A development deal meant producing scripts that fulfilled the wishes of a focus group rather than Max’s own creative whims. He was established enough to tell the studios he was going independent and if they liked what he was doing they could discuss a price.
So, six weeks after moving in with him, I was settling into an office down the hall from Max’s.
The company was in Century City, a little more than halfway between Malibu and L.A., about thirty minutes from our house. It was a one-story brick building, and the walls inside were also brick, with thick oak rafters and wood floors in the open space. Max had decorated the place with movie posters — not just the ones he’d worked on, but some of his favorite movies as well — giving it a real studio feel, even though he was glad to get away from the confined nature of that part of the business.
There were four full-time employees whose responsibilities ranged from finance to talent acquisition to procurement of equipment to travel for location scouting and all other travel needs. Max had hired them away from the studio, grabbing the best people on his way out.
I was Max’s manager, which meant I pretty much ran the place, doing everything Max couldn’t do himself and didn’t want to hand off to just anyone. There was a definite learning curve, and Max, true to form, was a magnificent teacher.
My job was far different than that of an agent, so I wasn’t replacing Lyle Ridge, who had been Max’s agent for years. Lyle had a huge client list, but always took Max’s call or mine in a timely fashion. He was a soft-spoken man, and way more easy-going than any agent I’d ever been around, but he was sharp and had connections to everyone in town.
Max came into my office one day and said, “Let’s talk about money.”
I was sitting in my black leather chair behind the glass and chrome desk. Max sat down in one of the visitor’s chair, smiling.
“Money…as in the budget for the new film?”
He shook his head. “Your money. Your salary.”
We had touched on the topic previously, but hadn’t settled the issue.
“I’ve made up my mind, and since I’m the boss, you have to accept whatever I offer you or you are of course free to resign.”
I pushed my chair back and put my feet up on the desk, crossing my legs. “Shoot.”
“You’re distracting me,” he said. “Such a tease.”
His eyes started their journey at my bare feet and traveled up my legs. I was wearing a black pencil skirt and a caramel tank. I had slipped out of my heels shortly before he walked in.
“Me?” I said, feigning ignorance. “When do I ever tease you?”
“Just by being alive, you tease me. So how about you put those pretty legs down and let’s get on with business.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, swinging my legs back under the desk and slipping my feet back into my shoes.
“I’ll get right to the point. I’m going to pay you exactly what I pay myself,” he said. “That way, if you decide to leave, you won’t be a financial hostage to me.”
I sat there surprised. “I’m not going anywhere. Why — ”
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Liv, but if you do…well, you can. I need to know that you’re staying with me because you want to, not because you have to.”
I stood and walked around my desk over to Max, sat on is lap, put my arms around his neck, and kissed his forehead.
As gently as I could, I said, “Honestly, it feels like some kind of test. A while back you told me you felt like so many people wanted to be close to you because they could get something from you. And maybe that’s the case. But you told me I was nothing like that.”
He shook his head. “You’re not, and I know that. Just trust my reasoning. And, by the way…I’m not testing you, I’m making you rich.”
I did trust Max’s reasoning. I trusted everything about him. Completely. And the rich thing sounded pretty damn good.
He looked at me intensely, reached up and put his hand on the side of my face, pulling my head down, and he sealed his lips around mine.
. . . . .
Ever since Max told me how he came to be in California, I had wanted to meet his mother. Leaving home and coming out here was an intriguing and defining moment in his life, and I wanted to meet the woman who had raised him to be the man he was today.
Paula Dalton lived in Thousand Oaks, about 30 minutes away from our house. Max drove us in his BMW X5 SUV, opting for that instead of his Porsche, saying, “I don’t drive this as fast and I want you to see the scenery.”
It was a gorgeous sunny day, and we had the top down. I had to hold my hair in place as the Pacific breeze whipped through it. We didn’t talk, but instead listened to the songs on my iPhone as we rode up.
Max’s mother lived in a one-story ranch home. The lawn was perfectly manicured, and I made a comment to Max about it as we pulled into the driveway.
“Don’t get out just yet,” he said, looking over at me as he put the car in Park.
I thought he meant that he was going to open my door for me, but just as I was about to ask why, the answer was provided by the yelping of two white West Highland Terriers who were circling the car, checking it out, and barking a warning to their owner.
“They have free run of the place,” Max said, “but they have those electronic fence collars.”
He got out and the two dogs gathered at his feet. I opened the door and before my shoe hit the driveway, the little guys had lost all interest in Max and greeted me, the newcomer, instead.
I knelt down to pet them.
Max came around to my side of the car and said, “Meet Zeke and Dolly. Don’t ask me which is which.”
Just then I heard his mother’s voice. “Max, you can tell them apart by their collars.”
“The way they move so fast, it’s hard to tell.”
I looked up and saw Max hug his mom and kiss her on the cheek.
I stood from my crouching position, as the dogs yelped their disapproval of not having my full attention anymore.
Max’s mother was in her late fifties, but didn’t look it. The old pictures Max had showed me led me to believe she just might answer her door wearing an apron, with her hair up in a bun, and sporting glasses with a beaded chain. I guess maybe I was expecting someone who looked more like Alice the housekeeper from The Brady Bunch than a woman who looked like she could have been a character actress who stepped off the set of a soap opera.
She had blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and perfectly straight, white teeth. She was in as good a shape as any fifty-something-year-old woman I had ever seen.