Good In Bed Part 26

Once, the year before I met Bruce, an agent did meet with me. The thing I remember most about our appointment was that during the entire ten minutes or so he granted me, he never once said my name, or removed his sungla.s.ses.

"I read your screenplay," he said, pushing it across the table toward me with his fingertips, as if it was too distasteful to risk full palm contact. "It was sweet."

"Sweet's not good?" I asked- the obvious conclusion one would draw from the expression on his face.

"Sweet is fine, for children's books, or TGI Fridays on ABC. For movies, well... we'd prefer it if your heroine blew something up." He tapped his pen across the t.i.tle page. Star Struck, it read. Except he'd doodled little fangs coming out of the S's, so they looked like snakes. "Also, I've got to tell you, there's only one fat actress in Hollywood"

"That's not true!" I exploded, abandoning my strategy of smiling politely and keeping quiet, not sure what I was more offended by- his use of the term "fat actress," or the notion that there was only one of them.

"One bankable fat actress," he amended. "And really, the reason is, n.o.body wants to see movies about fat people. Movies are about escape!"

Well. "So... what do I do now?" I asked.

He shook his head, already pushing himself back from the table, already reaching for his cell phone and his valet parking stub. "I just can't see getting involved with this project," he had told me. "I'm sorry." Another Los Angeles lie.

"We're anthropologists," I murmured to Nifkin, and to the baby, as we flew over what might have been Nebraska. I hadn't brought any of my baby books with me, but I figured, if I couldn't read, I could at least explain. "So just think of it as an adventure. And we'll be home before you know it. Back in Philadelphia, where we're appreciated."

We- me, and Nifkin, and my belly, which had gotten to the point where I pretty much regarded it as a separate thing- were in first cla.s.s. Actually, as best I could tell, we were first cla.s.s. Maxi'd sent a limo to my apartment, which had whisked me the nine miles to the airport, where a block of four seats had been reserved in my name and n.o.body so much as batted an eyelash at the presence of a small and ter-rified rat terrier in a green plastic carrying case. We were currently airborne, at our cruising alt.i.tude of 30,000 feet, and I had my feet up on a pillow, a blanket spread over my legs, a chilled gla.s.s of Evian with a twist of lime in my hand, and a glossy a.s.sortment of fresh magazines fanned out on the seat beside me, beneath which Nifkin reposed.Cosmo, Glamour, Mademoiselle, Mirabella, Moxie. The brand-new April issue of Moxie.

I picked it up, hearing my heart start thumping, feeling the sick feeling in the pit of my belly, and the familiar cold sweat at the back of my neck.

I put it down. Why should I upset myself? I was happy, I was successful, I was flying to Hollywood first cla.s.s to collect a bigger paycheck than he'd ever see in his life, not to mention the mandatory hob-n.o.bbing with superstars.

I picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

"s.h.i.t," I muttered, to no one in particular, and flipped to "Good in Bed."

"The Things She Left Behind," I read.

"I don't love her anymore," the article began.

When I wake up in the morning, she isn't the first thing that I think of- whether she's here, and when I'll see her, and when I can hold her again. I wake up and think about work, my new girlfriend, or, more likely, my family, and my mother, and how she'll manage in the wake of my father's recent death.

I can hear our song on the radio and not instantly punch up another station. I can see her byline and not feel like someone large and angry is stomping on top of my heart. I can go to the Tick Tock Diner, where we used to go for late-night omelets and fries, where we'd sit side by side in a booth and grin dopey grins at each other. I can sit in that same booth without remembering how she'd start off sitting across from me and then, halfway through, get up and plop herself down beside me. "I'm just being sociable," she'd say, every time. "I'm paying you a visit. h.e.l.lo, neighbor!" she'd say, and kiss me, and kiss me until the waitress with the blond bouffant and the coffee pot in each hand would stop and shake her head.

I have reclaimed the Tick Tock. Once it was our place, now it's my place again. It's right on my way home from work, and I like the spinach and feta omelet, and I can even order it sometimes without remembering how she'd bare her teeth at me in the parking lot, demanding to know whether she had spinach stuck between them.

It's the little things that get me, every time.

Last night I was sweeping- my new girlfriend was coming over, and I wanted things to look nice- and I found a single kibble of dog food, wedged in a crack between the tiles.

I returned the obvious stuff, of course, the clothes and the jewelry, and I tossed out the rest. Her letters are boxed up in my closet, her picture's banished to the bas.e.m.e.nt. But how do you guard against a single kibble's worth of her dog's Purina Small Bites that's somehow survived, undetected, for months, only to surface in your dustpan and send you reeling? How do people survive this?

Everyone has history, my girlfriend says, trying to soothe me. Everyone has baggage, everyone carries parts of their past around. She's a kindergarten teacher, a student of sociology, a professional empath; she knows the right things to say. But it makes me furious to find C.'s cherry Chap Stick in my glove box, a single blue mitten in the pocket of my winter coat. Furious, too, over the things I can't find: my tie-dye tank top and the Cheesasaurus Rex T-shirt I got for sending in three box tops from Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, because I know she's got them and I'll never get them back.

I think that when relationships end there should be Thing Amnesty Day. Not right away, when you're both still raw and broken and aching and probably p.r.o.ne to ill-advised s.e.x, but down the road, when you can still be civil, but before you've completed the process of turning your former beloved into just a memory.

Turning your former beloved into a memory, I thought sadly. So that's what he's doing. Except... well, turning a former lover into a memory is one thing, but turning a child into a minor distraction, into something you can't even be bothered with... well, that was something else. Something infuriating. Ill-advised s.e.x, indeed! What about the consequences of his little slip-up!

But for now, I hired a cleaning crew for my apartment. The floors, I told them, showing them the kibble I'd found, muttering dire predictions about bugs and mice and other a.s.sorted vermin. But really, I am haunted by memories.

I don't love her anymore. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Oof. I leaned back in the plush, double-wide leather-clad reclining seat and closed my eyes, feeling the most potent and horrible mixture of sadness and fury- and sudden, overwhelming hope- that for a minute I thought I'd throw up. He'd written this three months ago. That was how long magazines took to print things. Had he seen my letter? Did he know I was pregnant? And what was he feeling now?

"He still misses me," I murmured, with my hand on my belly. So did that mean there was hope? I thought for a minute that maybe I'd mail him his Cheesasaurus Rex T-shirt, as a sign... as a peace offering. Then I remembered that the last thing I'd mailed him was news that I was having his baby, and he hadn't even bothered to pick up the phone and ask me how I was.

"He doesn't love me anymore," I reminded myself. And I wondered how E. felt, reading this... E. the kindergarten teacher with her sweet talk of baggage and her small, soft hands. Did she wonder why he wrote about me, after all this time? Did she wonder why he still cared? Did he care, or was that just my wishful thinking? And if I called, what would he say?

I turned restlessly in my seat, flipping the pillow, then scrunching it against the window and leaning against it. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the captain was announcing our descent into beautiful Los Angeles, where the sun was shining and the winds were from the southwest and where it was a perfect 80 degrees.

I got off the plane with my pockets full of little gifts the flight girls had pressed upon me, packets of Mint Milanos and foil-wrapped chocolates and complimentary eye masks and washcloths and socks. I had Nifkin's carrier in one hand, my bag in the other. In the bag was a week's worth of underwear, my Pregnancy Packable kit, minus the long skirt and tunic, which I was wearing, and a few fistfuls of a.s.sorted hygiene products that I'd thrust in at the last minute. A nightgown, some sneakers, my telephone book, my journal, and a dog-eared copy of Your Healthy Baby.

"How long will you be?" my mother had asked the night before I'd left. The boxes and bags of what I'd bought at the mall were still strewn in the hallway and kitchen, like fallen bodies. But the crib, I'd noticed, was put together perfectly. Dr. K. must have done it while I was on the phone with Maxi.

"Just a weekend. Maybe a few days longer." I told her.

"You told this Maxi person about the baby, right?" she'd fretted.

"Yes, Mom, I told her."

"And you'll call, right?"

I rolled my eyes, told her yes, and walked Nifkin over to Sa-mantha's, to give her the good news.

"Details!" she demanded, handing me a cup of tea and settling on her couch.

I told her what I knew: that I'd be selling my screenplay to the studio, that I'd need to find an agent, and that I'd be meeting some of the producers. I didn't mention that Maxi had urged me to find a place to stay for a while, in case I wanted to be in California for the inevitable revisions and rewrites.

"That is completely unbelievable!" Samantha said, and hugged me. "Cannie, it's just great!"

And it was great, I mused, as I trudged down the jetway with Nifkin's case banging against my leg. "Airport," I murmured to the baby. And there, at the gate, was April. I recognized her instantly from New York. Same knee-high black leather boots, only now her hair was drawn up into a ponytail at the top center of her head, and there was something strange happening between her nose and her chin. It took me a minute to figure out that she was smiling.

"Cannie!" she said, and waved and took my hand. "It's such a pleasure to finally meet you!" She raked her eyes over me in the way that I'd remembered, lingering just a beat or two too long on my stomach, but her smile was firmly in place by the time her eyes met mine. "A towering talent," she p.r.o.nounced. "Loved the screenplay. Loved it, loved it. As soon as Maxi showed it to me, I told her two things. I said, Maxi, you are Josie Weiss, and I said, I cannot wait to meet the genius who created her."

I thought briefly about telling her that we had, in fact, already met, and it had been the single worst reporting experience of that month, possibly the entire year. I wondered if she'd hear me if I whispered "hypocrite" to the baby. But then I decided, why rock the boat? Maybe she genuinely didn't recognize me. I hadn't looked pregnant the last time she'd seen me, any more than she'd been smiling.

April bent to peer into the carrying case. "And you must be little Nifty!" she cooed. Nifkin started growling. April appeared not to notice. "What a beautiful dog," she said. I snorted back laughter, and Nifkin continued to growl so hard that his cage was vibrating. Nifkin has many fine qualities, but beauty is not among them.

"How was your flight?" April asked me, blinking rapidly and smiling still. I wondered if this was how she treated her famous clients. I wondered if I was a client already, if Maxi had gone ahead and signed a pact in blood, or whatever one did to acquire the services of someone like April.

"Fine. Very nice, really. I've never been in first cla.s.s before."

April linked her arm through mine like we were grade-school chums. Her forearm fit neatly below my right breast. I tried to ignore it. "Get used to it," she advised me. "Your whole life's about to change. Just sit back and enjoy the ride!"

April deposited me in a suite in the Beverly Wilshire, explaining that the studio was putting me up there for the night. Even if it was for one night only, I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, if they'd gone with the indie-alterna ending, where the prost.i.tute winds up pregnant and alone, with only her little dog for comfort.

The suite might very well be the one where they filmed Pretty Woman. It was big, and bright, and deluxe in every way. The walls were covered in gold and cream striped wallpaper, the floors were lined with ultra-plush beige carpeting, and the bathroom was a study in marble shot through with veins of gold. The bathroom was also, I noted, the size of my living room back home, with a bathtub big enough to accommodate a vigorous game of water polo, if I'd been so inclined.

"Fancy schmancy," I noted for the baby, and opened a pair of French doors to find a bed that looked big as a tennis court, all done in crisp white sheets, topped with a fluffy pink and gold comforter. Everything was clean and new-smelling and so gorgeous I was almost afraid to touch it. There was also an elaborate bouquet waiting for me beside the bed. "Welcome!" read the card, from Maxi.

"Bouquet," I informed the baby. "Very expensive, probably." Nifkin had bounded out of his carrier and was busily making a sniffing tour of the suite. He glanced at me briefly, then rose up on his hind legs to dip his nose toward the toilet. Once that had pa.s.sed muster, he scampered into the bedroom.

I got him settled on a pillow on the bed, and took a bath, and wrapped myself in the Wilshire robe. I called room service and ordered hot tea and strawberries and fresh pineapple, and liberated some Evian and a box of Choco Leibniz, king of all cookies, from the minibar, without even blanching at the $8 price tag, which was at least triple what the cookies would have cost in Philadelphia. Then I lay back on two of the six pillows that came with the bed and clapped my hands together, laughing. "I'm here!" I crowed, as Nifkin barked to keep me company. "I did it!"

Then I called every single person I could think of.

"If you eat at any of Wolfgang Puck's restaurants, get the duck pizza," counseled Andy, in full food-critic mode.

"Fax me anything before you sign it," urged Samantha, and proceeded to spout five minutes' worth of lawyer-ese before I calmed her down.

"Take notes!" said Betsy.

"Take pictures!" said my mother.

"You brought my head shots, right?" demanded Lucy.

I promised that I'd lobby for Lucy, take notes for future columns for Betsy and pictures for Mom, fax anything legal-looking to Samantha and eat duck pizza for Andy. Then I noticed the business card propped on one of the pillows, engraved with the words Maxi Ryder. Under her name was the single word Garth, a telephone number, and an address on Ventura Boulevard. "Be there at 7 o'clock. Drinks and amus.e.m.e.nts to follow," it said.

"Drinks and amus.e.m.e.nts," I murmured, and stretched out on the bed. I could smell the fresh flowers, and could hear the faint sound of cars buzzing from thirty-two floors below. Then I closed my eyes and didn't wake up until it was 6:30. I splashed water on my face, scrambled into my shoes, and hurried out the door.

Garth turned out to be the Garth, hairdresser to the stars, although at first I thought the cab had dropped me off at an art gallery. It was an easy mistake to make. Garth's salon lacked the typical trappings: the row of sinks, the stacks of thumbed-through magazines, the receptionist's desk. In fact, there didn't seem to be anyone at all inside the high-ceilinged room, decorated with a single chair, a single sink, and a single floor-to-ceiling antique mirror except... Garth.

I sat in the chair while the man who'd put the b.u.t.tery chunks into Britney Spears's tresses, who'd given Hillary her highlights and Jennifer Lopez henna, lifted and replaced sections of my hair, touching and scrutinizing it with the cool detachment of a scientist, and tried to explain myself.

"See, you're not supposed to color your hair when you're pregnant," I began. "And I wasn't expecting to get pregnant, so I'd just had my highlights done, and they've been growing out for six months and I know it looks terrible..."

"Who did this to you?" Garth asked mildly.

"Um, the pregnancy or the highlights?"

He smiled at me in the mirror and picked up another piece of my hair. "These weren't done... here?" he asked delicately.

"Oh, no. In Philadelphia." Blank look from Garth. "In Pennsylvania." Truth was, I'd gotten it done at the beauty school on Bainbridge Street, and I thought they'd done a pretty good job, but from the look on his face I could tell that Garth would not agree.

"Oh, dear," he breathed quietly. He took a comb, a little spritz-bottle of water. "Do you have any strong feelings about, um..." I could tell he was groping for the kindest word to describe what was happening on top of my head.

"I have lots of strong feelings, but none about my hair," I told him. "Do with me what you will."

It took him close to two hours: first cutting, then combing, then snipping the ends, then rinsing my head in a garnet-red solution he swore was completely natural, chemical free, derived from only the purest organic vegetables and absolutely guaranteed not to harm my unborn child.

"You're a screenwriter?" Garth said once I'd been rinsed. He was holding my chin, tilting my head this way and that.

"Unproduced, so far."

"Things are going to happen for you. You've got that aura."

"Oh, that's probably just the soap from the hotel."

He leaned in close and started tweezing my eyebrows. "Don't tear yourself down," he told me. He smelled of some wonderful cologne, and, even inches from my face, his skin was flawless.

Once he'd shaped my brows to his satisfaction, he rinsed out my hair, blew it dry, and spent about half an hour applying different creams and powders to my face. "I don't wear much makeup," I protested. "Chap Stick and mascara. That's pretty much it."

"Don't worry. This is going to be subtle."

I had my doubts. He'd already brushed three different shades of shadow around my eyes, including one that looked practically violet. But when he whipped the cape off me and twirled me to face the mirror, I felt sorry for even thinking about doubting him. My skin was glowing. My cheeks were the color of a perfect, ripe apricot. My lips were full, a warm wine color, curling with a faint hint of amus.e.m.e.nt even though I wasn't aware that I was smiling. And I didn't notice the eyeshadow, just my eyes, which seemed much bigger, much more compelling. I looked like myself, only more so... like the best, most happy version of myself.

And my hair...

"This is the best haircut I've ever had," I told him. I ran my fingers through it slowly. It had gone from a raggedy mouse-brown bob with a few haphazard highlights to a rich, shimmering tortoisesh.e.l.l color, shot through with strands of gold and bronze and copper. He'd cut it short, the tendrils just brushing my cheeks, and let its natural wave remain in place, and he'd tucked it behind my ear on one side, giving me the look of a gamine. Sure, a pregnant gamine, but who was I to complain? "This may be the best haircut anyone's ever had."

The sound of applause came from the doorway. And there was Maxi, wearing a black slip dress with spaghetti straps and black sandals. She had diamond studs in her ears and a single diamond on a thin silver chain around her neck. The dress tied around her neck and left her back bare almost enough to display b.u.t.t cleavage. I could see the tender buds of her shoulderblades, each marble-sized vertebra, the perfectly symmetrical sprinkling of freckles on her shoulders.

"Cannie! My G.o.d," she said, studying first my hair, and then my belly. "You're... wow."

"Did you think I was kidding?" I said, and laughed at her awed expression.

She knelt down in front of me. "Can I..."

"Sure," I said. She laid one hand flat on my belly, and, after a moment, the baby obligingly kicked.

"Ooh!" said Maxi, yanking her hand back as if she'd been burned.

"Don't worry. You won't hurt her. Or me."

"So it's a girl?" asked Garth.

"Nothing official. I just have a feeling," I said.

Maxi, meanwhile, was circling me as if I were a piece of property she was thinking about buying. "What does Bruce have to say about this?" she inquired.

I shook my head. "Nothing, as far as I know. I haven't heard from him."

Maxi stopped circling and stared at me, her eyes wide. "Nothing? Still?"

"Not kidding," I said.

"I could have him killed," Maxi offered. "Or even just beaten up. I could send, say, half a dozen angry rugby players with baseball bats to break his legs..."

"Or his bong," I suggested. "It'd probably hurt him worse."

Maxi grinned. "Do you feel okay? Are you hungry? Or sleepy? Do you feel like going out, because if you don't, that's no problem at all"

I grinned at her, and tossed my fabulous hair. "Of course I want to go out! I'm in Hollywood! I've got makeup on! Let's go!"

I offered Garth a credit card, but he shooed me away, telling me not to worry, it was all taken care of, and if I'd only promise to come back in six weeks to have my ends trimmed he'd consider that payment enough. I thanked him and thanked him until Maxi dragged me out the door. Her small silver car was pulled up to the curb. I got in carefully, aware of my shifting center of gravity... and aware that, next to Maxi, even with my fabulous new hair and gorgeous Garth-enhanced complexion, even in my semichic black matte tunic and skirt and not unhip black slides, I still felt like a dowdy dirigible. A gamine dirigible, at least, I thought, as Maxi zoomed across three lanes of honking cars and accelerated through a yellow light.

"I arranged for the doormen at the hotel to look in on Nifkin, in case we're out late," she shouted, as the warm night wind blew in our faces. "Also, I rented him a cabana."