Authors: Kerry Reichs
H
e wants to take you to lunch,” Freya said. “He feels . . .
regretful
.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going.” I was as petulant as a grade-schooler. And mad that he’d let me dangle for a month.
“You will care when you become the Tom Selleck of actresses, known more for turning down Indiana Jones than a career as Magnum PI. You’re lucky to have a chance to redeem your diva performance.” Freya had already chewed my ear off.
I wanted to whine that the Improv had been torture but I couldn’t. Torture was the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina or human rights abuses in Burma.
“He makes me . . . uncomfortable.” I fell into the rhythm of Freya’s speech.
“Perhaps that’s a good thing. You napped through last year.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dimple. Every day actresses disprove the myth that women’s careers are dead at forty. You, on the other hand, are lying down like Ophelia. It’s time to stop playing it safe.”
“That’s not—”
“Meet him at the Grill at noon.” She cut off my protest. “At a minimum you’ll have a delicious lunch.”
Even the lure of the best club sandwich in town didn’t keep my feet from dragging as I pushed open the door to the Grill. I couldn’t put my finger on why Julian Wales made me edgy, but avoiding it seemed wiser than dining with it. The Keith scare had jangled me, but in truth, everything was unsettling these days. I couldn’t get my feet flat on the ground.
Julian leaped up, sweeping out a chair. “I’m glad you came.”
He was large and vibrant. I sat. He sat.
“So,” I said.
“Menu?” he said.
I studied it as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
I looked up to Julian staring at me, face open, eyes intent.
“Ready to order?” A waitress appeared.
“What’s the special?” he said, eyes on mine. The waitress described something involving tilapia, but I was trapped in Julian’s gaze.
“I’ll take that.” He didn’t look away.
“Club sandwich.” I managed to sound normal. Neither of us broke our gaze and the waitress faded away. Seconds passed.
“Someday we’ll look back on this, chuckle nervously, and change the subject,” I said.
His booming laugh drew the attention of other diners. Several whispered in recognition.
“Was it really so horrible?” He genuinely wanted to know.
I considered. “I don’t mind making a fool of myself. I just like to decide when.”
“Stars, they’re just like us!”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Absolutely not. I’m sorry if I caused you to be miserable.”
“I didn’t say it was your fault. I said I was blaming you.”
“My mom always said you could tell a person’s real character in that split second after the waiter accidentally dumps a glass of OJ in their lap, and before their mask for public approval slips back into place. I put actors in situations out of their comfort zone to try to get that glimpse of the uncensored self. It helps me decide their mettle.”
“It kind of comes off like you’re an arrogant prick.”
“That is
not
my intent. When I’m on a project sometimes I get so caught up making my vision a masterpiece that I have the finesse of a bull, but I don’t think being a perfectionist is arrogant.”
“Isn’t that the definition of arrogance?”
“Between jobs I pull weeds for the old lady next door.” He held up his palms. “I had a job interview once where the guy said, ‘Teach me something.’ Now, that’s arrogant. I showed him the decapitating thumb trick, which didn’t get me the job.” He did the decapitating thumb trick.
“How surprising.”
“You think I need new audition methods?”
“Nooooo.” I thought it out. Part of me rose to the idea of his challenges. “A person’s just about as big as the things that make them angry. But there are ways to do it that aren’t so public.”
“You’ll give me another try?”
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” Mostly true.
“That is what’s so remarkable about you.” The gaze was intent again.
“I’m very ordinary,” I said. “Just like us.”
“That you think so is another remarkable thing about you.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t. Thankfully the food arrived.
“I have no idea what I ordered.” He looked down at his bun.
“It appears to have bacon on it, so you’re in the winner’s circle.”
“A fellow believer in the restorative powers of bacon!” He pulled a second strip from the fish club sandwich and laid it on my plate. “Am I forgiven?”
“You are now.” I crunched the bacon. “Tell me about the craziest things you’ve made actors do.”
“And spoil the surprise?”
The conversation flowed smoothly, and I was surprised by how quickly two hours passed.
“Do you want dessert?” Julian asked.
“Did you see the size of that sandwich? Not to mention the bonus bacon.”
“Coffee?”
I declined. He settled up with the waiter but didn’t move. We sat, Julian’s easy attitude gone. Directors were so moody.
“Well,” I prompted as he fidgeted. “That was lovely—”
“We’re not done,” he said, cutting me off. “I’m treating you to a pedicure.”
“Oh, that’s not—”
“Yes, it is.” Curt.
Oh boy. Getting a pedicure with Julian Wales sounded as much fun as a date arranged by your maiden aunt’s minister.
“As long as you don’t make me tap-dance for the patrons,” I acquiesced.
At the door, Julian’s charm resurfaced as he stopped to thank the octogenarian hostess and ask her where she was from.
Outside, he intercepted my look. “I love little old ladies. They’re a director’s dream—they’ve lived long enough to be survivors and have stories to tell. They’ll also club you with a rolling pin if you deserve it. They all should have someone to pull their weeds and listen.”
My brain fired up an image of Julian snacking on
piragi
as my mother spun tales of old Latvia. I erased it. Julian steered me down the street, not to the spa at Barneys but to a hole-in-the-wall nail salon. A flock of Vietnamese birds, twittering among themselves, led us to vibrating loungers. Watching Julian slip off his loafers and roll up his pants sent them into a wave of giggles, but Julian was somber.
I immersed my feet in bubbling water, while Julian stood like a flood refugee, fat jeans’ rolls at his knees. My first thought was that he had sexy shins. My second was that I was a moron for finding shins sexy. His feet were two pieces of uncooked haggis, soft and white. I’d once Googled “men’s feet” to help me with a drawing class and stumbled upon an underworld of toe sex I’d never imagined. I didn’t get it. Nothing about men’s feet was sexy. They were long and bony, with toes like alien suction cups. Julian’s feet made me want to put his socks back on.
“I don’t like people touching my feet.” Julian’s voice was strangled as he clambered awkwardly into his chair. He looked like a forest animal that smelled fire.
“Makes it hard to get a pedicure,” I quipped.
“I don’t get pedicures.” His high pitch was unnerving. “It’s like claustrophobia. I hate tight, closed spaces too.”
“Well, okay then.” I pulled my dripping feet out of the basin. Directors were odd ducks.
He held up a hand. “I expect a lot from my team, but I’m equally hard on myself. If I’m going to ask you to jump onstage, out of your comfort zone, it’s only fair to hold myself to the same standards. More important, you need to know it. Today, we are getting pedicures.”
He visibly steeled himself, and I might have thought I was being conned—who hated pedicures?—but his fear-of-flying grip on the armrest, and gritted expression, more matched a dentist’s office than a nail salon.
“You really don’t like it?” I asked.
“It feels like having bugs under my skin,” he ground out. He swung his head to me. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.” Eyes locked. Again, that slippage between business and date. I resisted an urge to squeeze his hand. LaMimi resisted a different urge.
He faced forward and I stared at his profile, unsure of what to do. It didn’t seem appropriate to flick through a copy of
Us Weekly
after his pronouncement, but staring at him was a bit off too. When the girl touched his foot, he jumped a mile, causing me to jump as well.
“Yow! What’s that?” He pointed at her tiny nippers as if they were a mutant torture device.
“It’s a cuticle trimmer,” I said. He practically arched out of his seat when she touched his toes with it. She looked at me, and not knowing what to do, I nodded. She went back to work. Julian went back to clutching his armrests. I was oblivious to my own pedicure.
“Razor?” she asked him.
“Is she serious?” He swiveled wild eyes at me. “She wants to razor my foot??”
“It’s elective,” I assured him.
“Do you do it?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.” He gave a sharp nod.
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. You’d think she was going to saw off his leg with a rusty steak knife.
He leveled a finger at me. “I have no problem jumping onstage in front of twenty thousand people and cracking jokes.”
I stopped laughing. Fear of flying, fear of spiders, we all had something. I couldn’t say I would have done what he was doing for me. Lord knows I was keeping quiet about my lightning phobia so he didn’t goad me into a field with a kite during the next storm. Latvians keep private private.
We were silent except for the protesting pleather every time the girl adjusted her hold and he strangled the chair.
“I heard Spielberg and Hanks are teaming up again,” I said.
He didn’t say anything.
“What did you think about
Hangover VII
?” I tried again.
The girl spoke to Julian. “You wanna extra massage? Ten dolla’ ten minute.”
“We’ll skip the massage.” He’d broken into a sweat. Something happened in the middle of me.
“I hate lightning,” I said. “It freaks me out. Terrifies me, really.”
He faced me.
“It was the worst when I had braces. I was convinced the metal would draw electrical death.”
He raised an eyebrow. I misread it. “I only had them on the bottom.” I was defensive. I knew I had a snaggletooth.
“Perfection is bland. Your smile is unique.” He paused. “Dazzling.”
I was flustered, but he seemed distracted from the pedicure, so I kept going. “I’d sit in the middle of my room not touching anything but an old bicycle tire I’d dragged in because I’d heard rubber tires diffused electricity.”
His fingers relaxed a little. “Brontophobia.”
“That sounds like a dinosaur.”
“Fear of lightning. Did it get better with age?”
“Mmm.” I was noncommittal. The answer was emphatically
no
.
Julian’s legs twitched reflexively at each touch of the nail file, but he seemed engaged in our conversation.
“I don’t like tight collars. Can’t stand turtlenecks.”
“World-famous director inspired to profession because he didn’t have to wear a tie,” I teased.
“Fringe benefit. Except for the bazillion times I have to put on a tuxedo. Hollywood likes nothing if not awarding itself.”
“I’ll cry crocodile tears when you’re forced to accept another gold statue.”
“Just for that, I believe you’re obliged to be my date to the Directors Guild of America Awards Ceremony.”
My heart thudded. “You can’t ask me to that!”
His eyes gleamed. “It appears I just did.”
“Finish,” the girl announced, looking relieved. I looked away. Was he serious?
Julian looked down. “Where’s the polish?”
“You wanna polish?” The girl looked surprised.
“Yeah, I want polish! If I’m doing this, I’m going all the way.” He turned to me. “What color do you get?”
“Anything but blue. Toes shouldn’t be blue.”
“Blue it is, then,” he said to the girl. “The bluer the better.”
The girl went in search of blue nail polish.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I said, suddenly shy. I studied my gleaming toes as if they held the mysteries of the universe I hadn’t found in the menu.
“I hope we’re done soon because I have to go home and see how many hits your Improv video got on YouTube.”
I looked up in horror. Julian grinned.
“Kidding! All I want is a drink. How long do I have to wait before I can put my socks back on?”
Y
ou want me to what?” Eva demanded.
“Come with me to the clinic.”
“This is a joke, right? You know you’re crazy.” It wasn’t a question.
Unusually for him, Wyatt didn’t respond to the anxiety underlining Eva’s remark. “Eva, please. It’s been two weeks and Katherine’s pressuring me to decide. Today’s my last chance to meet Deborah Tanner. Her appointment’s at nine. Yours isn’t until ten thirty.”
“I don’t
have
an appointment.” Her voice rose.
“You won’t keep it, just be my cover. We’ll leave as soon as I’ve met Deborah. Please, Eva. The last time I went by myself I was kidnapped by an insane horsewoman.”
Eva had her doubts about the I-pulled-a-baby-out-of-a-horse story, it was so farfetched. She wondered if Wyatt was cracking under the stress.
“Wyatt, if this plan was a paint color, it’d be called Every Shade Of Wrong.”
He knew he had her. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
So Eva found herself checking in for an imaginary appointment at Hope Women’s Health and Fertility Clinic, surrounded by pregnant women, feeling fraudulent.
“You’re over an hour early.” The clerk’s Sharpie-drawn eyebrows shot up under bangs that failed to move with her forehead.
“I’ll wait,” Eva muttered.
“Have a seat and fill out these forms,” the clerk instructed, bemused by people who had hours to waste.
Eva could only imagine what the exquisitely drawn brows would do when she canceled after waiting for an hour. She didn’t really mind this caper. She needed a break from spinning her wheels on Daisy and
Cora
. Wyatt would drop everything if she asked for help. Plus, she was curious about Deborah.
“How far along are you?” Wyatt’s voice startled Eva, until she realized he was speaking to the pale blonde in the seat next to him.
The girl looked surprised, as if Wyatt had violated an unwritten waiting room taboo.
“Oh. Uh. Three months?” Her answer was hesitant.
“We just moved here from Fresno.” He gestured to Eva, looking expectant. Eva smiled encouragingly. The girl looked baffled.
“Oh. Uh. That’s nice.”
Wyatt was stumped.
Eva decided to help. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“Lisa Johnson?” a nurse called.
“That’s me.” The girl looked relieved. “Um. Have a nice day!” She scuttled off.
Wyatt looked crushed. Eva squeezed his shoulder. “She’ll show.”
Her iPhone buzzed and Eva was annoyed to see a rambling e-mail from Daisy Carmichael. Eva wondered if she had the discipline to address the girl from her mobile device. Talking to Daisy usually required a piping-hot latte, a Zen state of mind, and knowing that a delicious Rice Krispies treat was but an elevator ride away.
“I’m Deborah Tanner.”
Eva heard a soft voice speak to the receptionist, and felt Wyatt come to attention. A slim girl with feathery brown hair stood at the counter. She conferred with the clerk, then turned. She looked like a snake that had swallowed a basketball. Eva smiled pleasantly. Deborah hesitated before taking a seat two down from Wyatt.
Eva was going to suggest Wyatt fake a trip to the water fountain when a nurse interrupted her.
“Eva Lytton?”
There was a long silence and no one moved. The nurse, the clerk, and everyone in the waiting room seemed to be looking right at her but Eva was immobilized.
“Eva Lytton?” the nurse repeated. The clerk
was
looking right at her.
“Wyatt,” Eva hissed.
Wyatt, eyes drawn to Deborah, ignored her. Eva stood in slow motion, drawing out her movements as she collected her bag and phone, waiting to be saved. Wyatt did nothing. She bent toward him, pretending to gather her jacket, and hissed, “There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of animals Chuck Norris allows to live. You’re off the list.” Then she pasted on a smile and followed the nurse, who informed her how lucky she was there’d been a cancellation and they could squeeze her in early.
After she’d peed in a cup, had her blood pressure and weight cataloged, and been chastised by the nurse for her blank forms, Eva was left alone in the exam room to wait for the doctor. She penned information on the forms and wondered what she was going to say. For sure, it wouldn’t hurt to get an exam. It had been two years? Maybe more. Her favorite nurse practitioner called in her birth control prescription, so Eva was lax about checkups. Her heart leaped. Maybe she’d find out she was infertile.
Eva would find this a relief. Fibroids, a hormone deficiency, endometriosis, ovarian failure, lazy-ass uterus smoking cigarettes behind the gym. She’d take anything. It seemed to Eva that if nature prevented you from having children through no fault of your own, you were a sympathetic figure, whereas her choice not to was “unnatural.” Women didn’t have to justify their desire to have children: why did she have to defend her lack of desire? Eva had been certain since the summer after freshman year when she took the bus across town to get her tubes tied. The doctor had refused.
“I’m adult enough to become a mother but not adult enough to have my tubes tied?” Eva had protested.
“You’ll thank me someday.” The doctor had said, sending her off with the number of a gynecologist and a prescription for birth control.
Eva did not thank him, and her resolve had not changed. Over time, she’d come to believe God gave you the body that suited your temperament. Until she’d accidentally gotten pregnant. Termination presented neither a complex moral or physical question for Eva. The hardship had been that she’d conceived at all.
Occasionally she felt guilt. Not for her choice, but because she had something that should belong to someone else. Women who dearly wanted babies were denied happiness by their fallible bodies. Her fertility was Frodo’s ring—a precious burden. She’d be thrilled if it was lost. Perhaps God had relented in the intervening years, and brought her body in line with her will.
“Ms. Lytton? Dr. Parmalee Singh.” An Indian woman shook Eva’s hand. “I understand congratulations are in order?”
Eva was going to kill Wyatt.
“I bought some teak patio furniture at a significant markdown.” She smiled brightly. “But I’m not pregnant.” She handed Dr. Singh her forms.
“My apologies. The chart appears to be in error. What can I do for you?”
Eva kept her bright look, hoping this doctor did more than deliver babies. “I’d like to assess my fertility.”
“Certainly.” Dr. Singh glanced at Eva’s documents. “When was your last period?”
Eva panicked. She hadn’t thought of that. “I’ve just started,” she confessed.
“Excellent. We can run some tests today.” The doctor smiled and looked Eva in the eye, intending comfort. “At your age, barring unusual circumstances that don’t seem indicated by your medical history, I’m sure we’ll find you in perfect physical health.”
Eva smiled back, fervently hoping she was wrong.