Mine Are Spectacular! (16 page)

“You don't even want to talk about it?” I call after him, surprised.

I hear the water running and after a few moments, he comes back and sits down next to me, looking weary.

“Sara, you want to talk about this, so let's talk. Here's what I have to say. You and I both have children and exes and past histories. At our age, love is complicated. Maybe it's better and deeper, but it's complicated. I'd like to tell you that we'll hold hands and walk into the sunset together and nothing will ever go wrong. And as far as I'm concerned, we will. But the road may have some detours.”

If this is supposed to make me feel better, it's not working.

“What does that mean?” I ask plaintively. “While we're walking into the sunset, will you be taking little side trips now and then over to Mimi?”

Bradford takes a long time to answer. He looks at me and then looks away, and I see his jaw tightening. “Is that what you really think?” he asks.

“I don't know what to think,” I say.

He stands up and starts pacing around the room. “If you don't know what to think about me by this point, what can I say? I've spent a year and a half telling you that I love you, I'm not going to leave you, I'm not James. If you still don't believe it, maybe I'll never be able to convince you. Either you trust me or not.”

“Of course I trust you,” I say softly. “I'm sorry I brought the whole subject up in the first place.”

Bradford hesitates, but then he comes back and wraps his arms around me. “It's okay. We have to be able to talk about everything. But you have nothing to worry about. You need to have a little more confidence in me. And yourself.” He kisses me.

“Okay, starting right now. The new me. Fearless and unafraid,” I say, kissing him back, thinking how safe I feel in his strong arms.

“Good.” He hugs me. “So not to switch topics, but tell me how your TV show went this afternoon.”

“Brilliantly,” I say, determined to show him that I really can be a secure and confident woman. “It may even become a weekly gig.”

“That's great,” he says with a big smile. “I'm proud of you. So I'm going to be married to the next Katie Couric?”

“No, she's not as good a cook as I am,” I say airily. This whole confidence thing is pretty easy. All you do is pretend.

“Well, my good cook, would you like to make dinner for a hungry husband-to-be?”

“I can do even better than that,” I say, innocently wiggling closer to him. “Let's skip dinner and start with dessert. I just happen to have a very tasty crème brûlée.”

Chapter NINE

BERNI GREETS ME
at her door with baby spit-up all over her baggy gray sweatshirt. Attractive. And even more appealing since she's paired the sweatshirt with orange nylon warm-up pants that have a white racing stripe down the side. I guess even a Scotchguarded Chanel was no match for a drooling baby.

“Nice outfit,” I say with a grin, stepping inside her empty foyer.

“Think so?” she asks. “I've already changed three times this morning.”

“I can see that look would be hard to achieve on the first try,” I say, taking Baby B from Berni. Baby A is sleeping—well, was sleeping—in the Snugli on Berni's chest. Now she opens her eyes beatifically—and spits up more of her breakfast.

“Should I get you another sweatshirt?” I ask helpfully.

“No, I'm starting to like them this way,” she says. “Very Jackson Pollock. I might frame them and save them as the babies' first masterpieces.”

I study the interesting pattern of splatters and decide she's right. Novice museum-goers always complain that Pollocks look like they were done by a three-year-old. Who knew they could be done by a three-week-old.

“Maybe you could submit the shirts to the Whitney Biennial,” I suggest.

“No, I've decided not to push the twins to be stars. At least until they're five.”

“You're right,” I say. “Everybody deserves a childhood.”

I follow Berni into the twins' room, the only part of the house that's actually furnished yet. Berni seems to have had the entire Wicker Garden catalogue shipped, including the ultra-padded custom-designed bumpers—which sound like they belong at Nascar, not a nursery. I don't know how good the babies' vision is at this point, but six colorful mobiles are hanging from the ceiling. At least I think it's a ceiling—it's been painted to look like a blue sky filled with puffy white clouds. And the moon probably comes out at night.

Berni tucks the babies into their respective cribs and motions for me to follow her into the empty room next door. It's not hard to guess what the room will eventually become since there's a wall of still-empty bookshelves and a stack of boxes marked “Berni's Study.” Though when she'll get to unpack is anybody's guess.

“The babies always sleep for an hour in the morning,” Berni says, settling into one of the two folding chairs set up in the middle of the room.

“Good time for you to catch a nap, too,” I say, the experienced mom.

Berni closes her eyes briefly. “I need it. They wake up every morning at four a.m. And anyone who says you can change a baby's schedule never had a baby.”

“Being a new mom's exhausting,” I say sympathetically.

“Not to mention being an old new mom,” says Berni. “I probably wouldn't have been this tired if I had them at twenty. Then again, at twenty, I couldn't have afforded the service for twelve Lenox baby tea set or the toy Jaguar. Or the class I'm taking on how not to spoil your children.”

She holds out her sweatshirt and starts picking away at some of the crusty stains.

“Don't tamper with the artwork,” I say lightly.

“Lots more where this came from,” she says. “And then there are the water paintings. Every time I take off Baby B's diaper, he turns into a fountain.”

I chuckle. “They do grow up,” I promise her.

“I know,” she says fervently. “And I swore to myself that I'd be here for every one of those moments—first words, first steps, first fight we have over what to wear to the prom. That's why I hung up on Edie Falco when she called this morning.”

I blink trying to follow Berni's logic and figure out what Edie Falco has to do with Baby A's prom.

“You hung up on Edie Falco?” I ask. “From
The Sopranos
? Aren't you afraid Tony will send a hit man?”

“I was more afraid that if I talked to her, I'd take her on as a client. She asked me to be her agent. But I can't do it. It's enough that I have you and Kirk.”

“Well, yes, I can see why you'd ignore Edie Falco in favor of me,” I say sarcastically. “Why have a client with a mantel full of Emmys when you can have one with an oven full of raspberry tarts?”

Berni rolls her eyes. “I'm stuck with you two,” she says affectionately. “And by the way, I did your deal with Ken on the phone. Got you great terms. And I had a terrific time watching you guys shooting the show the other day. It almost made me wish I could go back to agenting again for real.”

“You can if you want,” I say.

“No, I can't. I took an oath,” Berni says. “I promised the babies that I'd stay home with them.”

“Did you cross your heart and hope to die or just pinky swear?” I ask.

“I'm serious,” Berni says, sounding as sanctimonious as one of those teenagers who vows to remain a virgin until marriage. “Would you like to see the letter I sent all my clients explaining that I'm leaving the business? Everyone was shocked. I was the best, you know. Studio heads were terrified of me. The only way to get what you want in Hollywood is to make them think you're stronger than they are.”

I always thought I could get people to do what I wanted by being nice. And wearing lipstick. But maybe Berni has a point. I practice setting my face in a scowl and giving off some don't-mess-with-me attitude.

Berni leans back until the chair tips and she's rocking on the rear two legs. Just the way Dylan does, although I always tell him to stop.

“You know what's funny?” she asks, not even noticing my fierce face. I guess I'd better keep practicing. “I've never thought of myself as anything but an agent. Now it's like starting from square one. I don't have interesting work and glamorous stories to tell. When I got that call this morning I realized it would be so easy to fall back into the role I know. But I'm not going to do it.” She brings the chair forward and the front leg lands with a decisive slam.

“It doesn't have to be either-or,” I say. “You're always going to be second-guessing yourself anyway. What is it someone told me? Don't stay home with your kids and they end up on drugs. Stay home with them and
you
end up on drugs.”

“At the moment, the only thing in my medicine cabinet is Baby Tylenol,” Berni says.

“Should be enough,” I say. “I'm convinced there are lots of ways to raise a kid that work out just fine. I've always had a job and look at Dylan. He's perfect.”

“Yup, Dylan is perfect,” Berni agrees with a laugh. “And I'm pretty confident I could keep working and raise great kids. But I'm staying home as much for me as for them. I'm kind of curious to find out what I'll become if I'm not an agent.”

“Depressed?” I joke.

Berni shrugs. “Sometimes I feel a little lost. The babies are wonderful but I've got to tell you, the days seem long. And sometimes even≵—she lowers her voice—“boring.”

“That's the part nobody tells you,” I confirm.

Berni suddenly looks worried. “I'm not trying to jinx anything,” she says, looking around for some wood to knock on, and, not seeing any, rapping on the cardboard box. “I'm lucky. Two beautiful, healthy babies. It's just such a change in pace.”

“It's okay. You can count your lucky stars every day—and still miss those Hollywood stars you used to hang with. They were probably better conversationalists.”

“Not all of them.” Berni laughs. “You spend a lot of time in Hollywood kissing ass. So now I'm wiping tushes. Fair trade.”

“It gets easier,” I tell Berni, remembering my own fraught, frazzled days when Dylan was an infant and James was long gone. “And at least you get to share it with your husband.”

“Careful, the husband is listening,” says Aidan, overhearing me as he rushes past in the hallway. He pauses and comes into the room, bending over to kiss Berni.

“Staying home today?” I ask Aidan, who's wearing well-worn jeans with a hole at the knee and scuffed sneakers. I guess these babies haven't been good for either one of their wardrobes.

“Not if he's in his work clothes,” says Berni, looking over admiringly at her husband in his film-editing uniform. His T-shirt says
The Manchurian Candidate,
his windbreaker advertises
About Schmidt,
and his baseball cap is from
Freaky Friday.
Bradford wouldn't even dress that way to play softball. He once tried to take off his tie for a summer casual Friday, but said he felt like he was going to work naked. Obviously, Aidan would go to work naked if not for the freebies from his films.

“I hate to leave you and the babies, honey,” Aidan says to Berni. “But Steven's really pushing hard to get the movie finished.”

“Steven Spielberg,” Berni explains to me proudly. “Aidan's having an amazing time working for him.”

“It's really a fabulous project,” Aidan agrees happily. “Steven's a great visionary. The film genius of our generation. And the only director I know who stocks the edit room with Devil Dogs.”

Aidan kisses Berni on the top of her head and heads out the door.

“Does it bother you to see Aidan heading off to make movies while you stay home?” I ask Berni, getting up to leave myself.

“A little,” she says. “I can cope with the identity crisis. But Devil Dogs were always my favorite.”

 

Kate invited me to the Yankees game, and I've never had seats like this in my life. Owen's season tickets are in the front row, next to the Yankees dugout. I've already bought a soda that cost me five dollars and seventy-five cents, including the souvenir cup. If I get to enough games—or drink enough soda today—I'll have service for twelve.

I'm hoping Kate and Owen get here soon, but I'm not betting on it since they're probably indulging in their own pregame activities. I turn my attention to the field where just twenty feet away, Derek Jeter is warming up. He casually catches a ball and turns around and smiles in my direction. But probably not at me since Mayor Bloomberg is sitting one row behind. Then Jeter exchanges waves with a man in sunglasses and a Yankees cap who's walking down the aisle, accompanied by an usher. They stop directly at my row and the attendant flips down the seat right next to mine and dusts it off. The baseball-capped man says, “Thanks, buddy,” offers a ten-dollar tip and then settles in.

I idly glance over at my new neighbor and suddenly realizing who he is, jerk back in my seat, stunned. In my excitement, the soda spills and my pretzel goes flying. Oh my gosh. Yankees fan Billy Crystal is sitting right next to me.

The best thing to do is ignore him. Pretend it's no big deal to have the funniest man in America—okay, the funniest man after Jerry Seinfeld—inches away. I casually toss my hair back and take the sunglasses from the top of my head and readjust them on my nose. I look straight ahead, eyes focused on the ground crew who are preparing for the game rather than risk turning to my right and saying something stupid to my favorite celebrity in the whole world. I am cool. I am confident. I am Woman.

“Excuse me, miss,” says my next-seat-over-mate, tapping me on the arm. “Is this yours?”

I muster the courage to turn and see Billy Crystal holding a jumbo soft pretzel in front of his face. Did he steal my pretzel? I wouldn't blame him. Same vendor that ripped me off for the soda charged three seventy-five for it.

“Uh, could be. No way of knowing. They all look alike,” I say flustered.

“I found it in my lap,” Billy says.

So that's where it landed.

He holds the pretzel in his palm, studying it as if it were Yorick's skull. “Alas, poor pretzel, she didn't know you very well,” he says, taking a big bite.

I finally laugh. “Okay, maybe that's my pretzel.”

“Not anymore,” he says, munching away. Then he grins and puts out his hand.

“By the way, I'm Billy Crystal,” he says.

“I know,” I blurt in a rush. “I love you. I love every movie you've ever done.”

“Well thank you,” he says, smiling sweetly.

“I loved you in
Mr. Saturday Night.
”

“You did?” he looks surprised. “Nobody's ever said that to me before. Even my wife hated it.”

“You've made much worse movies,” I say encouragingly. “Think about
My Giant. Throw Momma from the Train.
I loved all of them.”

“You should be the movie critic for
Variety,
” he says, obviously pleased with my terrible taste.

I shrug. “Anybody can like
City Slickers
or
When Harry Met Sally . . .
Making it through
Forget Paris
takes real devotion.”

“I see your point,” he says, finishing the pretzel and licking the salt off his fingers.

The usher sidles up to our row again and flips down two seats, readying them for Owen and Kate, who are holding hands and bounding down the aisle behind him. From the spring in Kate's step, they must have had some pregame warm-up.

Owen thanks the usher and slips him a twenty-dollar bill. Ten from Billy and twenty from Owen. This guy's got it better than the pretzel vendor. If my gig at Food Network doesn't work out, maybe I can set up shop here.

“Hi, Owen. Good to see you at another game,” Billy says affably, reaching over to shake Owen's hand. But he's staring straight at Kate.

“Hi, Billy.” Owen looks as embarrassed as a kid who has just been caught cheating on a math test. Or as a man who has just been caught cheating on his wife. “I didn't think you'd be here today.”

“I wanted to see the game, so I postponed going to L.A. until tomorrow.”

There's an awkward pause as Kate looks at Owen expectantly, waiting to be introduced. But Owen just takes his seat and motions for Kate to do the same. She ignores his signals and leans across Owen to give me a kiss on the cheek. Then she smiles at my seatmate and says “Hello, Mr. Crystal, I'm Kate Steele. A thrill to meet you.
When Harry Met Sally
. . . is my favorite movie.”