Mine Are Spectacular! (17 page)

“Really?” Billy says, tugging at his Yankees cap. “My true fans prefer
Mr. Saturday Night.
” He looks at me with his impish smile, and then I see him looking quizzically again at Kate.

On the other side of me, Owen purses his lips and hisses to Kate, “Don't talk. Billy and I sit next to each other at every game and he knows Tess. I wouldn't have brought you if I realized he'd be here.”

Kate's happy demeanor disappears. “Well, I'm here,” she says.

“And we should probably leave,” Owen says, looking around, as if plotting an escape route.

“No, I want to see the game,” Kate says tersely, holding her ground. Kate, the big baseball fan who asked me this morning if it's three strikes you're out or four.

We all stand for the national anthem and at some point after “rockets' red glare” and before “Play ball!” Billy whispers to me, “So who's Owen's friend?”

“She's my friend, too,” I say, trying to provide even the flimsiest of covers. “I think it's wonderful when men and women are friends, don't you? Friends, friends, friends. Old friends. You've got a friend. With a little help from my friends. Be kind to your web-footed friends. Amazing how many songs there are about friends, isn't it?” I'm burbling over like a Coke on a hot day, but I can't seem to stop myself. “And come to think of it, you know all about friends. That's the whole story of
When Harry Met Sally,
right? They're friends.”

“They sleep together,” Billy reminds me.

Now that's a problem. “But not in every scene,” I say, trying to support my case. And deciding I won't mention my favorite speech in the movie, where Harry explains to Sally that friends or not, men want to sleep with every woman they meet.

We sit down, and on the other side of me, I see Kate putting her hand on Owen's arm. And him brushing it away. We're barely into the first inning and things are tenser here in our little row than in the bullpen during the World Series. Or in George Steinbrenner's office anytime.

Owen, used to getting his way, isn't giving up on getting Kate out of the stadium. But ever the businessman, he's now putting a new deal on the table.

“Let's go shopping. I'll buy you whatever you want. If we leave now, we can get to Armani before it closes.”

Kate gives him an icy stare.

“Okay,” he says, upping the ante. “Versace. Fendi. Dior. Your choice.”

I listen in fascination, wondering how many minutes it will take him to get to Van Cleef & Arpels.

“I don't want you buying me anything,” Kate says. “We invited Sara to spend the day with us. She wants to see the game.”

Now wait a minute here. I'm flexible. If he wants to take me to Armani, I can always listen to the Yankees on the radio.

Kate and Owen are trying to whisper, but their heated voices are louder than they think. Now Billy jumps in.

“Hot dogs, anybody?” he asks, calling over the vendor. With no olive branches in sight, he's hoping a Hebrew National will calm things down. He cheerfully passes hot dogs, napkins, and little packets of mustard to each of us.

“Thanks,” Kate mutters.

“If you're hungry, we can leave and go to Cipriani's,” Owen says, not willing to quit. There's a reason the man owns half the real estate in Manhattan. “The one in Venice. We'll take my plane.”

“I don't care if NASA's sending a rocket ship. I'm not leaving,” Kate says, folding her arms. She turns plaintively to Owen and lowers her voice. “You keep telling me you're in love with me. That you and Tess lead separate lives. You want to be together with me forever. Why should it matter if somebody sees us?”

“I do want us to be together,” he says, trying to mollify Kate. “Just not in front of Billy Crystal.”

“Then you've been lying to me,” she says.

“I'm getting out of here,” says Owen, cornered and cutting off the conversation. “You can take the subway home with Sara.”

Whether it's the public humiliation or the threat of public transportation, Kate's had enough. Owen's gone too far and Kate explodes.

“You're an ass,” she mutters, throwing her hot dog at him and hitting his white polo shirt. The mustard lands in a splat across the Ralph Lauren logo.

Owen's face turns crimson—and I'm not the only one who gets to see it. Because the TV camera that has just panned from Mayor Bloomberg to Billy Crystal and put their larger-than-life images on the huge stadium screen has just focused in on New York real estate mogul Owen Hardy. And is beaming his fight with the pretty woman next to him to fifty-five thousand stadium fans. Not to mention the million television viewers at home.

A loud cheer goes up from the fans who, as usual, are watching the screen instead of the game.

“Food fight!” comes the cry from one section.

“Food fight! Food fight!” the crowd in the bleachers chime in.

And suddenly the entire stadium is erupting. “Food fight! Fight fight! Food fight!”

Beer is spurting and popcorn is popping into the air as Kate's little hot dog toss goes global. Burgers and buffalo wings come pelting down on us from the tier above and there are so many flying French fries that Owen may need a Lipitor to recover just from seeing them.

In the frenzy, Owen escapes, leaving Kate and me to fend for ourselves.

“I hate him,” Kate says, bursting into tears.

“Well that's a good start,” I say comfortingly.

Kate wipes at her eyes and glares at me. “How can you be so cruel, Sara? I love him. It was all supposed to be so simple.”

Billy leans over then and hands Kate a mustard-smudged napkin so she can blow her nose. “Love him—hate him. Love him—hate him,” Billy says, reeling his head from side to side as if someone were slapping his cheeks. “I feel like Faye Dunaway in
Chinatown.
”

Kate finally laughs. How come he can cheer her up and I can't? Oh, that's right. He's Billy Crystal.

“It's all my fault. I should have known something like this was going to happen,” Billy says with mock seriousness. “I never should have bought the hot dogs. They always give you heartburn.”

 

When I finally get home after dropping off Kate, the house is quiet. Consuela's gone for the day, Skylar's out with friends, Dylan's asleep, and even the dog doesn't come to the door to greet me.

“Bradford?” I call out hopefully.

But there's no answer. I see low lights twinkling on the patio and step outside into the moonless night.

“Anybody here?” I ask.

“Over here, honey,” Bradford calls out from across the lawn. “Come join us.”

I hear some splashing and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize that Bradford's in the hot tub. That's not like him. And here's something even stranger. He doesn't seem to be alone.

I walk carefully over to the wooden deck and notice several heads bobbing above the water. “What's going on?” I ask. “Who's there?”

“Me,” says a familiar voice. “Kirk.”

“And me,” sings out another voice. I stop, stunned. How can this be? The dreaded Mimi.

“Kind of a long story,” Bradford says nervously as I step closer. “I played tennis and my back hurt, so I hopped in the hot tub just as Mimi was bringing Skylar home. They both jumped in with me, and then Skylar left to meet her friend and Kirk arrived so you two could rehearse for your next show but you weren't home yet so here we all are.” He pauses for breath, and to gauge my reaction. Didn't he ever learn that you should always keep your cover story simple?

“Bradford's become such a prudey-prude since he's been with you,” Mimi says, lolling against the tub and kicking her legs. “He insisted we keep our bathing suits on.”

“I alas didn't have a bathing suit,” says Kirk, looking down at—I'm not sure what.

“This is heaven for me. Surrounded by handsome men. I don't know which way to turn first,” says Mimi. She extends a long leg, trying to tickle Bradford with her toe, but he sidles away and pulls himself onto the ledge.

“Probably time for you to go,” he says to her coolly. I can see he's being careful about my feelings. After our conversation about Mimi the other night, he knows that seeing her here, I might overreact.

And I do. But not the way he might expect. I strip off the Guess jeans and Juicy Couture tee I wore to the Yankees game, revealing my best Victoria's Secret push-up bra and bikini panties in pink floral. I figure it can pass as a bathing suit. I slither into the water and settle down next to Kirk.

“Wow!” says Kirk. He puts his arm around me. “Hey, Bradford. If you want to keep your girl, you'd better get back in here.”

“This girl's all grown up,” I say. And it feels good to act that way. Bradford was right when he said that love and life are complicated. But I don't have to let that make me insecure. Or let a complication like Mimi come between us.

I playfully duck under the water to wet my hair. While I'm here, I might as well find out if Kirk is at least wearing the same Calvin Kleins from the photo shoot. Nope, looks like basic white Fruit of the Looms. Even Bradford's underwear is racier than that. I wonder what got between Kirk and his Calvins.

I come back up and shake out my hair and tug at Bradford's leg to pull him back in. Bradford hesitates, but seeing that despite Mimi, I'm being a good sport, he decides it's safe to come back in the water. I'm not going to drown him.

He slips in beside me and starts playing footsie with me under the water. “You didn't tell me your costar was so good-looking,” he says, now rubbing his calf against mine. “I'd better send a chaperone on your next shoot. I like it much better when you're teaching at that all girls school.”

Yes, all my students are girls, but I keep mum about the new male gym teacher who's so ripped that attendance in phys ed class is at an all-time high. I know Bradford's only teasing, but it's nice to have the tables turned. And to have Kirk continuing to make me seem like the most desirable woman on earth. Or at least in the hot tub.

“I must say I'm enjoying this more than I'd expected,” Kirk says, eyeing me. “If you dress like this for all our rehearsals I'll never be late.” He runs the back of his hand across his forehead. “Is the water in this tub overheated? Or am I just feeling all hot and bothered from being near you?”

I giggle, even though I'm pretty sure that line's from an episode of Kirk's soap. The kind of cutting-edge dialogue I've learned to expect from
Days of Our Knives.

Bradford gets into the spirit. “Something's making me hot, too,” he says, pulling me onto his lap. “And I'm sure it's my sexy fiancée.”

This is fun. I could get used to it. I look gloatingly over at Mimi, who decides to make one last-ditch effort at getting some attention.

She shimmies over to one of the water jets, raising herself on her hands so its full blast is squirting at her bikini bottom.

“Ooh, ooh that feels so good,” she moans, writhing on the water jet, and enacting a little drama, all by herself. I'm briefly stunned, but then remember my new resolve. No reason to be jealous when I have the real thing under me.

“Mmm, Bradford, you feel good,” I say, wriggling around on his lap.

And talk about getting attention, I certainly have his. A little spontaneous bouncing got his interest a lot faster than roses and candles.

Kirk paddles over. “Hey, Bradford, I'm a star. I'm not supposed to lose the prettiest girl in the pool.”

I laugh and so does Bradford. But Mimi doesn't find it at all funny.

“Harumpf!” she says. I've never actually heard anybody say that word before. I thought it was something you only see in a bubble in
Doonesbury.
But Mimi's genuinely miffed that she's being ignored by two men. She gets herself out of the hot tub and grabs her clothes. “I'm leaving,” she says dramatically. “I wouldn't dream of staying where I'm not wanted.”

Coming from Mimi that's a new policy. One that definitely gets my vote. I'm perfectly happy to see her unhappy, but Bradford's too kind-hearted to enjoy Mimi's chagrin.

“Don't be upset,” he says to her, standing up to offer a few words of comfort and unwittingly dumping me off his lap in the process. “Let me get you a towel.”

“I have one,” she says, drying her feet. “Why don't you just walk me to my car.”

Bradford looks at me. “Do you mind, honey? I'll be back in a minute.”

“Go ahead,” I say, splashing some water with my feet, determined not to be jealous. Ever again.

Bradford and Mimi walk toward the front of the house, and I make an effort not to watch them. He's just walking to her car, not out of my life. I'm going to stay rational. No need to sign up for match-dot-com if Bradford's not back in six minutes. Though I'll think about it if he takes seven.

But as if on cue, Kirk picks up the slack. “Alone at last. I get you in the end after all,” he says happily. “Whoo-hoo.”

How bad can life be if Kirk is pitching woo? Literally.

He puts his hand against a water jet and sends the spray in my direction. “Finally just the two of us.”

“And what should the two of us do?” I ask.

“We could rehearse our cooking show,” he says. “Or better yet, you can help me practice my scene for tomorrow's soap. Where I make passionate love to a beautiful woman.” He leans in and gives me a soft kiss on the lips.

“We'll stick to the cooking show,” I say with a laugh. And I kiss him back lightly on the cheek because I know we're just joking around.

Chapter TEN

WHEN I TOLD
James he could meet Dylan two weeks from Saturday, I meant to pick a day so far away that it would never come. But now here it is. Dylan and I are standing at the bottom of the steps at the Bronx Zoo, looking up at the fountain—where I expect James is already waiting. He and I agreed that if the weather was bad, we'd put this off until tomorrow, so I search the blue sky hopefully for clouds. Cumulus, cirrus, stratus. Anything will do. But all I can see is a helicopter.

“You don't look happy, Mommy,” Dylan says as I bend down to tie his sneaker. Admittedly, it's not really untied, but if I stop to fuss with the laces on his Nikes, I can put off our meeting James for another thirty seconds.

“Of course I'm happy,” I say, standing up and trying not to sigh. Or at least too deeply. “I'm always happy when you're around, sweetie.” I ruffle his hair, then pat it down, and do the same to my own.

“Then come on,” he says impatiently. “I want to meet my real daddy.”

And I want to throw up.

I go to take Dylan's hand, but he races ahead of me and bounds up the steps. At the top, he turns around to grin down at me. “Slowpoke!” he hollers. Once I'm next to him, he dashes toward the fountain. And then comes to a complete halt.

I catch up to him and put my arms around him. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“I'm scared. There are lions here,” he says, tears springing to his eyes. And then he adds more quietly, “And what if my daddy doesn't like me?”

I hug him close. My first impulse is to grab him and run away. And why not? That's what James did to us. But this isn't about James. Dylan deserves to find out about his father. And to feel secure while he's doing it.

“Who in their right mind wouldn't like you?” I ask, kissing the top of his head. “In fact, who wouldn't love you? Just the way I do.”

He looks up at me with trusting eyes, and I feel a lump in my throat. Then I notice James, standing on the other side of the fountain, watching us. I don't approach him. Maybe it will be like one of those scenes in a movie where he spots us from afar, realizes what a perfect duo we are, and decides just to disappear again.

But no such luck. He's waiting for us to come over. I take Dylan's hand in mine. “Honey, that's James over there,” I say. “Let's go say hello.”

Dylan hesitates and then follows my gaze. “The man holding the balloon animals?” he asks, his face brightening.

I nod and Dylan lets go of my hand to rush over. James walks toward him, a big smile spreading across his face. He holds out what's probably meant to be an elephant, made from I don't know how many blue and green balloons, and Dylan accepts it eagerly.

“Daddy, this is great! Did you make it yourself?” Dylan asks.

Daddy? It took me eleven months, two hundred sleepless nights and two thousand diaper changes to hear the word “Mama” for the first time. All James has to do is make a lousy balloon animal and he's “Daddy.”

I approach them slowly. James and Dylan are already laughing together and talking and for a moment, I'm the one who feels like an outsider.

James gives me a shy smile. He's not sure whether to kiss my cheek or shake my hand, and he settles on a little wave, avoiding all bodily contact.

“Can we go to the children's zoo?” asks Dylan, heady with excitement.

“Sure,” says James, leading the way. We start down the road and Dylan reaches to take James's hand. I'm walking awkwardly next to them and think of taking Dylan's other hand. But will that make us look too much like a happy little family? Give Dylan the wrong idea of what he can expect? I don't have to worry about it for too long, because after just a few minutes, Dylan groans and looks down the endless path in front of us.

“How much more do we have to walk?” he asks, leaning heavily on James's arm.

“Not far, almost there,” says James, ever the encouraging hiker. “But do you want a ride?”

Dylan, my city-raised son, looks around for a taxi.

“On my shoulders,” James explains. And when a wide-eyed Dylan agrees, James crouches down and says, “Hop on!”

Dylan grabs onto James's sandy hair like he's riding a pony and from his perch high above, looks down and gives me a big grin. “How cool is this, Mom!” he says, bouncing along.

“Really cool,” I say, offering a weak smile. I haven't been able to carry Dylan since he had that growth spurt at four, but I'm glad—should be glad—that he can get a treetop view of the world from James's shoulders.

At the petting zoo, James puts Dylan down and gives him a quarter to get a bag of animal feed. Dylan confidently holds out a handful of nuggets for a billy goat, but when the horned animal lowers his head to start munching, Dylan lurches back and drops the feed on the ground.

“Let's try it together,” James says, putting his palm under Dylan's. “Secret is to keep your hand flat. He wants the feed, not your fingers, so just keep them out of the way.”

With James at his side, Dylan successfully provides lunch for two billy goats and three baby sheep. James has endless fun facts to tell about the animals, and Dylan seems thrilled with his steady stream of stories. I have to admit that even I'm enjoying myself listening to James's easy banter. After the children's zoo, Dylan wants to see the penguins, and who could say no? We go to observe them and James makes the usual joke about their looking like maître d's. Dylan giggles. He seems to have accepted James at face value—a nice man who knows his way around a zoo. I keep hoping Dylan will at least ask James an awkward question or two, but he never does.

We'd agreed to an hour and a half visit for the first meeting, but we're all having so much fun we let it slide into two. Finally, James walks us back to the parking lot.

“Where are we going next time, Daddy?” Dylan asks, dragging his feet.

James glances at me uncertainly. “Some place great,” he says. And then turning seriously to me he adds, “If it's okay with Mom.”

I'd like to take my time to answer. In fact I'd like to take about eight years. But I've done the right thing. This has been a good afternoon for Dylan and he deserves more.

“Sure, we'll have more great afternoons,” I say. But I keep the what and where vague. It took all my emotional reserves to deal with today and I'll have to restock before the next meeting. I hustle Dylan into the backseat and when I buckle him in, he quickly reaches for his Game Boy. I wish Dylan had gone for a book instead of the electronic toy. Maybe that would be proof that I'm a good mother. But apparently his skill with the control button is impressive enough.

“You've raised a terrific kid,” James says, after he's high-fived Dylan and said good-bye. He walks around to the other side of the car with me and opens the door. Then he startles me by taking my hand. “In fact, you're both terrific,” he says. “Thanks for letting me back into your life.”

I step away from him and slide behind the wheel. Finally, I turn on the ignition. “Back into Dylan's life, not mine,” I correct him.

“Enough for now,” James says. He waves to both of us and stands watching for a long time as I drive away.

 

“So it doesn't sound like it was that bad,” Kate says as we push our way through the lobby of the Empire State Building the next day.

“Not so bad. He was good with Dylan. And that's all that matters,” I say, finally summing up my visit with James. Bradford got the abridged version of the story, but as usual I put Kate through the whole play-by-play. She even nodded encouragingly when I got to the part about which billy goat was cutest. That's what best friends are for.

“I don't know if I could have been as mature as you were,” says Kate supportively.

“You don't know the half of it,” I say, thinking proudly of how I handled the situation with Mimi and the hot tub. “I'm acting so grown up lately that by the end of the week I may be eighty.”

“Don't worry, I have a new DNA skin cream that can make you look seventy,” says Kate.

“Thanks, but I'm pretty sure I can do that all on my own.” I laugh.

We hit the button on the elevator and breeze up to the twenty-fourth floor and through a door marked metronaps. Most people come to the Empire State Building to stand on the observation deck and take in the city. Kate and I have come to escape from everything and catch a snooze. Some genius decided he could charge people to come here and sleep for twenty minutes in plastic padded cocoons. And I guess he is a genius, because here we are, plunking down our money.

“Tell me again why you want to do this,” I ask Kate.

“Because it's Tuesday,” she says, looking at me meaningfully. “Used to be my regular day with Owen at The Waldorf-Astoria. Or the Four Seasons. Or the Plaza. We always had great sex and even better rooms. And then we'd take a nap. Have I ever told you about the naps?” She pauses. Yes, she has told me about the naps and I'm convinced that the best part of having an affair is getting to lie down in the afternoon.

“I'm glad you're not seeing Owen today,” I say. “You're making the right decision.”

Kate looks dubious. “I don't know if I am. He's still the most wonderful man I know. But after the Yankees game I decided we should take a break. He got me so mad that day. We both need time to think things over.”

I worry that while Kate needs time to decide whether Owen's still a fling or her future, Owen's just working on how to get the mustard stains out of his shirt.

I take in the strange room filled with rows of sleeping pods. Pods. The whole thing feels very sci-fi. Something out of
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
Though if somebody's going to snatch my body, I hope they bring back a thinner one. I wouldn't normally go to a place like this. Still, I'm here for Kate. If Owen can be replaced by a commercial sleeping station, I'm all for it.

I climb into my personal sleep capsule and notice several businessmen dozing nearby. Only in Manhattan could people be convinced that instead of simply putting their heads down on the desk when they're tired, they need to pay good money to take a nap. And maybe they do. After all, this is the sleep-deprivation capital of the world. Sleeping no more than five hours a night is a badge of honor, and four hours proves you deserve to be mayor. Although you shouldn't necessarily operate a car.

In the next pod, Kate is fiddling with the lighting controls, and her pod plunges into near darkness. I busy myself adjusting the speakers, which offer a dozen choices of relaxing sounds. I flick between lapping waves, which make me slightly seasick, and the gushing waterfall, which makes me want to go to the bathroom.

“You sleeping?” I ask Kate, trying to keep my voice low.

“No,” she says.

“Me either. And guess what I just thought of?” I say brightly. “You and me. Here. We're like two peas in a pod.”

“That's really what you were thinking about?” she asks, probably disturbed that when her best friend lets her mind roam free, this is where it ends up. “I was thinking about Owen. How much I love him. And that I should have been more understanding.”

I practically jump out of my capsule. “Understanding of what?” I ask.

“Shhh,” says a man a few cocoons away. “People are trying to sleep in here.”

What does he think this is, a library? Feels to me more like a pajama party. Where the whole idea is to talk. And talk about boys.

But Kate's closed her eyes, so I lie rigidly in my shell. How embarrassing to admit that I got eight hours of sleep last night and don't need a nap. I switch the white-noise speakers past the sounds of wind rustling and rain pattering to the very realistic bees buzzing. What's relaxing about a bee that's about to sting you? Good thing I don't need any sleep, because I'd never get any.

Nobody else in the room can get much sleep either, because Kate's cell phone starts ringing shrilly. She abruptly sits up and answers it, but with the white noise machine still on in her pod, she doesn't realize how loudly she's talking.

“Oh darling, I love you, too!” she says, practically screaming. “No really, it was me. My fault. All my fault. Yes, I know it's Tuesday. Of course I want to be with you.”

I turn down my speakers so I can listen to every word.

“Owen, of course, yes. Forever.” She turns up the lights over her head, and from the happy look on her face, I guess that three seconds of Owen is better than twenty minutes of dreamy sleep. If Kate was taking a break from Owen, it turned out to be shorter than Britney Spears' first marriage.

Kate gives me a thumbs-up sign and mouths, “Owen!” As if the whole room doesn't already know. She points to the door and I gladly abandon my pod to follow her out.

“Darling, wherever you want. I'll be there in ten minutes.” There's a brief pause and then she makes a face. “The Plaza again? Didn't we have better sex at The Carlyle?” She giggles. “Well, yes, your empty warehouse was definitely the best. Or maybe the penthouse on the top of that office tower you're buying. And I love it that you're bidding on that former church in Brooklyn. That pew was the most fun!”

The pew? Some details I could live without knowing. Guess when Owen is thinking about location, location, location, real estate's not the only thing on his mind.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night and realize I'm not being a good friend. Instead of standing by Kate no matter what, I should be dragging her away from Owen. Kate's not seeing the handwriting on the wall, but I am. Every story ends the same way. Fly down to Tortola? Owen rushes back to his wife. Auction at Sotheby's? He's there with his wife. Yankees game where we're sitting with Billy Crystal? He wants to get out of there, because he's a married man. Is there a theme here?

Maybe they had make up sex at the Plaza yesterday, but no amount of sex can make up for what Owen's doing. And as it turns out there wasn't that much sex anyway. Kate called me at five to say she was back in her office. Owen forgot he had to hightail it over to Cartier to pick up a little anniversary present. For guess who?