IT’S A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, and Erica and Greg are in their bedroom, getting ready for bed. Greg has had too much to drink—his movements are emphatic and jerky. On the ride uptown he was silent, even a little sulky. He wanted to stay longer but Erica insisted they head home—she’s exhausted and wants to get right to work on Spotlight in the morning.
Greg takes off his jacket and shirt and tosses them on a chair. It’s annoying—he knows Erica likes a neat room. And that she dislikes what happens to him when he’s tight. His charm dissipates and then rematerializes as a chip on his shoulder. And she hates the smell of alcohol on him. Hates it because it’s so seductive and unfair.
Erica takes off—and hangs up—her blouse and skirt and heads into the bathroom. She looks at herself in the mirror and sees insecurity in the corners of her eyes. The evening has left her feeling a little confused, even conflicted. Leslie and Stan were so welcoming, Erica feels like a door to a whole new world is opening for her. It’s both flattering and intimidating. Leslie is just so polished and sharp and knowing, but there always seems to be something unspoken going on below the surface. And her financial and academic pedigrees trigger memories of Erica’s days at Yale, the casual confidence of her classmates, their not-so-subtle digs at her background. “You’re from rural Maine? How picturesque.”
Erica, stop it! You’re more famous than all of them put together. And your work may not hang in museums or get nominated for Academy Awards, but it makes a difference in the real world.
Erica washes her face and brushes her teeth. In the bedroom, Greg has gotten into bed and turned out the bedside lights. Erica climbs in beside him. She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling. The room feels dark and lonely.
And then Greg reaches out and pulls her to him, roughly, and his hot whiskey mouth is on hers, his tongue insistent. Erica pulls away.
“What’s wrong, not in the mood?” he asks sarcastically.
“No, you’re not in the mood. Make that state of mind.”
“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to have a couple of drinks?”
“And I’m not allowed to say I don’t want to have sex?”
There’s a pause and then Greg says, “You know, sometimes it’s not a lot of fun being Mr. Erica Sparks.”
“I’d say you more than held your own. And you certainly looked like you were having fun.”
“I’m a nobody with that crowd. I run a two-bit consultancy. That Frazier guy never said a word to me.”
“Leslie certainly made up for that.”
“Jealous?”
“No,” Erica says too quickly.
She can’t believe they’re arguing like this. They almost never argue. She hates fighting, she saw enough fighting as a kid to last her three lifetimes. It’s ugly and sad and a big fat waste of energy.
There’s a pause and Greg props himself up on an elbow, and when he speaks his tone is soft, if slightly slurred. “I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk.”
“It takes two.”
“Nah, I started it. It’s just that, well, you’re putting Spotlight together and I’m trying to win a contract with a station in Akron to run team-building exercises.”
Erica feels a wave of guilt. She could hire Greg for Spotlight. But her gut tells her it would be a bad idea. Yes, they were an amazing team before they got married. But a ring changes everything. As empathetic as Greg is, he also has an ego. While they were equals at the start of her career at GNN, today she’s top dog. And she wants to be top dog, without apology. And he is angling for a team-building gig in Akron.
They look at each other in the dim diffuse light coming in through the room’s windows. “I’m proud of your success, and who knows where it will lead,” Erica says. “I’m also exhausted.”
“We’re doing okay, aren’t we?”
Erica feels her throat tighten and tears well up behind her eyes. She reaches up and touches Greg’s cheek. “Yeah, we are.”
He smiles, lopsided, and turns away from her, curling up. Within a minute he’s fast asleep. Erica lies there, trying to control her anxiety.