Skinnydipping

by Bethenny Frankel

  Men my own age weren’t completely blind to me. One afternoon, after Brooke and I had been roller skating in Venice Beach, we went into a bar because they had a sign outside that said “Nickel Beers.” This cute surfer guy came over to join us. He was tan with sun-streaked hair and he wore a muscle shirt that said Hang Ten. He said his name was Tim. He started drinking with us, and I started flirting. After about an hour, Brooke told me she was going home, and I waved her on. She gave me a look, but I ignored it. I was having fun. “I’ll meet you at home later,” I told her.

  “Your friend’s kind of uptight,” he said, finishing his beer and waving at the bartender for another one.

  “She’s my mother-in-law,” I told him, with a straight face. He didn’t even blink. I was so flattered that he had chosen me over Brooke that I liked him even more. The beer goggles helped, too.

  After about seven beers and a Long Island iced tea, I had to pee. I’d been putting it off for as long as possible. The room spun around me, but I stayed on my skates. I looked all the way across the bar to the bathroom, then I looked back at Tim.

  “Are you gonna make it?” he said, looking very serious.

  “I think you better give me a push.”

  He stood up and made a big deal out of giving me a shove toward the bathroom. I rolled about five feet past the bar, then had to roll and clomp and maneuver my way into the bathroom and the tiny stall.

  It was a long squat down to the toilet—the skates made me taller than I really was. When I bumped my way out of the tiny stall to the mirror, I was horrified at what I saw. I looked down at myself. I was sweaty, rumpled, and my ugly white sports bra was showing under my once-cute, once-fresh pink tank top. My eyebrows looked like two caterpillars and I realized with even further horror that I hadn’t shaved my legs in a couple of days. When I’d left the house, I’d planned on getting a workout, never thinking I would meet someone. When will you learn? I scolded myself. Always dress like you might meet a hot guy. What did this guy see in me? Gross. I ran my fingers through my flattened sweaty hair, trying to at least give it a little lift at the roots. I splashed water on my face and pinched my cheeks, trying to bring back some color. There wasn’t anything I could do about the eyebrows. Or the sports bra. I don’t have the type of boobs that can fly free, unless I want to risk an indecency charge.

  “OK,” I said out loud, to the empty bathroom stall. “I’m going back out.”

  I rolled out of the bathroom and through the bar, and I felt like everybody was staring at my skates. Or maybe it was the hairy legs. Tim was talking to another girl, but as soon as I came back, he turned his back on her and pulled out my bar stool for me. “Nickel beers are over,” he said. “Do you want another Long Island iced tea?”

  “Why the hell not?” I said. The more he drank, the better I would look.

  Sometime after dark, we both stumbled out of the bar, with me still on my skates. He pulled me down the street for a while, and then I pulled him for a while, skating backward and giggling a lot. He was staggering and we were hanging all over each other. At one point, I think I remember boasting to anyone on the street who would listen, “I can skate better than I can walk!” I think that’s when I did the round-off. On skates. A few people walked by and clapped. Somehow, I didn’t break my neck.

  Back at his building, he pointed up the stairs. “I’m on the third floor.” He looked down at my feet. “Are you gonna take those off?”

  “No way! That would take waaaayyy too long. I can do this!” I said with alcohol-fueled optimism.

  Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp—up I went, two floors on my roller skates, Tim nervously following me, ready to catch me if I suddenly pitched backward, but I held on to the rail and made it. Out of breath and even sweatier than I had been before, I fell into his apartment and onto the bed, and the room was spinning faster than my skate wheels. I’m pretty sure I gave him a blow job, although I don’t exactly remember the experience. After fooling around for a while, we both passed out.

  Bright sun through the thin mini blinds woke me up the next morning to a searing headache and a wave of nausea. I looked over at Tim. He was cute, in a rugged way, but for the first time, I noticed his thinning hair and the spare tire under the Hang Ten muscle shirt. In horror, I noticed that his pants were around his knees. What was I thinking?

  I scrambled out of bed, trying to be as quiet as possible, my skates still firmly attached to my feet. I adjusted my clothes, smoothed my hair, rolled over to the door, and opened it. Just as I was about to make a clean getaway, he stirred and groaned. I froze. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning woozily. “Where are you going?”

  “I was … I have to get home.”

  He looked disappointed. “Can I get your number?”

  I sighed. “Really? You want the number of the hairy wildebeest in the bad sports bra that you picked up in a bar last night? Who’s still wearing roller skates?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Let’s just play it like we’re now dreaming, and I didn’t actually blow you on the Starlight Express.” As if my whole life and so-called career weren’t degrading enough …

  I shut the door behind me, then carefully, treacherously, painfully worked my way back down two flights of stairs, on wheels, excruciatingly hung over, clutching the railing like my life depended on it. It probably did.

  Then a first: the long roll of shame home.

  Larry Todd was in and out of my life, but more in the role of father figure than flirtation. Once, he took me out for lunch. We laughed and talked and I asked about his daughter, and he seemed a little sad. At the end of our lunch, he put his hand over mine on the table and looked me in the eye. “You know you can always talk to me about anything that’s going on, at work or in your life,” he said. “Consider me your friend.”

  “Thanks, Larry. I really appreciate it. You’re …” I almost said “like a father to me,” but I didn’t want to insult him or make him feel old. “Your support means everything to me. I think I’m almost ready to move out of my father’s house and get my own place.”

  “That’s great,” he said, finally removing his hand. “Do you know where you’ll live?”

  “Not yet. Somewhere not too far from work.”

  “A friend of mine owns a building in West Hollywood. Do you want me to ask him about vacancies?”

  “You would do that for me? That would be great,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “How about a roommate? Can you conjure one of those up, too?”

  “Let me ask around,” he said kindly. “Mia might know someone.” He looked at me wistfully. “This is an exciting time for you. Are you out there auditioning?”

  “A little. Not as much as I should be,” I admitted. “I’ve been too busy working for you.”

  “Of course. We don’t want to lose you! But keep your eye on your own career path. Don’t get so caught up in the daily grind that you forget where you’re going. You didn’t come to L.A. to make photocopies for me all day.”

  “Thanks, Larry,” I said again. And, oh, what the hell. “I really feel like you’re a father to me.”

  He didn’t seem offended at all.

  chapter six

  The day that Vince Beck finally asked me out was the day Mia told me she had a friend who needed a roommate. “Her name’s Perry Kaufman. She’s an actress. She’s really more the thespian type so I don’t know how much she works, but I think she’s done a few television commercials and some theater.” Mia handed me a piece of paper with a phone number. “I think you’ll like her. Give her a call—her lease ends soon and she’s kind of desperate.”

  I had just received my fourth paycheck, and I was ready to get out. My father certainly didn’t want me around. Whatever fantasies I’d had about our reunion had faded. Poor Brooke obviously felt caught between us, and I was tired of watching out for her feelings. She was one of those girls who needed a man to take care of her, n
o matter how he treated her, and I cringed watching her fawn all over my father and watching him spurn her affection. She maintained her story, that he was different when they were alone, but I was tired of hearing about that, too.

  That afternoon after work, I called Perry Kaufman and left her a message. Almost as soon as I hung up, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello darling. Vince Beck here. How are you doing this afternoon?”

  My heart skipped. Was he really calling me? Be cool, Faith. This could be big. Don’t screw it up. “Oh, hey, Vince. I’m just getting home. How are you?” I tried to sound casual … and open to suggestions.

  “Resting up after a long hard day at work, are we?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you …” It had become our little joke. He laughed.

  “Listen, I’ve got a thing tonight, a kind of industry party. My date’s canceled on me at the last minute—apparently she’s down with the flu. You immediately sprang to mind. Shall we make a night of it?”

  Ouch. There’s nothing sexier than being a seat filler. On the other hand, all hail the flu virus! “Let me see …” I said, as if I was paging through some imaginary appointment book filled with opportunities and options. Don’t sound eager, Faith. Don’t sound desperate. “I do have a thing at seven,” I lied, “but I could meet you at nine.”

  “Nine’s perfect, darling. I’ll pick you up at your place. Good-bye then.”

  I immediately began to rethink. Normally, when a guy takes you out at nine, he has no interest in feeding you dinner. He just wants to get in your pants. Should I have waited to see what he was going to propose first? But if he had invited me to dinner, then I’d have to deal with eating in front of him. I wasn’t ready for that yet. Not that I was so opposed to the idea of rolling around with Vince Beck. I’d suggested nine o’clock, not him. I rationalized that this brilliant suggestion made me sound like I wasn’t desperate. Like maybe I actually was busy. I liked that. Then again, he’d jumped right on it. I started to feel anxious. Did I make a mistake? Did I send the wrong message? Calm down, Faith. You’re obsessing again. But I couldn’t stop.

  I couldn’t help wondering how he knew where I lived. He said he would pick me up. And what the hell was I going to wear? Maybe I could borrow something from Brooke. I didn’t own a single piece of clothing that was actually expensive.

  Just then, the phone rang again. It was Perry. She sounded nice, sensible and articulate, and her voice had a certain theatrical tenor that I liked. Since I’d said I had a thing at seven, I decided to try to make it come true. “Do you want to meet up at seven for a cup of coffee?” I thought we should probably see whether we actually thought we could stand each other. I paused. “I’ve got something at nine.”

  “Perry?”

  “Faith.” She held out her hand. She had a beakish nose and a high forehead, the face of a character actress, and a rail-thin figure. Her best feature was her long, shiny, dark-gold hair. She was taller than me with narrow shoulders and great posture. I liked her calm manner, and as we sat and talked, she seemed to like my sense of humor. That was a good sign—not everybody gets me in the beginning. I also liked that I felt I could tell her I wanted to be an actress, and not feel demeaned by it. She was legit—a real actress. She didn’t seem to approach acting like I did at all. For her, it was a passion. I was beginning to suspect I wanted it for the wrong reasons—for the attention and love I never got as a child. But I hated to admit I was so textbook.

  “Are you auditioning?” she asked seriously, sipping her black coffee.

  I hesitated, then nervously began tearing open packets of artificial sweetener to stir into my coffee. “A little. Not with any success. I feel like I really don’t know what I’m doing. I could probably be doing it more, but I have a job on the set of a TV show, and that’s been taking all my time.”

  “What show?”

  “Hollywood & Highland.”

  She thought about this for a minute. “I think I’ve heard of it. But I don’t actually have a TV.”

  I loved that she didn’t know about the show, and that she took acting so seriously. Maybe living with her would inspire me to get out there. “It’s not even an acting job, but at least I’m learning how TV works. Anyway, I might have a line on a place in West Hollywood. Would that work for you?”

  “Sure,” she said, sipping her coffee. “I just need to find somewhere soon. Somewhere halfway decent and not too far away from things. I can afford about five hundred a month. Frankly, I’m more into theater than film, and that doesn’t really fly in L.A. I should probably go to New York, but … I don’t know. I was born here. I don’t think I’d survive the climate change.”

  “That sounds about like my budget, too,” I said. “And theater is cool.” As if I knew. “But Mia said you’ve done some commercials?”

  “A few little things—just not anything that’s going to allow me to quit my day job as a waitress. I don’t know.” She sighed. “I may end up working for an agency or something like that. But for now, I’m going to keep trying.”

  “Yeah. I feel like I threw away five hundred dollars on headshots because I haven’t gotten a single call.”

  “A headshot’s a place to put your phone number. It’s for when someone needs to remember who you are, but if you send it out blindly, it doesn’t really do you any good, unless you’re extraordinarily good-looking.” She stopped. “No offense,” she added.

  “None taken.” I knew what I looked like.

  “It’s a necessary evil,” she said, “and extraordinary acting talent helps, too, but none of it is as important as who you know.”

  “I just wish it would come to something, so I wouldn’t feel like I wasted my money.”

  “It will,” she said. “You seem ambitious.”

  She picked up the tab (much to my relief—I realized halfway through my cup of coffee that I didn’t have any cash and I suspected my ATM balance was negative), and we agreed to talk the next day.

  I rushed home, took a quick shower, and stared at Brooke’s closet. Now, on to Vince Beck. I wondered what “a kind of industry party” really meant. I thought about calling Mia, but I didn’t want her, or anyone else at the studio, to know I had actually agreed to go out with Vince Beck—at least not just yet. It just felt embarrassing. I didn’t want to be some obvious notch in his belt, one of a thousand cards in his Rolodex. I already had a reputation for being fast on the job. I didn’t need a reputation for being fast in general. Although I suppose anybody at the party would see us together and would clock the information for later.

  I decided I couldn’t go wrong with a tight black Versace dress that showed plenty of cleavage and heels that showed off my legs. I got dressed, unrolled my hair and tossed it around a little, then considered what to do about makeup. I never really wore much because I never quite felt confident that I knew how to put it on. I swiped on some red lipstick and some blush, then put some extra blush on my eyelids, thinking that might look sexy. I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad, but … I reached down the front of my dress and aligned my nipples. I had my real boobs, but they drooped, since I’d been heavy in high school and my weight fluctuated so much. There, that was better. I was good to go.

  I spent the next twenty-five minutes pacing and looking in the mirror every thirty seconds. When the doorbell rang, I jumped. I walked slowly, steadily, on my high heels, trying not to look too eager. For a moment, I wondered if my father would come downstairs to see who it was, and I hoped Vince Beck would be there, and I would have a moment of pride about the house and my father. But it was only the driver standing at the door. Brooke told me nobody has drivers in L.A., so I wondered what that was about. I peered over his shoulder and saw a black Town Car with tinted windows waiting at the curb. I looked back toward the stairs. No sign of life. My father didn’t care what I was doing.

  I followed the driver to the car. He opened the back door, and I slid in next to Vince.

  “You
look fantastic, sweetheart,” he said, looking me up and down. “Absolutely hot. But what’s with this black, then? Are you going to a funeral? You should try some color, darling. Brighten up your pretty face. What about red? You’re dazzling in red.” I remembered what my father had told me the first day I arrived: “Don’t wear black. This isn’t New York.”

  I blushed. “In New York, a black dress is like a white shirt—it’s what you wear,” I admitted. “But I do what I want, no matter where I am. And what’s with the driver?”

  “Ah yes.” Vince Beck smiled. “A little run-in with the law. It seems they frown on drinking and driving. So I’ve got Carl here, to take me around,” he said, gesturing to the driver.

  “I see,” I said, embarrassed that I’d asked. “Well, you don’t look so bad yourself.” I looked him up and down. He looked hot. Motorcycle boots, tight black jeans, and a fitted shirt unbuttoned just one button too far … at least, one button too far for New York. Apparently, it was fine for L.A. Sleeves rolled up, a gold Rolex Daytona. “So where is it we’re going?”

  “Just a party, darling. I’m required to go—producers, investors, some directors. Maybe you’ll meet your dream man,” he teased. “Maybe you’ll get your big break.” He leaned in close when he said it, whispering in my ear and pressing his chest against my arm.

  I looked at him, trying to decide whether he was being condescending. My sleaze monitor was going off. This guy was coming out of the gate at 150 miles per hour. He began rubbing my shoulders and grinning at me. I was conscious of my uncomfortable thong riding up, but resisted the urge to yank it back into place. Can someone please tell me why we spend our entire childhoods trying to dig our underwear out of our asses, and our entire adulthood trying to put it back in there? “You mean you’re not my dream man?”

  “I could be for tonight.”

  He grinned even wider. “You’re much juicier than the girl I was going to be seeing tonight,” he said. It broke my heart a little that he wasn’t even trying to fool me into thinking he was my dream man. He wasn’t even pretending not to be a player. I wished he wouldn’t be so transparent about it, so I could have my illusions for a while.