by Joy Fielding
Jill felt all the joy drain from her body. "Elaine?" she asked, already knowing the answer. He nodded. "Who was that with her?"
"Her sister."
"They're very attractive. She—your wife—is very— attractive."
Again he nodded.
"What do you suppose she thought when she saw—"
"She thinks I’m with a client all day. I'll tell her I was just driving you home."
Jill felt the knot in her stomach twist, causing her eyes to sting. "I'm a client," she repeated numbly.
"Well, Jill, what am I supposed to tell her, for God's sake? That I'll be spending the day screwing my brains out?! I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," he apologized, his voice genuinely contrite and bewildered. "That was a dumb thing to say. Really dumb. I'm just a little shook up, I guess, and embarrassed—"
"And humiliated," she said, adding her feelings to his. "And ashamed."
He pulled the car over to the side of the road. "Oh, Jill, please don't feel humiliated and ashamed. There's no reason for you to feel that way. I love you."
"Then why is it her feelings you're so worried about protecting? What about mine?" He had no answer. "You better take me home. Your wife will be expecting you pretty soon now that she knows you're all finished with your— client."
"What does that mean?"
"Just what I said."
"Don't play games with me, Jill. I haven't got the time or the patience to try and second-guess you. Say what you mean."
"I mean that I want to go home," she said, her voice devoid of expression.
"Is that all you mean?"
"I mean I'm tired and hurt and angry and humiliated and ashamed that I still can't work up enough guts to tell you to get the hell out of my life and stay there. I mean that I still love you more than I hate you and that I still want you." She stopped. "Look, I'm going to take a taxi home. I just don't want to be with you right now." She opened the door and got out of the car. He made no move to stop her.
"You make me feel like such a shit," he said.
"You are a shit."
"I'll call you later," he said, watching after her until she found a cab.
Don't bother, she wanted to yell back, but she knew— and he knew—that she couldn't.
"Hello. Is Irving Saunders there, please?" Jill held the phone tight against her ear and waited for some response, looking toward the tiny dining room at the table she had to set for tonight's dinner. How as she going to get nine people around a table which only seated four? "What? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. Oh, oh, I didn't realize it was still so early." She looked up at the kitchen clock. "What time does he get in? Eleven?" It was only nine-fifteen. "Okay, I'll call back. No, no, wait. Tell him to call Jill Plumley, no, I mean Jill Listerwoll, as soon as he gets a chance. Listerwoll," she repeated, spelling it out slowly as if to confirm that the name was really hers, as much to herself as to the voice on the other end of the receiver. It seemed so long ago, she thought, giving the secretary her phone number. "It's important," she added before hanging up.
She looked around. The cake was in the oven; the salad had already been cut up. She still had the rest of the shopping to do. Maybe now, before Irving called back. No, she couldn't run out and leave the stupid cake—
Her eyes drifted back to the dining room table. Perhaps she should try to figure out the seating arrangements, Jill went to the cutlery drawer, opened it and stared at the assorted forks and knives. "Nine people," she said aloud, looking back out the kitchen doorway toward the tiny end of the L-shaped living room which tried to pass itself off as a dining area. With great effort, you might be able to squeeze six around that little table. But nine? Why hadn't she thought this through before?
Jill stood in the doorway defeated. Where was she going to put nine people? Luckily, her brother and his wife were vacationing in Florida ("Who goes to Florida in the summertime?" her mother had asked repeatedly since they left) or she'd have had eleven to contend with. Maybe they could all go over to Elaine's, she thought. After all, the house had once belonged to David as well. ("Give her anything she wants, for Christ's sake," she had urged. "Let's just get it over with and get on with our lives!") Oh, well, it had sounded like the right thing to say at the time.
Jill left the kitchen and proceeded around the L into the living area. It was reasonably spacious, or at least the floor-to-ceiling windows made it seem so. They faced south toward Grant Park, which provided them with a beautiful view of the magnificent Buckingham Fountain. Well, we should see something for the rent we're paying, she thought. There were two bedrooms, one of which functioned as a den, although she had hoped one day to replace the television and the old, sloppy sofa-bed and leather chair with a baby crib and layette. The thought made her uneasy—she had yet to follow Beth's advice and confront David—and she diverted her attention from it by straightening the pillows of the elegantly patterned chesterfield. I could put them all in here, she thought suddenly, counting the seating capacity. Three on the couch, two on the wing chairs, and she'd bring in the four chairs from around the dining room table. Perfect. She'd set the table for a buffet and let everyone serve themselves. Hopefully, no one would spill any of the beef Stroganoff on the white broadloom.
She started back toward the kitchen, absently walking into the side of a square Lucite piece of modem art from which steel sticks dangled musically against horizontal stripes. ("What is it? Some kind of air-conditioner?" her mother had asked.) The steel sticks immediately became tangled and Jill spent the next few minutes trying to extricate them from one another without much success. It would have to wait for David, she decided, straightening up and returning to the kitchen, hoping he wouldn't be late for his own party.
It seemed that every time she had her parents over, he was late, causing her father to wonder aloud when it was Jill ever saw her husband. ("He works till ten every night," she could hear him saying. "He works Saturdays and Sundays. When is he home?") Jill always brushed such questions (accusations?) aside by explaining that David's current working hours were only temporary, the same way David had explained it to her. But how long before temporary became permanent? In the first year or two of their marriage, he'd rarely worked past seven in the evening. Of course, she'd been busy herself in those days, often working late hours at the studio, coming home to find him waiting impatiently for her return. They'd order in a pizza; he'd tease her that the only things she knew how to make for dinner was reservations. So how did she suddenly come to beef Stroganoff and cold blueberry soup?
The phone rang. Jill picked up the receiver. ‘‘Hello” she said.
"Jill?'' The voice was strong and masculine, bringing immediate traces of the past to Jill's ears.
"Irving?" she yelled gleefully.
"You sound surprised. Didn't you call? I have a message here that you phoned."
"I did. I did phone. But they said you wouldn't be in until around eleven."
"I got tired of staying at home listening to the baby cry “he explained grumpily. "I came in early."
"Baby?! Irving, I didn't know you'd had a baby!"
"Six months ago. A boy."
"Well, that's wonderful. How's Cindy?"
"Fine. She's great. A real little mother."
"And you?"
"Well, I already have the four boys with Janet, so it wasn't exactly new to me."
"And everything else?" she asked. "How's everything else?"
"Wonderful. Couldn't be better. The network is driving me nuts as usual. How about you? How's David? You're still together?"
"Of course we are. He's fine. Great," Jill emphasized, picturing the man on the other end of the phone—fiftyish, tall and muscular, graying hair, and pale gray eyes to match. Undoubtedly he was wearing blue jeans and an open-neck shirt and he was leaning against the wall in the control room, televisions blaring all around him, tapes blasting, people racing frantically around. For a moment, she felt she was right in the middle of it. "Irving, can we get together soon? There's somet
hing I want to talk over with you. An idea I have."
"Sure," he said. 'Tm leaving for Africa on Monday. Africa, of all places, and I’ll be there for two weeks. Why don't I call you when I get back?"
Jill felt her shoulders sinking. “Damn, I was hoping I could see you before then. Do you have any time at all today? Lunch? How about I take you to lunch?"
"Sounds important," he said.
"It could be."
"Lunch it is. I’ll meet you at Maloney's at one o'clock. How's that?"
"Perfect," Jill said, wondering how on earth she was ever going to get everything done by this evening. "Perfect."
Chapter 11
The restaurant was crowded. Legated just across the street from the studio, it was packed with television people, most of whom Jill recognized immediately, and some of whom recognized her in return. She spotted Irving's outstretched arm near the back of the large room and made her way toward it, realizing as she pushed past the stand-up bar that there were a disturbing number of faces that she didn't know at all.
"Jill?! My God, is it! Jill Listerwoll!" the voice bellowed, the arms surrounding her, hugging her close against the prickly tweed of his jacket.
"It has to be Arthur Goldenberg," Jill said, even before she saw his face. "The only man I know who'd wear a winter jacket in the middle of summer."
They kissed each other warmly. "It's almost fall," he reminded her. "Next week is Labor Day." His bright British eyes twinkled at her teasingly. "So, how are you? What are you doing here? Are you coming back to us?"
Jill smiled lovingly at one of the station's makeup men. "I don't know," she said. "I'm here to talk to Irving. See if there's something I might be right for."
"You're right for everything," he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and drawing her conspiratorially closer. "Don't look, but see that woman sitting over at the far end of the bar—don't look!” he chastised as Jill automatically moved her head in the other woman's direction. "She was your replacement. Don't look!"
“Sorry," Jill whispered. "I thought Maya Richards replaced me!"
"She did, but then she didn't work out. This one was brought in from L.A. Susan Timmons. She's a barracuda, let me tell you. With skin to match. Not flesh—scales!"
"Arthur! You're terrible—did you talk like that about me after I left?"
He smiled. "Only a little bit. And that was only because I was so hurt that you left us." He paused. "God, I hope you come back."
"So do me," Jill confessed, only now putting her deepest hope into words. She patted the makeup man on his cheek and pushed past him toward Irving Saunders, who had risen from his chair to greet her. On her way, she managed to get a good look at the woman who had taken over her job at the network. She was younger, Jill estimated, by about five years, and she was attractive in a brittle, blond sort of way. No scales anywhere that she could see.
"How are you, Jill?" Irving asked, kissing her squarely on the mouth. "Still drinking Bloody Marys’?" He signaled for the waiter.
"I haven't had a Bloody Mary’s in years," Jill said, sitting down. "It sounds wonderful."
"One bloody Mary, one scotch and water," Irving told the waiter, before turning his attention back to Jill, making no attempt to disguise his open perusal of her appearance.
"So?" she asked. "I look okay?"
"You look terrific," he said, and seemed to mean it. "Marriage obviously agrees with you."
"I hope so," Jill said, looking back toward the bar. "I ran into Art Goldenberg—"
"I noticed. How is my favorite faggot?"
"He sends his love.”
"Yeah, I’ll bet he does."
"He pointed out my replacement."
"Did he, now?" Jill nodded. "Yes, well, we're very pleased with Susan. She's bright, ambitious, a hard worker. As a matter of fact, she'll be on this trip to Africa I was telling you about."
Jill tried to look pleased. "You were supposed to say she's not working out at all and that you'll agree to anything to get me back."
Irving looked surprised. The waiter arrived and put their drinks in front of them. Jill raised hers immediately in a toast.
"Cheers."
"Cheers," Irving echoed, clicking his glass against Jill's. "Are you serious?" he asked finally. "Do you really want to come back?"
Jill took a deep breath. "Yes, I am," she sighed. "I do. Although I hadn't intended to let it pop out quite this early in the conversation. I thought we could have a little small talk first." She laughed nervously.
"You were always rotten at small talk," Irving reminded her. "It was one of your charms."
"I was also one of your best producers," she reminded him in return.
"Yes, you were," he admitted easily. "No question about that." There was an uncomfortable silence. "Maybe we better have a few rounds of small talk," Irving said, forcing a laugh.
"Doesn't sound promising," Jill said, feeling slightly embarrassed.
Irving fumbled around for words. "Tell me—uh—you know —how come—" He gave up. "Why?" he asked finally.
"Why what?”
“Why do you want to come back? I mean, I thought that the job was creating all sorts of problems for you. David didn't like your being away so much. He objected to your hours, the danger you always placed yourself in. Has that changed?"
"I’ve changed” Jill said. She looked directly into Irving Saunders” soft gray eyes. 'When David met me,' she began, the image of Nicole Clark suddenly as close to her as Irving's face, "I was an exciting, bright challenging lady who was always off somewhere chasing bullets or corruption or— something. I had a career! A life! I was an independent, strong woman." She paused, dramatically. "Now, Tm a wife."
"Well, you're more than that," Irving demurred. "You're a teacher—"
"I'm not a teacher, Irving, you know that! You told me that when I said I was leaving. You were right. I'm going crazy sitting behind that stupid desk. I need to be moving again!"
"And David? You haven't told me how he feels."
"What's important here is how / feel!" Jill answered, in tones so strong they surprised her.
"David's feelings were the reason I lost you in the first place," Irving explained patiently. "I couldn't afford to hire you back only to lose you again after a few months."
Jill paused. "I really don't know how David would feel. We've discussed it very briefly. He says it has to be my decision. I know, I know” she repeated, "That he might not be too happy about it at first, but, goddamn it, Irving, I was a producer when he met me! I was a producer when he fell in love with me! That's part of what he fell in love with and now that part is gone!" She shook her head, thinking out loud. "I don't know. A man has a wife who arranges her whole life around him, and yet he gets bored. She's so predictable, after all. Her world is so insular and unexciting. He leaves her for another woman, a woman who has a job of her own, a style of her own, and a life of her own. She's everything his wife isn't. So, he divorces the wife and marries the other woman. And before you know it, he starts subtly altering her image until she becomes just like the woman he left behind. Pretty soon, hubby is starting to get bored again. And so the cycle begins all over, the man always searching for what he took away."
Irving stared at her questioningly. "Are you reading from your autobiography?"
"Just an overly familiar scenario. I don't want it to be mine." She took a long sip of her drink. "Am I making any sense?"
Irving polished off the last of his scotch and ordered them another drink. "I understand exactly what you're saying," he began. "Except that I see it from the male point of view, you understand. You remember Cindy, of course," he continued, not even waiting for her nod. "What is it about marriage anyway that changes people?" Again, no answer was required. "How long was I sneaking around with Cindy before Janet finally gave me my divorce? Four years? Five years? Not only was she the best damn research assistant I ever had, but she was, well, exactly what you said before. She was exciting, challenging, ind
ependent, and bright. One of the few really effortlessly bright women I have ever met. And now this effortlessly bright lady can spend literally hours discussing the joys of Pampers versus the drudgery of cloth diapers. I had all that domestic crap twenty years ago! I lived with it for more years than I like to remember. I left it for a woman who loved picking up on a moment's notice and going out for dinner halfway across the world, who loved all-night parties and last-minute decisions. Now, I have a wife who breast-feeds our new son twenty times a day and wouldn't meet me around the comer for a hamburger without two weeks' notice. I have what I left."
"David has what he left," Jill said quietly.
"David has what he says he wants."
"David doesn't know what he wants," Jill scoffed. “And neither, damn it, do I."
Irving laughed emptily. "I don't think any of us knows what he wants."
"You want it till you get it," Jill offered. "Then you do your best to change it."
"Or it changes itself," Irving said. "Who was it that said, 'Beware of what you want. You might get it!'?"
Jill smiled. "Grace Metalious," she answered, thinking of the now deceased author of Peyton Place. "But I'm sure she wasn't the only one who said it."
Irving was laughing in earnest now.
"What's funny?" Jill asked him.
"You are. You're the only person I know who can actually give me the answers to what was intended as a purely rhetorical question. I hope David appreciates you."
"Do any men ever appreciate their wives?" she asked, then quickly added, "Purely rhetorical, I assure you." The waiter brought them fresh drinks. "Should we order?" Jill asked Irving.
He shook his head. "Not hungry."
"Me neither," Jill told the waiter, who shrugged and went away. "She keeps looking over here," Jill said.
"Who's that?" Irving asked.
"Susan whatever-her-name-is, from L.A."
Irving looked over toward the bar, then back to Jill. "Word's probably reached her about who you are."