agent called and asked if they wanted to write a movie of the week for Pam Dawber.
"I think you should take it," Shelly said.
Ruthie looked at her watch. "Geez, Shel, it's almost lunchtime and we still don't know what we're going to do for the act break."
"I'm going to stop work for a while," he told her.
"Me too," Ruthie said. "I'm going to pick up my cleaning and get a sandwich. I'll be back around two, and then we have to decide what to do about the second act, and call Solly back about the script for Pam Dawber. You want me to bring you anything?"
"I mean stop for a long time, Ruth. Not do the movie for Pam Dawber or any other project for a while. Because Davis wants me to be around the house more. Work with the architect on the plans for the remodel and—"
No! She couldn't believe this. Now he was going to stop writing with her, too? "And be his wife?" Ruthie flared, feeling as if her whole life was being pulled out from under her. "No, goddammit. No." Shelly didn't flinch. "You mean you'll take over where the former Mrs. Bergman left off? Shel, that's crazy. Don't let him do that to you. You'll end up playing tennis and going shopping every day and not having any self-worth. You can't give up a good career to stay home and just run the house."
Ruthie sat on the edge of her desk, looking out the window. She was tired. They'd been rushing to finish their current pilot, working endless hours, and what she felt like doing now was taking a long nap.
"Hey!" Shelly said, "I like the idea. I've been working all my life, pounding a goddamned piano and writing stupid songs and sketches to make a couple of bucks. I'm just dropping out of a painfully hard business to sleep late, eat great, and redecorate. And in my case it's with someone I love. How bad can that be? Wouldn't
you
take that deal? Goddamned
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