Mine Are Spectacular! (14 page)

“It worked for me, too,” says the only woman in the room dressed in black. “And I hadn't been in the mood for about three years.”

The women burst into applause. “Three cheers for Margaret,” one calls out.

“And three orgasms!” cries another.

Margaret blushes and Berni raises her hand. Oh no. I can't believe she's actually participating. Maybe she has been in the house too long.

“Right now it'd take more than a quarter of a teaspoon for me to want sex,” she says boldly to the audience of avid advice givers. “I could bathe in the stuff and I wouldn't be in the mood. How long after babies until you want sex again?”

The women give knowing looks to each other look and exchange giggles.

“About eighteen years,” one offers.

“If you're lucky,” adds another.

But Priscilla isn't allowing any negative thoughts to invade her meeting. “You can buy some Wild Whipped Cream right now and your marriage will be better in a week,” she says optimistically.

With the variety of vibrators here, marriage seems like it could go out of style altogether. Why put up with snoring, shared bathrooms, and the marriage penalty tax when you could replace it all with a ten-speed Sweet Satisfaction power tool? For now, though, I'm sticking with Bradford. That model doesn't look like a very good cuddler.

Like any good Tupperware saleswoman, Priscilla holds up the whipped cream and squirts a bit onto her finger. “Mmmm,” she says, sensuously swirling her tongue over it and batting her eyes. “Deeelicious. Deee-lectable. And definitely worth the twenty-four fifty.”

Okay, maybe yummy. But what could possibly be in her can that's better than Reddi-wip? Maybe it's carb-free.

Several more women in the group share their triumphant sex stories and then a few have questions. Priscilla seems briefly stymied when asked whether the cervical tightening cream can also be used for tightening under your eyes.

“You wouldn't want to waste it,” pipes in the ever-helpful Lizzie. “I'd stick with Preparation H for undereye puffiness. It's proven.”

“That's one I'll add to my shopping list,” Berni whispers to me. “And trust me, I'm not thinking about my eyes.”

Sharing over, Priscilla announces she has a surprise for all of us. “Outside on the deck!” she says buoyantly, pointing us toward the large outside area overlooking her sumptuous gardens. “Grab your favorite color!”

The women head to the flagstone deck without hesitation, and following behind, I realize I'm getting into the spirit. I'm a little disappointed when the only props I see waiting for us are long silk scarves. Even from far away, I can see they're not Missoni, so I wonder why any of the women in this group would be interested.

“What do we do with these?” I ask, vying with Lizzie for the pale purple one.

“Sexercise!” says Priscilla cheerily, holding her own scarf behind her hips and tightening the ends between her outstretched arms. “Swing those beautiful butts, PTA newcomers! Get that pelvis moving!”

Unembarrassed, the women begin swaying against their brightly colored scarves, following Priscilla's lead and simulating the moves they'll use—she hopes—for an erotic night in bed. Nice. Forty women learning how to fake an orgasm. Though most of them probably knew how to do that on their own.

Down on the lawn, I see the gardener glance up at the action on the deck. But apparently women wiggling in demure Lilly Pulitzer shifts is about as exciting as crabgrass. Without so much as a second glance, he goes back to trimming the hedges. Maybe we should offer him some mood cream.

“Close your eyes, ladies,” commands Priscilla. “Swivel those hips and imagine you and your husband having sex.”

“I can't remember,” says Berni. She stops gyrating completely and drapes the scarf around her shoulders. Behind me, two women also take Priscilla's directive to heart and stage a little re-enactment of a wild night in bed.

“The Dow dropped fifty-eight points today,” says one, dropping her voice to imitate her husband.

“But thank god the NASDAQ rallied,” says the other, breaking into giggles.

I don't have to imagine a thing. I just start to remember how good it feels when Bradford's body is close to mine and we dissolve into each other. No lickety-lube loofah in the world could be more gratifying than that. But when the exercises are over and we all troop in to make our purchases, I plunk down my twenty bucks for the crème brûlée panties. Good deal. I won't have to make dessert tonight.

Chapter EIGHT

SO THIS IS
what it feels like to be famous. Or semi-famous. Or at least making a single appearance on a cable channel. When I walk into the cavernous Chelsea Market, home of the Food Network TV studio, I have my very own entourage. Kirk, Kate and Berni are all with me to lend me moral support—and to help carry the M&Ms.

I don't know how long they usually keep Emeril waiting, but nobody comes out to greet us for twenty minutes. When someone does come, it's an AA—assistant's assistant—a perky pony-tailed blonde in blue jeans who's barely older than Skylar.

“I'm Kerri, and let's see, you must be Sara,” she says, glancing past me and making a beeline for Kate, whom she clearly judged Most Likely To Appear on TV. “You're much prettier than your picture.”

“The picture wasn't of me,” Kate starts to explain.

“You sent someone else's picture?” the AA asks, baffled.

“Sara sent the picture, and Sara's right here,” Kirk says, putting his arm around me and bringing me center stage. “Meet your star. Sara.”

The young girl swings around, and seeing Kirk in front of her, lets out a little squeal. “Oh my god! You're Dr. Lance Lovett!” she exclaims, looking starry-eyed at Kirk and identifying him, as most fans do, by his TV persona. “I love you! You're the heart surgeon with a heart!”

Kate, who never watches daytime TV, looks quizzically at Kirk.

“My soap role,” he explains sotto voce to Kate. “I wanted to be the brain surgeon with a brain, but that role was written for a woman.”

I giggle, but quickly cover my mouth so Kerri won't think we're making fun of her.

“Let's get into the studio,” Berni says, glancing at her watch and assuming her natural role as field marshal.

Kirk, Kate and Berni pick up the shopping bags stuffed with my brand new bowls from Williams-Sonoma and my mixing spoons from Gourmet Garage. At first I bought the bowls at Broadway Panhandler and the spoons at Macy's Cellar, but then I returned everything and started again. The curse of living in New York. So many choices, it's hard to settle for what you have. You're sure that somewhere out there is a better spoon, a better gym, a better job, a better house, a better spouse. Or at least a different one. If you live in a place where there's only one housewares store, does that also keep the divorce rate down?

The bright-eyed Kerri, who's now had dealings with everyone in the room but me, does what Berni suggests and heads us toward the studio. We push through a set of heavy double doors that say warning: closed set and into the gleaming studio—stocked with enough mixing bowls, measuring cups, gizmos, gadgets, plates, pots, pans and provisions to outfit the
Queen Mary 2
on a six-week voyage.

“Why did I have to bring my own stuff?” I ask Kerri.

“Because you're not on the list,” she says enigmatically.

“But you'll get on the list,” Berni promises energetically.

“You bet she will,” says Kirk enthusiastically.

“Soon!” Kate chimes in encouragingly.

I have no idea what list anybody's talking about, but I'm suddenly dying to be on it. And secretly thrilled that I have an energetic, enthusiastic and encouraging entourage.

I move over to the granite counter, and an attractive young man in frameless glasses strides over. He looks about six months older than Kerri. Another assistant's assistant, or is he an actual assistant? Probably an actual one—or maybe even better—because Berni rushes over and gives him a Hollywood hug.

“Darling, fabulous to see you. Fabulous to be here. Fabulous studio,” she gushes. It's been a while since I've heard her use the f-word three times in a row. Her first full day away from the twins, and she's sounding like an agent again.

Now Kerri decides to step in and make her introductions. “This is Sara,” she says efficiently to the man in glasses, barely glancing at me. And then, her voice dropping and her eyes batting, she coos, “And this is the famous Dr. Lance Lovett. I watch his soap every afternoon.”

The young man looks pleased to have a real star in the mix and quickly walks over and shakes Kirk's hand.

“Pleasure to meet you, Lance. I'm Ken Chablis, president of the Food Network.”

He is? No wonder I didn't notice him at Olivia's party. The guy's so young that if I had seen him, I probably would have thought he was somebody's son. And I guess he is. I just didn't realize we'd end up working for our children so soon.

“You have a great network here,” Kirk says. “Sometimes I stay home just to watch. I loved your series on choosing melons.”

“Thanks,” Ken says modestly, adjusting his glasses. “I heard from a lot of grateful viewers. We're planning a sequel.”

“On what?” Kirk asks, trying to imagine what could top cantaloupes.

“Thin-skinned fruits.”

No one in the room says a word about thin-skinned fruits. But the phrase does hang in the air for a moment.

Ken throws a casual arm around Kirk and looks over at Berni.

“I've got to hand it to you,” he says to her exuberantly. “This is why you're my favorite agent. Another brilliant idea. Bringing me a soap star to put on the show with Sara. I smell a real winner.”

Actually it's the Tobler Bittersweet chocolate melting on the double burner that smells so good. But am I really going to have a costar? Berni takes a moment to realize why Ken Chablis thinks she's so brilliant. Then she winks at Kirk. She's clearly surprised that she has two clients hosting, not one, but she's not letting on.

“You're right, Ken. Sara and Kirk make a great team. But before we start shooting, you should know Kirk doesn't come cheap.”

“Sure, no problem. We'll work out the details later,” Ken says, waving his hand dismissively. “Whatever he costs, he's worth it. Star power.”

Okay, I'm not a star. But who knew I had this little power? I'm thinking of walking off the set but I'm worried nobody would notice—not even Berni. And the truth is, I'm glad to have Kirk by my side when we start rolling. A few days ago, he tried to give me a few TV tips—explaining that I should just talk to the camera as if it's a friend. But my idea of a friend is something more animated than a hulking black box with a blinking red light.

Kirk casually strides over to join me behind the studio kitchen counter. He undoes one more button on his pale denim shirt, slicks back his hair and points his index finger at the cameraman, cowboy style. “Shoot anytime, pardner,” he says. “I'm ready.”

Just like that? How could he be ready? I've spent four days practicing how to stir batter and say “Now add the egg whites” at the same time. I kept looking into the mirror, repeating “Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate,” and wondering why nobody ever told me before that my mouth makes a funny shape when I say that word. Then there was the problem of what to wear. Yellow pantsuit? Too Hillary Clinton. A red jacket? I'd look like I work for Avis. Black or white? Not on color TV. I settled on blue, but everything this season is pink, so it took hours in Bendel's, Bloomingdale's and Bergdorf's to track down a cerulean blue V-neck top that wasn't too V. After that came the sleepless nights trying to recreate the recipe so my Chocolate Surprise wouldn't be a Chocolate Shock. And I still haven't mastered pouring milk without splashing. This whole TV thing is harder than it looks.

“Should we rehearse?” I ask Kirk anxiously.

“Nah, let's keep it fresh,” he says, grinning. “You know the recipe and I'll play along. Always works if you just relax and be yourself.”

“But I'm nervous,” I whisper to him.

Kirk takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Take this. Actor's trick to calm you down.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a tiny tablet the shape of a Tic Tac. Without asking any questions, I swallow it whole.

“Two minutes and you'll feel better,” he promises.

I take a deep breath, but my heart is still beating so hard I don't know how I'll be able to talk.

“It's not working,” I mutter.

Kirk casually pulls out another magic pill. “What the heck. Your debut. Take two.”

He reaches over to straighten out my earring, then steps back to check me out. “Perfect!” he declares.

And amazingly, holding his hand, I start to feel a lot better. Calmer and even excited about this whole thing. Heartthrob heart surgeon Kirk somehow has my heart under control. Either that or the double dose of drugs has kicked in.

I pull out a compact mirror to make sure that the makeup Kate carefully applied before we came over to the studio is still intact. What a friend. She spent an hour putting on four layers of foundation, concealer, bronzer and blush so my skin could look natural. Now Kate bustles over with a powder puff. “To get rid of the shine,” she says, efficiently patting down my nose.

Kirk watches, then taps her on the shoulder. “Mind doing me?” he asks.

Kate goes over with her powder, then steps back and takes an appraising look. “Has anyone ever told you that you have perfect skin? And you're gorgeous?”

“Yes, many people,” Kirk admits, and somehow, coming from him, it doesn't sound like bragging. In his case it's like saying the Sears Tower is tall. Or the Mona Lisa is smiling. Or four out of five dentists prefer sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. It's just true. Though what were the dentists going to say? Chew Bazooka?

A stage manager comes over and reels off instructions about time cues and hand signals and tosses around various other technical terms that I don't understand. I look in panic at Kirk.

“All you have to know is the camera with the light is the one that's on,” he tells me, patting my arm.

An audio tech comes over with a clip-on microphone. “I have to snake the wire under your top,” he says eagerly.

“I'll do it for you,” says Kirk, stepping forward. He takes the wire and does the job with gentlemanly discretion.

“I shouldn't have let you do that,” grumbles the audio guy, walking away. “Union rules.”

I can just imagine the Teamsters negotiating that contract. They were willing to cut their pensions but demanded exclusive rights to under-the-blouse wiring.

The stage manager calls for quiet on the set and blindingly bright stage lights immediately shine into my eyes.

“Rolling!” the stage manager cries out. “We have speed.”

“We have speed?” I ask, looking up. “What's that mean? Where are we going?”

“Cut!” says the stage manager, disgruntled. He stomps over to me. “What's the matter? You're acting like this is your first time on TV.”

“It is my first time,” I say in a small voice.

“Christ,” he says, shaking his head. “Well then just make your damn pudding and I'll worry about everything else. They let anybody on TV these days.”

He's right. Between the Bachelors, the Apprentices and the Survivors, so many people are on the air, it's amazing anyone's left in the audience to watch. Still, this is my big chance. The least I can do is crack an egg properly.

I pull myself up straighter, and this time when the red light goes on, I do successfully crack an egg. And a joke. In fact, several. And when Kirk pretends to take a swig from the Amaretto bottle, I grin and grab it from him.

“Dr. Lovett, no drinking,” I say with a laugh. “Aren't you doing heart surgery this afternoon?”

“I'll bypass the bypass,” he quips, in his deep doctor's voice.

I groan and he grins, but we're really cooking. The on-air chemistry is working. While I'm blending and beating, Kirk and I banter so easily we actually do sound like TV hosts. With Kirk by my side, I feel as comfortable as in my own kitchen. Or maybe it's those pills. Might want to take one before I see James.

But it's a mistake to let any thoughts about James cross my mind, because just as everything's going so smoothly, I start beating a little too furiously with my wooden spoon. My other hand slips off the edge of the bowl and lands smack in the middle of the sticky batter. Well that should make a quick end to my TV cooking career.

But no, I won't let it. Without missing a beat, I turn and raise my chocolate-covered hand and wiggle it in front of the camera.

“A few fingers in the bowl just add to the taste,” I say, laughing into the lens.

“In fact, it's the best part,” says Kirk, coming behind. He grabs my hand and starts licking the chocolate off my index finger. “Mmm, yummy!”

I giggle. “I promise it's even better when it's done,” I tease, taking back my chocolate fingers. On the other side of the set I see the formerly surly stage manager laughing and Berni giving me a thumbs up.

We finish the segment effortlessly, and surprisingly the gumdrop-studded dessert looks good enough to eat. As the cameraman counts down the last ten seconds of the segment, Kirk and I say our good-byes, then dig in and feed each other spoonfuls.

“That's a wrap!” calls the director. “Nice job, you two.”

“In fact, terrific!” says an exuberant Ken Chablis, coming over. “I want you both back as soon as possible.”

The whole staff crowds around to offer their congratulations—and I proffer spoons so everyone can taste the Chocolate Surprise. Amazing that I've become a star on a liqueur-infused sunken soufflé, though I have to admit that my revised recipe isn't bad.

“What do you think, Ken?” asks Berni, striding over. “Weekly show for my duo?”

Pondering the idea, Ken cups his hand and strokes his smooth chin. Someone should tell him that gesture's more meaningful once you're old enough to have a beard. “I can see it,” he says. “We'll call it . . .” He pauses for a moment and snaps his fingers to herald a brainstorm. “Afternoon Delights!”

Kirk and I look at each other.

“Great, isn't it?” says Ken, pleased with himself. “All those double entendres. The show'll be on in the afternoon. Kirk's already an afternoon soap star. And you'll be making delightful desserts.”