by Ruth Kaufman
The waiter delivers a second round, though we didn’t order one. “Compliments of that woman over there.”
All three of us follow the waiter’s pointing finger. The woman a few tables away is about ten years older than me, has streaked blond hair and wears a jean jacket open to reveal a low-cut, sparkly camisole. She’s giving Scott one of those confident, come hither gazes I could never pull off.
My vodka-filled stomach roils anew. How does any woman maintain the interest of any fabulous-looking, well-built, confident man, when everywhere he goes new temptations lurk? How does she keep feeling good about herself when better looking, more fit women abound?
“Do you know her?”
“No.” Scott lifts his fresh drink and salutes her. “This sort of thing happens all the time. Aren’t men buying you drinks, asking you out?”
“No. Not yet.” Unless I count DT, which I won’t. I’m glad Scott thinks men should hit on me.
“I want to hear what weighs you down,” he continues. “But that woman is still watching us. Let’s continue in more private surroundings. I’ll get a room.”
“Yes.” My thoughts exactly. I’m shivery again, but for far different reasons.
He pays our bill in cash and goes to the lobby to register. I wait by the elevator, knowing media mania could ensue if anyone sees us check in together. The lobby is nearly empty, but spies and stringers skulk everywhere. Our waiter and even that drink-buying woman saw us leave the restaurant. Who knows who they know, who they’ll tell or where they’ll post?
“I’ll go up first. Shake my hand. Leave the hotel. Come back in a few minutes.”
Scott sure is good at giving orders. And planning an intimate rendezvous. Hmm.
We shake hands, he gets in the elevator. In my hand is now a plastic key card. My heart thumps as I leave the hotel and make my way around the block.
Heartthrob Scott Sampson is waiting for me, Marvelous Marla, working actress, soon to be multi-published author if I can finish the books in time, forty-three-year-old femme fatale (I chose not to remark upon the passing of another year in January). I should be overjoyed that I’ve succeeded in getting him not only to speak to me again but wanting to be alone with me.
There are two ways to view our situation.
1) How very exciting it is to outwit the media. Other famous couples have to play this game all the time. Dodging reporters so we can be together is worth any effort.
2) Why should we care what the media or tweeters or anyone says about us? If we want to be together, that’s all that matters.
But we do care, because media analysis of our actions can impact our careers and worse, our opinions of ourselves.
Every pore wants Scott beside me. I yearn to feel his hands on me and touch him again. Once with him was not enough. I yearn to share the intense intimacy of our bodies becoming one. I want him so much nothing else matters.
Let the media say what they will. We know the truth.
I’m walking up Dearborn. My steps falter. Suddenly this reminds me all too much of a when-I-happen-to-be-in-town-let’s-hook-up liaison I had over several years in college with a much older musician. Sometimes he’d happen to be in my town, sometimes I’d be in his. We’d go out and have a great time, and leave with no intent to communicate. A booty call, in today’s lingo.
Talk about no strings. I would’ve liked to at least stay in touch. Here I am again, years later, doing pretty much the same thing. Should I have grown beyond that by now? Don’t I deserve more than unpredictable, albeit enjoyable, flings?
On the other hand, what’s the difference? No one is waiting in line to climb in bed with me. I need some closeness, some snuggling, which the man I desire seems willing to provide. There’s nothing wrong with taking advantage of that. He’s no random fling, like DT would’ve been. If he hadn’t been a creep.
After completing my circle of the block, I slip into the elevator, key in hand. Then it hits me. Scott didn’t tell me the room number or the name he registered under. I text him as the elevator makes its way to other people’s floors, but receive no reply.
What am I supposed to do, go floor to floor and knock on every door? My heart sinks faster than the elevator. By the time it returns the lobby, I’m at a loss. Did he change his mind? Surely he’d at least let me know if he had.
I sit morosely in a chair. He’s not going to contact me. How long do I wait? No longer. I walk out of the hotel, crushed.
Then my phone dings. It’s him. Sending me the room number. Whew.
He’s holding the plastic laundry bag filled with ice to his jaw as he lets me in. “Sod it. So sorry I didn’t text sooner. Come in, come in.”
My frustration fades at his obvious consternation.
“When you didn’t show up, I feared you’d changed your mind…then I realized you didn’t know where to go. I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing.”
That’s good to know, despite all the articles I read about him and his affairs. Then again, I now know you definitely can’t believe everything you read. “No, I didn’t know.”
“This better be good,” Scott says as he sits on the end of the lush, pillow-laden bed.
I sit next to him. “What?”
“Whatever burdens you that others think shouldn’t. I’ve been waiting exactly twenty-two minutes for this answer, so it had better be good.”
“Oh.” Maybe we just came here to talk, not be intimate. Is it sad that I’m so grateful for any time with Scott, no matter where we are or what we’re doing? “I guess I care too much what others think. But at the same time, I can’t be like you and just not find out. I need to know what they’re saying.”
He reaches for a pillow, then lies back with it under his head. I wish he’d reach for me. “No. Not good enough.”
What? My heart stops. How has he guessed my fundamental, most secret fear I’ve been struggling to get over for years?
“I already know that about you,” he adds. “Is there another?”
Suddenly I want him to know more of the real me, not only the Marvelous Marla I’ve presented to him and the world. Confessing truths is easier when he’s not looking right at me.
“Yes, there is,” I confess. “And you just said it.”
“What did I say? ‘Is there another?’”
“Before that.” My voice is barely a whisper. “That I’m not good enough.”
He sits back up. “Marla? Not good enough at what?”
I can’t look at him. “Pretty much everything. Though I think it less since I quit my job. Acting, writing. Fitting in with my family. Knowing the right thing to say and do around you, or any man I’m interested in.”
“I see. You had a suggestion for me. I have one for you. Just trust your gut. Rarely will it lead you astray. That’s what helped get me where I am today.”
“How?”
“Simply listen. Stop overthinking and considering every little thing that could go wrong. Stop ruminating.” He takes my hands. “Close your eyes. Listen carefully. Take your time. What do you hear right now?”
“The hum of the refrigerator.” My heart beating faster because he’s touching me.
“Marla. Be serious. Listen harder. I can see the tension in your shoulders. Relax.” He starts rubbing said shoulders, reminding me of how the massage I gave him in his trailer ended up. “Well?”
“When you’re touching me, all I hear is, ‘Don’t stop,’” I whisper.
“Better. And surprisingly arousing,” he adds, with a quick kiss to the side of my neck. “But what else? Part of truly trusting your instincts is going deeper than instant gratification.”
My eyes fly open. I’m a mass of a zillion tingles slithering up and down my spine. “I understand what you want me to do. But when you’re this close, all I can think about is you.”
“Ah. Let’s go with that then. What is your first instinct when you think of me?”
“To throw myself at you and kiss you. But what if you don’t want—”
“No buts or what ifs or doubts. Those inhibit true desires and hold us back from moving toward goals and dreams.” He turns me to face him. “If you do what your gut tells you, only two things can happen. You obtain what you want or you don’t. In this case, what are the only two things that can happen when you’re in my arms?” His voice alone is enough to arouse me.
“You’ll kiss me back.” And I’ll feel great and happy, even if just for that singular moment. “Or you won’t.” And I’ll be rejected, miserable and unsatisfied for much longer.
“Close your eyes again, Marla. Will you let the risk of not getting what you want keep you from acting upon a desire? You must decide without considering any pro or con evidence. For example, you can’t look in my eyes to read my thoughts, which you’re amazingly good at. Nor can you look down or touch me to see if I’m already interested. Nor imagine any of the many ways I might refuse you. Do you see how simple this is?”
“Not for me. I want to do all of those things you say I can’t before making a decision.”
“Just act, Marla. Just be in the moment. Be with me.”
I throw myself into his arms. He feels better than ever. I kiss him.
Scott wraps his arms around me and kisses me back, hard. Deep. As if he couldn’t have waited a second longer to taste me. His tongue meets mine. He groans.
“Your jaw….” I begin.
“No worries. Just kissing.”
“What does your gut say?” I whisper against his lips.
He falls back onto the bed and I follow until I’m on top of him. His erection settles exactly where it should. I pulse into him, earning another groan.
“Make love to Marla, now. What does yours say to that?”
“That’s easy. ‘Oh, yes.’”
Our lovemaking was urgent and explosive, as if we both needed to find release, for ourselves and in each other. As the starbursts settle, I relax in his arms. Then we sleep for a bit.
My gut now says to make love with Scott again, slower. But it also says something else, loud and clear.
“Scott.” I sit up, covers to my chest. What I’d intended to say disappears. “Your jaw, it’s black and blue.”
He sits, too. “Look at your arm.”
My right arm has black and blue imprints of Frank’s fingers.
“Good Lord, Marla.” He gently takes my wrist and studies my bruises. “I had no idea he was so rough with you.”
“He wasn’t that rough. I bruise easily. They don’t hurt. But I can’t wait until they fade. I don’t want his mark on me.” I shudder, and Scott holds me and strokes my hair. Which makes me recall my original topic. “Scott. Since we’ve been so honest with each other today, I need to say one more thing. When I said I wanted you, I meant this.” I indicate us in the bed. “I loved making love with you and waking up with you is as wonderful as I imagined. But I meant more, too. A random affair of convenience, friends with benefits, whatever it’s called, may be fine for some. But for me, with you, it isn’t enough.” It feels almost tawdry. “Where you’re concerned, I’m greedy. I want more.”
Scott pulls away toward his side of the bed and sits up. “I cannot give you more. I’ve told you, all my energy must go to my work. It’s what I live for. What I need.”
“I’m not asking you to live for me. I’m asking if you can be with me, make room for and need me, too.”
He takes me in his arms and looks into my eyes, which threaten tears. One hand twines in my hair, the other pushes wisps back from my face. I force my eyes open. I will not cry over this. Over him.
“I don’t want a relationship.”
“Are you saying this is goodbye?” I make myself ask.
“No. Not at all. I very much want to be with you, when I can. I find I do need you.” He seems surprised, then kisses me. “I haven’t said that to a woman, ever.”
VIH doesn’t believe him for a second. My gut isn’t sure, but thinks he sounds sincere. Between my head and my gut, would the real Marla please stand up?
“I know it’s completely selfish, to ask you to work around my schedule. I want more than a night when we happen to be in the same city. More than happy circumstance. This is the closest thing to a commitment I can offer. Can you make that be enough?”
Chapter 22
GOSSIPMONGER.COM
INSTANT GOSSIP Scott truly is great! He takes a hit for love!
This afternoon, alleged stalker Dr. Frank McCall assaulted Worth It and ILMM’s Marla Goldberg in the midst of Chicago’s bustling State Street shopping district. Out of nowhere appeared Scott Sampson, who rescued his damsel in distress.
“Sock it to me,” Great Scott told Marla’s stalker!
And Dr. Frank did! He punched him on the jaw, sending GS tumbling to the sidewalk, then ran and vanished. Amidst a star struck crowd, GS and MG gazed at each other and whispered as if they were alone. They escaped to the privacy of a hotel across the street.
What do you think they did there? Had a drink in the restaurant.
Their waiter reports, “Scott and Marla were having an intense conversation.”
Neither was seen again for hours.
The Twittersphere is quite agog.
STARIETY MAGAZINE
The Scorla Report: Scott saves the day!
by BB Beans
One would think apparently resurrected Scorla would want their rough and tumble adventures to remain behind closed doors. But no. Just yesterday on one of Chicago’s shopping thoroughfares, a crowd stood by in shock as a man grabbed Marla Goldberg’s arm, then punched Great Scott Sampson in the jaw. Scott fell to the ground, but quickly rallied and tried to chase the assailant. The man, later identified as Dr. Frank McCall, is a dermatologist who reportedly has been cyberstalking Marla with threatening emails. Marla and Scott quickly disappeared into a hotel across the street. To do what?
After a long pause, I say, “I don’t know, Scott. I’m torn. I’m thrilled that you need me, because I need you, too. Part of me wishes I could just say yes. But I also need to think about whether seeing you, basically at your convenience, is enough. Just as you’re distracted when I’m around, I’m distracted when you’re not. I know movie schedules fluctuate, but could we at least set a date for the next time we might see each other? Get something on the calendar?”
I might be okay if I had our next interlude to look forward to.
“Too disconcerting. I’d want to rush through my work to get to you.”
Does he turn his every compliment around to protect himself or me? “Honestly, I’m not sure I can handle wondering when you’re going to call or show up. Not knowing if you will.” Waiting around, hoping, then as each day passed in silence, being crushed anew.
After a long pause, where he presses his lips together as if trying to come up with more persuasion, he says, “I understand. But I’m sorry you feel that way. Let me know if you change your mind.” He gives me a quick kiss, then gets up and starts dressing.
My throat burns. What am I doing, turning down the man I want, the man I love?
Whoa. What?
Yes, it’s true. “Unfortunately,” as Scott would say.
I’ve gone way beyond a crush. Beyond desire. I have fallen in love with this man who cannot give me what I want. How ironic to realize the extent of my feelings now, when he’s about to leave me. When he’s asked me to make an incredibly difficult decision where I’d wait upon his beck and call without any compromise on his part.
He can’t care about me in any way that counts if he’d let me go.
Or should I settle, give in to his wishes…because being with him on occasion is better than not at all? How would I endure reports and videos of him with other women, knowing he’d chosen to spend time with them and not me? How would I know what was true and what wasn’t without questioning him about every sighting like a harpy?
Nothing has hurt more than this, ever. Not even when Ex said he wanted a divorce. I never thought I could feel more agony than at that moment.
But I do now. Everything aches. I can barely stand, barely summon strength to breathe. Yet I make myself dress, wish him a safe trip and walk out the door.
Why? I deserve more than the pittance he’s offering.
I am Marvelous Marla.
Back at home, still seething with misery, frustration, and indecision, I hesitate before bringing the ringing phone to my ear. Restricted number. Maybe it’s Scott, calling to resolve our situation. To say he’s willing to plan ahead. But what if it’s Frank?
Will I wonder and look behind me for the rest of my days?
“I’m soooo sorry,” Christi wails after I answer. “I had no idea this might happen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
Obviously not. “Know what?” Or better, what now?
“It’s DT. He has this blog, and, well, you’re in it. Pictures, too.”
Uh-oh. “I see. Thanks for letting me know. What’s the address?”
After she gives me the info and we hang up, I go to my computer and type it in.
When smiling pictures appear of us at Christi’s party, I heave a sigh of relief. Not bad at all. But his verbiage makes me sad and exposed. I’ve been used. Did he like me even a little?
Then I see: For private fun—click here!
With trepidation, I click. And gasp so deeply I almost choke.
Oh. My.
How, how did he get pictures of me in his bed? How was I supposed to know to search for a hidden camera in his apartment?
One shot shows me lying on his bed fully clothed. I remember that, when DT was in his bathroom. Next, my shirt is off, but fortunately his back blocks most of my chest. I shudder at the third picture: me, more uncertain than sensual, in my bra.
Thank God my shirt wasn’t off for very long. Thank God we didn’t do the deed.
I speed dial Sandie. “Sandie. Some guy I met put half-naked pictures of me on the web. And he recorded my voice.”
“I’m not all that surprised. Did you agree to let him take the pictures?”