S
he sent the e-mail and sat back from her computer, feeling sick with rage. As usual, Ralph Anderman was behaving as if his interests outweighed those of everyone else in the world.
His
convenience,
his
reputation,
his
precious tender feelings. Her feelings were always ridiculous and hysterical. Well, she was going to show him what it felt like to be used and discarded. Then he could have some ridiculous feelings of his own.
As she closed her laptop, the intercom buzzed. She checked herself in the mirror, admiring the generous curves of her body, displayed to their best advantage in a clingy wraparound dress. At a glance, it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra; she would make sure Liam noticed that she also had no panties on. She had considered meeting him in the nude, but decided that her naked body—familiar to him and millions of other viewers of her show—would be more provocative held just out of reach than openly displayed. She needed a boost to her confidence right now. And the more desperate she could make him, the more she would be able to count on him in the battles yet to come.
She buzzed him in, and a minute later his knock came at the door. Valerie counted to twenty, slowly, before going to answer it, using the time to inspect the room. Because her apartment was a loft, the bed was visible from any point, and she had arranged a few pieces of frilly underwear among its disordered sheets. On the floor by the television set was the DVD case for Liam’s only nonporn film, a straight-to-cable cowboy picture. The image she wanted to conjure in his mind was of herself lying in bed naked, watching Liam. At last she went to the door.
The man who came in was a prime example of clean-cut, square-jawed, all-American good looks. He had thick sandy hair and rugged features; not only his legs but his arms were like tree trunks. His nickname among the actors was Pony, for the obvious reason. No one was allowed to use that name publicly, though; Babylona felt vulgarity of that kind would put off female viewers. Liam “Pony” Peterson had more than his share of female fans who tuned in faithfully for the X-rated cowboy drama in which he starred,
The Mountain Lion,
centered around a saloon/brothel in the Wild West. Liam played the sheriff, who was always being seduced by scheming prostitutes and lovelorn schoolmarms while never losing his dedication to the common good. Since the show was what they called a one-fuck, meaning that there was only one explicit scene per episode (amid long stretches of fondling and gratuitous nudity), it was a relatively prestigious job. In theory, the show was about the writing and the acting, though Valerie herself considered this to be self-deception on the part of both the actors and the viewers. Porn was porn. In her view, XTV was rotten with this sort of empty pretension. When she was running the channel, all that nonsense would be thrown out.
“Liam,” she said with an affectation of glowing pleasure, “Welcome.”
“Hi, Valerie.” He came in, looking around nervously. She saw his eyes registering the disordered bed and then lingering on the DVD cover—bull’s-eye. He said, “I brought you that schedule.” In his Texas accent, the word “schedule” came out as “skejjle,” and at first Valerie didn’t understand. Then her face melted into a broad smile.
“Oh, you darling! Thank you so much! I know you’re sticking your neck out for me.”
“Oh, well. That’s nothing compared to what you’re offering to do for me, Val. I’m pleased to help.”
He handed her a folder and then followed her to a low boxy sofa with blue chrome legs. The upholstery was a kind of beige burlap, and he ran his fingers over the rough weave and raised his eyebrows, as he sat. “Real interesting place you got here. I like this. It’s kind of . . . tactile.”
“Uh-huh,” she said absentmindedly, sitting with the folder open on her knees. “Thanks.”
“You see you’re in the schedule, Val, so I guess you don’t have to worry about that. I told you you didn’t have to worry.”
It was the schedule for the televised portions of Babylona’s birthday party, a six-hour special that would run concurrently with the celebrations and be used to raise money for . . . whatever it was. Valerie scanned the printout, her jaw setting as she skimmed through the prime-time slots and saw Emily’s and Jared’s names. Her ratings were consistently higher than theirs, but they were always treated as the stars. Babylona insisted on believing that people watched her show for the news—as if anyone needed to keep up-to-date on sex industry gossip. If the appeal was in the human interest slots, wasn’t it because of the work she put in, pushing the writing team to produce excellence? Yet . . . but there was her slot, V. LEBLANC + TK
+
at ten p.m. She sighed with a dizzy sense of relief.
“You see?” Liam grinned. “You got the plum slot there, Val, ’cause you’ll be coming in after Emily and before the big orgy thing, so you got that, uh, sandwich position.”
“I don’t know if Emily will really get the numbers anymore,” she said automatically. But she couldn’t deny that she was pleased. She reached over and gave Liam a shoulder hug, saying, “And
you’ve
got the plum slot, too, let’s not forget.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, they’ll tune in for you. This is a big deal, what you’re doing. I think you’re real brave.”
With her arm still around his shoulders, she looked up into his eyes with naive trustfulness. “I’m glad my first time will be with you, Liam. I always had a . . . No, I can’t say it.” She turned her face away as if hiding a blush.
“Oh, you can say anything to me, Val. You know I would have cut off my right leg to be there for you, and I’m so proud you picked me. I mean, anything you’ve got to say, I want to hear.”
Valerie couldn’t help smiling. Her mind flitted back to Ralph and she felt a hot glow of triumph in her chest. It had to mean something that
all
the men she’d asked were crazy to sleep with her (
All but Jared,
a part of her mind objected, but she hushed that rebellious voice hastily). Some of them had been calling three times a day. Of course, when she had to disappoint them later, there would be some temporary upset. But in her experience, a woman never did herself any harm by turning men down, however arbitrarily. It never did any harm to be exposed in a lie—it only made men more desperate. It was gratifying to reflect that just by pursuing her own goals, completely naturally, she could create this atmosphere of (why avoid the word?) love.
She took a deep breath and said, a little bashfully, “I guess I had a crush on you.”
Liam reached to take her hand. “Had? You got over it?” His voice was choked with emotion.
“If I’d gotten over it,” she said, turning to meet his eyes with a look of timid longing, “why would I have asked you to be my first?”
His eyes were burning into hers in a way that made her feel—what was it she felt? It was something close to fear, a vulnerability that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. She said, “Would you kiss me?” playing it according to the script she’d prewritten for herself, though part of her longed to escape from him, from the feeling of being exposed and weak.
He bent to kiss her, his lips tender on hers. As he took her in his arms, she realized she was trembling. Good—that would make the right impression. But she was trembling in earnest, her body longing for something from him that she knew he couldn’t give. Wouldn’t give. He would pretend to give it to her, but she knew it was fake. All he wanted was . . .
“Valerie,” he said, his cheek pressed lightly against hers, his breath hot and soft on her ear. “I got such a crush on you I don’t know what to call it.”
She was silent. Her hand moved nervously over his back; the muscles there seemed so hard, so forbidding.
He said, “I could fall in love with you so easy.” He pulled back from her a little bit, searching in her eyes. “Hey, are you okay? I say something wrong?”
“No,” she said, and laughed nervously. “No, I’m just . . . It’s what I wanted. And I just . . .”
“Valerie, you don’t have to say anything.”
Her mind was shouting at her,
You have to say something. Tell him . . .
But she didn’t know what to tell him. She felt unmoored, fragile, lost. It was unfair to expect so much from her. It was unfair to stare at her that way, seeing things she had to hide, inspecting her. Suddenly, she moaned and began to kiss him violently, her tongue slipping into his mouth. Anything to end that scrutiny.
He responded, pressing her to him. She felt her breasts flattened to his chest and moaned again, her body burning with mingled terror and yearning. He was kissing her wildly, his hands stroking her back and down to her buttocks, which tingled in response. She squirmed, trying to rid herself of the feeling. Then he was moving one hand up her side, letting the backs of his fingernails graze her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. He released her slightly to make room for his hand to move in between them, to grasp her breast—and she pushed him away in a panic, a strangled cry escaping her lips.
His eyes widened, and he was looking at her in confusion and hurt. Or was it anger? She crossed her arms tightly around herself, trying to still her fear. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I just . . .” A tear was forming in her eye and she blinked furiously, for some reason desperate that he shouldn’t see her cry.
“God, I didn’t mean to frighten you, Val. I don’t want you to do anything you aren’t ready for.” A faint frown formed between his brows. He raised his hand as if to stroke her cheek reassuringly; but when she flinched, he pulled it back hastily and even shoved it behind his back, as if to shield her from his own desire. He said, “Listen, Val, if you’re not ready to . . . do this thing for the birthday show—”
“Don’t,” she said faintly. “I think you’d better go. I’m sorry.”
He got up slowly, looking at her with worry clouding his face. “It’s okay. Look, call me if you need anything. God, I didn’t want to hurt you, Val.” He moved toward the door slowly, clearly hoping she would call him back. Even opening the door, his movements were careful, as if he was frightened to make a loud noise. She watched him with her heart pounding. At last he closed the door behind him and she collapsed on the sofa, her face in her hands, sobbing. What was wrong with her? What the fuck was wrong with her?
Her mind circled the blackness within her, straying from fear to anger to despair. All she knew was that whatever was wrong with her, it was Ralph Anderman’s fault.
She had met him at an amusement park a few miles away from her hometown in Massachusetts. She had gone there intending to meet a friend from high school, Sondra, but Sondra never showed up. It was a time in Valerie’s life when this sort of thing regularly happened. Friends and dates stood her up. Plans were canceled at the last minute. Some mysterious social reconfiguration would happen, and her confi-dante of the week before would suddenly be part of a group of girls who whispered and laughed as she walked past. That night, as she wandered alone among the rides, she could easily imagine what Sondra would say about her, the hysterical giggling. “I guess I’m mean, but imagine meeting a guy and you’re with Valerie Berghof ? God, I’d be so-o-o embarrassed.”
She was too embarrassed to actually get on a ride alone, so she just wandered around, trying to appear as if she was looking for someone. Since it was getting late, the groups of people were mainly teenagers a few years older than she—loud, laughing groups who seemed drunk even when they weren’t drunk. She tried to keep out of their way, afraid that their mocking attention would fasten on her. The only consolation was that she didn’t see anyone she knew, anyone who could report back, “Berghof looked so pathetic all alone. I think she’s in love with you, Sondra. She’s crying her eyes out over you.”
Valerie decided she would buy an ice-cream cone and then call her mother for a ride home. The ice-cream cone seemed like a thing to do, a task to complete that would make it feel less like an experience of pure humiliation. She could tell Sondra,
Oh, it was okay. I just got an ice cream and talked to these older guys. It was cool.
She would say that a guy tried to kiss her but . . . but he had zits. That would work.
He had these gross zits. He was pretty hot except for that, but I didn’t want to touch the—
Then she saw him, in the line for ice cream. A tall, spare boy in jeans and a brown leather jacket, smoking a cigarette with an expression of boundless ease on his face. He was standing just far enough apart from the group of girls in front of him that it was clear that he wasn’t with them. Without really thinking why, Valerie looked around for the friends he must be with. But she couldn’t see anyone, just the cotton candy peddler and a few people waiting in line for the Tilt-a-Whirl. The boy—
the man
, she corrected herself—was alone. That fact gave her a flutter of anticipation, which quickly turned to self-loathing.
Don’t kid yourself, Valerie. He’s way, way too cool for you.
She joined the line behind him, inspecting him surreptitiously, feeling ugly and small, as if she’d already approached him and he’d rejected her.
Because she was still half in her fantasy of what she could tell Sondra, she was surprised to see that he didn’t have zits. He didn’t have anything wrong with him at all. In fact, he was gorgeous in the oblivious way boys had. Standing there with his perfect features raised to the last light of the setting sun, with a faint frown of thought on his face, he represented everything Valerie dreamed about. His careless posture hinted at strength and confidence; even though his jeans were a little loose, she could see the strength of his thighs in them, a full, powerful shape casually presented.
He glanced at her and said, “They’re taking hours.”
“Oh . . .” Her first thought was that he didn’t want her standing behind him. He was trying to tell her not to get ice cream, so that he didn’t have to stand with her. But no, his face was friendly, his air of ease was unchanged. She said, “Yeah, I’m not in any hurry.”