by Lisa Ferrari
That… that… little… bitch.
Chris tells me to keep Kellan on a short leash.
I ask what that’s supposed to mean.
Nothing. Just that women can be really cold bitches.
In the same breath, he says he got a BIG pay raise with the head chef job and he’s going to save money for six more months and then buy a house. But he’s going to start looking right away.
He asks if I want to come house hunting with him. He tells me to ask my sister if she’ll be his realtor, since that’s what she does. She’s not an actual Realtor yet, but whatever.
I tell Chris that might be fun.
He goes back to work.
I immediately wonder why the frick I just said that. I don’t want to go house hunting with Chris.
I’d go house hunting with Kellan.
In a flash.
We could find a way to have sex in each of the houses we look at. If it’s an open house and the agent is busy conversing with other prospective buyers, we could sneak into the back yard and Kellan could pork me standing up against the side of the house. And maybe I could get a twig or some leaves in my hair but not realize it. And then when we went back into the house, the agent would be all like, ‘Oh, you have leaves in your hair, sweetie,’ and I’d be all innocent like, ‘Oh, I wonder how those got there.’ and all three of us would be all like, ‘Oh, it’s totally obvious how they got there but we’re all too polite to say anything.’ And then Kellan and I would jump back into the Mister Beaumont or my little red Pontiac and we’d be gone!
Kellan did mention getting a bigger house with a bigger garage to accommodate the Mister Beaumont. I don’t dare to go so far as to imagine having a place to park my new Solstice, because I’m fine parking it outside.
The idea of house shopping with Kellan inspires me to follow through on my earlier plan. I go into the restroom and take a close-up pic of my breast and send it to Kellan.
I get back to work, eager to get a reply from him.
I help everyone else set the pitchers of iced tea, water, and lemonade (I hate serving lemonade!) on the tables. The room is packed with tables and there’s barely enough space to walk between and around them.
Plus, a long catwalk has been set up on the front of the stage for today’s fashion show. It extends out over the dance floor and onto the carpet. Which means that when we serve lunch, I am the one who gets to walk alllll the way around the catwalk each time. Fun.
Oh well.
I resolve to be happy, the way I was yesterday. And the several days before.
What’s that expression Kellan said once…
Life is 10% what happens to us and 90% how we react to it.
Fine.
I shall react positively.
And on the way home, maybe I’ll stop at Walmart, no, Macy’s, no, Nordstrom! And I’ll buy some new black pants for work. I’ll burn my friggin baggy men’s work pants from Walmart in Kellan’s outdoor fire pit. And maybe the newer ones I’m wearing, too. We can roast marshmallows and stuff little pieces of Kit-Kat into the center of each marshmallow.
And then I can lick the s’mores off Kellan’s washboard abs. And his glorious erection. And his perfect, muscular butt.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I duck into the bathroom and pull out my phone, hoping Kellan sent a pic of his own nipple. Or his penis. Everyone always laughs about guys sending dick pics to girls, and I understand why. But I’d love for Kellan to send a picture of his penis to me. Preferably erect. And thick and long.
It’s not a pic; it’s an email. From a guy named Nathan Wentworth, owner of Pastiche Boutique, a small, self-described boutique literary agency/publisher with a stable of about one hundred talented writers. I recognize almost all of the names he cites as clients. Several of them have books in Walmart and Target and Barnes & Noble and the library. I’d kill to see my books sold in those stores, and to be available in the library.
Nathan Wentworth goes on to say that he wants to discuss my trilogy The Love Mush Room.
I sit down on the toilet. Without looking to see if there is pee on the black plastic toilet seat. Why is the toilet seat black? It’s so gross. Toilet seats are always gross, but who thought it was a good idea to put a black one on a white toilet? So the pubes wouldn’t show?
Claire, focus.
I finish reading the email from Nathan Wentworth.
At the very end, he writes:
Ms. Valentine, when can you come to Manhattan?
Holy s-h-i-t.
I’m so scared and so excited all at once.
I immediately wonder if it’s a scam; if Pastiche Boutique is a vanity house and they’re going to try to charge me $20,000 to “publish” my book and print 5,000 paperback copies that will sit in my apartment and never be sold.
I quickly google them.
The website comes up. With an address and phone numbers and an A+ BBB rating and everything.
They’re legit.
There are pics of the office in Manhattan. A smiling receptionist. Smiling associates with their mountainous slush piles. Smiling editors seated at their desks. They all look so smart. I scan through several of their bios. They’re all ivy league grads with many years in the business.
I finally come to the bio for Nathan Wentworth.
My first thought is that he’s gorgeous. Like a literary J. Crew Johnny Depp. He’s in a cozy-looking study, sitting in a big wingback chair in front of a fireplace and an actual fire, and surrounded by books, with his legs crossed, a book open in his lap, and a proverbial red editor’s pen in his hand. He’s holding his black eyeglasses, smiling, as though he was caught mid-laugh.
He signs his email with only his first name: Nathan.
Oh boy.
Oh boy oh boy oh boy.
I’m going to Manhattan!
LATER, AFTER THE fashion show has concluded and I’m hot and sweaty, we all make quick work of the clean-up. Nancy even has some of the restaurant staff come in and help. With this many tables, we’d be here all night.
My phone buzzes again.
I haven’t mentioned the email from Nathan Wentworth. Nancy saw me smiling earlier and I nearly confessed. But I let her go on thinking it was from all the sex. Which is true.
I glance at my phone as I’m unloading pitchers and coffee mugs and b-and-b’s onto the dishwasher station.
It’s not from Kellan or Nathan or Denise.
It’s from Sheila.
She writes that the studio is very excited about the picture because a certain big-name actor fell out of another project and they nabbed him for our picture. The timeline on our picture is therefore being moved up. The studio is advocating for another actress but Sheila says she and Heather and Aaron and Rami want me. So I must accelerate my training and get ready ASAP!!!!
Sheila puts in four exclamation marks.
I read her email again.
And then I read it again.
I am initially excited.
And then confused.
And then teetering on the brink of soul-crushing sadness because I know I’m not going to get it. I know they’ll end up going with that other actress, who Sheila neglected to name.
I put my phone away and get back to work.
WE ALL CLOCK out and parade out to the parking lot the way we do after every shift. Everyone shouts goodbye and wanders off to their own car.
But not tonight.
Tonight, everyone gathers around me and my new car.
They ooh and ahh appreciatively. Especially when I show them how to put the top down. Terry says, “Girl, that is it: we are going to San Francisco and you are going to drive me around until I find a man.”
Everyone laughs.
I decide to drive home with the top down. It’s not that cold out. Until I’m actually doing 50. I put the windows up and crank the heater up to max and it feels better. I could get used to this. Which reminds me that I need to sell the Toyota and give the money to Kellan.
WHEN I ARRIVE home, I run inside and jump on Kellan.
He’s on the sofa, watching football.
I literally hurl my body onto his as I scramble to dig my phone out of my purse. I show the email from Nathan Wentworth to Kellan, reading it aloud.
I then show him the email from Sheila about our movie.
Kellan says he knew about the email from Sheila because she sent a similar email to him. But he’s super excited about the publisher wanting to talk about my books.
I feel like we should do something. We should celebrate somehow.
Kellan goes to the kitchen. He says he’s pretty sure he’s got some champagne somewhere in the back of the refrigerator.
My phone buzzes. It’s a new email from Nathan Wentworth. He says he’s available to chat for a few minutes right now if I am also available. He included his phone number with a 212 area code.
I’m instantly terrified.
I want to see my books for sale in Walmart and Target and Barnes & Noble and for check-out at the library. But I also have to actually talk to Nathan Wentworth.
“He wants to talk.”
“So talk to him,” Kellan says. He has a bottle of champagne in his hands.
I don’t reply.
“It’s okay to be scared, Claire,” Kellan says. He’s unwrapping the gold foil. “But he’s just a person, same as you and me. Call him.”
Trying not to defecate in my Donna Karen slacks, I dial Nathan’s number. I find myself wandering out to the pool, and then walking in circles around the pool over and over again, while Nathan and I chat.
He’s very nice. He sounds young. He also sounds smart. He uses a couple of words I don’t readily recall the definitions of. He explains that they have an opening in their publishing schedule for a new trilogy and they really love mine. He says they’ll fly me out and pay for my trip, airfare and hotel included.
He asks if Monday works.
I say yes Monday works.
I really have no idea if in fact Monday works.
We conclude our call and I go inside.
Kellan has the champagne on ice and two glasses ready.
I recant the conversation, as near to word-for-word as I can remember.
“You can come with me, right?” I ask. He has to come. My first time in Manhattan. Alone. It would be so much fun, and so much less diarrhea-inducingly-terrifying if Kellan is with me.
“I can’t. I’m flying out Monday for a week-long series of guest appearances and a guest pose on Saturday. I wanted you to come with me, actually.”
“Can’t you rearrange your schedule?” I plead.
“No. I wish I could, but I can’t. There’s no way. I’ve been planning this week for two months. The itinerary is set. It would cost me about a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollars if I didn’t show up. I have fifteen appearances. Ten grand each. I have to go. Plus I’d probably get sued for breach of contract or something.”
After a lot of back and forth, we conclude that it’s best if we simply do our own thing and reconvene when Kellan gets back to town.
We consider changing the date for my trip to meet Nathan. But that seems like a bad idea.
So we stick to the original game plan.
We move on to preparing for the movie audition. Kellan prescribes two cardio sessions per day, plus a weight training routine every day. He writes it all out using the equipment here at the home gym in his house.
When I ask him how that’s going to work, he tells me to simply live here while he’s gone.
That’s weird.
But also sweet and generous, and it kinda makes me horny, okay it makes me a lot horny, and already I’m envisioning myself masturbating in his bed and sleeping naked.
Kellan sees the dreamy look in my eyes. He grins and tells me to focus; I’m certain he knows what I’m thinking.
I’m intimidated by the notion of doing two cardio sessions per day. I ask if that’s really sustainable long-term, as in for the rest of my life.
Kellan says I only have to do that much cardio to get lean. Once I’m lean, I can cut back to about 20 to 30 minutes a day to stay lean, provided I’m honest with myself about the quality and quantity of food I put in my mouth. He has a photoshoot, for example, so he’s going to do double cardio sessions plus a weight session along with me until he has to leave. And no more junk food. Our trip to SoCal was one last dietary indulgence before the work begins.
I’m scared.
Excited, too.
But totally intimidated.
And scared.
Chapter 16
MONDAY MORNING, KELLAN drops me off at the airport at the buttcrack of dawn.
It’s four a.m. and I’m running on adrenaline. And three cups of coffee. And an energy drink I’m sipping. Kellan got it for me at Whole Foods yesterday while I was at work. He knows how much I like them and this one doesn’t have any weird, carcinogenic artificial sweeteners.
We stand next to the Stingray at the white loading curb. It’s still dark out. But the airport is very busy.
I already have my boarding pass which I printed on Kellan’s printer. I don’t get to fly First Class, but since Pastiche Boutique is paying for my trip, I feel like I shouldn’t complain.
Kellan hugs me tight. “I’m sad I can’t come.”
“I know. Me too.”
“But we’ll Skype and text and stuff. And I owe you a sexy pic from the one you sent me Thursday. I haven’t forgotten; I’m just thinking about what I want to send to you.”
That makes me feel better. I was tempted to think he didn’t like my nipple pic.
“You have the key I gave you to the house, right?”
I pull my keys out of my purse and hold it up for him to see. I’ve never had a key to a guy’s place before. It’s a big step. For me, anyway. I hope he doesn’t change the lock on me like Ross did to Mona.
“I have it.”
“You have your four meals to get you to your hotel room seven hours from now,” Kellan continues. I can tell from his voice that this is Coach Kellan talking now, not Dreamy SuperHunk LoverBoy Hung-like-a-horse Claire’s-boyfriend-Kellan. “No more carbs, okay. Protein and veggies only. And minimal fat. Eat every two to three hours without fail, even if you’re not hungry. The food will stoke your metabolism the same way you add small bits of wood to a campfire. Do twenty minutes of cardio in your hotel room as soon as you get there. Do another twenty minutes before bed. Your movie career is in the balance so it’s crucial we take advantage of every day. Before Sheila sent that email, we had time. The protocol was going to be different. But now we need to get serious and get it done. It’s G.I. Jane time. Understand?”
I’m scared and worried that this is all going to go horribly wrong. But instead I say, “Yes, sir.”
I’M NOT ALLOWED to take my energy drink through security. So I chug it. It’s cold and carbonated and delicious as it burns my throat going down. I belch loudly. The nice security guy in the blue shirt and blue latex gloves stifles a grin, scribbles on my boarding pass with a marker and sends me into the line for the x-ray conveyor belt.
Once I’m seated on the plane, I text Kellan to let him know I’ve boarded and all is well. I’m only going to be gone one night so I have my carry-on in the overhead bin with my undies and toiletries and make-up bag and stuff. I have my laptop and my four ready-meals in my backpack under the seat in front of me.
Luckily, I have a window seat. Thank God for that. As luck would have it, the middle seat remains empty and a young college guy sits in the aisle seat. He pulls his hoodie over his head and crosses his arms and closes his eyes. I’m relieved I won’t have to make small talk with anybody for the next six hours.
As we are taxiing and everyone is switching off their phones, Kellan sends me a text.
It’s a picture.
Of his penis.
His very, very, very erect penis with water cascading down onto it. He’s taking a shower. God, he’s been stroking himself.
Wow.
He really upped the ante from my nipple pic. I’ll have to think of something good to send back to him; maybe, tonight, in my hotel room, I can take a bubble bath and I can put my phone up my ass for him or something.
I can’t stop looking at the pic.
It’s…mesmerizing.
“Miss, you’re going to have to switch off your phone. We’re about to take off.”
I look up and a flight attendant lady is looking at me.
Actually, she’s looking at my phone.
I may as well be sitting here with a Playgirl magazine in my lap, open to the three-page centerfold.
“Okay.” I feel like an idiot. A very horny idiot who is going to miss her boyfriend for the next seven days.
ONCE WE’RE AIRBORNE, I pull a meal out of my backpack and fire up my laptop. I’m actually fairly hungry and I figure I should look over my novels to refresh my memory before I discuss them with Nathan.
The flight crew comes through with complimentary water. Everything else is for purchase. I stick with water.
The ready meal has a label on it that says This Meal Prepared for Claire Valentine. I love that. It’s grilled chicken and asparagus. It’s room temperature, but it’s good.
Three hours later, we’re over Illinois and I’m hungry again. I pull out another meal, fish and asparagus. Also cold, but better than paying $19 for an apple and a cashew from the airline.
By the time we’re making our approach into JFK, I’ve eaten my last meal and have managed to read the outline for each of the three novels in The Love Mush Room trilogy. I wasn’t completely embarrassed reading my own work, which is always a nice surprise for a writer. The Love Mush Room is basically Snow White and the Seven Dwarves mashed up into a psychedelic 1980s-style television romance-cum-soap-opera. Somewhere between Dallas, which my parents loved, and The Young and the Restless, which Beth and I watched every summer when we were out of school (it was always on after ‘The Price is Right’). Only my version has lots of sex; everyone is doing everyone else. It’s supposed to be cutting social commentary on relationships and the Cold War and the poor kids who grew up under the constant threat of nuclear annihilation but they didn’t care because they had cool 80s music and M-TV and the advent of computers and video games and day-glo clothing and shopping malls and big-hair bands and all-American sex before the specter of AIDS. Like I’m Brett Ellis or something. The books have barely any reviews on Amazon, but the thirteen measly reviews do equal a four-star average. And Nathan Wentworth is interested, so I guess I did something right.