Laura nodded. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea for us to keep communication open. The more we know, the better off we’ll be.”
“I think we can do much more for each other than that. I think we can help each other.”
“How?”
He cast her an odd look. “By sharing our pain.”
Laura was struck by how much further along in the separation process she was than he. Her roller-coaster car was miles ahead of Gil’s. She even had her first date behind her.
* * * *
“We’ll definitely have to do this again soon,” Gil said earnestly, standing outside the Starlight Diner with his hands stuck deep in his pockets.
“Okay,” Laura agreed. “And if you need to talk, feel free to call me anytime. I think you were right, Gil. This is something we’re both going through, and I believe we really can help each other—”
She stopped, having realized that Gil wasn’t listening. He was looking over her shoulder at something behind her, so fascinating that even gossiping about their spouses couldn’t compete.
Automatically Laura turned. “Claire!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“Meeting some clients for lunch.” Her words were directed at Laura, but her eyes were fixed on Gil. She strode toward them, a startling Day-Glo vision. Against a dreary backdrop of mounds of gray snow, shoved to the side of the parking lot by a snowplow, her choice of blinding colors seemed even more dramatic than usual. With a hot-pink car coat she wore turquoise stretch pants, her long legs sticking out beneath the hem of her jacket like a Barbie doll’s. Her white crew cut gleamed in the wintery sunlight.
“Hello,” she said, her voice suddenly so deep and throaty she sounded as if she were doing a bad Kathleen Turner imitation.
Gil responded immediately. “Hello. Are you a friend of Laura’s?”
“Oh, yes. Laura and I go back to our college days. And you?” As she spoke Claire ran her fingers through her spiky hair.
“We’re just starting to become friends,” Gil replied.
“Then Laura is a very lucky woman,” Claire purred.
Out of the corner of her eye, Laura noticed a pair of men in business suits heading into the diner. The one with more pens in his breast pocket glanced at his watch.
“I hate to break this up,” she said, “but I think your lunch dates have arrived, Claire.”
Claire just batted her eyelashes at Gil.
“Well, I guess I’d better be going,” he said. He took a couple of steps backward, moving with reluctance. “I hope we meet again.”
“Claire Nielsen,” Laura hissed, grabbing Claire’s arm and dragging her toward the diner, “do you have any idea who that man is?”
She watched him walk away across the parking lot. “Superman? Mr. Right? Romeo?”
“Wrong. Try Gil Plympton. As in Melanie Plympton? The new love of Roger’s life?”
“Does he live around here?” Claire asked dreamily.
“You’re missing the point.” Laura was quickly losing patience. “You’re not really interested in him, are you?”
After considering the question carefully, Claire nodded. “I think I could be.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. This is too incestuous for my blood. Besides, I thought you weren’t looking for Mr. Right.”
Claire wore a faraway look. “I thought so, too.”
“Listen, why don’t you just go to a singles bar like everybody else?”
Claire turned, her hands on her hips as she peered down from her four-inch heels at Laura. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the one who encouraged—encouraged—your friend and mine, Julie Cavanaugh, to date my ex-husband? Not only to date him, but also to learn to live with his exhibitionistic nose-hair cutting, his Salvation Army jacket, his obnoxious friends, his even more obnoxious relatives—”
“This is different. Believe me, Claire, this man is not for you.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, he’s still in love with his ex-wife. He’s wearing his wedding ring, for heaven’s sake.”
“Maybe I could get him to take it off.”
“The man is in pain. He’s ... he’s vulnerable, he’s searching, he’s lonely, he’s overcome with desperation. . . .”
Claire’s eyes followed Gil, who was driving past them, out of the parking lot. He leaned out the window to give them both a big wave. “Great. In that case, he’s bound to say yes when I ask him to dinner.”
* * * *
“Television?” squawked Laura, her voice rising a few octaves. She squeezed the telephone receiver more tightly, aware that her palms had instantly become sweaty. “Me?”
“It’s a local station, right on Long Island.” Alice was the publicist at Laura’s publisher, assigned to promote Gertrude Giraffe and Lenny Leopard and the woman who’d created them. She sounded amazingly matter-of-fact. “Are you available for a taping next Thursday morning?”
Laura paused to catch her breath. Television. Instantly she began constructing fantasies of a career in broadcast media. Through her mind raced delicious images of herself as the new Joan Lunden: picked up at dawn by a limo; dropped at the station, where fawning hairdressers, makeup artists, and fashion experts transformed her into a media icon; giggling with Loni Anderson and other celebrities as they shared their innermost secrets, their childhood dreams, their favorite chili recipes....
“It’s the Shop-at-Home Network,” Alice went on. ‘Twenty-four hours a day, they hawk polyester pantsuits and exercise machines and fake jewelry.”
Laura’s vision faded. “How do I fit into this high-tech version of a door-to-door salesman?”
“According to cable-TV regulations, in order to qualify for some financially beneficial status, the station has to offer five minutes of public-service programming for every hour it’s on the air.”
“How does promoting my books fit in? I suppose I could claim that Johnny Jaguar has polyester fur and that Carol Cobra is covered in faux snakeskin.”
“Actually, you’re not supposed to promote your books. They just want you to talk about your career as a writer. You know, how you first got into it, how other people can get started . . . Think educational.”
Driving to the station later in the week, Laura wasn’t quite sure why she was bothering to go through with it. This, her very first television appearance, had already eaten up a good part of her day. She’d spent the entire morning showering and fussing with her hair, makeup, and accessories. What was worse was that short of the night before the SATs, she couldn’t remember having ever been as nervous about anything.
She was greatly comforted by the fact that the studio turned out to be in a storefront in a strip mall. She was a long way away from vying for Barbara Walters’s job. In fact, she realized, the best part about her television debut might turn out to be the fact that she could combine stardom with the opportunity to stock up on deodorant and dental floss at the CVS drugstore a few doors down.
Pushing through glass doors, Laura found herself in a carpeted anteroom. There were no pictures on the walls, no furniture—only a buzzer. Ringing it, she wondered if an agent of the Great Oz was going to poke his head through the door.
Instead, a man in a well-cut, expensive-looking suit answered. “Laura Briggs? I’m Kirk Brentwood. I’ll be interviewing you on the air today.”
At least they got my name right this time, thought Laura. She extended her hand and received one of the heartiest, firmest handshakes of her life.
An outstanding grip was hardly the only thing noteworthy about Kirk Brentwood, she thought, finding herself in an intense eye-lock that was at least as formidable. Eyes the color of robin’s eggs—or perhaps dyed Easter eggs—were fixed upon hers with such an unwavering gaze that she didn’t dare look away.
Kirk Brentwood was knock-’em-dead handsome. With his square jaw, perfectly straight nose, and even, white teeth that resembled the keys on a piano, he looked like a comic-book hero come to life. Even his hair fit that image. It was
yellow. Not blond; yellow.
Not surprisingly, his voice was as hearty and firm as his handshake.
“I certainly am pleased to meet you!” he exclaimed. “Twelve books, huh? Color me impressed!”
He sounded so much like a game-show host that Laura expected lights to flash on, accompanied by a shrill ding-ding-ding! Instead, Kirk led her through a maze of corridors, toward a lounge.
“Our green room,” he informed her with a Vanna White wave. “Notice anything interesting about it? There’s nothing green in it!”
He guffawed loudly. Laura managed a wan smile.
“Goodness,” she commented, glancing around, “everything here looks brand-new.”
“It is brand-new. The station’s only a few months old. I’m new, too. At least, I’m new to the area. I moved out here to Long Island when the station opened. Before that, I was doing a television show in Manhattan—”
“Really?” Color me impressed. “What show?”
“It’s, uh, one you’re probably not familiar with. It was never broadcast out here—
“What was it called? I have a lot of friends in the city who might have watched it.”
“Well, it’s not on anymore. I’m sure no one you know—”
“Try me.”
Kirk lowered his eyes. “The Pet Channel.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was an experimental thing,” he explained quickly. ‘Twenty-four-hour programming on the subject of, uh, pets. I was kind of the anchor for the station.”
“The Pet Channel?”
“How to decide what breed of dog’s right for you, how to train a new puppy, advice on dealing with the hair-ball problem ...” He was muttering. Gone was the confident show-biz personality.
“But that was then and this is now,” he insisted, sliding right back into his television-celebrity persona. Flashing those two rows of sparkling white teeth that were a toothpaste-commercial director’s dream, he added, “I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.”
Right, thought Laura. Like selling faux diamond earrings to Princess Grace wanna-bes.
“Let me ask you something.” Kirk leaned forward, his baby blues burning into hers with such intensity that she looked away, afraid of being blinded for life. “I really miss the city. Tell me, how do people stand it out here?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, how can anyone with half a brain tolerate living in the suburbs?”
“I like living in the suburbs,” Laura replied. “Long Island has wonderful beaches, a fascinating history ... and there’s always plenty of free parking.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going crazy out here,” Kirk insisted. “Frankly, I don’t know how you do it. Of course, I’m hoping this stint at Shop-at-Home is only a stepping-stone. I’m not planning to stay out here for the rest of my life, that’s for sure.”
He was quiet for a moment, clearly brooding over the cards the Great Pinochle Player in the sky had dealt him.
“But the show must go on!” he declared heartily. “Hey, the clock is ticking. I’d better get to the studio and check on things. You wait here, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”
A very urban expression, Laura thought, picking up a copy of Fake Fur Times and thumbing through it.
When Kirk returned, he led her through a control room that looked like something NASA had put together and into a studio. A big room with a lot of lights, it had a video camera with a monitor and a fake-looking living room set, two chairs placed at an unnatural angle on a carpeted platform. Behind her were rows of bookshelves. At least she thought they were bookshelves. When she reached out to grab one of the volumes, she discovered they were really made of papier-mâché.
But there was little time to dwell on the decor. A surly cameraman in a sweatshirt appeared, taking his place behind the lens. Kirk switched on lights so bright and so yellow Laura was certain her carefully chosen lipstick was now the same shade of neon green as Evan’s favorite marker. He settled into the seat opposite her and plastered on a smile even wider than those she’d seen before. It was show time.
“Today we’re talking with Laura Briggs, author of a dozen books for children.”
It was her turn to flash a smile.
“Laura, tell us how you first got interested in writing.”
“Well,” she began, her voice confident, “when I was a little girl, I thought up a cast of characters, including a giraffe named Gertrude, who solved mysteries, and her sidekick, Carol Cobra. When I was eight or nine, I started writing stories about them. Then, when I grew up, I—”
“Your books are all set in the jungle, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. Since I write about a giraffe and a cobra, they really have to—”
“I take it that jungle’s in Africa, right?”
“Yes, I—”
“But you live in the suburbs, right? You’re a Long Islander?”
“That’s right.”
“Let me ask you something.” Kirk leaned forward. “Isn’t it difficult for a creative person like yourself to live in as sterile an environment as the suburbs? I mean, it’s so ... so quiet compared to the city.”
Laura cleared her throat. “As a writer, I really enjoy the opportunity to be in a place that’s conducive to working—”
“But wouldn’t someone like you be better off in an urban environment? There’s so much stimulation in the city. Just walking down the street is exciting.”
“It’s true that every now and then I go into the city to experience some of that street life. But I also enjoy—”
“Even the people out here,” Kirk went on. “They’re a different breed than the people who live in the city. How do you deal with that?”
“I’ve managed to find a circle of friends.”
“I bet they’re all writers.”
Five minutes of taping seemed like five years. Laura was in a cold sweat by the time the red light on the camera went off.
“Good interview!” Kirk extended his hand for one more hearty handshake. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
As Kirk babbled on about when the segment she’d just taped was likely to be aired, Laura was lost in thought, mentally reworking her drugstore shopping list.
“You were a great guest,” Kirk insisted as she struggled to remember whether or not Evan had used the last of his neon-colored Band-Aids to decorate his nutrition diorama, a 3-D depiction of the food pyramid. “You seem like a very interesting woman.”
“Thanks.”
“Another problem I’ve been having out here,” Kirk went on, “is meeting women. I got divorced about a year ago. And so far, the women I’ve met have been—” He chuckled. “Well, I don’t have to tell you.”
“I know how tough it is,” Laura told him consolingly. “I’ve recently gotten separated myself. Frankly, I haven’t been trying that hard to meet anyone, but—”
Kirk’s expression had changed. “Separated, huh?”
“That’s right. Just last fall. Of course, it’s been about six months now, but it still seems—”
“How about getting together sometime? Dinner? Lunch? Brunch?”
Laura was speechless. Kirk the Star had evolved into Kirk the Would-Be Dater. In his book, switching roles meant changing postures. Instead of standing up straight and tall in the aggressive stance of someone who’d sell his grandmother to make a quick buck, he was leaning against the doorway, one knee bent, one elbow bent, one eye looking as if it were dangerously close to winking.
It was a surprising transformation. Yet what surprised Laura even more was hearing herself say, “Sure. That sounds nice.”
Sure? Where had that come from? She hadn’t even liked the guy. Was she so badly in need of a quick shot of Vitamin B for her ego? Was she more desperate than she’d realized not to spend another Saturday night alone, watching TV and sobbing over Sisters? Was she secretly hoping for a free pair of mock-emerald-and-ruby ear cuffs?
; No, she realized. The bottom line was that she was on that search for the Other. Like it or not, she was seeking eyes, a nose, and a mouth for that faceless man in her fantasy, the one who would run through a field of wildflowers with her. Her rational side knew chances were slim that Kirk Brentwood was the person to supply the missing features. But another side of her whispered, “You never know....”
“Great.” Kirk was beaming. “Then it’s a date.” Date. There was that word. A wave of dizziness came over Laura as she opened her purse to fumble around for pen and paper. Suddenly it occurred to her that date was a four-letter word.
* * * *
This date’s got to be better than the last one, Laura thought, studying her reflection in the full-length mirror. It certainly couldn’t be worse.
Partly in the name of self-protection, partly because she was having trouble mustering up enthusiasm, she wasn’t trying nearly as hard this time around. Memories of her date with Richie had, like an undercooked dinner, left her with a bad case of heartburn. Wanting to make a statement—to herself, if to no one else—she’d chosen an outfit she didn’t particularly like. She made a point of wearing the same earrings she’d worn all day. She hadn’t even bothered to wash her hair, figuring a recycled do was good enough.
Maybe I’m daring Kirk to like me, she mused. Call me petulant . . . but it could well be the best possible attitude.
Watching Kirk drive up in a sleek black Porsche, the perfect car for an aspiring television personality, Laura was struck by the fact that despite her cynicism, she was still nervous. Some things, she decided, never changed. It was like crying at the end of Gone With the Wind: no matter how many times she saw it, she always responded the same way.
Kirk was just as bold and as beautiful as Laura remembered him. He even acted the part of a Ken doll come to life. Standing in the doorway, he flashed his perfect, toothy smile as he handed her a bouquet of flowers.
“I hope you like Japanese food,” he greeted her.
What is it with men and ethnic food? Laura wondered, grabbing her jacket from the closet. There must be a rumor circulating that exotic spices are an aphrodisiac.
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