Good in Bed (42 page)

“That's Violet,” Maxi said proudly.

“Bull-SHIT!” said Violet again. I fought down the urge to put my hands on my belly where I imagined the baby's ears would be.

“What do you think?” Maxi whispered.

“She's … um,” I said. “She looks like Pippi Longstocking! Is she old enough to be using language like that?”

Maxi cracked up. “Don't worry,” she said. “She might look like a Girl Scout, but she's plenty tough.”

With a valedictory “Bullshit,” Violet hung up the phone, got to her feet, and extended her hand. “Cannie. A pleasure,” she said, sounding like a regular person, not like a fire-breathing dragon who'd been channeling Andrew Dice Clay just moments before. “I really enjoyed your screenplay. Do you know what I liked best about it?”

“The curse words?” I ventured.

Violet laughed. “No, no,” she said. “I loved that your lead character had such faith in herself. So many romantic comedies, it seems, the female lead has to be rescued somehow … by love, or by money, or a fairy godmother. I loved that Josie just rescued herself and believed in herself the whole time.”

Wow. I'd never thought about it quite that way. To me, Josie's story was wish fulfillment, pure and simple—the story of what could happen if one of the stars I interviewed in New York ever looked at me and saw more than a potential puff piece in plus-size female form.

“Women are going to fucking love this movie,” Violet predicted.

“I'm so glad you think so,” I said.

Violet nodded, yanked the scrunchie out of her hair, ran her fingers through it, and gathered her curls into a marginally neater version of the same bun. “We'll talk more later,” she said, gathering a legal pad, a fistful of pens, a copy of my screenplay, and what looked like a copy of a contract. “For now, let's make you some money.”

In the end it turned out that little Violet was an ace negotiator. Maybe it was just that the sound of that brassy voice and nonstop stream of obscenities coming out of her adorable little person was so jarring that the trio of young guys in sharp suits wound up staring more than they did contesting her assertion that my script was worth it. In the end, the amount of money they gave me—one chunk to be delivered within five days of signing, the other to be handed over the day filming began, a third chunk for “first look” at whatever I wrote next—was pretty unbelievable. Maxi hugged me, and Violet hugged both of us. “Now go out there and make me proud,” she said, before traipsing back to her office, looking for all the world like a fourth-grader coming in from afternoon recess.

By five o'clock that afternoon I was sitting back on Maxi's deck with a bowl of chilled grapes in my lap and a flute of nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice in my hand, feeling the most incredibly sweet relief. Now I could buy whatever house I wanted, or hire a nanny, even take a whole year off of work when the baby came. And whatever rewriting I had to do, it wouldn't be as bad as facing Gabby, and her
nonstop stream criticism, of both the to-the-face and behind-the-back variety. It couldn't be as bad as straining over the seventh draft of my letter to Bruce. Those things were work. This would just be play.

I talked for hours that afternoon, screaming out the joyous news to my mother, to Lucy and Josh, to Andy and Samantha, to assorted relatives and colleagues, to anyone I could think of who'd share in my happiness. Then I called Dr. K. at his office.

“It's Cannie,” I said. “I just want you to know that everything's fine.”

“Your friend's feeling better?”

“Much better,” I said, and explained it—how Adrian had recovered, how I'd decided to stay at Maxi's, how tiny little Violet had gotten me all of this money.

“It's going to be a great movie,” Dr. K. said.

“I can't even believe it,” I said, for perhaps the thirtieth time that afternoon. “It doesn't even feel real.”

“Well, just enjoy it,” he said. “It sounds like you're off to a wonderful start.”

Maxi watched the whole thing bemusedly, and threw a tennis ball for Nifkin until he collapsed, panting, next to a pile of seaweed.

“Who's that one?” she asked, and I explained.

“He's … well, he was my doctor, when I was trying to lose weight, before I got pregnant. Now he's a friend, I guess. I called him last night to ask him about Adrian.”

“It sounds like you like him,” she said, waggling her eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Does he make house calls?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “He's very nice. Very tall.”

“Tall's good,” said Maxi. “So what now?”

“Dinner?” I suggested.

“Oh, that's right,” said Maxi. “I forgot that you're multitalented. You can write, and cook, too!”

“Don't get your hopes up,” I said. “Let me see what else is in the fridge.”

Maxi smiled. “I've got a better idea of something we should do first,” she said.

* * *

The guard at the front of the jewelry store nodded at me and Maxi and swung the heavy glass door open wide.

“What are we doing here?” I whispered.

“Buying you a treat,” said Maxi. “And you don't have to whisper.”

“What are you, my sugar daddy?” I scoffed.

“Oh, no,” Maxi said very seriously. “You're going to buy something for yourself.”

I gaped at her. “What? Why? Shouldn't you be encouraging me to save? I've got a baby on the way. …”

“Of course you're going to save,” said Maxi, sounding eminently sensible. “But my mother always told me that every woman should have one beautiful, perfect thing that she bought for herself … and you, my dear, are now in a position to do just that.”

I took a deep breath, like I was about to dive into deep water, rather than just walk through a jewelry store. The room was full of glass cases at the level of what used to be my waist, and each case was full of a treasure trove of ornaments, all arranged artfully on pads of black and dove-gray velvet. There were emerald rings, sapphire rings, slender bands of platinum set with diamonds. There were dangling amber earrings and topaz brooches, bracelets of silver mesh so fine I could barely make out the links, and cuffs of hammered gold. There were glittering charm bracelets bearing tiny ballet slippers and miniature car keys … sterling silver earrings in the shape of plump Valentine hearts … interlocked bands of pink and yellow gold … glittering pins shaped like ladybugs and sea horses … diamond tennis bracelets of the kind that Bruce's mother had worn. … I stopped walking and leaned against a counter, feeling more than a little bit overwhelmed.

A saleswoman in a neat navy suit appeared behind it as quickly as if she'd been teleported over. “What can I show you?” she asked warmly. I pointed tentatively at the smallest pair of diamond earrings that I saw. “Those, please,” I asked.

Maxi peered over my shoulder. “Not those,” she scoffed. “Cannie, they're tiny!”

“Shouldn't something on my body be tiny?” I asked.

Maxi looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because …” I said. My voice trailed off.

Maxi grabbed my hand. “You know what?” she said. “I think you look fine. I think you look wonderful. You look happy … and healthy … and, and pregnant …”

“Don't forget that,” I said, laughing.

The saleswoman, meanwhile, was unfolding a piece of black velvet and laying earrings out on top of the case—the itsy-bitsy pair I'd requested first, then another pair about twice as large. The diamonds were each about the size of a Sun-Maid raisin, I thought, and cupped them in my hand, watching them sparkle, flashing blue and violet.

“They're gorgeous,” I said softly, and lifted them up to my ears.

“They suit you,” said the saleswoman.

“We'll take them,” Maxi said, sounding very certain. “And don't bother wrapping them. She'll wear them home.”

Later, in the car, with my new earrings sending spangled rainbows against the roof whenever the sunlight flashed through them, I tried to thank her—for taking me in, for buying my screenplay, for making me believe in a future where I deserved such things. But Maxi just brushed it off. “You deserve nice things,” she said kindly. “It shouldn't come as a surprise, Cannie.”

I took a deep breath.
Friend
, I whispered to the baby. To Maxi, I said, “I'm going to make you the best dinner you've ever had.”

“I don't understand this,” said my mother, who was checking in with her daily afternoon phone call/interrogation session. “And I've got five minutes to figure it out.”

“Five minutes?” I tucked the phone closer to my chest and squinted at my toes, trying to decide whether it was possible to survive in Hollywood with badly chipped toenail polish, or if I'd be fined by the pedicure police. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Preseason softball,” my mother said briskly. “We're scrimmaging the Lavender Menace.”

“Are they any good?”

“They were last year. But you're changing the subject. Now, you're living with Maxi …” my mother began, her voice trailing off hopefully. Or at least I thought that's what I detected.

“We're just friends, Ma,” I said. “The platonic kind.”

She sighed. “It's not too late, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“So what are you doing?”

“I'm having fun,” I said. “I'm having a great time.” I barely knew where to start. I'd been in California for almost three weeks, and every day, it seemed, Maxi and I went on some adventure, some little trip in Adrian's red convertible, which felt more and more like an enchanted chariot, or a magic carpet, every day. Last night after dinner we'd walked all the way to Santa Monica Pier and bought greasy, salty-sweet french fries and frozen pink lemonade, which we'd eaten while dangling our feet in the water. The day before we'd gone to a farmer's market downtown, where we'd filled a backpack with raspberries and baby carrots and white peaches, which Maxi distributed to her fellow cast members (except for her costar because, she reasoned, he'd see the peaches as an invitation to make Bellinis—“and I don't want to be the one responsible for his falling off the wagon this time”).

There were things in California that I still hadn't gotten used to—the uniform beauty of the women, for one, the way every other person I saw in the coffee bars or gourmet grocery stores looked vaguely familiar, like they'd played the girlfriend or the second banana's buddy on some quickly canceled sitcom from 1996. And the car culture of the place astonished me—everyone drove everywhere, so there weren't any sidewalks or bicycle lanes, just endless traffic jams, smog as thick as marmalade, valet parking everywhere—even, unbelievably, at one of the beaches we'd visited. “I have now, officially, seen everything,” I told Maxi. “No, you haven't,” she replied. “On the Third Street Promenade, there's a dachshund dressed up in a sequined leotard that's part of a juggling act. Once you've seen that, you've seen everything.”

“Are you working at all?” asked my mother, who didn't sound impressed with tales of juggling dachshunds and white peaches.

“Every day,” I told her, which was true. In between adventures, and outings, I was spending at least three hours a day on the deck with my laptop. Violet had sent me a script so larded with notes it was practically unreadable. “DO NOT PANIC,” she'd written in lavender-colored ink on the title page. “Purple notes are mine, red notes are from a reader the studio hired, black from the guy who may or may not wind up directing this—and most of what he says is bullshit, I think. Take everything with a grain of salt, they are SUGGESTIONS ONLY!” I was gradually working through the thicket of scribbled marginalia, cross-outs, arrows, and Post-it addenda.

“So when are you coming home?” my mother asked. I bit my lip. I still didn't know, and I'd have to make up my mind—and soon. My thirtieth week was quickly approaching. After that, I'd either have to find a doctor in Los Angeles and have the baby here, or find a way to get home that didn't involve an airplane.

“Well, please let me know your plans,” my mother said. “I'd be delighted to give you a ride home from the airport, and maybe even look at my grandchild before his or her first birthday …”

“Ma …”

“Just a motherly reminder!” she said, and hung up.

I got to my feet and walked down to the sand, Nifkin bouncing at my heels, hoping he'd get to chase his tennis ball into the waves.

I knew that I'd have to figure it out eventually, but things were going so well that it was hard to think of anything but the next perfect, sunny day, the next delicious meal, the next shopping trip or picnic or walk on the beach under the starry sky. Aside from the occasional memory of Bruce and our happier times together, and absent the uncertainty of not knowing what would happen next in my life, my time at the beach house was basic unmitigated bliss.

“You should stay here,” Maxi would say. I never said yes, but I never said no, either. I tried to figure it out the way I'd once investigated my brides, turning the question over and over in my mind: Could this life fit me? Could I really live this way?

I thought about it at night, when my work was done and the food was cooking, and Nifkin and I would stroll along the water's edge.
“Stay or go?” I'd ask, waiting for an answer—from the dog, from the baby, from the God who had failed to instruct me back in November. But no answer came—just the waves and, eventually, the starlit night.

On my third Saturday morning in California, Maxi walked into the guest bedroom, flinging open the curtains and snapping her fingers at Nifkin, who darted to her side, ears pricked up alertly, like the world's smallest guard dog. “Up and at 'em!” she said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “We're going to the gym!”