The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  I think about nature and how miraculous salt water is. Nature brings me peace. A boater drives by. We wave to each other. I go back to contemplating the ocean life beneath me. Ever since I was small, boat docks have brought me peace. With the dock gently bobbing up and down, I feel like I’m lying on the surface of the water.

  A harsh, disruptive thought shoots into my head: Why does the issue of women being looked at as sex objects seem to follow me around?

  A series of pictures and memories flash around in my mind: Playboy centerfolds, Adnan’s women, modeling jobs for sex, men pushing themselves on me. I want to be valued for my mind, talent, creativity, personality, humor, and heart. I want to be seen as a real person with compassion and empathy. I want respect.

  Mediterranean Sea, summer 1980

  MY PINK DRESS

  February 1982, LAX to Vegas

  Winter passes and I don’t feel as connected to Adnan. There’s a huge, empty space in my heart. Even if I won’t sleep with him, I still love him. He wants me to drop everything and come see him, but I can’t. He doesn’t understand how much work I have. He’s not used to that, I guess. All the other girls come running anytime because they want his money.

  I begin seeing a guy my age in November, and when we finally have sex, it stirs up conflicting feelings and I start comparing him with Adnan. I love the simplicity of life with my new, non-wealthy man, yet miss Adnan’s sophistication. I love being monogamous for sure. I know I can’t take the harem anymore. My new guy has plenty of time for me, almost too much time, in fact. I don’t even know if I even want a boyfriend. I just want to be free to pursue my own dreams.

  Yet, I really miss Adnan.

  By February, my heart aches for Adnan so much that I’m willing to meet him anywhere in the world just to see him. I know I can’t be romantic with him. I don’t know what our arrangement will be, but I still want him in my life and need to talk with him to figure out what we should do next.

  In February 1982, Adnan’s limo takes me to the stairway of his new DC-8 at LAX. (He paid $31 million for it and spent $9 million redesigning it.) It is like a small three-bedroom house with seat belts on the beds.

  “Hello, darling.” Adnan reaches for me as I board, hugging me, kissing my lips. When I see his sweet face, I remember how much I love him. If he told me he’d give up his harem, I’d be wrapped around his finger again. But I don’t ask him to. I don’t tell people how to run their lives. He leads me to seats that face each other where we can talk. “You need to wear your seat belt for takeoff. We have to obey the rules, you know.” He laughs.

  “The plane’s beautiful. It’s great to see you. I really missed you. My life’s been a little nuts lately,” I say.

  “I missed you too. I don’t think we’ve ever been away from each other this long. What’s it been, four months?” he says.

  “Yeah. That was a long time.” I am so happy to be alone with him. The chef brings us mineral water with lemon, salmon, caviar on toast, and fruit.

  “So, are you dating anyone?” he says, timidly.

  “What? Boy, you get right to it, don’t you?” I laugh.

  “Well, are you? I haven’t seen you since October, and I figured you had met someone.”

  “Well, I did, but that’s not why I haven’t come to see you. School is crazy! It’s so much work. Students are dropping out every week because it’s so hard.”

  “Tell me about this man. How old is he? Is he Arab like me?”

  “It’s no big deal, really. I’m not sure about him at all. I don’t have much time to see him with school and he’s kind of needy—kind of the opposite of you.” We laugh.

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s twenty-four and no, he’s not Arab. He’s an American mix of everything—you know how it is.”

  “What does he do for work?”

  “He’s an electrician.”

  “Where does he live?” Adnan is acting jealous. He had never had to deal with me being with another man. He leans in over the table. “Are you in love with him?”

  “No. I don’t know. I like him, but it’s only been like four months.”

  Then he switches to father mode. “Does he come from a good family?”

  “They seem fine. He’s sweet, and I actually get to see him.” I poke at Adnan again, raising my eyebrows and cocking my head. “It seems like you’re traveling a lot more now.”

  “Yes, I’ve gotten busier.” Then he comes back with his usual line, “But if you weren’t in school, you could come with me everywhere.” His initial shock seems to be wearing off, and what I am telling him seems to register. “Are you saying you want to leave me?”

  “No,” I cry. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. This is so hard.”

  “Let me know what you decide,” he says. “We’ll need to settle all the financial details. Remember our contract? If you decide to leave, you can always come back, you know.”

  “Okay.” My heart aches. I don’t want to leave. He feels like family. I’m closer to him than anyone, but how can it work?

  “How’s school?”

  “It’s so much work! But I love it. I’m so thankful for your help. But yeah, it’s super intense. If it were easier, I’d be seeing you a lot more.”

  “I understand. It’s good you’re following your passion. It’s wonderful to do what you love. Are you still modeling?”

  “No. I don’t have a lot of time, so just when it fits around school.”

  We touch down in Las Vegas and are driven to the Dunes. I have no idea that this will be the last time he and I will be alone. “I’ll be away tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow and I’ll see you then. We need to talk about our new arrangement,” he says.

  I go to my suite and unpack. After writing in my journal, I decide to go swimming in the roof pool. I take off all my clothes, wrap myself in a white terry robe, and head up to the roof. As the elevator slides open, I see that I’m not alone. A young, nude girl is tanning on a chaise longue. Her perfect olive skin glistens with tanning oil. She looks exactly like me except shorter and younger. Have I been replaced?

  “Hi, I’m Jill, how’s it going?” I pull off my robe and lie naked on the chaise next to hers. The sun is intense, not a cloud in the sky.

  “It’s goin’ good. I’m Renée. Are you a friend of Adnan’s?”

  “Yeah, are you?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I just met him a couple weeks ago. He’s nice, huh?” She looks barely eighteen.

  “Yes, he is nice.” I put my sunglasses on so I can check out her body. Am I too old for him now that I’m twenty-two? We lie baking in the sweltering desert sun. I get in the pool and start swimming.

  “Do you have another boyfriend?” she asks.

  “There’s a guy I date back home. But I don’t know if I would call him boyfriend material. How about you?”

  “Yeah, I have a boyfriend in San Francisco. He’s thirty-six. I like older guys. He told me I should go out with Adnan.”

  “So, your boyfriend’s not jealous?” I see right through this bitch. I’m instantly protective of Adnan.

  “No, he even drove me to the airport. He thinks it’s good for my future.”

  Manipulative little shit. “The guy I see is really jealous of Adnan. It’s driving him crazy that I’m here.” I can’t take it anymore. My insides are churning. I get out and dry off.

  “Well, I have homework to do, so I’ll see you later.” I go back to my room.

  I work on sketches for my collection design class. However, the bulk of the work I need to do is at home. I couldn’t cart my sewing machine, pattern table, and dress form all the way to Vegas. I had no idea Adnan would be gone my first night here. I came to see him, not sit in a hotel room. The next day after lunch, I call Dominic, sure that Adnan would be here now.

  “Dominic, where’s Adnan? Is he back?”

  “No, he’s still out of the country. He should be back tonight.”

  My resentment grows by the hour. I�
�m angry with myself for putting him ahead of everything I need to do, just to be left in this stupid room. Our relationship isn’t a two-way street. It’s always worked around his schedule, not mine.

  When he picked me up in his plane, I assumed he had arranged his schedule to see me—not just drop me in Vegas and leave the country. He’s being so unfair! I can’t put my life on hold like this. He really doesn’t understand that I have work to do. I pace around the room, wondering what the hell to do with my life and with Adnan. The thing that pisses me off the most is that I am not in control of anything—and I hate that feeling!

  I do everything I can think of to keep from going crazy. I lie on the floor and I do leg exercises and crunches. I set my work up on the couch and coffee table and study for my marketing exam. I light all the vanilla candles and try to calm down in a bubble bath. I get in bed, write in my diary, and pray. I get back up, walk back and forth in front of the window, and gaze out at the desert, like a caged animal. At midnight, I take another bubble bath and finally get to sleep around 1 A.M.

  At 2 A.M., my phone startles me awake, rattling my nerves. I answer to Dominic shouting, “It’s time for dinner! He’s here!”

  “Oh my god, Dominic, I’m sleeping. Not now, please, I really need to sleep.”

  “You need to be at this dinner, Jill. You gotta get up. Don’t go back to sleep!”

  “I’ve been waiting for him for two days, and now it’s past midnight!” I plea.

  Dominic says authoritatively, “Get dressed and meet us in the salon.” His tone reminds me of my dad, which doesn’t go over well.

  So Adnan arrives from some other time zone and wants to throw a dinner party in the middle of the night—convenient for him, but not for me. Still, I know the drill. I have to drag myself out of bed and dress in couture. I throw my leg over the side of the bed and slide down till my knee hits the floor, followed by the rest of my body. I sit up on my carpeted bed pedestal, illuminated by a narrow tube of tiny purple lights, and put my head between my knees. Then I stand up and stomp to the bathroom.

  Instead of wearing my hair straight down, I rat it up and out as big as I can, just like Nicole does when we go out dancing. I cover it in hair spray. Leaning into the mirror, I brush pink, iridescent eye shadow over my lids and line my eyes with bright blue sparkly liner. Thick mascara and glossy, hot-pink lips finish it off. This is a look I only use at home with my friends, never with Adnan.

  I turn to the closet, pondering my options. Let’s see . . . conservative, black, floor-length Lanvin or Dior, or the pink bustier dress I made for school. Fuck it. I grab the hot-pink dress and look at it, smiling. I step in and zip it up. My boobs spill out the top a little, but whatever. The lower half of the dress is just as tight, with a lace-trimmed slit in back. I pull on white nylons, step into my white pumps, and lean in to the mirror as I put on gold hoop earrings. This is me. I’m not his fucking dress-up doll.

  I meet everyone in Adnan’s salon. When he walks in and sees me, he’s in shock. Adnan, Renée, and I pile into his silver bulletproof limo. This is a new arrangement, though. I have never shared a car with him and another girl. They sit together, facing forward, and I sit across from them, facing backward. He can’t believe the way I look and keeps staring at me, giggling. She looks smug and full of herself, staring across at me. I feel like saying, You don’t know what you’re getting into, you little brat. You’re playing with fire, baby girl.

  Adnan says, “Jill, doesn’t Renée look beautiful tonight? Don’t you love her dress?” Why don’t you just stab me, AK? I think.

  “She looks beautiful,” I reply, seething, trying to act happy.

  “And what are you wearing?” he asks.

  “Oh, I made it for an assignment at school, where we had to design a dress with princess seams and boning.” I point out all the details, as if they really care.

  “Well, the only thing I can say about it is it’s nice that you made it by hand.” His disapproval is obvious, but he manages to get his point across without being mean.

  About thirty people are gathered in the private dining room of a dimly lit restaurant. The table is filled with men, except for Renée and me. Dominic is there, playing with a small tape recorder in his pocket, for whatever reason. Adnan’s son Mohammed sits directly across from Adnan in the senior position. I sit on Adnan’s right.

  The purpose of this meeting becomes clear fairly quickly. Hollywood wants money. Producers and directors around the long table begin pitching their film projects, while Adnan’s entourage of men bicker and compete over who has the coolest James Bond–type gadgets.

  Dominic’s on my right, boasting about evidence he has on his mini tape recorder, trying to intimidate the other men. A man at the end of the table flashes a personal check from his jacket pocket and slides it back in, winking. Adnan begins his sarcastic and strategic banter. He’s ready to play all these people. And they won’t even know they’ve been played.

  The dinner goes on and on. At some point, Adnan leans into the table and teasingly threatens his son Mohammed, “You better make a move on Brooke Shields soon, or I will.”

  I don’t see this playful threat to date another, way-too-young, beautiful girl as fun banter, though. His threat triggers my anger. Adnan’s womanizing is hurting me, and I don’t want it to hurt his son too. My pulse skyrockets, and I feel the overwhelming urge to protect Mohammed. I jump down Adnan’s throat. “Why don’t you leave him alone? He told me he’s not ready for a relationship yet, and you’re trying to make him just like you are.” I lean into him, emphasizing the “you.” I may have even pointed my finger.

  Mohammed’s eyes go huge. Everyone around the table within earshot suddenly gets quiet and looks at us. No one talks to Adnan like that. Ever.

  I’d had it. “Excuse me.” I get up to go to the ladies’ room, adjusting my dress over my hips as I squeeze out between the chairs. My blood is boiling and my face feels hot. I don’t even see what’s in front of me. As I march across the restaurant to the ladies’ room, I seethe over Adnan trying to turn Mohammed into a womanizer.

  I enter the restroom stall, peel my white nylons over my hips, and try to calm down so I can pee. I hear water running. I hadn’t noticed anyone when I came in. When I come out of the stall, a petite, older black woman in a simple uniform stands near the sink. Yet, there’s something different about her. She is glowing. She has a bright aura around her, and she has all of my attention. Time stands still. Water runs in the sink. She had turned it on while I was in the stall, so it would be warm. I look down at the sink and wash my hands, then turn back to her. She holds out a towel for me and says kindly, “Honey, that is the prettiest dress I have ever seen.” She radiates love. If angels exist, this is one. My mind is officially blown.

  I hug the lady in the bathroom as tears run down my cheeks. I wipe my face and walk slowly back to the table. My mind is totally on her. She might be poor, working as a bathroom attendant, but I’d prefer life with her, under any conditions, than living with these piranhas.

  Adnan stands and pulls out my chair. I sit in the center of this table, seeing it as if from above the room with a crystal-clear perspective. Twenty-five male egos are battling it out with one another. Renée is trying to look pretty and charming. Mohammed seems used to all this. Adnan clearly has the power position. With their testosterone pumping, these men grovel at his feet, using any strategy they can think of as they fight for the prize—Adnan’s money. They look pathetic playing their stupid power games. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t want to be part of this shit. I’m done. I want out.

  Back home, as I’m submerged in an ungodly amount of schoolwork, Adnan calls over and over, wanting me to meet him in New York or Paris to talk about our contract and our future. But I’ve got final school projects and a whole collection to design. I need to make patterns, shop fabrics and trims, and sew the entire collection.

  Plus, I’m planning a huge graduation fashion show for hundreds of students and over a t
housand guests. I know he wants to talk about money, but I don’t want his money. He still doesn’t understand my need to work, and probably never will. I don’t think he’s ever met an independent girl like me. I want to make it on my own. And I do.

  Tearing my love away from Adnan feels like surgery, like something has to be physically cut out of me in order to get over it. Sometimes I entertain the idea of designing from his ship and living in Paris so I can see him more. That can work. But his lack of monogamy will not. It’s an impossible situation. I have to tear myself away from him.

  We talk on the phone a few times, trying to coordinate our schedules. He wants to meet in person to discuss our parting of the ways, which probably means something financial. I just want to know that he’s still my friend.

  All spring, I wrestle with myself over him. I pray for help in letting him go, and healing for my heart. It’s awful. He’s more than a lover or a boyfriend. He’s my calm, safe haven. He has all the answers and always knows what to say. I miss his sarcasm and humor. I miss all the stupid little bets we made against each other. I miss laughing with him and all the silly things we did. I miss lying in bed curled up on him, with my head tucked into his neck.

  FIDM teacher Mr. Costas, June Van Dyke, and me, Los Angeles Hilton ballroom, December 18, 1982

  GRADUATION

  June to December 1982

  Finally, by May, my heart is free from hurting over Adnan and my vision is clear. From June to December, I have graduation to focus on. In September, at the start of our last semester, our Collection Development teachers gather all of the graduating students in a room to deliver the bad news to us that FIDM will not be putting on a graduation show this year.