Nine Women, One Dress

by Jane L. Rosen

  “For you, of course,” he answered.

  “Is that okay with you?” she asked me.

  “Whatever makes you happy,” I answered. She smiled. My ex would have turned that into a twenty-minute argument about me not clearly stating my needs or giving her what she wanted just to win points. She was always talking about points for her side and points for my side. I was doing it again, comparing Natalie to my ex. I tried thinking of her as Mitch Grabow, but the glow of her skin was making it really difficult.

  The cabana boy set us up with towels and ice water and Natalie ordered us two piña coladas. She lay down right next to me. Not touching me, but so close that her legs would occasionally brush up against mine. She sat up. “Are you bored?” I wasn’t. I was happy just lying there wondering when her leg was going to brush up against mine again. She rooted around in her bag and pulled out the two scripts I was supposed to read—I had charged her with making me—and sunscreen. “We should definitely put this on now,” she said, gesturing for me to turn over onto my stomach. She proceeded to put sunscreen on my back, then asked that I return the favor. Mitch Grabow, Mitch Grabow, I thought, but as I rubbed the soft white cream over her shoulders, I knew I was a goner. When I reached the two dimples that sat like the gates to Disney World on the top of her bum, I knew I couldn’t take any more. “All done!” I said, trying not to sound as turned on as I was.

  “Which script do you want to read first?” she asked, holding one up on either side of her happy face.

  “Neither!” I laughed.

  “Come on, I’ll read it to you. I’ll even do the voices.” This was exactly what I needed to take my mind off Hank and Albert and the press.

  “Here.” I tapped on the lighter one. It was a romantic comedy. Hank thought that after my last two action films I should do something sexy and funny and overtly heterosexual. This film was shooting next month, and they were looking to replace the lead at the last minute—rumor was that the original lead had entered rehab. Hank was begging me to take it. Maybe a happy ending onscreen would rub off on my personal life.

  She began.

  “Fade In. EXT.” She stopped, the cutest frown wrinkling her forehead. “What’s EXT?” she asked.

  I went over the notations with her. “EXT means exterior—it means the scene is outside.” I flipped a few pages in and pointed. “INT means interior—the scene is inside. Sometimes it says INT/EXT, which would be looking inside from outside, like through a window. Get it?”

  “Yes. This is so cool!”

  “For you maybe. You know how many scripts I have to read before I find the right one? Or more often the wrong one.”

  “Well, I’m gonna read this one, so keep explaining,” she instructed.

  “Okay. It’s pretty simple. After that we have the scene description in all caps, under that the action, and then the dialogue. The dialogue is always written under the characters’ names.” I handed the script back to her. “Here, try it.” It was great having it read to me so I could just lie in the sun and listen and try to picture it.

  She sat up and began.

  “Exterior. Snowy day, ski resort, Vermont. Nancy Straub waits with bated breath at the foot of the mountain. She anxiously looks at her watch. She stares up the mountain again and— Oh my god, look by the tiki bar, it’s Flip’s fiancée.”

  I opened my eyes. “What? Let me see that,” I said, reaching for the script. “A tiki bar in a Vermont ski resort? This already makes no sense. Let’s read the other one.” I took the script from Natalie’s shaking hands.

  Her eyes were teary. “It’s not in the script. It’s real. It’s Flip’s fiancée. I recognize her from the wedding announcement and the many Google and Facebook searches I did on her. This must be their honeymoon. Oh my god, and there’s Flip! He saw us! They’re coming this way!”

  She looked heartbroken. I couldn’t take it—I’d whisked us both away to escape, and I’d brought her face-to-face with the one thing she most wanted to forget about. It was like one of those ridiculous coincidence scenes in a romantic comedy. Only in the rom-com the writer would have saved the day with some huge romantic gesture. So I thought, What would Nora Ephron have me do? I scooped Natalie up in my arms and carried her into the calm blue ocean. She laughed nervously and wrapped her hands around my neck as I dunked us both up to our waists. She was playacting. I was sure her motivation was to put on a show for Flip, while I ceased acting the minute she wrapped her arms around my neck. I had such strong feelings for this girl. I could see Flip heading toward us, nonplussed by the little scene we were creating. He seemed determined.

  Natalie whispered, “Are they still coming our way?”

  She actually looked scared. “I got this!” I responded, and kissed her. At first gently on the lips but then passionately and with everything I had. I don’t know if it was from vengeance or passion, but she responded equally, and anyone within view, including Flip and his new wife, got quite a show. Both of us kept going, though probably for different reasons. I kept going because I was enjoying it immensely; I imagined she kept going because she was just plain scared of what would happen when we pulled apart. We continued until the famous—and surprisingly short—Flip Roberts called out to us.

  “Natalie? Is that you?” he shouted from the shore, his somewhat attractive wife by his side. Nothing was stopping this guy.

  She gave me a shrug as if to say, “We can’t stay in this ocean forever.”

  I carried her back out and placed her right by my side in the sand. She straightened herself out and asked, as if she’d been acting all her life, “Oh my, Flip. What are you doing here?”

  “I thought that was you.” He stumbled on his words.

  “We’re on our honeymoon!” the somewhat attractive wife responded with a sting. And then it happened. We both saw it. She recognized me. She nudged Flip three times and then outright kicked him. Natalie tried to fight the smirk that formed on her lips but finally lost to a full-on smile when the wife asked straight out, “Are you Jeremy Madison?”

  I smiled my best movie-star smile and answered, “Not this weekend. This weekend I’m just Natalie Canaras’s boyfriend, so please, please don’t spread it around that you’ve seen us. We came here to escape the press.” Flip looked like he wanted to die.

  His wife was pretty, I guess, in an uptight kind of way, but nothing compared to Natalie. There is no way she could have Natalie’s sprit, or sweetness, or soul—not possible. Though I still couldn’t figure out how Natalie had ever been attracted to this guy, I wanted her to be happy, and if sticking it to Flip made her happy, then I would lay it on thick. Natalie had yet to speak, the wife yet to shut up.

  “Maybe we can all have dinner together one night,” she said eagerly. I looked to Nat for the answer. She smiled yes but her eyes screamed no. I wrapped my arms around her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but we’ll be eating all our meals back at our casita. It’s a short stay and I want her all to myself.” I tickled her a bit. She laughed. Flip died. His bride looked on with envy—not because I was a movie star, I thought, but because what makes a woman feel better than a man saying he wants her all to himself? I added, a bit cruelly to Flip, “You must understand that.” Flip made a noise halfway between a cough and a splutter as he took his wife’s hand purposefully.

  “Goodbye—enjoy,” he said, turning and marching away across the sand.

  “You too,” Natalie called after them, barely suppressing a giggle.

  If she could have jumped up and down in the sand fist-pumping with complete abandon, I think she would have. Instead she curled up next to me on the sunbed and leaned against my chest. “Jeremy,” she said, “you are the finest actor I’ve ever seen, and I will never, ever forget what you just did for me. Ever.” She kissed me quickly on the lips. The way you kiss a puppy.

  The next few days were spent mostly in and in front of our casita in our private pool. This break was exactly what I needed—peaceful, with no chance of being re
cognized, plus we read both scripts and I was seriously considering doing the romantic comedy set in Vermont. Natalie was also happy to hole up. Though she liked to be around people, she wanted to avoid seeing Flip again. She didn’t want to ruin the perfect bump-into. Apparently this was a thing; I’d never even considered it, but girls spend a lot of time obsessing over it. When will they bump into their ex-boyfriends? Will they look good or will they be walking home from the gym on the hottest day of the year? And it has to be unplanned to qualify as a true bump-into. It can’t be, let’s say, at a wedding, where you have the heads-up and know to look your absolute best. Apparently bumping into your ex while frolicking in the waves with an A-list movie star and looking great in a bikini was like hitting the trifecta of bump-intos.

  At night she would sleep in the almost nude, on her stomach, and she would always fall asleep before me. I would watch her. Not in a creepy way, I swear. Her suntanned body and her peaceful face and her tousled hair—it was like looking at a sunset. I couldn’t help but watch her until my eyes got tired and shut as well. Two more nights and I would have to fall asleep to Jimmy Fallon again. I used to think that was just fine.

  She was obsessed with the great service at the hotel. She had been so pleased to learn that whenever you threw something into the little hamper in our room, it magically appeared clean and folded on our bed a few hours later. She didn’t take anything for granted and was grateful for everything. It made me realize how much I needed that in my life. On our last night we ordered in lobsters and champagne, and on account of everything being clean and dry and packed up, Natalie convinced me to go skinny-dipping. I know you’re thinking I probably didn’t need that much convincing, but I didn’t think I’d be able to make it through. I’d somewhat resigned myself to being platonic, and had gotten used to keeping a safe distance. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from kissing her if we were naked in the water together. But she really wanted to go, and I couldn’t say no to her.

  I was right—I wasn’t able to make it through. By the third time she brushed by me and rose above the water looking like a Greek goddess of the sea, I pulled her toward me and kissed her. It lasted a few minutes, and I don’t think I’d ever wanted anyone so badly or waited so long to act on it. I broke away.

  “Should we go inside to continue this?” I asked, barely audible.

  “I don’t think we should continue, Jeremy,” she responded, completely audible.

  “Why?” I asked, a little surprised.

  “Why?” she responded, and seemed even more surprised. My desire began to wane. I didn’t know what her deal was, but I was beginning to feel toyed with.

  “Yes, why? Why are you all gaga over that idiot who can’t see past his Ivy League rulebook and for me you feel nothing?” I had said it. I don’t remember ever leaving myself so vulnerable in my life. She stopped for a moment to think. I felt very naked, and I think she did too as she crossed her arms over her breasts as she spoke.

  “Jeremy, I’ve just had my heart broken, and I didn’t like it. In fact I pretty much hated it, and I don’t want to go through that again, at least not so—”

  I interrupted her. “Natalie, I’m absolutely crazy about you, everything about you. Every minute with you leaves me wanting more. I promise I will not hurt you,” I pleaded.

  “You say that now, Jeremy, and I’m sure you believe it, but down deep inside you like men, and I know that with the moonlight and the nakedness and all this pretending to be a couple you temporarily found me attractive, but I think you’re just caught up in the moment.”

  “Hold on!” I shouted. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not gay.”

  Her face turned ashen. She backed away from me and ran to get a towel. I ran after her. I was confused, but she just seemed angry. She was pacing around the room throwing her last few belongings in her suitcase. Finally she stopped.

  “How could you?” she asked.

  “How could I what?” I responded.

  “How could you have lied to me like that? And for so long. You slept in my bed…and you brought me here and shared a room with me. I was naked in front of you!”

  “I’m sorry…I thought you were just a free spirit—it’s one of the things I like about you!”

  “Really?” She seethed. “Well, I’m not. I’m not a free spirit! I’m a prude! I’m only a free spirit in front of my girlfriends! Thelma and Louise, remember?”

  “I never told you I was gay!” I said, losing my temper a bit.

  “You never told me you weren’t!” she shouted, losing hers a lot.

  She yelled at me without giving me the chance to defend myself. I kept thinking it would end up okay, but she was possibly the most stubborn person I’d ever met, and the night ended with her sleeping, I kid you not, in the bathtub fit for a king, with all the bedding and most of the pillows. The next day I didn’t know what to say and she seemed to have said everything she felt, so we rode home on the private plane in silence. Except for one parting sentence—hers.

  “Goodbye, Jeremy. I liked you better when you were gay.”

  She took her own cab from Teterboro. In the limo home I consoled myself with one reassuring fact: although now she didn’t like me in that way or in any way whatsoever, at least before she hadn’t liked me in that way because I was gay.

  CHAPTER 18

  Love in the Afternoon

  By Felicia (aka Arthur Winters’s Executive Assistant)

  He got me there on the pretext of needing a file for a client. The whole way over I secretly thought he’d remembered I had said the Carlyle was on my bucket list. Of course I’d said it picturing us listening to Sutton Foster at the Café, not in a tryst in a suite upstairs. Looks like I may have to write myself a new list!

  I went to the front desk as instructed and asked for Mr. Winters.

  The concierge said there was a note for me. “Suite 402” was written in the most familiar handwriting I knew, with a little heart drawn on the bottom of the card. That part was new to me. I pressed the fourth-floor button six times, but it didn’t make the elevator go any faster.

  Within seconds of entering the room I was naked between what felt like million-thread-count sheets. Arthur kissed me and then pushed back to the foot of the bed. This scene, of a woman being pleasured by a man and responding with reckless abandon, is being played out in the movies and on television more frequently lately. It must have something to do with the resurgence of the feminist movement. I thanked those young feminists in my head for making me slightly more comfortable with it, but still I tensed up. It’s the reckless abandon that I’ve never been able to get a handle on. I just never felt comfortable enough with someone to let him do that. The few times someone had tried, I’d literally said, “No, thank you.” No, thank you, like I was turning down dessert.

  Arthur must have sensed something because he returned to face me. He kissed me on the mouth. “What’s the matter?” He kissed me again.

  “Nothing,” I said, but I could hear the nervousness in my voice.

  He must have heard it too. He smiled and looked into my eyes. “C’mon. It’s me,” he said before heading down my body again. And somehow then I got lost in it.

  An hour later, as I watched him sleep, I realized with a sinking heart that I would probably have to leave him. This was getting serious, for me at least. And he had yet to officially break it off with Sherri, although he promised he would. He opened his eyes.

  “Arthur,” I said, very seriously, “tomorrow afternoon I’m going to meet with a headhunter.”

  He laughed. “That’s a setup for a sex joke if I ever heard one.”

  “I’m serious, Arthur. I shouldn’t be working for you anymore.” I sighed. “Partners shouldn’t break the rules.”

  He looked sad. “If you don’t work for me, then I won’t see you every day. I don’t think I could bear it.”

  Now I laughed. “You haven’t even broken up with Sherri yet. She called three times yesterday.”r />
  “I know. She’s calling so often because I haven’t seen her.” He sighed heavily. “I’m just trying to find the right time. She’s not the strongest. I’m scared of hurting her.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes.

  “You’re right. I’ll do it this weekend. You go to the headhunter, and by next week we will no longer have to skulk around.”

  I felt completely content. Being with Arthur this way felt both so new and so old at the same time.

  He laughed. “I’m going to miss the skulking, though. This has been my only skulking experience, and I have to admit, it’s sort of fun.”

  I laughed too. “It is fun. We still have a little skulking time left. I’m sure I won’t get a job right away.”

  “That’s true.” He peeked under the covers and added, “I bet a lot of that depends on my recommendation.” And we were at it again.

  CHAPTER 19

  Opening Night

  By the Diva’s Mancubine

  Age: Same as the diva’s (if I told you, I’d have to kill you)

  I knew every line by heart. Every stage direction and scene description as well. I had rehearsed every part over and over, except of course for Jordana’s. I had to concentrate hard not to move my lips along with the performance.

  ACT ONE

  (The curtain rises on DAPHNE BEAUREGARD in bed. It’s a hot August day in Georgia, around eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. LUCINDA, the maid, enters with a tray of iced tea and biscuits. She puts down the tray and draws the curtains. Daphne, still wearing her eye mask, stirs and reaches to her husband’s side of the bed. It’s empty.)

  DAPHNE Reggie is up bright and early, I see.

  LUCINDA It’s almost noon, Mrs. Beauregard.

  DAPHNE A girl needs her beauty sleep, Lucinda.