by Ruth Kaufman
I’m a bit leery of even small crowds, though. What if Frank is following me? I haven’t received more emails or run into him, but who knows how stalkers bide their time? I won’t let him change my plans.
Christi lives in a one-bedroom loft condo in the mushrooming South Loop. I’m sure it’s spacious enough for Christi and her fluffy cat Jelly Bean, but now the room is wall-to-wall dancing, drink-spilling thirty-somethings. I think I’m the only one over forty.
I wear a cute camisole, but of course Christi’s trendy ensemble outshines everyone else. She’s wearing jeans I know cost well over two hundred dollars (thanks to Sandie, who tried to get me into a pair by the same designer), high-heeled sandals and a tank with a dangly necklace.
Being with everyone from WZRJ again brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away.
Catherine and I sit on Christi’s bar stools. We concentrate on the selection of chips and dips. She doesn’t want to dance. I would, but no one has approached and I’m not in the mood to pursue. Inches away, dancers bounce to the floor-throbbing beat. My ears hurt already.
“What?” I mouth as I stick another chip into the spinach dip.
Her chip makes its way into the guacamole. “I said, ‘No wonder I don’t like parties. Why is the music so loud?’”
“So nobody has to think of anything clever or interesting to say,” I yell.
A cute young guy with blond gel-spiked hair comes over as I cram the chip in my mouth. Wanna dance?”
I quickly chew and swallow. “Sure.”
As we groove to the music, I check him out. Good build and interesting grey eyes. His black V-neck sweater clings to his flat stomach. If the hole on the thigh of his jeans were an inch or two to the left, we’d see more than skin. And he has hair, unlike more and more men my age.
“I’m DT,” he yells. His hips swivel nicely. “Stands for Daniel Tarnow.”
“My name is Marla.” I pause before giving my last name, thinking of Frank. But this guy is a friend of Christi’s. “Marla Goldberg.”
The music ends and for a moment blissful silence reigns.
“Wanna step outside?”
We go out on her narrow balcony, where the Willis Tower looms before us in the moonlight. The night is surprisingly warm for March.
“Nice view,” he says. “Where do you live?”
“In Lincoln Park. You?”
“West Loop.”
DT is no substitute for Scott, but he is the cutest guy I’ve met since. Heat from our dancing radiates between us. Maybe it’s another kind of heat. Or am I forcing attraction to help myself get over the man I really want but can’t have?
VIH wants to know how old DT is. I don’t care. I’m going for it. I need a guy who, even in the short run, wants me for me. I’m no longer a way station for visiting directors.
“Would you mind getting me a beer?” I ask. “All that dancing has made me thirsty.”
“Ok. What kind?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
For the next hour, DT and I drink and talk in Christi’s tiny foyer. Sitting side by side on her hardwood floor, I learn that he:
1) has two older brothers
2) plays in a band but works at Chipotle to pay the bills
3) doesn’t have a girlfriend and isn’t gay.
He offers me a ride home.
Catherine looks stunned when I leave with DT, who’s not only much younger but not my type. She gives the thumbs-up anyway.
“I live closer than you,” he says when we’re in his beat-up stick shift. “Wanna come up for a drink?”
I try not to wrinkle my nose at the messy, smelly interior of his dilapidated car. “Ok.”
Better than him seeing my upscale condo. If his car is this bad, I can only imagine what his apartment is like.
It turns out to be messier than his car. Sheet music and clothes (can’t tell how dirty) are scattered everywhere. Stacks of music magazines are lined up near the walls. In the corner is a pile of empty Hellmann’s bottles. What do you suppose he does with those? Is he a hoarder? Maybe he could get on that reality show.
“Sorry about the mess,” he mumbles as he kicks a path clear to his couch. Which is draped with enough clothes to fill a closet.
I don’t want to see the inside of his refrigerator. Or his bed.
“You know, it’s getting late.” I stay standing when he sits on the clothes. “I think I should go. I’ll get a cab.”
DT stands and kisses me.
Well. He is a good, strong kisser, and tastes good. I forget the mess and kiss him back. We stumble toward the bedroom, which is surprisingly tidy. As he makes his way down my neck I notice that the bed is made and the sheets could be clean.
He unhooks my bra efficiently and fondles my breasts under my shirt.
“Nice,” he says with a nod.
He’s moving fast, but for once I throw caution to the wind. I want to be desired.
We sit on his bed. I tug off my top. Then I look down at his head. Blond. Not Scott.
Not interested.
“I’m sorry, DT,” I say. “I can’t do this right now.”
“What is this, high school?”
“I just met you a few hours ago. I’m going home.” I put my top back on.
“Don’t be a cock tease, Marla. Guess who I’ve got here, waiting for you.” He squeezes between his legs, then unzips his fly and allows his erection to spring free. “Peter the Great.”
I know I’m blushing. I’ve never considered myself a prude, but then I’m not a veteran of lusty one-night stands or penis nicknaming, either.
“I’m sure we’d all have a great time,” I say. “But we’re moving too fast for me.”
I don’t know what else to say. I leave DT there on his bed, Peter the Great pointing at the ceiling.
Chapter 16
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“You’ve got to stop. You’re driving me crazy,” Andrea says when I pick up the phone.
“What am I doing that’s so awful?”
Aren’t I a good friend? I haven’t interrupted her in days, I’ve been far less whiny since I left WZRJ….
“Mooning. Over a man you can’t have and shouldn’t want in the first place. Do not send me another email about what Scott is supposedly doing and with whom. Stop stalking him!
“I know now what stalking is. This is all publicly available information.”
“And how much time do you spend searching and browsing him?” I don’t answer. “I rest my case. How long has it been since he laid over at your place, for all of fifteen minutes? You’ve got to get on with your life.”
“I have. I’m writing my book, working with Sandie and my new agent on getting another movie and—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Scott went out of his way to see me. All the way from O’Hare.”
“Please.” I hear Andrea’s skeptical sniff. “Has he contacted you since?”
“Well, no. But I haven’t contacted—”
“Stop. Don’t make excuses for him. If he wants you, he knows how to find you.”
“I’ll see him at the premiere this week. I’ll talk to him then.”
“I’m sorry, Marla. But Scott is too famous, too hot for ordinary folk like us. He belongs with a woman on his level.”
What an offensive remark. “That kind of mentality controlled England centuries ago, not America. Remember our founding fathers and ‘all men are created equal?’ No one to lord it over us.”
“Ye
ah, right. We may be born equal, but who we’re raised to be and end up being changes everything. You know a ten doesn’t go with a six or seven. What did you do when you first met Scott?”
“Gaped and drooled. Ok, I see your point. But I’m not some slavering GSG, autograph hound or an extra. I’m a colleague. And more than a friend.”
“You’re letting lust blind you.” Andrea won’t give up her soapbox. “Maybe some hero worship, too.”
“Gee, what a supportive friend you are. Shouldn’t you be helping me attract, not repel?”
“I’m just doing what I think is best for you in the long run. I’d have said something sooner, but I thought this thing with Scott would play itself out.”
“I’m working hard to feel good enough. You’re making me feel awful.”
“Because you tend to hear things the most negative way possible, rather than what’s really said. To be more specific, you’re too good for him. You need someone you can rely on, someone you can trust. A normal guy.”
“Like Adam? Look where trusting him got me.”
“Not like a celebrity who jet sets all over the world and has his every move scrutinized in the press. You take all that stuff way too seriously.”
True. But I won’t give Andrea the satisfaction of knowing she’s right. “I can stop anytime I want to.” Hmm. Isn’t that what addicts say?
“And remember, famous couples never last.”
We hang up, her words ringing in my head, like Gerald O’Hara’s words about land mattering echoed in Scarlett’s in Gone with the Wind. I head straight for my as-yet-unread stack of this week’s tabloids. What fascinating factoids lie within? And what am I missing online that’s more current?
I don’t care. I don’t. I don’t need to know what’s being said about me, Scott, or what the rest of the world thinks about what is being said. I will quit. Cold turkey. Right now.
The pile is heavy in my arms. I smell earthy ink as the pages slide down my fingers and disappear into the blue recycling bin. Farewell, O tabloids.
I carry the bin to the door. Then rescue the top three magazines. I’ll just read these, to catch up. Sandie went to the trouble to send them, after all.
Then I’ll stop.
How do you be happy?
Grandpa on my mom’s side was the happiest person I’ve ever met. Maybe because he didn’t need much. He wasn’t a wanter, like I am. Never, ever did I hear him complain. The only time I remember seeing him frown was while considering his next move in a particularly tricky game of canasta. Give him a grill to cook his absolutely delicious pork chops on and a good card game, and his day was made.
He made his living installing carpet and had a small carpet store. Some of his customers paid him in food instead of money, but that didn’t bother Grandpa. He didn’t care what others thought or need acclaim. Somehow he knew he was worthy. Better than good enough just the way he was.
I’ve never been so successful on the outside. There I am, smiling on the cover of Stariety. I pick up the magazine for the zillionth time, carefully, so I don’t wrinkle or fingerprint the pages (though I have twenty more copies Sandie messengered over). Still surreal.
That deep blue vintage bathing suit flatters me, thanks to those hours spent on makeup, wardrobe and possibly some abdominal airbrushing. I look happy and confident.
Finally, finally, I’m starting to feel that way. Most of the time.
Inside is a full-page picture of me wearing a low-cut gown (my first experience using double-sided tape as a bra, ouch), with a sexier pout than I’d thought I was capable of producing. I was, of course, thinking of Scott. And what he’d think when he saw the magazine.
The article praises me as “a breath of fresh air who should have been discovered long ago,” and describes me as “better than beautiful because she is real.”
My life, thanks to being at the right place at the right time and Scott’s faith in me, is busy, exciting and full, with more opportunities on the horizon. For now at least, unlike most actors, I don’t have to worry about where the money’s coming from. Except for a boyfriend, I have all I dreamed of, and more.
So why do I feel emptier than ever?
DT calls. He got my number from Christi, who had called on his behalf to apologize for the Peter the Great incident and suggested I give him another chance because he said he really liked me and that not everyone appreciated his outrageous sense of humor.
Reluctantly, I agree to grab a drink. How often do I find someone who really likes me? And it’s not as if any dateable men are on the horizon.
We meet at a bar with white curved walls and changing colored lights as illumination. It’s packed, and even louder than Christi’s party. Luckily, we find seats on a white leather couch lining one side of the long room.
“Saw you on the cover of Stariety,” he screams in my ear. “Cool.”
“What did you think of the article?”
“I didn’t read it, just saw it in a 7-Eleven.” DT downs two beers before I’m halfway through my first. He waves to the waitress. “You’re buying, right?”
Does he want to be my boy toy, hoping I’ll support him so he can quit Chipotle and concentrate on his music?
Before I frame an appropriate response, a brunette in tight jeans and a barely-there halter asks, “Hey, aren’t you Marla Goldberg? Can I have a selfie?” She pulls her phone from her jeans pocket.
I’m getting recognized in public. This is fun. I pose and smile.
A couple more hipsters ask for autographs and say how cool it is to meet me.
Music pulses around us and through us. Women in crop tops display flat abs, others in super short rompers or skirts display too much leg. They laugh and toss their ombré, blue or green hair. Liquor flows. Everyone seems to be having a great time but me. My growing fame may bring recognition, but that’s not the same as fitting in. Feeling comfortable. No matter how I try, I don’t belong here.
Maybe the key isn’t trying to fit in places others define as cool, but rather finding my own way. Being more like Grandpa. Inner peace just seemed easy and natural to him.
“You should’ve introduced me,” DT says into my ear. “People are going to recognize me, too, someday. Lots and lots of people.”
I think of Scott when we were at dinner. “Being a celebrity isn’t always as much fun as you’d think,” I warn. “You’re on display twenty-four/seven. Fans think they deserve your attention whether you’re in the mood to give it or not.”
“Yeah, whatever. At least I’d get into all the best bars and clubs. VIP sections. Free bottle service,” he says. “Hey, let’s get some beer and go back to my place. We need to pick up where we left off.” DT puts his hand flat against my back and, in time to the hammering music, presses me against him. “Peter was so disappointed when you left. He’s ready to come out and play.”
I’m as doused as if he’d tossed vodka in my face.
1) I can’t get aroused in the company of a guy who continually refers to his sex organ as a separate person. Threesomes aren’t my thing. And no way am I getting in a car with a guy who’s had so much to drink in such a short time.
2) His outrageous sense of humor isn’t funny to me.
3) I want to go home. I shouldn’t have gone out with DT in the first place, but at the time it felt nice to be asked.
He says, “I thought we understood each other, Marla. That we both wanted the same thing.”
“And what would that be?”
“Companionship.”
“By companionship, you mean sex.”
“Hell, yeah. And lots of it.”
I’d thought that was what I wanted, too. That’s why I hooked up with DT in the first place: to enjoy a physical connection, satisfy some needs, share a few good times. Nothing else. Because if I didn’t care about him, I’d never have to be jealous or fear betrayal. I could never be dumped or cheated on. Or replaced.
Suddenly, amidst the bopping, strikingly white-toothed youngsters, that plan s
eems superficial. Finding and sharing real intimacy, a true connection, has to be worth the risks.
“I need more than that,” I say.
I deserve more. As with ice cream, I’m an all or nothing woman. I toss him a twenty to cover my drink and tip.
“I want to be your boy toy!” he calls as I walk away.
Chapter 17
greatscottgroupies.com/sightings
ILMM Premiere-OMG! The most exciting night ever. Huge crowd on the red carpet to glimpse the stars. I staked out a primo spot FIVE hours early. Scott looked awesome, his hair’s extra long, the way we like it. I screamed but he didn’t hear me.
Tatiana was on one arm and that Marla on the other. T wore this sparkly white gown with lots of diamonds. M wore blue, but she’s so short she looked like a blueberry. I’ll bet only the top of M’s head will be in the pics!
Here’s the BEST part. As Scott’s Official Fan Club President, they saved me a seat in the VIP section! He sat a few rows up, between T & M. He didn’t smile and looked stiff and cranky, the way my mom gets before she eats prunes.
ILMM gets three stars. I wanted to give four stars, but T was too whiny. Trent was good, and I gotta say M made me cry. I forgot tissues and my mascara ran. Scott left right after. Guess who with? The blueberry!! I never did get my photo opp. Next time.
For the premiere, Sandie sent over a selection of designer gowns so amazing even Linda was impressed. She helped me choose a silver and blue Marchesa. A stretch limo picked me up, and I think my smile masked my nerves while walking down the red carpet, blinded by flashes just like you see on TV.
Then poof, like Cinderella, I’m with my prince again.
I am, of course, more than happy to see him and share this experience. I’ll never forget taking pictures with him and the other stars.
Even Tatiana’s nasal presence and not-so-subtle digs about how she should’ve been in Stariety can’t detract from my joy. Only one thing does: Scott himself. His eyes couldn’t be icier if they were the Night King’s on Game of Thrones. He’s a step up from morose and hardly talks to anyone. Maybe it’s concern about how the movie will be received. I thought by now he’d have learned to put on his public persona even when life intrusions bothered his private one. I’ve already learned that lesson, even if I’m very nervous inside.