Rochelle | Ep. 1 of 3 | Feat. Rosanna Arquette and Nazanin Boniadi | WIGS


Uploaded by wigs on 27.08.2012

Transcript:
Oh God I—
I planned to be here before you. I am so sorry! I couldn’t find a place to park.
I’ve been here barely a moment.
Rod said that you were exquisite, but even so, I didn’t imagine…
You’re very kind.
We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Panna Jalalawal.
Rochelle. Epling? No that’s my—that’s my brother’s name.
And yours?
I hope you don’t mind, but, um, I don’t see the point in that just now.
Oh it’s my regular practice, Rochelle. If we want to proceed, I’m gonna need your full name, address and social security number.
Social security!
I do a full credit check.
But can we just talk a bit?
Sure.
It wasn’t easy to find you. I mean, I thought about this for a long time, but how does somebody like me look for someone like you?
You move to the suburbs in your 20s because you think you’re doing your children a favor, and maybe you are.
But then you look up 25 years later and the one that’s paid the price is you.
They’re living in the city, they’re going to clubs—the restaurant opened by the latest winner on Top Chef, and you’re just, well…
Out of it.
And then suddenly alone.
But the biggest problem is that you know nothing about the world, the real world, any longer.
They say you can find everything on the Internet, so I poked around a bit and I—I found some listings.
Who are these people? Half of them are probably police.
Well I’d’ve been disappointed if I was too easy to find, Rochelle.
I’d like to think of myself as a rare commodity. No piercings, no tattoos, no drug habit.
I read the Wall Street Journal every morning. I don’t deal with anyone without a reference.
Well so I—I forgot about it and then I was having lunch with my brother and he gave me your name.
I should’ve figured with Rod.
Rod said you had a proposal for me, something different, but he wasn’t sure what it was, exactly.
It is different, Hannah.
Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Panna.
Banna.
P, as in ‘prostitute.’
Rochelle, I already explained this to Rod, I don’t sleep with women, not for money.
But if that’s what you’re interested in I can give you a number. Grace is really quite lovely.
Oh my God, no, no, no. It’s not for me. Well, it is for me, I mean, I’ll pay you. Yes, I will pay you. But, I want you to sleep with my husband.
Oh, I see. And you’re going to join us, is that the plan?
No. My husband—my ex-husband—is a total asshole.
And you want to pay an attractive young woman to sleep with him? Rod’s right, this is definitely interesting.
I won’t be party to any plan to do him physical harm. I don’t break legs.
Well it’s—it’s his heart that I was thinking about.
I don’t want you just to have sex with him, I want you to make him fall in love with you—so that little bitch can get hers—and then I want you to walk away.
I want you to grind out his heart like a cigarette butt under your heal.
Charlie is a man who’s been lucky in everything, all his life. He plays golf and it’s his ball that hits the trees and goes into the fairway.
It’s time for him to deal with something he’s never known before.
Which is?
Loss. That huge savage void that’s there when someone you adore has no use for you anymore.
I see. How will I meet him?
Well I haven’t figured that part out yet, but, well he lives in his office.
And, I supposed that’s the logical place. Maybe you could take a job there.
I’m not sure this is something I should boast about, but I’ve never worked a nine-to-five. I’m rarely ever awake before 10 a.m.
Well then apply part-time, tell them you’re a student, I mean, half the girls they hire there as receptionists are. And they’re always in the market for a new one.
Rochelle. I get paid by the hour. This job doesn’t even come close. And the difference would make this very expensive for you.
Oh, I have money. Charlie gave me gobs of money to help salve his conscience. But I didn’t let him get away with it.
As soon as we were divorced, I went right back to court and I asked for more.
I’m sorry, but you seem really angry.
Angry?
In high definition.
In 3D.
I worked two jobs to support him through business school, I bore him two sons that I raised mostly by myself.
I smiled through client dinners and disease of the week charity events that he had to be seen at.
I listened to his tirades about the idiots he worked with.
I flattered his ego where he barely thought about mine.
I let him bang me at six a.m. three times a week with about as much tenderness as a city worker filling a pothole.
I bent my life around his for 26 years, and then he decides to throw me away like a used tissue for Berry, this little sunflower with big tits.
Someone I actually entertained in my house. More than once.
She was heartbroken about her own divorce.
His fucking personal assistant. Who I guess then became his personal fucking assistant.
So yeah, I’m angry.
I—I just need to know that you can make him fall in love with you. Can you?
I can be the perfect emblem of the success he has, doesn’t think he deserves.
If that’s what this girl really means to him, I can be more. Younger. More beautiful.
Let’s face it, Rochelle, this girl's an amateur.
I’m a pro.