Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper (19 page)

I
was supposed to have an “elective” Cesarean, which meant that I had chosen it, even though I hadn’t. I wanted natural childbirth—I wasn’t against drugs, but I wanted at least to give it a try. But my doctor, Henri, said it wasn’t an option for “someone like me.” Aside from the fact that any twin pregnancy was automatically categorized as high risk, Henri said that if I wanted to guarantee my privacy, while in labor and while giving birth, he absolutely had to book an operating room in advance. The risk that someone would get a shot of me indisposed was just too high. This was how “everyone” did it—Jessica Rand, Chantelle, Isle Goodwin.

On the night of May 14, with my Cesarean only a week away, Rob was receiving an award for humanitarian service at the Studio. There was a whole fund-raising event around it to support Studio Manhattan, the New York project, and Rob was giving a speech. At eight months’ pregnant, I wasn’t going anywhere, so I sent Meg as my stand-in. She had nothing of her own that was suitable to wear, so Genna pulled some dresses out of my closet. Meg selected a simple black crepe gown by Lanvin. Joaquim did her hair in an updo. As she was on her way out, I realized that something was missing. Jewelry. It couldn’t be too showy—as a
longtime One Cell practitioner she lived modestly—so I added a vintage cameo on a black choker. She looked stunning.

Rob and Meg left, and I spent the evening on the couch, nibbling on sesame sticks.

I dozed off in the den, but woke up sometime after midnight when I heard the voice of the house alarm say “A door is open.” Bleary, I lumbered down the dark hall. There were murmured voices and giggles, a “shhh.” I reached the dimly lit entryway just as Rob caught Meg in his arms. She laughed and leaned in to him, her eyes shiny and unfocused.

“I can’t hide it anymore,” Meg drawled. “No more secrets.”

“Hi,” I said.

Both of them started at the sound of my voice, but Rob didn’t let go of Meg. Indeed, if he had, she certainly would have slid to the floor. We stood frozen in that awkward tableau until Rob finally broke the silence.

“I’d better get this one to bed. Be right back, love.” He started to walk Meg to her room.

“Hurry, please,” I said. “Because we need to go to the hospital.”

Rob spun around so fast he almost dropped Meg. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

I said the words at the same time as I understood what was happening to me. “My water just broke.”

Lewis drove us to Cedars. Henri met the car with a wheelchair. In between contractions I put on a hat and wrapped the scarf Aurora made for me around my neck up to my nose. (It was the one time I
could
wear it—when I was trying not to look like myself.) They took me up in the service elevator to a three-room suite on the maternity floor. I would find out later that Meg had booked this suite for the entire two-month block
leading up to my scheduled Cesarean, just in case there were complications. At $4,000 a night it was less than our travel per diem.

Now Henri conceded that I could skip the Cesarean after all. I labored in my suite for almost ten hours. Lewis was stationed right at the door, taking IDs and making sure everyone who entered, including all medical personnel, signed a confidentiality agreement. The hospital and any employee who signed the agreement were each liable for damages of $1 million, minimum, if a single photo was leaked. It was a fair price, since $1 million was exactly what
Rounder
was paying for the exclusive first shot of the babies.

Let me set the record straight, for once and for all. The Studio has no birth rites that I know of. I did not pick the original Cesarean date because it was Teddy Dillon’s birthday, and I wasn’t disappointed that the boys had other plans for their arrival (though maybe, in hindsight, it was a sign). A “high priest” did not deliver the twins, unless Henri leads a secret double life. Rob did not put sand on the floor of the hospital room. The babies do not have secret One Cell names. I did not have an affair with Henri. I was not vajazzled and did not know that word or concept existed until I saw it in reference to myself on
Sheigh Moi
. And, no, I was not blindfolded. Good one, though.

And there you have it, sorry to disappoint. I hate that I have to defend the most private moment in a woman’s life, but one gets tired of being thought a freak. We led a rarified and even weird life, to be sure, but birth and death still play out as they will.

When the contractions grew unbearably intense, Rob’s voice rose over my distress. He quietly whispered how grateful he was to me, how proud he was to be my intended, how excited he was to meet our children. Everything was going to be fine. If the Whole Body Principles had prepared Rob for anything, it was childbirth. Even if he was just playing the role of supportive father, saying the requisite lines, what difference did it make? He was calm, focused, and deeply present.

At some point, when I couldn’t take it anymore, the epidural kicked in and worked way better than I could have imagined. Then I pushed, and our boys, first Casper, then Leo, were born at 8:15 and 8:46, respectively, on the morning of May 15. Their tiny wails came in stereo from somewhere behind me, one clearly more pissed off than the other (that had to have been Leo). It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard.

As soon as the babies had been weighed and assessed, Henri put them on my chest. Slick wisps of dark hair peeked out from under the little cap that hid Casper’s cone head. Two round bundles, their faces a bit spotty from the delivery. It was hard to imagine that they would grow into people, with talents and moods and preferences. Right now they were unformed and perfect. We would feed them, help them sleep, and keep them safe. Together Rob and I would watch their lives branch in more and more directions as they learned to walk, swim, jump, read, make friends, and imagine. The scope of it, of nurturing and protecting these helpless beings, was daunting. Their lives were so simple now, but the responsibility that lay ahead was unfathomable. Along the way we, their parents, could only make them less perfect. I desperately wanted us to make the right decisions for them, though I had no idea how.

I felt two heartbeats, quick against my own, and prayed that those little hearts would know more joy than pain. I knew I would love any child, but Cap and Leo were mine, and I forgot about everything else.

Though my feelings about this are clouded by later events, I will never forget seeing Rob with his new children. Nurses still bustled around us, cleaning up, but sneaking glances at us to confirm, I suppose, that celebrities act just as lost and in love as any other new parents. Rob knelt down next to the bed and nestled his head against me, his arm reaching around both boys. The four of us were a nest of love. Our family was complete. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

I
n the last days of planning the wedding, Meg brought me lists of questions, but I ceded all the last-minute decisions to Bethamy, the wedding planner I couldn’t stand but had rehired in postpartum panic. Oh well. So much for making my wedding my own. Now that I had the twins to juggle, I decided it didn’t matter.

Arrangements were made. People prepared what I would wear and where I would go. There was only one path in front of me. All I had to do was keep walking forward. If that makes me sound like a cow plodding stupidly to the slaughter, well, all I can say is that the cow is mercifully unaware of her impending doom.

Also, Henri gave me a little pink pill to take every morning. Beta-blockers. Henri promised they were perfectly safe for breast-feeding. I’d refused them before, when Bethamy thought I had too many opinions about my own wedding, but now I took one every day, and I felt like a million bucks.

In the end, the primary goal of wedding planning wasn’t how to represent our love in a ceremony that bound us for life before all of our loved ones. Rather, the central focus was keeping the date and location secret. Our jet first made a quick stop on the Isle of Man. We got off the plane
long enough to take some “vacation” photos on the beach nearest the tarmac. Then, as soon as it was getting dark, we stole off in a yacht to Dublin. Immediately before the wedding, we e-mailed our
Rounder
contact decoy photos of the four of us—me, Rob, and the babies—relaxing on our island vacation. By the time they hit the newsstands six days later we’d be married and off on our honeymoon in Australia. That was the plan, anyway.

The boys were two months old and still exclusively breast-feeding, one after the other, every four hours when we arrived at Ballybridge Castle, the thirteenth-century stronghold Bethamy had picked because she seemed to have such strong opinions about the pros and cons of various European castles. I still wasn’t speaking to my parents—or Aurora, for that matter. Our falling-out had persisted through the twins’ birth, which felt even bigger to me than the wedding. I had moved on, and the wedding represented my new, adult life. Most of the guests would be Rob’s family; friends from the Studio; actors, producers, and directors we’d worked with over the years; and a number of people who had traveled with us to help with the wedding, though Genna, Talia, Joaquim, and Rob’s stylist really counted as friends.

At least there was Meg. Soon after the boys and I came home from the hospital, Meg had tried to apologize for her condition the night I’d gone into labor. Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten about seeing her drunk and whispering about secrets in my fiancé’s arms.

“The way I grew up—it was really insular. In Fernhills I was immersed in the Practice. I’m kind of—realizing some stuff. I mean, coming to work for you was the first time I’ve really seen the real world—”

“This isn’t exactly the real world—” I reminded her.

“That night was the first time I had alcohol.”

I stopped her. “Please. I think you’re allowed to have a few drinks on a Friday night.” I thought of Meg as a close friend, but she’d never before
mentioned any personal issues. Under ordinary circumstances I like to think I would have paid more attention to what she was trying to tell me. A good friend would have asked about what she was going through, but the boys were only a week old. All I cared about was getting them on the same sleep schedule.

Without family at the wedding, I was grateful for Meg’s familiar presence. Of all the new people in my life, she was the one who knew me best. She could laugh with me about Bethamy, who was in high form, following me around with her iPad and asking questions like “Which font do you prefer the calligrapher use for the menus? I suggest the serif. Her sans serif is rather plain.” (“Ask Rob.”) “Do you want the foyer lit for photography during the ceremony? The photos will be worth much more.” (“Yes.”) “Who will you dance with when Rob dances with his mother? I understand your father isn’t here, it’s too bad, darling, and I wish you’d told me sooner since I did floral for both your parents and the seating is a nightmare.” (“Rob and his mother can dance alone. I’ll watch.”) And “Where do you want the babies in the photos? We can make sure no photos are taken if you’re working on a birth date revision. It’s always the best way to go with twins since they tend to be small. Nobody’s paying attention. You’ll make the official birth date a few months later and they’ll do better at sports.” (“Rob and I will hold the boys in our arms!”)

The morning of the rehearsal dinner, Rob had a surprise for me. He led me outside the castle to the blissful paparazzi-free front entrance. We got in the back of a beat-up, nondescript car, and were soon chugging along, surrounded by green meadows dotted with houses and sheep, crossing a bridge to Achill Island. Now the narrow road led us down the rough, rocky coast, where the Atlantic pounded against the land. Sun pushed through gaps in the omnipresent clouds.

We got out of the car at a deserted village, crumbling stone structures left over from the famine. The wind whipped my extensions back and forth (Joaquim was going to have a heart attack), and Rob seemed to know exactly where he was going as we clambered down a steep path to Annagh Strand. Now, truly, we were in the middle of nowhere. There was not a soul in sight, and it seemed like no one had ever been here before, and no one would come after. Rob loved places like this. When he talked about traveling “beyond the beyond,” he reminded me of my beloved explorers.

Rob led me across the grass; spread out a blanket; opened a bottle of Guinness; and unpacked some cheese, crackers, rhubarb bread, and nuts. He had every detail planned out (and when I say “he,” I’m sure I mean Bethamy).

I’d barely had a sip of anything since the boys were born, and the stout went straight to my head. I was Lizzie Pepper, the quiet, serious girl from Chicago, Illinois, and I had traveled a long way to get here. I’d worked hard, from such a young age, and this incredible life was the payoff. I sat cross-legged and looked at my soon-to-be husband.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” I said.

“I love you the most.”

The moment was too perfect. It deserved total joy, but that forced me to confront the hole in my heart. Rob’s tenderness broke me, and l fell into his arms, crying. “It isn’t right. My parents are missing my wedding. My mother’s family is from this county and she isn’t even here! Aurora has wanted to be my maid of honor for years. I have nobody except you.”

He held me in his arms. “I want to give you everything, and somehow you’ve lost the most important people.” He turned my face toward him and I saw tears in his eyes. “We’ll fix it, love. I know we can. If tomorrow isn’t perfect, we’ll get married again. I’ll marry you a hundred times.”
Even up until that day I’d had my doubts about my husband-to-be. His polish was so impenetrable. But time after time, just when I felt completely alone, Rob showed his true colors. He wasn’t just loving, he understood me. And in that moment, I saw it. All my sacrifices had been for something amazing. True love.

“Aren’t we a sight?” I said.

I lay down on the blanket next to Rob. Here, away from Hollywood and the Studio and our mansions, Rob and I were just a man and a woman whose hearts and bodies were meant for each other. Tomorrow’s ceremony, though I knew it would be beautiful, felt like a role I had to play. But in that precious handful of time, beside the glorious ocean, with my gorgeous husband-to-be lying next to me, I felt deeply in love. I didn’t want to go back down to the off-balance guest list, the secrecy, the event-ness of it all. We lingered until Rob’s phone started buzzing. We were already late to hair and makeup for our rehearsal dinner.

The wedding was the following day. The pictures of me in the wedding dress “of my own creation” were my big fashion moment, I guess. But I’ve never told the real story of how that dress came about, which also happens to be the story of how I almost ruined my own wedding.

Rob had been banished from our room, and my team was getting me dressed. I sat in front of the mirror, idly watching Joaquim do my hair, when there was a strong rap at the door. It was Rob’s lawyer, Keith, holding a thick leather binder.

“I tried to get this to you yesterday, but you two were MIA,” he said. “You need to sign this before the wedding.” He handed me the binder.

In it was a two-hundred-page prenup, flagged with “Sign here” tabs. On top was a note in my father’s familiar handwriting. “Elizabeth, please execute. D.” Classic Doug Pepper. Every major life event deserved a contract.

“I can’t read this!” I said to Meg. “The wedding’s in . . .” I had no idea what time it was.

“An hour,” she said.

“The wedding’s in an hour!”

“Leave it,” Meg said. And I did.

A half hour later, I was ready. The one-of-a-kind dress by Michael One had a tight, structured bodice, and a voluminous silk taffeta skirt embellished with tiny pearls. My hair was up in a side bun, which made me feel like a drunk Princess Leia. I already knew I’d regret it one day. When they added the weighty diamond-and-sapphire headpiece that Rob had presented to me the night before—my something new, blue, and borrowed—it gave me an instant hangover. I didn’t have anything old, but I figured the thirteenth-century castle would do the trick. Meg asked me if I was ready to go down, and I was about to reply when a text came from the twin’s nanny, Lala.

So sorry to bother you,
it read.
But can I pick up bottles to use during the wedding?

Lala wanted milk for Cap and Leo. I’d been pumping double-time for just this purpose. She should have had several extra bottles in the mini fridge of the room down the hall that she was sharing with the boys.

I texted back.
I
t’s in the mini fridge?

Sorry Miss Elizabeth, but we used it yesterday
J

My heart sank. I should have realized it was gone. While Rob and I were off on our romantic excursion, my baby bears had drunk all of the extra milk I’d pumped so industriously. There was nothing left to use when they got hungry during the ceremony. Greedy children.

Okay, pumping now
, I wrote back. I looked up at the staff. “I need twenty,” I said.

“Everyone out,” Meg said. When they left, she asked, “Is everything okay, sweetie?” She clearly thought I had cold feet.

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “It’s just that I have to pump.”

She looked relieved. After undoing the hundred or so velvet buttons on the back of my dress, she retreated to the bedroom to give me privacy.

I carefully rolled down the heavy bodice of the dress, put on the nursing bra that held the cones of the pump in place, and hooked myself up. The pump made a wheezing sound as it went about its undignified task. Usually it sounded like it was saying, “Whack-a-Mole, Whack-a-Mole,” but today, for some reason, it whispered, “What the fuck, what the fuck.” I rolled my chair closer to the desk and, for lack of anything else to read, started to flip through the prenup as I pumped.

It was a riveting document. I had no idea, for instance, that if my marriage to Rob ended in less than one year, then my corporation, Pepper Mills, would receive $2 million. If we got divorced after the first year, I would be awarded $3 million for every year we were married. If we stayed together for ten years or more, I would be entitled to half of our “community” property or $30 million, whichever was more. It was a little horrifying to see that I would have only one week to vacate all properties and to claim all clothing and personal effects. The furniture and vehicles would be Rob’s, unless in the course of the marriage he chose to designate me as the owner. It was understood that each of us would have the right to withdraw from any joint projects without damages from the other. In the event of divorce, I acknowledged that Rob and I would have different standards of living thereafter, and Cap, Leo, and any subsequent children (as if!) might be exposed to this discrepancy.

I found what I read entertaining, but I didn’t take it seriously. Rob and I were committed for life. As far as I was concerned, signing the prenup just confirmed to Rob, his staff, and anyone else who knew about it (because it would inevitably leak to the public sooner or later) that I wasn’t a gold digger.