by Maria Semple
David typed into his BlackBerry and flashed Violet a triumphant smile. “Mark Knopfler’s number. I e-mailed it to you. You can call him when we get home. Done and done.”
David had no idea. The last person Violet wanted to talk to was Mark Knopfler.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Ferrari
“TODAY WE’RE PROUD TO INTRODUCE OUR NEW COLLEAGUE, JEREMY White.” A hot guy Sally recognized from TV — Jim Something-or-Other — spoke directly into the camera. “Many of you know the name from his ‘Just the Stats’ column, which appears in over a dozen newspapers nationwide. Beginning today, the big man himself will be joining the Match-Ups team every Sunday morning. Welcome, Jeremy.”
Jeremy’s face appeared on the dozen monitors throughout the dark soundstage. Sally’s fingers were crossed in her pocket. She closed her eyes: her entire future hinged on the next three minutes.
“Hi, I’m Jeremy White. Let’s take a look at one of sports’ most exciting events, the NCAA Sweet Sixteen. First off, the matchup between heavily favored Georgetown and the little team that could, Canisius College. . . .” The voice filling the air was soothing, almost musical. Sally opened her eyes. Yes, it was Jeremy, aglow on the enormous screen overhead, his face relaxed, his eyes gazing directly and calmly into hers. Finally, he wasn’t wearing those dirty earplugs. His jacket and tie added a sexy look of authority. Sally blinked. It was as if she was beholding the man she imagined Jeremy to be when they were apart, only to have her heart sink when she saw how awkward he was in person. She turned around. In the booth, Maryam and the executives muttered excitedly, equally transfixed by this suddenly charismatic apparition.
“And who do you belong to?” Hot, wet breath tickled Sally’s ear. It was Jim, the anchorman who had introduced Jeremy. Without waiting for an answer, he ambled over to the food table.
Sally scurried to keep up. “I’m a friend of Maryam and Jeremy’s.”
“Shush!” said a voice.
“First time on a set?” Jim whispered, shaking sugar to the bottom of five packets.
“No!”
“Shhh!” Maryam stepped out of the booth and shot Sally a nasty look.
“We’re all heading to Marie Callender’s after this.” Jim poured the sugar directly into his mouth and took a hard swallow. “Maybe you’d like to join.”
“I’m more Jeremy’s friend than Maryam’s. If you know what I mean.”
“Say it isn’t so.” Jim’s eyes slid down Sally, coming to rest on her ass. “Jeremy White picks seventy percent and gets to bang the likes of you? This dude is my idol.”
Sally threw back her head and laughed. “He should be.” Her long hair felt so soft against her bare back.
Jim reached forward and cupped the ballet slippers dangling from Sally’s necklace. “Don’t even tell me you’re a dancer.”
“Three years with the Colorado Ballet. I would have made principal, but I got injured.”
He quickly dropped the necklace. “Here comes the queen bitch.”
“You guys!” Maryam got in their faces and whispered, “Keep it down.”
“She’s your friend,” said Jim. “It’s not my fault she’s never been on a set before.”
“You!” Sally knuckled Jim in the shoulder.
“Easy,” he said. “We’re not in bed yet.”
“That’s the head of the network in there,” Maryam hissed. “Are you trying to ruin Jeremy’s screen test?”
“Of course not,” Sally shot back.
“Then shut up!” Maryam headed to the booth, walking on the back edges of her heels so her footsteps didn’t echo.
Sally returned her eyes to Jeremy and tried really hard not to giggle at Jim, who she felt watching her, maybe even making faces at her.
“. . . That’s why I like Arizona’s chances to upset Villanova,” Jeremy was saying. “Until next week, I’m Jeremy White.”
“Cut!” Applause erupted throughout the studio. Maryam received hearty congratulations from her beloved bigwigs as they all poured onto the set.
“You sure backed the winning horse, didn’t you?” Jim said. Sally flashed him a saucy smile.
She was so glad she had called in sick to the ballerina birthday party this morning to drive Jeremy to this screen test. For the past week, she had withheld sex, not spent the night, and waited twelve hours to return his calls. It hadn’t resulted in getting the ring on her finger, but she needed to give it time. She was, after all, a Flatlander going up against a mysterious potato.
“Jeremy?” the director asked over the PA system. “Next week, when we’re live, I want you and Jim to do some happy talk. Jim, where did you go?”
“I’m right here!” Jim boomed from Sally’s side.
Jeremy jumped out of his chair and headed straight for Sally, not even stopping to shake the hands of a dozen well-wishers. Sally got goose bumps; it was like the end of Rocky, when Sylvester Stallone called out, “Adrian!”
“Congratulations, sweetie!” Sally gave him a peck on the cheek.
Jeremy reared his head and turned to Jim. “What’s happy talk?” he asked, rolling an earplug between his fingers, then sticking it into his ear.
“I’m sure this little lady knows a thing or two about happy talk.”
Sally punched Jim in the arm.
“I don’t understand what that means,” Jeremy said to Jim.
“You know, banter,” Jim said.
“Can you write it out for me?”
“Then it wouldn’t be banter, would it?” Jim patted Jeremy on the butt. “Relax, big guy.” He gave Sally a wink and walked away.
“Uh, hello?” Sally stepped into Jeremy’s line of vision. “Sweetie?”
“I don’t know what they mean by banter.” Jeremy reached into his pocket, took out a quarter, and started flipping it.
“You just say stuff to each other,” she said. “You know, chitchat. You see it all the time on TV.”
“My contract says nothing about chitchat. Do you have a pen and some paper?”
“Jeremy!” She grabbed the quarter out of the air. “I congratulated you.”
“Thanks. Everyone seemed happy.”
Maryam rushed over. “We’re all going to Marie Callender’s. Do you want to come?”
Sally had resigned herself to the fact that spontaneity such as this wasn’t possible with Jeremy. “Thanks,” she said, “but no.”
“Sure!” said Jeremy.
“Wha —” Sally said.
“Great!” said Maryam. “It’s the one on Wilshire, west of La Brea.” She ran off.
A woman with overprocessed hair plopped down a canvas gardening bag with pockets full of makeup brushes. “Hi, I’m Faye.” She sidled up to Jeremy and started wiping foundation off his face. “Looks like we’ll be spending lots of time together.”
“Honey,” Sally said, “they don’t have anything you like at Marie Callender’s.”
“It’s for my work,” Jeremy said. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
Faye brushed her fingers through Jeremy’s hair. “There you are.” Out of the side of her mouth, she added, “I’ve been doing this a lot of years. When the president of the network delays his flight back to New York to eat buffalo wings with a new guy — well, you better show up.” Faye gave Sally the stink eye and walked away.
A fuming Sally led Jeremy through the studio and outside to the sunny parking lot in the gross part of Hollywood. The gigantic double-hatch doors sealed shut behind them. She spun around. “Jim asked me out just now.”
“Are you going?” Jeremy asked.
“On a date. He asked me out on a date.”
“But you’re my girlfriend.” He walked to Sally’s car and waited at the passenger door.
“Am I your girlfriend, Jeremy?”
“Of course you are.”
“Because I just don’t know anymore. We haven’t spent the night together in one whole week.”
“You’re the one who wanted it that way.�
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“Why would I want that?” She stood an inch from his face.
“You said you’re on your menstrual cycle.”
Everything with Jeremy was so frigging literal. It was impossible to give him a hint. Yes, Sally had told him she was having her period. But the last time she had her period, during the “honeymoon phase,” she had given him blow jobs every night and slept over. Shouldn’t the numbers guy be able to put two and two together?!
“What do you want, Jeremy?” Sally felt herself entering that zone that scared off all the other boyfriends, the one that gave her the reputation for being “crazy.”
“I want you to stop getting mad.”
“Then stop making me mad!”
“I want to. But I never know how.”
“You’re so freaking selfish, Jeremy.”
“I don’t understand. When I met you, everything made you so happy.”
“I was happy. But you just manipulate me and walk all over me like I’m a doormat!”
“Do you need something to eat?” he asked.
“I’m sorry I’m not a number, Jeremy. Because you’d probably pay more attention to me. I’m sorry I’m not a hamburger at Hamburger Hamlet! I’m sorry I’m not a cheese quesadilla! I’m a human being who has feelings, who just wants to connect. But trying to connect with you is like trying to connect to a robot!” Sally shrieked and sobbed all at the same time.
Technically, she could rein herself in. But once she started losing control, she enjoyed the release and didn’t want to pull back. It’s what she imagined car buffs meant when they said high-performance cars “liked” to be taken out and opened up on an empty highway. Like the finest Ferrari, Sally enjoyed pushing the envelope of her emotional pain to see how far she could take it. The horror on people’s faces as she did — and it was always boyfriends who were on the receiving end of these spectacles — only reinforced her humiliation, which made her want to go further.
“I’m sorry I’m not a makeup whore or a television camera or a quarter, you bastard! I’m sorry I’m in love with you and turn down dates for you. I’m sorry I crushed the dreams of a dozen little ballerinas this morning so I could drive you here! I’m sorry I exist! I’m sorry I ever met you! Oh God, look what you’ve done to me! What have I become? I’m sorry I was ever born!”
Jeremy looked utterly bewildered. “I’m glad you were born.”
“Don’t lie to me!”
“If you weren’t born, I wouldn’t know you. And then what would I do?”
“Huh?”
“You’re my life, Sally. I’ll do anything for you. If you don’t want to go to Marie Callender’s, we don’t have to.”
“Really?” Sally looked up, her eyes moist. “But what about your career?”
“Television is just television. I can live without television. You, Sally, you’re a person. A person I love.”
“I love you, Jeremy.” She hugged him. It was four o’clock. She did need some food in her. “Let’s go to Marie Callender’s.”
CHAPTER SIX
Spring Equinox Thank God It’s Just Diabetes Super-Rica
This Is It? Just the Check Standing There Ho!
TODAY HE WOULD CALL. SPRING EQUINOX. VIOLET HAD TOLD TEDDY THAT WAS when David would be out of town. It seemed so obvious when she had figured it out. Once she did, her torment gave way to the calm of having the upper hand in a delicious game of cat and mouse.
So Violet had spent the past two weeks preparing. Embracing the hunger pains she carried to the hairdresser, the waxing place, the facialist, the nail salon. Actually looking at herself in a full-length mirror while David was at work to see which outfits made her ass look the least gigantic. The expedition to a mall deep in the valley to buy size-large lingerie, then stashing it in the back of her T-shirt drawer. The body scrubs and cellulite massages using serum made of sheep colostrum.
While Violet attended to her body, she’d slip off into her life with Teddy — the one she’d lovingly write and rewrite. They’d live near the ocean in Santa Monica. On Georgina or Alta (west of Lincoln, of course!), where they could walk down the steps and across PCH to the Jonathan Club. Violet would fix up an old Craftsman. They’d buy the house next door and tear it down so they’d have a bigger yard and room for Teddy’s studio. She’d fix him up as well — his teeth, his hair, his wardrobe. Because of her age, they’d have to have a baby soon. Maybe they’d get married. Maybe not. Paperwork might befoul the purity of their love. People would talk; Violet accepted that. But once they got to know Teddy, and watched her blossom, they’d wildly approve.
Violet had asked around about golf. It turned out that anyone, for a smallish fee, could sign up for amateur tournaments. If Teddy won enough — which he surely would — he would graduate onto increasingly larger circuits and ultimately the PGA. Even though he was no spring chicken — how old was he, anyway, thirty-something probably, she’d have to remember to ask — the main indicator for success in golf was that you started young, which Teddy had. How she’d burst with pride, standing by his side as he vanquished all nonbelievers. Their charity golf event would be the talk of the town. Lots of rock stars and movie stars, raising money for hepatitis C. That’s right; Violet would not be ashamed of his disease. She had researched it online and was relieved to see that Teddy was correct: the virus was transmitted only by the exchange of blood, such as sharing needles, not from kissing or vaginal sex. There was even a cure for it, interferon, which was a long and expensive regimen, but one Violet would valiantly nurse Teddy through.
And of course, there was Teddy’s poetry. He’d write epic, scrappy poems about Violet and their baby, Lotus. Lotus and Violet, his two flowers. (And Dot, of course, never forgetting Dot!) He could turn his poems into songs, which would lead to a robust music career. Ideally, Teddy wouldn’t go on the road. He probably was a sex addict, and Violet didn’t need to add that to her list of worries. So preferably he’d become a local sensation.
She sought solitude so she could filigree this future with Teddy. When David came home, she’d invent an excursion to the market. While there, she’d imagine the guest list for Teddy’s listening party. Something low-key, a clambake perhaps? And David, happily remarried, would come with his new wife and give blessing.
Soon, Violet’s high-flying life with Teddy was so vivid that the drudgery of her life with David and Dot felt like the distraction. A simple act such as David’s popping his head into the steam shower — her beloved isolation chamber — asking, “Honey, have you seen my car keys?” felt like an act of violence. When conversation with David was unavoidable, she would still think about Teddy. That morning at breakfast, as David bitched about something, Violet had to check the urge to half-close her eyes, as she felt the softness of Teddy’s tongue in her mouth, kissing her for the first time.
But there was a catch.
It was three in the afternoon on March the twenty-first, and Teddy hadn’t called. Violet had carried her cell phone all day so as not to miss their assignation. Equally problematic, David refused to accept that his wife was not accompanying him to the yoga retreat. He was now standing at the car, ready to go.
“Where’s your stuff?” he asked as he threw his duffel bag and yoga mat into the Prius — he knew enough not to drive his Bentley to a yoga retreat.
“I’m not going,” Violet said for the tenth time.
“You planned it.”
“I want to spend the weekend alone. Dot’s with LadyGo, and I just want to relax.”
“Thus, the yoga retreat.”
“It will be more relaxing for me to be home alone,” she said.
“You’re always alone.” He opened the front door of Violet’s Mercedes and popped the trunk. The obstinate bastard then grabbed her yoga mat, some sweats and tossed them in the Prius. “There. You’re packed. Let’s go before we hit weekend traffic.”
Violet dug her fingers into her face. Teddy hadn’t called yet. Should she just go with her husband?
David
exploded, “What kind of face is that? I’m asking you to go away for the weekend like we planned, and you look like I just punched you in the stomach!”
Violet’s cell phone rang. Her body knew it was Teddy before she saw the incoming phone number: 310-555-0199. Violet could have collapsed with relief. But she couldn’t answer it in front of David. He grabbed the phone out of her hand. “Will you talk to me?!” It rang again. What if Teddy didn’t leave a message? — oh God — “Say something, Violet!”
“I never said I was going with you!” she screamed. “I want a break!”
“From what? What do you need a break from? Spending my money? Spacing out? Driving off by yourself to God knows where? What do you even fucking do? I make the money. LadyGo raises your child. You do nothing! You’re not necessary!”
“From that! You treat me like I’m a gigantic fuckup!”
“Does it occur to you that maybe it’s because you’re fucking up?! You’re constantly out of the house but never doing anything. You’re spending less and less time with Dot. We are your family. Live your fucking life. You haven’t been UV-A for three years. You’re not even UV-B. You’re more like UV-Z.”
“Don’t call me that!” The phone! It had rung twice, now three times.
“What the fuck happened to you? You used to be a writer. Why don’t you write anymore?”
“You know why,” she said. “I don’t want to be stuck on a show for sixty hours a week with Dot at home.”
“Who said you have to write for TV? Write in your fucking diary! But write. Why am I even having to tell you this? You used to know these things. You used to be a dynamo.”
“Those days are over.”
“As your husband, don’t I get a fucking vote on that?”
“No!”
“That’s your solution? For me to just go about my business while you slip away?”
Violet knew it was her turn to say something. But the phone had stopped ringing. Would Teddy leave a message? She was stranded on the silence, staring at the phone in David’s hand without shame, like a dog fixated on the slimy tennis ball he wants you to throw.