by Joy Fielding
As if instinctively realizing her role, Beth handed Jill the perfect lead-in. "That's a beautiful dress you're wearing," she said, 'I meant to tell you earlier—"
"Oh, thank you," Jill gushed, perhaps a touch too effusively. "I must have changed a hundred times."
"She always does that," David qualified. "But it was even worse tonight. I thought we'd never get out of the apartment."
"Well, you know how it is," Jill explained, feeling her heart beginning to beat faster. Could everyone hear it? Would it give her away? The words tumbled out. "If David doesn't like what I’m wearing, I take it off!"
Nicole's husky whisper was suddenly as loud as any voice Jill had ever heard. "I know that line!" she pounced. “Give me a minute—I know that line, I just have to figure out where it comes from." She threw her head back, her eyes closed. “Just a minute. Just a minute—" Her head straightened up; her eyes opened. Her face was barely big enough to contain her smile. "I've got it! Joan Collins to June Allyson in The Opposite Sex, and the exact line was, 'If Stephen doesn't like what I'm wearing, I take it off!”
"Bravo!" shouted Al Weatherby. "How do you like that, Jill?" he said, turning to her. "She got you."
"She certainly did," Jill agreed, good-naturedly. "Actually, I'm relieved. I was so nervous. Am I the only one who gets so nervous?!"
"What's there to be nervous about?" Adeline asked, greatly amused. "It's just a game."
"And so far, Nicki's winning," Chris Bates pointed out proudly.
"Actually," Don Ehot said, "she's already won! Haven't you, Nicki?"
Nicole clapped her hands in delight.
"What about your line?" Al asked her.
“I gave it” Nicole said. “A long time ago. When we were talking about the Rickerd divorce, and Beth wondered who'd get their gorgeous house. I said I'd been in it, which was a lie, of course. I don't even know them. And I said that it was all wood-paneled, with lots of lovely ceilings. “That was my line. “Lots of lovely ceilings.’ It's from—"
“The carpetbaggers” Jill said quietly, recognizing the now familiar line. “Elizabeth Ashley to George Peppard when he asks her what she'd like to see on her honeymoon."
Nicole's already wide smile widened even farther. “Too late," she chirped happily and the party adjourned to the other room.
Jill propped two extra pillows underneath the one she normally used and crawled back into bed beside her husband.
"Is that it?" he asked wearily. "You think you're finally set for the night?"
Jill looked over at the clock. It was almost two in the morning. For what felt like the tenth time in as many seconds, she sneezed. "It's those damn cats," she said, hoping the extra pillows would allow her to breathe easier.
"You're sure it's not something else?" he asked.
"What else could it be?"
"Well, you didn't sneeze at all in the Ehot’s dining room."
"They don't allow the cats in the dining room."
"You said yourself their hair gets in everything."
"What are you trying to say, David? That Nicole is right? My allergy is psychosomatic?"
"It just seemed strange that after you lost that stupid game, you started sneezing again."
"We went back into the living room!" she said, her voice rising.
"Oh," he said with infuriating condescension. "Please don't yell." She sneezed again. “Is this going to go on all night?" he asked.
"It might," Jill remarked, coldly. “Why, do you have a heavy date tomorrow?"
'I have to go in to work," he said.
"On Sunday?"
"Oh, let's not start that, Jill," he begged. "I'm swamped. I've told you that. I'm also exhausted. You've been sneezing for the past two hours. Why don't you just close your eyes and forget about the fact that Nicole won. It was just a game, not the goddamn Olympics!"
Jill sat up sharply in bed. "You think I'm upset because Nicole won?" she accused.
"Well, aren't you?" he asked.
"No!" she said, protesting just a shade too strongly. "I do think she got a particularly easy line to read," she added. “Lots of lovely ceilings' is a much easier line to sneak into a conversation than what I had to say."
"She drew from the hat the same as everyone else," David pointed out. "Come on, don't you think you're making too much of this?"
Jill shrugged, knowing he was right, and knowing also that it wasn't really the fact that she had lost a silly game that was bothering her. What was disturbing her more were the implications her loss had carried to both herself and the other woman. Nicole's victory implied that there would be others; that this was merely the beginning of a long series of titles being snatched away from the reigning heavyweight that the challenger had won the first round and was on her way to the final count. It seemed particularly ironic that the dialogue Jill had had to deliver had been of such a similar nature to their own situation: June Allyson, knowing of her husband's affair with Joan Collins, confronts the younger woman and says that if the dress Joan is wearing is for Stephen, his tastes run to simpler styles. Joan responds that if Stephen doesn't like what she wears, she—David's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"What?" she asked defensively, the child caught with her pants down.
"I said, you're not upset because you still think she's after me, are you?" His question cried out for a negative response. ''Because if you are," he continued, not waiting for an answer, “you're way out of line."
“I’m out of line?" Jill questioned.
"Let's just say you're wrong," he said, retreating. "She hardly looked at me twice all night."
"You sound disappointed."
He turned over in bed. "Let's not get ridiculous."
Jill let out a deep breath. There was obviously no point in pursuing this line of discussion. "Did Beth seem subdued to you tonight?" she asked instead,
"No," he grunted.
Jill looked in his direction, wanting to hug him, to pull him close against her the way they usually slept. She was about to when she felt her stomach cramp.
"Where are you going?" he asked accusingly as she got out of bed.
"My stomach hurts."
"What'd you have two desserts for?" he called after her as she made her way to the bathroom. "Nobody else did."
"I didn't realize you were monitoring what I ate," she said, more to herself than to David as she sat down on the toilet.
She was less surprised than disappointed when she saw the blood. Right on time, she thought, searching through the cupboard for her Tampax. The one thing in my life I can always depend on.
Chapter 9
The staff lounge of the Radio and Television Arts Department of the University of Chicago was a large, rectangular room which always appeared to be a small square, possibly because of the amount of overstuffed furniture squeezed into it. It seemed the college administrators equated mass with comfort and what was shabby with what was artistic, Jill thought, as she came inside and headed toward the coffee machine. The large percolator was already empty, which meant that if she wanted any coffee, she would have to make up a fresh brew herself. Let somebody else do it today, she decided, settling down into the nearest floral print armchair to wait, and trying to get in a suitable position for a two-minute sleep. She felt her muscles tense across her back and wondered idly if the exercise class she'd be attending that afternoon would make her feel better or worse. She also wondered if Beth would show up for this week's class, having missed the last one without notice or explanation. (''Things just got away from me," she had told Jill subsequently, and Jill, sensing a certain reticence on the part of the other woman, had questioned her no further.) When Beth decided she wanted to talk to her—if, indeed, there was anything to talk about—she would do so.
She shifted uncomfortably on a spring whose time had come and gone, and deciding sleep was impossible, reached over across the multi-stained coffee table to pick up the morning paper. Someone had stolen the classified section. That did it! She deci
ded, standing up and going toward the door. No coffee, no classified section. No justice. She thought of David. She wasn't trying hard enough, he had told her. I've been trying my little heart out, she argued with him silently as-she closed the door behind her and started down the long corridor toward her class. But honest effort doesn't always change things. And facts are facts. ("Just stick to the facts, ma'am.") I know it's an honorable profession, possibly even a courageous one. But it's just not for me!
She stopped in front of the door to her classroom as several of her students pushed past her, hurrying to make it inside before the bell rang. What am I doing here? She asked herself. The bell sounded and she stepped inside.
"Documentaries have to do more than simply report the news," Jill was saying, hearing several voices speaking just under hers. "We have news shows that do that; we have newspapers. A documentary has several functions—one, of course, is to provide the facts. Another more important function is to give those facts some life—to put images behind the words, to illustrate—show the people just what the facts are. I've told you all this before, and it was somewhat edifying to note that your outlines reflect this. Unfortunately, what most of these outlines lack is—guts? I don't know how else to put it. You're presenting me with a lot of facts and figures and telling me how you'd visualize these conceptions, but you're not giving me any insight into these statistics. You're not getting to my emotions."
"You're telling us you want guts and insight and emotion?" one of her male students asked, incredulously.
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Jill said.
"In an outline?" he questioned, shaking his head.
"If it's not in the outline," Jill answered, "it won't be there in the finished product." It seemed as fitting an exit line as any and she dismissed her students ten minutes early with a nervous wave of her hand. Something Sandy Dennis might do, and probably had, in up the down Staircase,
Jill sat down behind the desk of indiscriminate wood and undeterminable color and allowed her eyes to drift over to the windows on her right. Outside, it was sunny and hot. Not too humid. Just the right kind of day for sitting in the sun in a bikini and getting the perfect tan.
Whom was she kidding? She wondered, angrily turning from the window with its teasing, almost Kodacolor view of life. When was the last time she had looked good in a bikini? Five, probably ten years ago. If ever. And that was before time and a changing metabolic rate had thickened her waistline and made her aware of just how tightly she was holding in her stomach every time she went out with David. Oh, well, she thought, standing up suddenly and gathering her belongings together, that's what Rita Carrington is for. Ready, ladies? And one and two—
"I don't know, Jill," Beth Weatherby was saying as the two women slipped out of their street clothes and into their tights and leotards. "It seems to me that there are some basic issues you have to solve."
"I know," Jill sighed in agreement. "The problem is how to resolve them." She watched as Beth Weatherby pulled off her panty hose and slipped into her tights, leaving her skirt firmly in place as she did so. It was strange, Jill thought, she hadn't realized Beth would be so modest. She thought back to two weeks ago, wondering if Beth had undressed in a similar fashion at that time, then remembered that Beth had already been changed when she'd arrived, and that she'd left while Jill was still waiting for Laurie to come out of the shower.
Thoughts of Laurie led to thoughts of the girl's mother. Elaine and her daughter had gone on a sudden holiday to Yellowstone National Park ("Just a little impulse thing,"
Elaine had claimed when she called to explain to David that Laurie would need a new jacket and some camping equipment for the trip). Jill wondered if Ron Santini would be going along and if he'd be bringing his own infamous equipment.
She sat on the bench in front of the lockers and pulled on her pink tights. "Damn," she said. "I got a run. Look at that. And I just bought the stupid things." Jill looked disgustedly at her legs. The run ran up the inside of her left thigh. She stood up, pulling on her leotard, adjusting it at her shoulders and crotch. "I should really get a new leotard," she said, as Beth pulled her own into place. "I've had this one since my second year at college." Both women sat down on the bench simultaneously, stuffing their belongings into the locker and closing it. "How many minutes do we have?"
"Exactly eight," Beth said, checking her watch.
"So," Jill said, "you have eight minutes to solve all my problems."
"The answer is simple," Beth said. "I know because I’m great at giving advice." Jill laughed. "You get that way after being married to a lawyer for a long time. Seriously," she paused, patting Jill's knee, "you have to talk to David."
"I have talked to him. He knows I hate my job."
"Have you discussed quitting?" Jill nodded. "And?”
"He says it's up to me, but I know he'd be upset. My job was fine until he was married to it, then it didn't seem so glamorous or exciting anymore. It just got in his way." She turned full-face to Beth. "I'm afraid, Beth," she said.
A strange look crossed Beth Weatherby's face. "What do you mean, afraid? What are you afraid of?"
"Of losing David," Jill confessed. "I'm afraid of doing anything that might jeopardize our relationship. Going back into television might do that."
"Then don't do it," Beth advised.
"It's the same thing about having more children,'' Jill continued. “We used to talk about it. David knows how much I’d like to have a family. But lately, he refuses to discuss it. He even told Don Eliot that he doesn't want more kids. I'm thirty-four years old, Beth. I don't have a whole lot of years left for this sort of thing, but I'm scared stiff to confront him because he's liable to give me a choice I'm not prepared to make."
"Him or children?" Beth asked.
"Some choice," Jill said.
"What would you say?"
Jill shook her head. "I don't know." She paused. "Yes, I do. David," she said. "Always David. I could never lose David."
"Even if it means losing yourself?" Beth asked her. "What's the matter? You look like you've just seen a ghost."
Jill said nothing, feeling the color drain slowly from her face as Nicole Clark bounced into view.
"Well, look who's here," Beth greeted the girl warmly, not connecting Jill's pallor with Nicole's sudden appearance.
"I hope you don't mind," Nicole said, throwing her bag across the bench and proceeding to unbutton her blouse. "But I remembered you talking about this class and I asked Al what time it was you went, and he was good enough to tell me. I finished a little early today, so I decided to join you. I hope you don't mind," she repeated.
"No, of course not," Beth said, turning to Jill for confirmation. Jill made no effort to smile.
What was Nicole doing here? Jill asked herself angrily, turning away as the younger woman unhooked her bra. She is not going to dangle those tits in front of me, she thought, aware of Beth's eyes penetrating her back questioningly. She resolved not to turn around, not to acknowledge this intruder's presence in any way. The game was over whether Nicole liked it or not. There would be no more pretenses, no more ignoring or trying to be nice. This woman had said clearly and succinctly that she was after Jill's husband. She had further said that it was no joke, and more and more, she seemed to be insinuating her wormy little way into Jill’s life: in court at David's side, while Jill, herself, sat several rows to the back, an observer only; at dinner at Don Eliot's, again by David's side, while once again Jill merely observed; and now, here, invading Jill's private terrain, strutting her stuff, showing off the competition, intimidating the older models. Make way for this year's piece de resistance.
Jill turned around angrily. She was going to bring things to a head once and for all.
Nicole spoke before Jill could open her mouth. "I was wondering if we could talk about the class," she said.
“I think that would be a good idea," Jill answered, trying to keep her voice as steady as Nicole's.
&nb
sp; "Good." Nicole looked back at Beth. "Excuse me, I'm going to try to find the John," she said, and disappeared as abruptly as she had arrived.
"What was that all about?" Beth asked.
"I'll let you know," Jill answered as Ricki Elfer came waddling hurriedly toward them.
"Whew, almost late," she gasped, pulling off her dress to reveal she was already in costume. "Did you see that gorgeous little thing that just walked out of here? I bet she's one of the new instructors. Now, that's a body to aspire to."
Jill strode quickly toward the exercise room, feeling the knots in her shoulder muscles moving up to surround her neck, threatening to cut off her air supply and leave her breathless and gasping for oxygen, while somewhere behind her, Nicole Clark, in powder-blue leotard and matching tights, was waiting patiently to dance on her grave.
"Do you want to talk here or would you rather go out for a cup of coffee?" Nicole asked, toweling the sweat off her forehead and following Jill out of the exercise class. "The lounge will be fine," Jill said, wondering why despite the sweat the younger woman had worked up, her silky black hair remained unaffected. Jill didn't need a mirror to tell her that her own hair must look as if she'd stepped on an electrical current.
"Shower first?"
"No," Jill said, not about to compare nude bodies with the other woman. "Let's just get this over with."
"All right," Nicole agreed, "Lead the way."
Beth Weatherby touched Jill's elbow. "I'll go now," she said.
"Okay. See you next week."
"Call me if you want to talk," Beth added.