Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (33 page)

“You still have passionate feelings for cobbler?”

“Very funny. No, for you.”

I’m a little confused.

“What?”

Steve looks me with a look I have never seen before. “You know that I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“No, I really love you… more like, I’m in love with you.”

“What? Since when?” I see the hurt look on his face. “I’m sorry. I mean, great but…”

Steve is watching me very closely, and suddenly I’m a little nervous.

“Stop being so nice,” said Steve. “Tell me what you really think.”

“What about James?” I say.

“James doesn’t want to have children. He thinks it would change his life too much.”

“He’s right about that,” I said.

“And I’m sick of his lifestyle… the fabulous parties. The fabulous house, well, houses. The designer clothes, God… the designer clothes. Can’t I just wear some jeans? Traveling. New York. Miami. Aspen. The Hamptons.”

“Gee, it sounds pretty good to me.”

“I’m sick of it,” said Steve. “It’s not real.”

“But, Steve, you’re gay. I was there when you came out.”

“So maybe I want to come back in,” he said.

“What? All the way?”

“I think so. And I’ve been thinking about you quite a bit.”

Just then, the waiter comes by with our food.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” asked the waiter.

“More alcohol?” I ask.

Steve looks upset.

“OK, maybe a diet coke.”

The waiter leaves.

“Look, Courtney,” says Steve.

He hasn’t called me Courtney in 17 years.

“You’re not getting any younger.”

I sigh.

“Insulting your way into my heart no longer works.”

“OK, but for some reason… completely mysterious to me… your soul mate doesn’t seem to have appeared in your life,” said Steve.

“I’ve been engaged twice,” I say.

“Yes, of course. Andre. And Frank. Did you ever really love either of them?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Is it?” said Steve. “Because we get along very, very well. I know, and remember, everything. And I still love you. Not for what you could be. Not for what you will be. For what you are.”

“But, Steve, I really am female. Do you actually think that you could—or want—to do this?”

“Yes, I do,” he says.

“Why?” I said. “You could have a great life—and kids—with someone that you’re attracted to, which, much as I wish, is probably not me.”

We sit in silence.

“Eat your chicken before it gets cold,” said Steve. “You know that I’d give you the wedding you’ve always dreamed of. We could serve Velveeta appetizers.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” I said.

“Well, not on one knee. But will you at least think about it? Please?”

“This isn’t just the I’m-scared-of-dying-alone-I’m-over-30-we’ve-always-gotten-along thing, is it?” I said. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” said Steve. “I’ve always been in love with you. And I’d like to make a commitment.”

The waiter brought the cobbler straight from the oven. It was boysenberry with vanilla ice cream on it. The ice cream was melting and beginning to drip over the side of the dish.

“That looks amazing,” I said.

“No cobbler for you, young lady,” said Steve. “Not until you finish your chicken.”

When the check came, I reached for it.

“No, please, let me do this,” he said. He put his credit card down.

When we left the restaurant, Steve walked me to the valet and then hugged me. He held me until my car arrived.

“No comments about the Honda?” I said.

“Stefan would have made a comment,” he said, “but Steve thinks your Honda is a good, reliable car.”

Jennifer, Marshall, and Haggis show up the next day at 7 p.m. just as I’m running out. I give Jennifer a quick hug. “Thanks for letting us stay with you,” said Jennifer.

I look at her.

Jennifer has cut her hair to her shoulders. It’s variations on the theme of blond—platinum, honey, and golden colors woven in—and ironed out straight—the straight perm look. Her body—Jeez she’s tiny—like she’s lost an additional 20 pounds, is stuffed into some little jade green top, sleeveless, breathtakingly tight and not covering her belly button, and some yoga pants. Not exactly the corporate counsel look. Whatever happened to khakis, cotton button-down shirts, and loafers?

“Wow,” I said. “I guess those workouts are paying off.”

“I should say so,” said Marshall, whom I try not to stare at because Marshall… Marshall. His skin has been peeled to a soft, creamy-pink color, like a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream with the faintest hint of Pepto-Bismol. His eyes appear to be opened an extra half inch, giving him a perpetually alert, nearly surprised look. Where there was formerly a Roman nose which sloped to the left there is a straight, thin, little nose, like the muzzle of a greyhound. There are glints of gold, copper, and white in his previously dark brunette hair making him look like a surfer boy who rode the waves near the Huntington Beach Pier every morning at 6 a.m.

That is, a 42-year-old surfer boy with pronounced abdominal muscles, built-out shoulders, the butt of a slight 14-year-old boy, and dewy soft skin, like Remington’s Blue Boy, like one of those boy-kid stars of a teen angst TV show on the WB, a former Abercrombie and Fitch model who you know is much prettier than the girls on the show.

It’s hard to decide who is prettier: Jennifer or Marshall. But I begin to wonder if Marshall is prettier than most of my friends. Make that all of my friends. And me.

The pin head is there also.

“Hi, Haggis,” I said. “There are fresh towels on the couch. The refrigerator is stocked with food that you probably won’t eat. Here are two extra sets of keys. Abyss is running around somewhere—don’t let her out. I’ll be back at 10 p.m.”

“Where are you going?” said Jennifer.

“I’ll tell you later,” I said.

Where I’m going is to therapy. Group therapy. After some incessant nagging from Roberta—“You know, I didn’t end our therapeutic relationship, we just took a break”—I return. And it’s like I’ve never been gone, but with a few twists. They’re all there: the former kiddie-TV actress who, beating all the odds, has done a Jason Bateman and managed to land on an adult primetime show; the nearly-divorced housewife (who wants to be a therapist); the wardrobe supervisor (who still wishes she were an actress), the guys who really don’t want to be there (who still don’t want to be there) and, “Frank? What are you doing here?”

“I thought it would be an interesting exercise for Group to observe Frank and Courtney interacting so we could all practice coping skills for dealing with an ex,” said Roberta.

More like she wanted to throw a stick of dynamite into the room to wake things up a bit, and maybe, just maybe, try out a few of the Interaction Exercises she had created for her new book, entitled, surprisingly enough,
Coping Skills for Dealing with an Ex and Moving On.

“So I asked Frank to transfer back from the Wednesday Night Group, where I placed him after he and Courtney ended their relationship, to tonight’s Group, the Tuesday Night Group. And Courtney was told that she could begin participating in Group again,” said Roberta.

“You were in the Wednesday Night Group, Frank? Wow. How was it?”

The Wednesday Night Group was Roberta’s triple Platinum Group, a By-Invitation-Only Group rumored to include an orchestral new music composer who had won a MacArthur (Genius) Award, a painter who was featured on the cover of
Art Forum
when he was 26, a chef who created the East Side renaissance by opening a restaurant in Silverlake
before
it was considered chic, a professional lesbian who produced highly successful award-winning gay and lesbian themed films, and the others: the usual smattering of actors, writers, and directors, but these entertainment types had the distinction of working regularly.

For many years, I had longed for an invitation to the Wednesday Night Group, thinking if I had to be in Group, why not let it be this one. I dropped hints. Well no, I directly told her.

“I’d prefer to be in the Wednesday Night Group,” I’d say.

“But it wouldn’t do,” said Roberta, “because you’re needed in Tuesday Night Group, because you’re a Tuesday Night Person.”

I wasn’t really sure, but I thought that Roberta had a pecking order. I knew of the Wednesday Night Group and thought that there might be a Thursday night and maybe a Monday night group. If Wednesday Night was the Platinum Group, then we, the Tuesday Night Group, were either the Silver or Bronze Group.

“Courtney,” said Roberta, “you know we’re not supposed to discuss what goes on in Group.”

“Oh right,” I said, “I’m sorry. Confidentiality.”

I did my best to muffle a snicker, but it was uncontainable and got the best of me. I exploded with laughter… with the rest of Group.

We all knew that obsessing about who was in Group, what topics were discussed, and ongoing fights was widely done through emails and phone calls during the 24 hours following a Tuesday night session. Unfortunately, spending so much time kicked out of Group had left me no Group topics about which to obsess.

But then Roberta said, “The Group is being disrespectful to itself,” which made me think of a bunch of sheep walking around in a circle kicking each other in the butt with a woolly, cloven hoof and since I already had the giggles, I started laughing again, starting another tidal wave of laughter.

Roberta looked at me and shook her head left-right, left-right, left-right.

“I’m disappointed with you,” she said.

“Oh, me too,” I said, desperately trying to sound sincere, but since I had tears running out of my eyes and was attempting to stifle more laughter, I sounded more like a helium-altered cartoon character, and then hiccupped very loudly, creating another tsunami of laughter and crying.

“I can see that we’re not going to get any work done here tonight,” said Roberta.

“No,” I said, “let’s do something.”

“OK. So, Courtney, how are you?” said Roberta.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Fine. This guy asked me to marry him.”

“What?” said the divorced housewife.

The laughter ended suddenly.

“What?” said Frank. “I didn’t know you’d started seeing someone?”

“Frank,” said Roberta, “how does that make you feel?”

“He’s fine,” I said. “Frank’s already been around the block a couple of times since we broke up.”

“Don’t speak for him, Courtney,” said Roberta.

“Look, it’s over. Frank and I weren’t right for each other. It would have been a horrible, horrible marriage. I told him very specifically what I wanted. Remember that night at the Copper Pan, Frank?”

“Yeah…” said Frank.

“…and he wasn’t having any part of it,” I said. “What more is there?”

“Is that the way you feel, Frank,” said Roberta.

“Well…” said Frank.

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” said the former kiddie-TV actress who now has a show. “I don’t feel seen. I mean, she’s back for ten minutes and how come it’s suddenly all about her? I have needs too, you know.”

“God forbid anyone should take the attention away from you,” I said.

“Courtney,” said Roberta. “The Group is a safe place for everyone, even if it has moments of disrespect”—disrespect, a bad word to say, because again I think of the sheep walking around in a circle kicking each other in the butt with a woolly, cloven hoof, which makes me start giggling.

“God, you’re a mess,” said Roberta.

So I begin listening to the former kiddie-TV-actress-who-now-has-a-show, a real adult primetime network TV show, spend the next 30 minutes revealing her pain. She is angry, still, so angry at her mother who worked as a housekeeper so that she could help support her daughter’s ambition to become a kiddie cable TV star with the pictures, the endless auditions, the agents, the managers. After that was over, and because some admissions officer thought that her daughter would make a very interesting addition to the class, her mother continued to work as a housekeeper so that she could send her to Yale, the best drama program in the country.

“She makes me feel so guilty,” she said.

“She should,” I blurted out, “your mother scrubbed floors on her hands and knees until she was 62 years old so that you could have a career shaking your hooters on a Tuesday night secret agent show.”

The actress, forever playing some secret-undercover-super-CIA-FBI-KGB-female 007-type on her new network show, ensuring that she was always undercover as a prostitute, stripper, model, cocktail waitress, lap dancer, French maid, in some unknown Eastern European–Middle Eastern country sounding vaguely familiar, like Rekazistan or Biraq, ensuring that her Yale drama school degree could be used so that she could play out the primetime fantasies of the producers in some almost soft-porn kind of way, wearing short, short skirts, bustiers, push-up bras, wigs, leather, latex anything, tight, short with a lot of cleavage.

And suddenly I knew.

I hated this.

“You sound profoundly ridiculous to me,” I said. “And I wish so much that I could call your mother and be appropriately grateful. For you. For our generation, who was given so much and has done so little.”

Silence in the room.

“But maybe I should call my own mother,” I said, “and see if I can find some way to thank her—despite being insane—and she is—for all those violin lessons, expensive instruments, and summer programs she sent me to when she didn’t really have the money.”

No one said a word.

“No one wants to engage—be present—with me?” I said. “Roberta?”

Nothing.

“I’ve been in therapy a long, long time. Too long. And you, Roberta, still think I’m… what did you just call me? A mess?”

“Well, I didn’t mean…” said Roberta.

“Yes, you did,” I said. “I’ve spent so much more time in a therapist’s office than I ever have in a church. Or maybe it should be a synagogue. I’ve spent so much time—in fact, over half my life—feeling. Being present. Wondering how to behave. And let’s not forget, I’ve spent a lot of money, over $80,000, coming to you, my various therapists through the years, for the answers as to how I should live my life, as if you or psychotherapy would give me answers,
the answers
, as to how I could have a successful and fulfilling life, like if I just stayed long enough, said the right thing, proved myself worthy, you would open the secret drawer and show me the little book which contained the answers to the meaning of life—you would show me how therapy was supposed to replace traditional morality. And you don’t have any answers, do you, Roberta? It kills me to know that with the money I’ve spent, I could have owned something—a condo, maybe even a house—on the Westside!”