Page 49 of The Malibu Arrangement

"Need to get into my wife's computer." I explain my plan. "Want to see if she can actually write or if she's just another Hollywood dreamer."

"Dude," he says, with a laugh, “ever consider just asking her to show you her scripts?"

I sigh into the phone. "Christ, Rome. Of course I thought of that. She doesn't think she's any good—too embarrassed to let me see anything. Maybe she's right about her talent. If so, I'd rather not humiliate her by letting on that I snooped. But if she's got something real? I can pull some strings."

“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “Give him a call.”

“Thanks, Rome,” I say.

I reach out to Sven, who promises to deliver her screenplays to my inbox within the hour. For someone who makes his living breaking into Fortune 500 security systems, grabbing a few documents from a personal server is barely worth getting out of bed for.

Then I get back to work. My phone buzzes with seventeen new emails since lunch, three marked urgent from the legal team about rights clearances for the Spielberg project. Three scripts need notes by tomorrow, the marketing team is waiting on my approval for the winter slate poster designs, and somewhere in this chaos, I'm supposed to find time to placate a nervous investor who's threatening to pull out of our next summer blockbuster. My assistant pokes her head in to remind me about the 3PM call with the London office, and the development team has left three different script drafts on my desk with Post-its requesting feedback "ASAP."

I have plenty to fill my plate, but, somehow, this Celeste screenplay thing is paramount in my mind. I’m that anxious to find out if she has any talent.

I'm halfway through drafting an email to Chris Nolan about the summer slate when Sven's message appears in my inbox. My cursor hovers, trembling slightly. The anticipation of opening her screenplays feels both exhilarating and terrifying—like unwrapping a gift that might contain either treasure or disaster. Whatever waits inside those files will keep me up until dawn. The first ten pages will tell me if there's promise; by the third script, I'll know for certain if she's the real deal.

God, I hope she is.

Chapter Forty

RELIEF

Max

It's been twelve hours since I cracked open the first of Celeste's screenplays, and I haven't slept a wink. Six o’clock last night until now, script after script, and I feel like I've discovered buried treasure. The breadth of her work floored me. She tackles figures I'd never imagine on screen—like this nebbish Holocaust hero, Varian Fry, who smuggled Chagall and Ernst and thousands more right under Nazi noses. Then there's her take on Tamara Lempicka—Russian aristocrat turned penniless refugee who sold her last jewels after the Bolsheviks took everything, before reinventing herself as a bisexual Art Deco pioneer.

Those weren't the only ones, just the ones that grabbed me hardest. What gets me is how she makes these historical figures breathe. She finds the perfect dramatic moments without ever feeling exploitative. The rhythm of her storytelling—knowing exactly when to accelerate, when to let silence speak, when to bring everything home—it's instinctual. When her characters talk, I hear real voices. They're messy and complicated and brave all at once, never just heroes or villains.

Then there were her rom-coms—vibrant, sparkling gems that made me spill coffee down my shirt from laughing so unexpectedly. She has an uncanny mastery of that genre, weaving those perfect meet-cutes where you can feel the electricity crackling between characters from their first disastrous encounter. Her dialogue snaps with the rhythm of classic Nora Ephron, but with a modern edge that feels fresh. The genre might have gathered dust on studio shelves lately, but I've tracked the streaming numbers—viewers are hungry again for that intoxicating cocktail of humor and heart. I've been searching for months for the right rom-com to greenlight.

Then came a handful of offbeat dramedies: one about a family of misfits harboring shadowy pasts, coming together on Thanksgiving, where secrets are spilled; another featuring peculiar small-town characters on paths to salvation; and a third following a group of forty-something women confronting their life choices while driving beat-up cars through America's overlooked backroads. I could imagine these stories blossoming under Alexander Payne's bittersweet Midwestern touch, or through Wes Anderson's meticulous symmetrical frames and pastel color palettes, or even with Paul Thomas Anderson's sweeping, character-driven intensity that somehow makes three hours feel like thirty minutes.

My wife is extraordinary—a hidden masterpiece waiting to be discovered. I can't fathom how Hollywood has overlooked her. Her scripts deserve recognition, and soon. I catch myself smiling like a fool imagining Celeste finally stepping into the spotlight she deserves. Reading her work, I sense years of quiet dedication behind every line. This level of craftsmanship only comes from someone who's poured their essence into the page. It infuriates me that she's been passed over repeatedly. I understand the cutthroat nature of screenwriting, but talent this exceptional shouldn't languish in obscurity.

I jab Selena's number into my phone, drumming my fingers against the desk until she picks up on the fourth ring. "Selena.”

“Hey, Max, what’s up?”

“Three scripts landing in your inbox in five minutes. Celeste Jenkins. I need your eyes on every page by six." I pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough. "And Selena? This isn't a favor—it's your priority today."

She nods. "On it." Selena Farley doesn't say no to anyone who controls as many studio deals as I do. Even with her roster of Oscar winners and box office champions, she knows where the real power in this town lies.

“Oh, and Selena? Not a word to Celeste about who sent these to you. Not one word. This is important. And I’d like you to call her today after you read several of these scripts. I know you’re busy, but this is paramount.”

“Got it, Max,” Selena says.

Then I hang up the phone and relish seeing Celeste tonight. Selena will call her today because I asked her to and she’ll do it. Celeste’s eyes will light up like I haven’t seen before. And I’ll secretly know that I helped her achieve her dream. That’s priceless to me.

Chapter Forty-One

A DELIGHTED SURPRISE

Celeste

The memory of Saturday night makes me cringe. Who ditches someone by pretending to use the bathroom, then sneaking out to call an Uber? Especially when we were actually having a good time. A really good time. Not in a romantic way—definitely not romantic—just two friends hanging out. But for once I'd stopped overthinking every word, every gesture. I'd laughed without calculating how it would sound.

Now I skulk around the mansion like a ghost, taking ridiculous detours to avoid the main kitchen where I might bump into him. I miss my morning chats with Rosa, but what would I even say to Max if I ran into him? "Sorry I vanished without a word"?