I wanted to take Jack’s face in my hands and turn it toward mine, kiss him fully and deeply, not giving a damn that Jason and F.X. would be watching. I wanted to take him by the hand, bring him home with me, slide his blazer off his shoulders and mend it for him . . . after we made love.
Instead I walked out the door.
30/
The Revelation
Later in the afternoon, as I was rinsing shampoo out of my hair and wondering if my decision to reject the offer of temporary employment wasn’t one of the dumber things I’d done lately, I thought I heard the downstairs buzzer. I turned off the shower, squeezed as much water as I could out of my hair, threw on the terrycloth robe that Nell had given me, and tracked squishy wet footprints all the way to the intercom. “Who is it?” I called into the speaker.
“Me. Jack. Can I come up?”
I didn’t know exactly what to say, so I just pressed the buzzer and let Jack into the lobby.
“These are for you,” he said, when I opened the door. He sort of thrust a box of Belgian chocolates into my hands.
When he tilted my chin so I could meet his gaze, there were tears in my eyes.
“I don’t want to break up, Liz. I didn’t in the first place; I thought it would be easier on your psyche— and mine, too—if I weren’t in the picture for a while. But I’ve missed you like crazy this past week.”
I choked back an ecstatic sob. “Oh, God, Jack!” I threw my arms around him and pulled him to me, kissing him, while I led him in a sort of backward dance over to the sofa, never relinquishing his lips.
“I know how many résumés you’ve sent out in the past few weeks. I was just trying to help this morning,” he said, when our mouths finally parted. He attempted to run his hand through the wet tangle that was my hair.
“I know you were. You know why I couldn’t accept, don’t you?”
“You said as much in the conference room.”
“Besides, I still have very ambivalent feelings about the work I was doing for SSA.”
Jack lifted my bare legs onto his lap and began to gently stroke them. He looked over at me and smiled. “I was equally serious about hiring you because you’re top-flight. And I would have hoped that my product isn’t one of those you couldn’t promote because it’s something you think consumers don’t want or need!”
I laughed. “Not at all. Though I’ve never tasted Tito’s Famous South Beach Salsa, and since I pride myself on my integrity as a copywriter, I would have to try it before I wrote a single glowing syllable. But there’s a lot more operating here, Jack. Jason, F.X., and I agreed that SSA wasn’t the best place for me right now. And I’m not drowning in debt yet. My unemployment check sure as hell isn’t a living, but I’ll eventually have several thousand pre-tax dollars coming to me from the Urban Lifestyles Channel for surviving at least the past nine episodes of Bad Date.”
“You know, you make me crazy sometimes,” Jack said.
“Yeah. I know. But isn’t my asylum a wonderful place to be committed to?” I teased.
When Jack ran his index finger along the underside of my knee, it was very hard to concentrate. “You know, I meant what I said about not wanting you to jump in and rescue me. I was so demoralized when I left SSA that F.X. and Jason would not have called me in to the office just a few weeks later to freelance on a project. You made that happen. You created a situation that wouldn’t have existed otherwise. For me to accept the assignment to write the advertising copy for Tito’s salsa was tantamount to your taking out your checkbook and directly writing me a draft for thousands of dollars.”
I raised myself to my knees and stayed in this semi-squatting position on the sofa so I could focus on what we needed to talk about without the distraction of Jack’s caresses. If I couldn’t make my point comprehensible and acceptable to him, then all the touching in the world wasn’t going to make us effective communicators as lovers.
Jack reached over for my hand. “First of all, I respect any decision you make about your professional life. But the salsa does need an ad campaign. I will have to hire an agency to handle it sooner rather than later, given the timeframe of my mass market northeast launch. So why not ask you to do it?” Jack stroked the top of my hand. “That’s what I was thinking when I contacted Jason Seraphim . . . that’s all,” he added softly.
“I don’t want to be thrown a bone.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” he conceded. “You know, you’re not doing me any favors by rejecting the offer. Now I’ll have to find a second-tier copywriter.”
I turned my hand over and slipped it into his. “I see your point of view, but I’m not going to change my mind about why I think it would be a bad idea for me to accept the job. I will, however, change my mind about insisting on bringing our relationship into the open while we’re both on Bad Date. I spent sleepless nights kicking myself in the butt, realizing that you were right; there was no way to have it both ways no matter how much I wanted it. And I guess I was too mortified to admit my obtuseness to you before now. After all, I’d made such a huge deal out of my perspective on the situation. I’m so unbelievably sorry, Jack, for putting you through all that nonsense. Our relationship is more important to me than anything—and you need to know that. I screwed up before, okay? Can we just kiss and make up now?” I asked, squeezing his hand.
Jack leaned over and stroked my face. He grinned. “I think that’s a swell idea.”
“Then can we go to bed?” I asked provocatively. “I need to feel your arms around me . . . need to feel your skin against mine. When’s your flight back to Miami?”
“Not ’til tonight. But why waste any more time than is absolutely necessary?” Jack playfully pulled me onto his lap. “Mmmm,” he murmured into my wet hair, starting to slip his hand under my robe. “What’cha got under there?”
“I want you to find out,” I purred back mischievously.
“Warm,” he said, his cool hand locating my right breast. “Did I ever tell you I love you with wet hair?”
“You don’t think it makes me look like a drowned rat?”
“Nuh-uh. I think you look incredibly sexy. But if you did look like a drowning rat, I’d want to rescue you.”
I smiled and touched his lips with my index finger.
“That’s right,” he added. “You don’t want to be ‘rescued.’ ” He tugged at the terrycloth belt, pulling open my robe, slipping it down over my bare shoulders. “I want you so much,” Jack whispered, taking my breasts in his hands, gently pushing them together, bringing the now closely spaced nipples to his lips. The touch of his mouth sent shivery, silvery ripples through my spine.
“My God . . . feel how wet I am for you, Jack.”
He moved his hands to the warmth between my legs and slipped a finger inside me. “I love the way you’re always ready for me.”
I moved against the rhythm of his finger. “I may not always agree with your way of doing things . . . but it doesn’t stop me from wanting you . . . all the time.” My words came in short, breathy exhalations.
Jack slid me off his lap and began to undress, placing his sportcoat, tie, shirt, and pants over the back curve of the couch.
“You have a tiny rip near the left shoulder, by the way,” I told him, conscious of a soft maternal quality to my voice. “I’ll try to fix it for you later.”
In his magnificent nakedness he was as ready for me as I was for him. That was another thing I loved about Jack. It took no urging for him to get aroused for me. He was always already there. He was standing, erect, in front of me, while I lounged back against the sofa cushions. “Come here,” I whispered to him. He was level with my lips and I took him into my mouth, enjoying pleasing him, reveling in how he felt in my hand. I liked the way he moaned softly when I tongued a certain spot or generated a particularly delicious sensation.
“You know what I love?” he asked me, his voice gentle and subdued. I wasn’t exactly in a position to respond, so he answered his own question. “I lo
ve the way you take pleasure in pleasuring me.” He ran his hands through my damp hair, grabbing fistfuls of it, making my scalp tingle. Then he lifted my face away from him and joined me on the sofa, covering me with his body, entering me effortlessly, holding me so close I could feel his heartbeat as though it throbbed within my own breast.
We made love slowly, savoring each new sensation our bodies visited upon one another. He discovered that the sweat trickling down my neck tasted salty, and that my freshly shampooed hair still smelled of the sweet fragrant juices of mandarin and papaya. I brought my lips to Jack’s forehead, inhaling his own aroma, finding it made me feel calmly secure as much as it aroused me. The scent of his skin was one I could grow old with; it was masculine without being in any way overpowering. It was just . . . Jack.
This time our mutual orgasm was a simultaneous melding of souls as well as a festival of carnal cravings. My blurred perspective on so many aspects of my life in that moment came into focus with crystalline clarity.
I could get all corny about the transformative power of true love, but as Jack and I made love, I realized how amazing that power can be. I thought of how finding the right lover had proven little short of an epiphany for Jem. For Nell. For Candy. And now, for me, too. For the sake of love, my friends had been willing to accept change, appreciate compromise, and celebrate the differences between themselves and their partners instead of making those contrasts into obstacles to their future happiness together. This was how I wanted things to be for Jack and me.
“Why are you smiling?” Jack asked me, his voice soft and dreamy. “You look like the Mona Lisa.”
If my smile had been subtle, it widened into a full wattage grin. “Because I think I figured it all out.” I placed my palms against his cheeks and pulled his face to me, tracing his lips with my tongue, then kissing him with all the ardor of the happiest, luckiest woman on the planet. The vows I had previously made about not giving too much, because I always ended up emotionally devastated by the man I so favored, I could rethink now.
“Jack? How would you react if I repaired your jacket for you?”
“What a silly question.”
“Why?” I looked at him.
“I’d be very appreciative. What, Liz? Were you afraid if you sewed up the hole in my sportcoat that next week I would bring you a suitcase full of sweat-socks to darn?”
I laughed. “Kind of. Maybe.”
“Not going to happen. I think your offer to mend my jacket is very sweet.”
We were lying side by side on the sofa. God knows how we both fit without falling off. I snuggled against Jack’s chest. “On Saturday night, when you’re back in town, I’m going to make us one hell of a dinner. I’m taking quite a risk to cook for a professional chef.”
“Hey, you told me way back when that you couldn’t cook.”
“I never said that.”
“Sure you did. I could swear that the day we met, you said you didn’t cook.”
I kissed the broad expanse of his chest. “What I believe I said to you was that I don’t cook—which isn’t the same thing as saying I can’t cook. I just decided I wasn’t ever going to be taken advantage of again by an undeserving guy. I can indeed cook—although I wouldn’t even presume to concoct the recipes I imagine you can throw together without a second thought.”
“Your hair is almost dry,” Jack observed, gently running his fingers across my brow. It felt lovely. “Liz, I’m going to let you in on a little secret about Jack Rafferty. I’m not going to rush out the door and yell ‘Taxi!’ No matter how much you want to give, I can promise you that you’re going to get just as much from me in return. No hidden agendas. No ulterior motives. I just want to love you.”
Wow.
I’d never felt so cherished. I wanted to bottle his words and spray my naked body with them every morning after I stepped out of the shower.
Jack wrapped a length of my hair around his hand. “Did you ever look at your own hair?” he asked, his face all boyish curiosity. “There are so many colors in here, it’s like fine-grained wood.” He turned his gaze from the hank of hair in his hand to my face and looked at me thoughtfully. “Okay . . . here’s how I think we should handle things from now on. I’m putting a compromise on the table here, even though I know you said a little while ago that you were willing to shelve the idea of going public until the show ends. I don’t want you to feel like you’re—or we’re—a secret. So let’s just not flaunt our togetherness in the immediate vicinity of the Urban Lifestyles studio building. How does that grab you?”
I moved his hands to my breasts, offering them to him. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, my love. We’ve discussed it to death. I’d rather you just grab me, okay?”
31/
Risky Business
I may have gone a bit overboard with the menu for my homecooked meal for Jack that Saturday night. We started out with vichyssoise, then moved to filet mignon with orange béarnaise sauce, and finished the meal with a baked pear pancake with gingered maple syrup. It wasn’t at Jack’s cordon bleu level, but I didn’t embarrass myself. He brought the wine. A different variety for each course. Needless to say, we had a lot left over and still I felt toasted by the end of the evening.
“Well, Julia Child,” Jack said, getting up from the table to recline against the cushions on my sofa. “You’ve really done it.”
I beamed like a little kid. “I did? Thanks. This was a major deal for me, I hope you realize. I broke my promise to myself. Not only are you the first man I’ve cooked a meal for in ages, which is in itself a testament to how much I love you and want to do things for you, but as I said to you before, I was scared shitless about attempting a major production number for such a pro. Cooking you a meatloaf, for instance, just wasn’t what I’d had in mind, and I was terrified, actually, that I’d screw something up and you’d make fun of me and I’d never get over it for the rest of my life.”
“Not a chance.”
“Not a chance that you’d mock me, or that I’d never psychologically recover?”
He shook his head and stifled a laugh. “Come here, you.” He held out his arms and pulled me over to the sofa to snuggle against him. “What I meant when I said that you’d really ‘done it’ is that I think I’m too full now to make love.”
I went for his midriff to pretend to pinch his non-existent spare tire. “Get over it,” I teased.
He did.
At the television studio on Sunday evening, preparing to go on the air with episode ten of Bad Date, Rob Dick gave the remaining contestants his usual producer pep talk in the hair and makeup room, reiterating, as he did every week, that “we’re the most honest show in reality television,” and then mentioned that there had been a rash of thefts from the dressing rooms lately. Therefore, as a security measure, cameras were being installed that would monitor comings and goings on closed-circuit television monitors at the security desk in the lobby.
Milo looked anxious. “You mean we’re going to have cameras in the dressing rooms?” His face was three shades paler than usual.
Rob Dick set the record straight, explaining that the cameras were being installed outside the dressing rooms and consequently would be able to pick up any activity outside the door and in the publicly traversed areas of the building; no one was going to install cameras in the dressing rooms themselves. “Besides, I’m sure that’s probably illegal,” Rob added.
When we got to the dressing rooms, there was a printed notice that provided the same information about the new security measures. It was the first time I’d had the room to myself, now that Candy was gone. It felt stark and lonely, very industrial, without her colorful presence. I realized that I missed her. I hoped that she and Allegra were blissfully happy in Benedict Canyon.
There was yet another floral arrangement from Rick Byron on my dressing table. I hadn’t given our hunky Hollywood host the time of day, but I had to award him points for persistence. Still, I couldn’t figure out what it was
he wanted from me. I had neither wealth nor fame, and while people have told me they think I’m very pretty, I could certainly never compete with the kind of starlets and models men of his ilk customarily squire around town. How flattering it might have been had he been enamored of my mind, but he didn’t know me well enough to qualify for that. I decided that he just simply didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer.
On set, even in the middle of the telecast, I found it very hard to focus on the show; I kept thinking how much I would rather be with Jack instead. My mind and tongue didn’t feel as razor-sharp as they had during previous episodes, when I would just let a few well-aimed zingers fly at Rick Byron without a second thought. I was working at it tonight. Even my bad date anecdote was nowhere as entertaining as my previous tales of woe had been. I barely remember what I said. I think I told America about José, my ninth-grade crush. I was dreadfully afraid he wouldn’t dance with me during the class weekend trip to the country because the day before we left I had gotten slammed in the forehead with a wooden tennis racquet, when my friend Diana and I were hitting tennis balls against the wall of the gym. Diana went for a backhand and her racquet went straight into my head. A lump formed that immediately turned the color of midnight and swelled to the size of an extra-large egg. In fact, I still have the bump. I’d tried to disguise the disaster with Max Factor pancake makeup to look pretty for José, which only made the lump more obvious. But the sweet thing was that he really didn’t seem grossed out by my ghoulish appearance. And he did dance with me.
So, when the studio audience voted Double-E DuPree off the show, instead of feeling elated that I was one step closer to the million-dollar jackpot, I had a tinge of regret for the first time that it wasn’t me saying goodbye instead.
Week eleven went by and this time it was Rosalie Rothbaum who failed to ignite the prurient interest of the studio audience, so she became Bad Date history.
For the past two Sundays, Jack and I had waited until we figured everyone had left the building, dawdling in our respective dressing rooms to kill time. Then we’d walk along the deserted corridors as close to one another as we thought we could safely get away with, though after week ten, I didn’t have a free hand because I brought Rick Byron’s ostentatious floral display to the guard at the front desk (I’d removed the card, of course), and suggested that he might like to bring it home to his wife, since it wasn’t doing anyone any good sitting in an airless dressing room for days. When he asked me why I didn’t just take it home myself, I lied and told him that I had a kitten at home who liked to chew on the blossoms. The truth was that I didn’t want to be seen accepting Rick’s gifts. I didn’t want them, either in my dressing room or in my home.
Reality Check Page 25