Selling Out by Dan Wakefield

himself would provide a tax write-off for him, Archer explained. He’d be actually making money by spending it out here!
    â€œHow can we lose?” Perry asked.
    â€œWe can’t,” said Jane, “if we keep on loving each other.”
    They kissed and nestled into one another as they walked up the wet, voluptuous sand, in step. They began to sing together, softly, in harmony.
    The Vardemans’ pool looked too perfect to actually swim in. Breaking the smooth surface of the water would have seemed like an act of vandalism, or, at the very least, a gauche violation of etiquette. It did not really seem like a swimming pool but rather a gigantic gem, a rectangular topaz, stunningly set in elegant tile, surrounded by tall, stately trees within a larger framework of manicured hedges and lawns as smooth and shimmering as glass.
    It was like being on a movie set.
    Except there weren’t any stars.
    At least not today, not for the Sunday brunch to which Pru and Vaughan had finally invited their old buddy Perry and his wife. Though the Vees were famous for hosting the Hollywood “A List,” they must have reached back deep in the social alphabet for this occasion. Instead of Meryl, Glenn, Warren, or Joanne and Paul, the only other guests besides Perry and Jane were an expatriate English novelist and two lesbian librarians from Pacific Palisades.
    Perry thought perhaps the Vees had thoughtfully rounded up the Hollywood literary set in his honor, but then, if this were really the cream of that crowd, where the hell was Gore?
    â€œOf course we’re familiar with your books, Mr. Moss,” the librarian with the leather bracelets assured Perry politely, and her more demure companion said in fact she had read and admired a story of his in a recent O. Henry collection—something to do, she thought, with a rather naif young married couple?
    â€œI’m frightfully afraid I’m not familiar with your oeuvre ,” said Cyril Heathrow, “but then I don’t keep up with you Yanks and your fiction.”
    â€œAre you only here on a visit?” asked Jane.
    â€œA rather extended one,” Heathrow said sardonically, as he crossed one jodhpurred leg over the other and lightly rubbed the leather of his riding boot. “Twenty some years now.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t know your work,” Perry said, beaming. “Are you published here?”
    Heathrow sighed.
    â€œI’m afraid most serious fiction doesn’t travel well across the Atlantic,” he said.
    â€œCyril has been known to turn out a few sharp scripts between the heavy-duty stuff,” Vaughan said. “But I don’t think he’s done any television—that so, Cyril?”
    The Englishman winced.
    â€œOne would have to purposely write down, wouldn’t one?”
    â€œI guess I’m fortunate,” Perry said. “The first thing the guy I’m working with told me was to forget about any preconceptions of television and do my best work. Fact is, Archer Mellis demands quality.”
    â€œHe’s no wetback, huh?” said Vaughan.
    â€œI’ve never had the pleasure of working with a more creative mind,” Perry declared.
    â€œAs long as it’s fun!” Pru said brightly.
    â€œOf course my academic friends are convinced I’m selling out,” Perry said.
    â€œLordsies!” Pru exclaimed. “I haven’t heard that expression in eons .”
    â€œâ€˜Selling out’?” Heathrow asked, furrowing his brows with interest. “Isn’t that peculiarly an Americanism?”
    â€œIt’s pretty much a nineteen-fifties term,” Vaughan explained. “The sort of thing the Man in the Gray Flannel Suit got his migraines about.”
    â€œSome people still take it seriously,” Jane said. “At least out in the sticks, where we come from.”
    â€œWhy not?” Pru said. “I think it’s charming. Freshen your