by Joy Fielding
She watched him, worried he might fall, feeling herself weak with fatigue and desire. He caught her watching him out of the comer of his eyes and suddenly reached over and grabbed her arms, pulling her toward him. Her legs caught against the side of the bathtub and she fell forward at the knees, feeling her hair and face hit by the sudden force of the water, feeling her nightgown grow damp and then wet. He pulled her up and inside the tub, surprising her with his sudden strength. The water pounded against her nose and mouth. She closed her eyes against the downpour, feeling his hands all over her body, on the buttons at her neck, fumbling with them, ultimately ripping them open and pulling the wet flannel up over her head.
“You're so beautiful” he said, his words slurred, his eyes not quite focused.
“I look ridiculous," she cried, tears suddenly mixing with the water from the shower. “I have these dumb socks on and Tm all wet!" Suddenly, she was laughing and crying at the same time, seeing them suddenly the way an impartial camera might—David, drunk and barely able to stand, soaking wet in the shower, herself, feverish, stuffed up with a cold, her hair drenched by sweat and the downpour, nude now except for white wool knee socks hugging against her feet.
David knelt down and pulled at her socks. Jill grabbed hold of the side of the wall as he tugged the wet wool off her feet, discarding the heavy material by the side of the tub. Suddenly, she felt his hands on her buttocks and his face buried inside the wet hair between her legs.
The water continued to pour down on them. This isn't happening, she thought, digging her nails into his shoulders, unconscious now of the water's steady beat. David slowly worked his way up her body, moving his hands to her breasts, catching the water in his mouth as it dropped off her nipples. He reached her lips and kissed her ferociously as if he wanted to swallow her, make her disappear inside him. They stumbled over—she wasn't aware if she had lost her balance or he had pushed her down, but there they were on the bottom of the bathtub and he was pushing into her, sitting up and wrapping his legs around her, reaching over and wrapping her legs around him, pounding into her as the water poured hot all around them.
Jill wondered for an instant if they would drown before they climaxed, then stopped caring, surrendering herself to the absurdity of the situation. Nothing in her wildest imaginings could have prepared her for this, and if she wasn't quite as comfortable as she might have chosen to be, it would certainly make for a hell of a story to tell their grandchildren. Finally they dried one another with her blue towel, moved to her bed and fell asleep.
He awoke in the morning before she did, sitting up suddenly, coming wide awake instantly, looking down at Jill, just now opening her eyes, aware of her hair damp across her face. Automatically, she covered her face with her hands. "Oh God, I look awful," she said.
He pushed her hands aside and kissed her. "No," he said, "you look beautiful." He looked toward the drawn curtains. The sun was shining on the other side. "What time is it?" he wondered out loud.
Jill sat up and pulled the clock radio on the bedside table toward them. "A little after seven o'clock," she said.
He rubbed his head, obviously mulling over his alternatives. "I better go," he said, standing up and looking around. "Do you happen to remember where I left my clothes?" he smiled.
"I think they're in the bathroom," she said, deciding to let him make all the moves. Did he even remember what happened last night? She wondered, arching her back carefully and rolling her neck around in an effort to relieve the stiffness. She debated what she should do, get up and make coffee or stay where she was. She decided to stay longer. What would he say to Elaine? Would he try to explain? To lie? Would Elaine believe him? She'll believe anything she wants to badly enough, Jill said to herself, realizing for the first time since early that morning that essentially nothing had changed. There would be a few more lies, that's all. Bigger ones, perhaps a little harder to deliver, a little tougher to swallow but swallowed nonetheless. Last night had been no more a declaration of independence than any other night. It had simply started later and therefore ended later. It didn't matter that Elaine had slept next to an empty space. Her eyes were closed. They were undoubtedly prepared to remain so.
David walked back into the room. He was fully dressed and ready to go.
"Do you want a cup of coffee?" she asked him.
"I better not," he said. She nodded. He sat down on the bed beside her. "How are you feeling?" he asked, running his hand across her cheek.
“Pretty good," she lied.
He tucked the blankets around her. "Stay in bed today. I don't think I let you get a lot of rest last night."
She looked at him questioningly. "Do you remember anything?" she asked.
He smiled, leaning forward and kissing her. "I just remember how pretty you are," he said, and then he kissed her again. A minute later, he was gone.
Jill opened her eyes. He was gone. Cary Grant had disappeared along with the night... David was reaching over and turning off the television.
"I'm sorry," he said, freshly changed into a new suit. "I went to a hotel. Slept there. It was a dumb thing to do. I hope you didn't worry too much."
"Not too much," she said, her voice as dead as the gray morning sky.
"I have to go to work," he told her.
"Fine," she answered, not looking at him.
"I'll try to be home early tonight."
"That would be nice."
Jill heard the door close behind him. So the lie had been fairly easy to deliver after all. Jill swallowed hard. Then, like Elaine had done before her, she closed her eyes.
Chapter 26
She saw Laurie as soon as she entered the restaurant, and rushed past the bar of familiar faces toward the table where the young girl sat waiting. "Hi, Laurie," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry I'm late. These meetings can go on forever. I was afraid I'd never get out. Everyone gets so caught up in what they have to say they forget there are still a few of us around who like to eat lunch now and again. Were you waiting long?”
"Just a few minutes," Laurie said. Jill knew from the sudden blush that appeared on the girl's cheek that she was lying. She threw off her coat and hung it over the back of her chair, sitting down and taking a long, deep breath.
"I'm really glad you could meet me for lunch," Jill said, taking in the teenager's careless posture with a quick, subtle glance. Her arms seemed only flesh-covered sticks as they projected out from under the red-and-white-striped sweatshirt that hung, as if on a hanger, from her shoulders. "No school today?"
"It's a P.D. day."
"A P.D. day? What's that?"
"Professional development, supposedly. The teachers get about one a month. Mom says they just want another day off. She doesn't believe they have meetings and stuff. She says it's all an excuse."
Jill laughed in spite of herself. She could hear Elaine's voice as she launched into her tirade against the teaching profession. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?"
Laurie shook her head. “My mom drove me. She said it looked suitably shady."
“Shady?" Jill asked, looking around the crowded room, waving at one of the network script assistants. "No, it's just kind of a hangout for television people, because it's so close. You know, right across the road. I never thought of it as being particularly shady."
“I like it," Laurie offered.
“Good. So do L Has a waiter been around yet?"
"He came. I told him to wait till you got here."
Jill looked around, trying vainly to attract the waiter's attention. "I think they go to a special school," she said after several futile attempts. "They major in lack of peripheral vision." She smiled at David's daughter, who was obviously enjoying herself. "So, how are you finding school so far?"
"It's okay."
"What's your favorite subject?"
The girl paused. "English, I guess," she answered, unexpectedly.
"Really?" Jill asked, genuinely surprised. "That was always my favorite subj
ect. I used to love writing compositions—"
"Oh, I hate that part."
"Oh."
"It's a drag. I never know what to write about. I like to read."
"What sort of things arc you reading?"
Laurie reached for her glass of water, taking a long sip before answering Jill's question. "I like the Nancy Drew books," she said.
The waiter suddenly approached with the menus. "May I get you anything from the bar?"
''A Bloody Mary," Jill said, turning her attention back to Laurie. ''What about you, Laurie? Would you like a Coke or something?"
''No thanks," she said. "Water's fine."
Jill picked up her menu and pretended to glance over its contents. There was no need. She knew it by heart. She hoped Laurie would eat something—it was one of the reasons she had decided that they should meet for lunch. Actually, their getting together had been Laurie's idea. In the last month, as Jill and David seemed to be pulling farther apart, she and David's daughter had begun to grow inexplicably closer to one another, and although they had yet to really trust each other with anything remotely resembling a serious conversation, there was now a certain degree of warmth replacing their customary cool. Especially in the weeks since Jill had begun her job at the network, Laurie, and to a lesser extent, Jason, had been less overtly hostile, occasionally even friendly.
When David had abruptly canceled plans to take them all to a movie because of a last-minute meeting, they had willingly gone ahead with Jill and had spent several hours at its conclusion arguing about what it all really meant. It was ironic, Jill thought, lowering the menu, to be losing David just as she was winning over his children.
She cleared her throat. "Can I recommend something for you or do you know what you want?" Jill asked.
Laurie shook her head. "You order."
"How does steak on a Kaiser Bun sound?" Jill asked, picking out what sounded the most fattening. "It comes with a big plate of French fries."
"Sounds good," Laurie answered, the bones across the top of her chest protruding ominously through her sweatshirt. Jill tried not to look too surprised at Laurie's easy acceptance of her suggestion.
"Some soup to start? They make a wonderful homemade vegetable soup," she suggested, afraid she might be pushing her luck. Laurie smiled, her face, once pretty and full, now stretching gaunt and sallow, and her eyes almost sunken. Couldn't Elaine see the changes in her daughter? Why wasn't she doing anything about it? Jill remembered Ricki Elfer's solemn proclamation: anorexia nervosa. Was that it? Was Laurie really trying to starve herself to death?
“That's fine. Soups sounds great."
“And a salad?" Jill ventured, Laurie nodded. "Good. I'll have the same," Jill concurred, counting up the mountain of invisible calories. "We can order dessert later if you like.”
Laurie looked around the room, quite taken with all the network types, as Jill gave the waiter their order. God, let her eat this, she hoped, looking back at Laurie. And if she doesn't, if she just pushes the food around her plate the way she usually does, what then? Another lecture? Another bitter scene? Or another meal of looking the other way and pretending the problem doesn't exist? What was the matter with the girl's mother? Jill asked herself angrily. Or her father, for that matter. They were the ones who should be insisting that the child get some good professional advice. And where were the girl's teachers? Why hadn't one of them said anything? Jill smiled over at David's daughter. Her teachers were away being professionally developed, she remembered, thinking that it might make for an interesting target of investigation if "Hour Chicago" got beyond the pilot stage.
"Did you ever read Nancy Drew” the girl was asking.
“Did I read Nancy Drew?!" Jill laughed. "Every single one. The Hidden Staircase was my favorite."
Laurie's eyes grew big and wide, a smile creasing their edges. "Mine too," she said. "And I love Judy Blume."
“Who?"
“Judy Blume. She writes books for teenagers. I read all her books."
"I don't know her work,” Jill said, feeling the name was vaguely familiar.
“Well, you're not exactly a kid," came the reply.
'That's true," Jill said, as the waiter put her Bloody Mary on the table, "And I'm not getting any younger! Cheers!"
“Cheers," Laurie mimicked, raising her water glass. “Tell me about your new job," she said eagerly.
Jill returned her drink to the table. “Well, I'm not sure it is a new job yet. It's still pretty temporary. We have to see how the pilot goes first. I'll just be another few weeks here and then it's back to the university until I know one way or the other."
"What do you do exactly?” Laurie pressed, obviously interested.
"Well, let's see," Jill began, "that's what we're having all these story conferences about right now, to try to figure out exactly what it is that we are doing."
"What's a story conference?"
Jill was pleased at Laurie's questions, realizing that David hadn't asked her anything about her work since she had begun. "It's a meeting where all the producers and researchers are present," she explained. "That's where you sit down and fight for your ideas. And let me tell you, there's always a good fight. You present your idea for something you'd like to see done, and then you have to pitch the fact that it's not only a good idea but a good idea for television. You have to show that it would appeal to a wide audience, that you can present it in such a way that it would be suitable viewing for an entire family, and that it would look good on television. That sounds kind of dopey, but you have to remember that television is primarily a visual medium. You with me so far?"
Laurie nodded. "Okay," Jill continued, "so, assuming the producer—that's me—sells her idea to the group, then she usually gets about three weeks to put the whole thing together.
"The first thing that gets decided is who's going to be your research assistant, and you can pretty well bet that whoever you dislike the most, or have the most trouble with, is who you're going to wind up being assigned. The researcher spends most of his or her time on the phone. They're the ones responsible for getting you all the necessary information. Then you have to decide, which is what we've been doing a lot of lately, just what the “breaking point” of the story is. In other words, what do you want to say and how do you want to say it?" She paused, thinking of Beth Weatherby. "Say you're doing an expose on people who place those ads in the Companions Wanted columns of the newspapers," she said, abruptly shifting the focus of her thinking. "Well, you decide your angle, maybe it's that these people aren't perverted or oversexed or any of those things, but are really just a bunch of poor, unhappy people who are desperately looking for someone to love, and you pick as your breaking point a happily married couple who met through one of these ads, and you build your show around them. You might start by contacting the various dating services, going to singles' bars and discos, maybe even cruising the park benches for some lonely people. You might even answer one of the ads yourself. You have to be specific. You need one example to focus on and you always have to be thinking about visualizing your story concept. You never shoot in the studio. You're always on location and you have to pray that whoever you finally do sit down to interview doesn't have a criminal record because that would blow your credibility right out the window."
The waiter approached with two bowls of steaming hot soup. "Thank you," Jill said, watching in amazement as Laurie lifted her spoon and dug right in. "Is it good?" she asked a minute later.
"Delicious," Laurie answered. "Go on, tell me more about your job. What happens after you finish shooting?"
"It goes to editing," Jill said, tasting a spoonful of the hot liquid and then continuing. "In some ways, the editing is the most rewarding part of the whole thing. But it's also the most frustrating. That's where you see all your mistakes.
You know, like the camera was out of sync or the film's defective or the best part is happening just out of range. There's a separate editor," Jill explained, taking another
spoonful of soup, noticing with great satisfaction that Laurie was already finishing hers. 'You work with the editor. Tell him what you want to keep and what you want to throw away. Anyway, what you're looking for are the sequences that flow. You're looking for moments that—how can I say it without sounding trite? You're looking for moments that illuminate. You're in a black room with no air, and you spend hours just staring at a tiny screen. You're re-cutting constantly. One day you're happy; you think you've done a terrific job. The next day you see it again and you hate it. It's an exhausting, exhilarating time, usually taking two days and two nights. It's like you're up for forty-eight solid hours."
The waiter waited to remove their soup bowls until Jill quickly gulped down the last of hers. "Two steaks on Kaisers and fries," he said, putting the overflowing plates in front of them, along with their salads. Again, Laurie barely waited until the plate was on the table before picking up her fork and popping a monstrous french-fried potato into her mouth.
"This is great," she said, enthusiastically. "So, go on. Do you keep everything you shoot?"
Jill laughed. "Oh, no! That would be a real miracle. It's usually a six to one ratio of what's discarded to what's retained. Three to one if you're really expert, which I'm not."