Til the Real Thing Comes Along (16 page)

“H’lo.”

“I’d like to speak to the funniest, sexiest, most exquisite woman who was ever involved in the television industry in America.”

R.J. grinned. It was Eddie Levy.

“I did dial the number for Cher, didn’t I?”

“Leeee-veee,” R.J. shrieked. “Where have you been hiding?”

“Hey, I got a gig that is so elegant and so sophisticated, it’s the next best thing to writing for
The New Yorker,”
he said. “I am now on the staff—are you sitting down, my darling girl?—of
Three’s Company.”

R.J. laughed. “No!”

“Would I kid you? Every night an old Jewish man eyes his wrists and his razor with longing, hoping they’ll get together. Elfand
dumped me too. So, R.J., what about you?”

“Nothing, Eddie, zero. Pitched a pilot to the network and they hated it.”

“So you’ve got two networks to go.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just no good,” she said.

“Nah,” Eddie said. “If it was no good they would have bought it. Listen, I heard a good place to pitch pilots is Meteor productions.
ABC loves them. They’ve got lots of shows on the air. The lady in comedy development is Beth Berger.”

“Yeah?” R.J. said, “Beth Berger. Maybe I’ll try her.”

“Hey,” Eddie said. “I don’t want to hear in your voice that you think you’ll never work in this town again. I’ve been at the
table with you at four in the morning. You’re good and you’re funny,
maydele,
and also you’re tough.”

There it was again. While Eddie did a pep talk that R.J. was sure was from a parody he once wrote of
42nd Street,
she thought about David Malcolm. Tough was good in women comedy writers, but not in women men fall in love with. He would
never call her again. And nobody else would either. She had given up men and vice versa.

“So get out there and do it,” she thought Eddie said. “And if worse comes to worst, I’ll see if they can use a funny broad
on
Three’s Company.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” she said. “I appreciate the call.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Eddie Levy said, and he hung up.

On Tuesday she had a meeting at Hemisphere Studios. Her agent told her that Norman Ginsberg, a producer she’d met a few years
before, was looking for a woman writer to do a pilot about three young girls living in a loft while they were trying to get
into the music business. When R.J. got to the studio, the guard at the gate didn’t have a pass for her, so she had to wait
a long time until he was able to reach the office of Norman Ginsberg. Finally Norman Ginsberg’s secretary told the guard that
it was okay for him to let R.J.
drive onto the studio lot. But when R.J. arrived at the office, heart pounding, ideas flooding her brain, Norman Ginsberg’s
secretary, who looked a lot like Loni Anderson, apologized and said that Norman Ginsberg had been called out of town. The
meeting was canceled.

“We tried to reach you this morning,” the secretary said, smiling a big toothy smile at R.J. R.J. had been home all morning,
and not on the phone. “Sorry, hon. We’ll call you to reschedule.”

R.J. stepped out of the office, stopped at a drinking fountain, took a long swig of the water, and regretted it. The water
tasted metallic. Her car had been overheating on the long ride here on the freeway. This was obviously not her day. She stood
quietly for a moment. At least the corridor was air-conditioned. Her car would be as hot as an oven and she would have to
take it in today for servicing before it got worse and more expensive to fix. She certainly couldn’t use another expense.
She held her breath to steel herself against the day, and walked out of the building, feeling the burning sun on her arms
as she made her way toward the parking lot.

The handle was already so hot she had to open the car door gingerly. She threw her writing pad, pen, and purse on the passenger-side
seat and got in. She was glad she was wearing pants so her legs wouldn’t burn on the vinyl seat. She was afraid that when
she turned the key something terrible would happen and she would be without a car.

“Hi,” she heard someone say, and she turned, surprised to see David Malcolm standing by the car window.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Hey, it’s nice to see you too,” he said, grinning. He grinned a lot. A kind of smug grin that bothered her.

“Oh, just putting some things together,” he said.

“Didn’t you tell me you weren’t in show business?” she asked.

“I’m a legacy,” he said. “My mother worked at this studio for a few years.”

“As what?”

“Actress.”

R.J. couldn’t think of any actress she’d ever heard of whose last name was Malcolm.

“Had lunch?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“C’mon,” he said, opening her car door and taking her by the hand toward the studio commissary. Maybe it was her day after
all.

“The Cobb salad is the only thing that’s good,” he said, and then looked at the waitress as she walked up to their table.
“Two Cobb salads,” he said before R.J. could utter a word. The waitress didn’t even write the order down. Just walked away.

“So meanwhile,” R.J. said, “back to my question. What are you doing here?”

Before he could answer, R.J. spotted Norman Ginsberg, the executive with whom she was supposed to be meeting at that very
moment, walking into the commissary with a beautiful girl who looked like a model. Ginsberg wore rimless glassses and looked
like a mole, and even when he stood still his hands were always in motion. His eyes were scanning the room. When they met
R.J.’s, they blinked in embarrassment.

“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, R.J. Hi. Oh, God. Hi,” he said, and then he whispered something to the model and came rushing over
to the table where R.J. and David sat.

“Um, I really was called out of town,” he said. “I mean, that’s really the truth. But I’m not leaving here ’til after lunch
and I had to meet with this woman about casting. So my secretary tried and tried to get you this morning to tell you but you…”

Bullshit, R.J. thought.

“Norman, this is David Malcolm,” she said.

Norman Ginsberg’s eyes got very wide behind the rimless glasses, and he pushed his hand out for David to shake.

“I am so delighted. I am really delighted. I am so glad to meet you. Listen, R.J., maybe we shouldn’t wait until next week
to reschedule. Maybe we should meet on Friday.”

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

Norman Ginsberg walked away. No
goodbye.
No
excuse me.
No
nice meeting you
to David. Just walked away.

“Nice guy,” David said, and both he and R.J. laughed. “Warm, honest, friendly. Certainly a man
I’d
like to do business with.” And they laughed again.

R.J. drummed her fingers on the table and chewed the inside of her cheek. The truth was that Norman Ginsberg’s secretary would
call her later to reschedule the meeting for Friday and that she would come rushing back because she
needed the job. Needed to do business with him, even if he was a lying creep.

“You seem nervous, roadrunner,” David said. He remembered. “Is it this place? If it is, I can cancel our salads and we can
go elsewhere for lunch.”

“I’m okay,” she said. Her car. She was worried about her car. Worried about it and she wished she could stop worrying about
it and just enjoy lunch with this lovely man. She was worried about everything. Jeffie and his, bar mitzvah. It was coming
up within the year and she didn’t know how she would be able to pull it off. Afford a party. He deserved to have a nice party
to celebrate. She was worried about…

“What’s on your mind?” David Malcolm asked. Sweet. It was sweet of him to ask. This stranger. She’d seen him twice before
in her life. She wasn’t going to start telling him her problems. He probably didn’t even know what a bar mitzvah was.

“Maybe you’re just tense because of work and you ought to get out of town and have a vacation,” he said.

R.J., who was ripping a border around the edge of her paper place mat, exhaled a little breath of air from her nose. It was
a laugh. A vacation? From what? Not getting jobs? With what money? A vacation. She couldn’t remember the last one.

“With me,” he said, and when her eyes looked up to meet his, his danced, as if enjoying her surprise.

“You’re bananas,” she said. “I don’t even know you.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “By the time we get back, you will.”

“My son…”

“Your housekeeper can take care of him for a few days.” This was funny. He was asking her to go away for a weekend with him.
And after the way she’d behaved on that first night, she was amazed he was even talking to her.

“Can we have separate rooms?” she asked, certain that the invitation was a joke. You didn’t go off with somebody you barely
knew.

“If you like.”

“I mean, what if we get there and find out we hate each other? I’m very sloppy. I once lost a first draft of a script under
clothes from last Thursday.”

He smiled.

“Don’t you think—” she began.

“R.J.,” he interrupted. “Unlike some of the people at this table, I think you’re great. In fact I don’t think you should want
to go back to being tall and blond. I think you’re wonderful-looking.”

“What happened—you left the cane and the German shepherd at home?”

He didn’t smile. “I told you the other night that I think your compulsion to be funny is a cover. So, to vacation or not to
vacation. What do you say?”

The waitress brought the Cobb salads. R.J. was thrilled with the interruption so she’d have time to think. How could she go
away with this guy? Who in the hell was he? Going away would be a mistake. She should have at least a few dates with him before
she even thought about…

“Iced tea,” he told the waitress.

“Two,” R.J. said. The waitress walked away. “Gee,” she said, “we’re having tea for two. Next we’ll be having a girl for me
and a boy for you.” He smiled a little smile.

Norman Ginsberg and the model were being seated at a table next to R.J. and David’s. Norman waved a funny little wave and
mouthed the word
Friday
to R.J.

“Why don’t you tell him you won’t be there on Friday, because we’re leaving on Friday morning?” David asked.

“Oh, I can’t,” R.J. said. “Not just because the meeting could be important. But because, I mean, I can’t.”

“Okay,” David Malcolm said sweetly. They both dug into their salads and ate wordlessly. The waitress brought the check, and
when they both had finished, David put cash on the little tray and he and R.J. stood.

As they started toward the door, Norman Ginsberg called out, “R.J.,” and R.J. turned to look at him. “Kiss, kiss,” the little
mole said in an effort to make up for not showing up at the meeting and then lying about it. R.J. tried not to wince, then
forced a smile and walked closer to the table.

“Norman,” she said. “I forgot, but I won’t be able to make it on Friday. I’m going out of town for a few days with David.”

Norman Ginsberg nodded, and David took R.J.’s hand as they walked together out of the commissary.

* * *

On Thursday night R.J. tried on every outfit in her closet, then stood in front of the mirror, hating every one. If Dinah
were in town she would be sitting on the bed now, telling her: “This one’s too dowdy. That one’s too flashy. The black one’s
perfect. Put that sweater with those pants and that one with these and you’ve got it.” But Dina was still in Florida with
her mother, and R.J. was in a panic. She hadn’t bought herself anything new in ages and nothing seemed to fit or look right
or…

This had nothing to do with clothes. She was thirty-seven years old. The mother of a soon-to-be teenager. She was an older
woman with six very prominent gray hairs. Okay, eight. And she was packing up to go on a trip with some twenty-nine-year-old
honey. That’s what he was after all. And she was doing exactly what she’d promised herself not to do. Wasting her time on
someone who was an impossibility. The biggest impossibility so far. Just because David Malcolm seemed more sane than the other
men she’d met, he certainly wasn’t more available. Not for her anyway. Maybe for some girl of twenty-three who was blond and
just out of the convent. She laughed at that thought and then moved closer to the mirror to look at her hair. The gray count
was more like eleven or twelve. Finally she chose a few things that would have to do, threw them into a suitcase, and crawled
into bed.

Tomorrow night at this time—if she didn’t come to her senses and cancel—that freckled face could be next to her. This was
a mistake. It would end up to be just another hurt. She stared at the ceiling for hours, thinking that when the day broke
she would call David Malcolm and tell him she couldn’t go away with him, and fell asleep deciding exactly how she would tell
him. The sharp jangle of the phone ringing startled her awake at nine.

“H’lo?”

“Why don’t we take your car?” he said.

“Huh?”

“It’s a gorgeous day and a convertible would be great.”

R.J. sighed, remembering the promise she had made to herself last night.

“David, listen,” she began. “I’ve got to say this—”

“R.J.,” he interrupted, “excuse me for interrupting, but I know this is awkward. We’ve just met and I’m whisking you off to
drive up the coast to a place you could hate, and
you’re liable to end up thinking I’m a bore. But what the hell? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And despite your pugilistic
attitude, I can tell that you already like me, so what’s the worst-case scenario? I reserved a two-bedroom cabin so we’ll
each get some reading done. Now what did you have to tell me?”

R.J. rolled over from her stomach to her back and looked out at the brightly lit day.

“That my car overheats,” she said.

“Then we’ll stop at a gas station on the way,” he told her. “I’ll be by in an hour.”

He parked his Jaguar in her driveway and brought tapes to play on the way up. Kenny Loggins, Jobim, and Frank Sinatra. He
threw his duffel bag and her hanging bag into her trunk, took her keys, helped her in, got into the driver’s seat, and they
were off. As soon as she let herself relax, knew there was no turning back, R.J. felt as if she were in a movie. Watching
the coast go by as they drove north, looking at the view just past his face. That handsome face that kept smiling at her and
laughing at her dumb jokes. The jokes she couldn’t stop making about everything: the scenery, the music, her nervous preparations
to leave town, why the two of them were together to begin with. He laughed an outraged laugh at those jokes.