Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  With everybody gone, I head into the bathroom to splash some water on my puffy face and relive the highlights of my fight with Bradford. But when I look in the mirror, a different set of highlights catches me off guard. Crumpled, matted, tangled hair looks worse in bottled blonde than it ever did in plain brown. And judging from my admittedly short experience, I’d have to say that the answer to the eternal question: “Is it true blondes have more fun?” is a resounding no.

  Kate calls me when her Owen is in the shower to tell me what an amazing twenty-four hours they’ve had together. Now that Owen has left his wife and officially moved in with her, they’ve taken a bubble bath, made love five times, and best yet, lay in bed together watching TiVo.

  “We never had enough time to watch TV together before,” Kate giggles.

  I sigh, not sure if I’m more envious of the sex or the cozy companionship. But I know that I didn’t have either of them last night. I congratulate Kate on the start of her new life.

  “My new life may be about to end,” I tell her. “So one of us might as well be happy.”

  “Oh no, what happened?” Kate asks, always ready to spring to my support.

  “Bradford and I had a fight last night.”

  “People fight. It’s part of relationships.” Kate’s been living with Owen for one whole day and she’s already a sage.

  “I know. But this one just felt bad. We weren’t even trying to understand each other.” I launch into a quick outline of the battle, and then to make sure she knows how serious it was, I conclude by repeating Bradford’s final remark about how he hates me as a blonde.

  “You’re a blonde?” Kate asks in surprise.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I think he’s going to leave me.”

  “You always think that,” says Kate, “but it’s not going to happen. Let’s talk about it over lunch. Owen says he has a craving for Cajun. We’ll pick you up.”

  “There’s a new Cajun place on Seventy-sixth,” I volunteer. “It’s supposed to be pretty good.”

  “Owen has a better idea. He wants to take his new plane for a spin and go to New Orleans. Or N’awlins as they say there.”

  “New Orleans? Isn’t that a little far?” I ask, startled.

  “It’ll be fun, and it’s what Owen wants,” Kate replies firmly. “Owen says nobody makes jambalaya like they do on Bourbon Street.”

  Kate has started to proclaim “Owen says” with the same reverent tone a Southern Baptist preacher uses when quoting what “the Lord says.” But going to New Orleans sounds like a pretty strange commandment.

  “I can’t possibly,” I say, thinking I’m not the type to fly off to another city for lunch.

  “Why not?” Kate asks.

  I start to answer, but realize I don’t have a particularly good reason. Dylan’s Wal-Mart outing will last all day, and then he’s going straight to a new friend’s house for a playdate and sleep-over. I don’t have any plans myself, and I’m not looking forward to knocking around this big house all alone. Maybe I should be the kind of person who goes to New Orleans for lunch.

  “I guess I could join you,” I say hesitantly. “But I’m a little afraid of small planes.”

  “It’s not small,” Kate says. “Nothing about Owen is small.”

  She hangs up and I step into my oversized walk-in closet, trying to decide what to wear. Now that I have all this space, I need to fill more than a measly two dozen hangers. Especially since half of them hold almost identical pairs of Banana Republic black pants. I grab one and then go for a top—considering pullovers in cherry red, lime green and raspberry. Ever since I’ve become a TV cook, I can’t even get away from food in my closet. I settle on a turtleneck—in lemon yellow.

  Kate calls me from the car and I step outside into Owen’s stretch limo. It’s bigger than the one I rented for my senior prom—and there were eighteen of us sharing that one. I don’t know why Owen needs such a big car since he and Kate are huddled together in a corner and Kate’s draped over his lap.

  Kate nods happily when she sees my hair—either she genuinely likes the color, or she’s just glad to have me doing anything in the name of beauty. After our brief exchange, she turns back to Owen and he resumes his usual place as the center of attention. We spend the ride extolling his prowess—this time in business—and listening to a litany of his latest deals. I try to bring the subject around to Kate, who’s just landed on Vogue’s list of Top Ten Medical Magicians. Number six. Right after that guy who claims you’ll have clear skin if you eat salmon three times a day. Either that or you’ll grow gills.

  “I don’t want to talk about me,” Kate says, stroking Owen’s arm and eager to get back to stroking his ego. Apparently she’s given up trumpeting her own horn so she can blow his full-time.

  I sit in amazement, listening to how many variations Kate can come up with on “Honey, you’re so wonderful.” But it passes the time, and when the car stops, I’m not completely sure where we are. I’m surprised when we step out onto a tarmac, where a pilot and two attendants are waiting. Next to a gleaming Gulfstream.

  “Luggage, Mr. Hardy?” asks one of the attendants with a big smile.

  “No, we’re just going for lunch,” Owen says, bounding up the steps to the plane.

  Kate follows him confidently and I hesitate just briefly. I look at the pilot, dressed in a snazzy blue uniform with gold wings that look suspiciously like the ones Dylan gets from the flight attendant when we fly American. The pilot takes my hand, walks me up the stairs, and settles me into my seat.

  “Comfortable?” he asks.

  I’d probably be more comfortable if he were in the cockpit checking his flight plan, communicating with traffic control, fiddling with gizmos or reading through the instruction manual. No, scratch that last one. Better if he memorized the instruction manual—several years ago.

  I buckle in, but nobody shows us the usual safety movie on how-to-use-your-seat-cushion-as-a-life-raft. Not that I’d ever want to bet my life on a two-inch rayon-covered cushion. Instead, the pilot turns around from the cockpit and with a convivial grin asks, “Everybody ready?” I expect the attendants to come by and threaten us about keeping our seats and tray tables in an upright position, but instead they’re busy asking us if we’d prefer our mimosas with or without pulp in the orange juice.

  After takeoff, Kate and Owen only seem to want the same thing they wanted before takeoff. They paw each other until we’re at cruising altitude, then get up and head toward the back.

  “Owen outfitted the plane with a bedroom,” Kate whispers to me. Seeing my stunned look, she adds, “Nicely decorated with a queen-sized bed.”

  I’ve always had my own fantasy about making love on an airplane, thirty thousand feet above the ground. When I imagine the scene, my lover and I are squeezed into the tiny coach bathroom on a commercial flight, our backs pressed against the aluminum sink, with an anxious passenger who needs to use the facilities banging on the door. Risky and uncomfortable and probably illegal—but isn’t that what makes it sexy? In my view, Kate and Owen’s antics are too cushy to qualify for the real Mile High Club.

  But I’m a little miffed. Why did Kate invite me to come along? She and I can’t exactly talk about Bradford if she’s going to spend all her time lip-locked with Owen.

  I fiddle with my new iPod—I’ll never get the hang of this—until Kate finally comes back by herself, adjusting her La Perla bra strap. “That little blow job cost Owen five million dollars,” she says proudly.

  “You’re that good?” I ask.

  Kate laughs. “A building he was negotiating for. He said he was going to top out at twenty-five million. But he got a call about it while we were in the midst, and I didn’t stop what I was doing. Before you know it, Owen was going, “Oh, Oh, Oh . . . Okay.” And he agreed to pay thirty.” She giggles again.

  “How much sex do you two have anyway?” I ask.

  “A lot,” Kate says happily.

  “What’s a lot?” I ask.
“Do you think there’s some national sex average? I heard a study that claimed a third of married couples have sex three times a week, a third three times a month, and a third three times a year.”

  “So does three times a day get me an award from the Kinsey Institute?” Kate asks with a sly smile.

  Owen comes from the airplane bedroom, tugging at his belt and looking happy.

  “That was amazing,” he says, sitting down next to Kate.

  She winks at me then lowers her eyes modestly. “I’m glad,” she tells him.

  “Four other developers competing and I got the building,” Owen boasts.

  Kate pokes him. “That’s all that was amazing?”

  He rubs the nape of her neck and gives her a kiss. “You’re right. I got the girl, too.”

  Kate and Owen manage to sit in their own seats long enough for the plane to land. We taxi to a graceful stop, and when we get off the plane another stretch limo is waiting two steps away. How do rich people stay thin if they never have to walk more than three feet?

  I’m expecting Owen to take us to some famous New Orleans restaurant, like K-Paul’s or Antoine’s. But at the mention of those, he just turns up his nose. “Only for tourists,” he says. And what exactly are we? Instead, he leads us to a local shack with six tables and a small stage where three grizzled jazz musicians are trumpeting out amazing riffs. Owen orders for us and I don’t know exactly what I’m eating, but it’s all delicious. The dessert is a gooey mess of white chocolate, bread pudding, whipped cream and whiskey sauce. Just the kind of over-the-top concoction I make on my show. I ask for the recipe, and the chef happily comes out and scribbles it on the back of a napkin.

  Back out on the street, we make our way through throngs of revelers, packed so tightly it could be New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Above us, half-dressed and fully drunk men and women are hanging from intricately iron-worked balconies, trying to attract attention by dropping strands of colorful beads on passersby below. If the beads don’t work, the women resort to another means of getting attention—they flash their breasts. The men are less subtle. They drop their shorts.

  Maybe I haven’t had enough bourbon to fully appreciate Bourbon Street, because the whole scene feels about as sexy to me as the Republican National Convention. But Owen seems to be enjoying himself. He has his arm clamped around Kate’s waist and his eyes are wandering all around the scene. Kate decides we should get even more in the spirit and ducks into a store to buy some beads.

  I hover on the edge, between store and sidewalk. On one side of me, I hear Kate bargaining to buy three sets of beads for five dollars. On the other, Owen is involved in his own transaction.

  “Like these?” asks a large-chested college girl, lifting her cut-off Florida State T-shirt and giving Owen a good look at her naked 36Ds.

  “What’s not to like?” he asks. The giddy girl wiggles closer and presses her curvy bottom against his flat one. Owen doesn’t seem embarrassed—in fact, he doesn’t flinch. And when the coed takes Owen’s arm and pulls it around her bare waist, he grins from ear to ear.

  “You’re cute,” she tells him.

  “Hey, so are you,” he gushes.

  I know this is New Orleans. You’re supposed to leave your morals at the airport, or in our case, the private landing strip. But I have the uncomfortable feeling that Owen’s just crossed a line. One thing to step back and watch the crazy scene, another to jump into it so enthusiastically. If he’s so in love with my best friend, shouldn’t he have eyes only for her?

  Kate comes bouncing out of the store with a big smile, swinging the orange and yellow strands above her head.

  “Darling,” she starts to call out. But then she catches sight of her darling—who has a young woman attached to his hip—and her face drops.

  Owen and Miss Florida State are having such a good time that it takes a minute for Owen to extricate himself. She gives him a big wet kiss and as she walks away, Owen gives her one last long parting look.

  Kate takes her place again at Owen’s side. “Enjoying New Orleans?” she asks, trying to sound chipper.

  “Yup,” Owen says. And he doesn’t seem at all disconcerted about his little flirtation. The man’s sense of entitlement is so huge he doesn’t even know he should be embarrassed. And Kate’s not going to call him on it. She’d rather gloss over the situation than admit that Owen might have disappointed her.

  We stroll over to Preservation Hall, where Owen wants to hear some more jazz. The Sunday afternoon line stretches down the block, but Owen whispers something to the bouncer at the front and somehow we get inside immediately. We stay for barely one set before Owen needs another change of scene. Then we’re back in the limo and heading toward the plane.

  Owen’s made five phone calls and flipped through three business reports before we hit ten thousand feet. Then he stands up and stretches, needing yet another diversion.

  “Sweetheart, let’s take a little nap,” he says, though as he heads to the bedroom, he looks anything but tired.

  I watch Kate follow him, her hand on his butt, and wonder how many “naps” this makes for today. One thing I’ve got to say about Kate. She and Owen are doing their part to raise the national sex average.

  I don’t get to tell Bradford about my gumbo lunch in New Orleans, because for the next three days, I barely see him. He gets home late and leaves early, and the one evening we might have to see each other, Kirk and I are preparing for our next show. I’ve figured out how to adapt the New Orleans whiskey sauce so it’s pretty darn good. And that might be the only thing around this house that is.

  Bradford’s sleeping in our room again, but you’d hardly know it. We each stay on our own side of the king-sized bed, and the one time I try to cross the border and make peace, Bradford’s asleep. Or pretending to be.

  Thursday morning, I call Bradford’s office, thinking we should go out to a romantic dinner and try to forget about our fight. But his assistant won’t even put me through.

  “He’s in a meeting,” she tells me apologetically. “Important one. I really can’t disturb him.”

  I hang up, pretty disturbed myself. This is the first time Bradford’s given instructions that he can’t be interrupted, even for me.

  Well, damn him anyway, this whole fight was his fault. Or maybe it was mine. I tried one morning to tell him how sorry I am, but when he asked “What are you sorry for?” I realized I didn’t know. I can’t be sorry for having a demanding job and an ex-spouse. Though I am pretty sorry that he has a demanding job and an ex-spouse.

  After school, I help Dylan with his homework and take him to the diner, where he gobbles down mac and cheese and gets to play the video games on the machines in the back. He has almost identical games on his computer at home, but somehow they’re more fun when you have to put a quarter in the slot to play.

  At home, he falls asleep on my lap, watching a show about constellations on the Discovery Channel. Why we don’t just step outside to look at the stars in the real sky is another matter. Maybe tomorrow night I’ll pull out blankets and get Bradford to come outside with us and point out the Big Dipper.

  I manage to carry Dylan into his bed and turn on the Harry Potter night-light that matches his Harry Potter pajamas and sheets.

  Instead of going to bed myself, I head to the kitchen to catch up on the stack of New Yorkers that’s been piling up. For some reason, even the Roz Chast cartoons aren’t making me laugh tonight, and I keep looking at the clock. It’s after eleven when Bradford finally comes in, looking tired.

  “Do you need something to eat?” I ask him, trying to get things back to an even keel.

  “No, thanks, I got something at the office,” he says. “I had a long day.”

  “I noticed,” I say, and I hope I’m sounding sympathetic, not angry.

  He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. His tie is already uncharacteristically loosened and his white no-crease Brooks Brothers shirt is wrinkled.

  �
��I have some news,” he tells me. “Don’t get upset. I’m leaving Saturday for Hong Kong.”

  “Hong Kong?” I repeat, letting the syllables sink in.

  “It’s a business trip,” he says. “A lot of important things are happening in my company over there.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I ask, biting my lip. Sure, it’s a long flight but I hope it will be a short trip.

  “Three months,” he says quietly.

  I sit down and stare at the open New Yorker, but everything is blurring in front of my eyes. I’m not going to remind Bradford that I bought tickets to Madame Butterfly for next week. Bad opera to have picked anyway. Isn’t that the one where the soprano is abandoned by her lover and kills herself?

  “Three months is a long time,” I say carefully. I won’t think about James, I won’t. And I won’t wonder what it is about me that drives men to leave for exotic places.

  “It’s business. A good opportunity for me. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

  “You have? This is the first time you’ve even mentioned Hong Kong.”

  “It’s been on the table at work for a few weeks,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “At first I said no. But I finally decided it might not be a bad thing for us to spend a little time apart.”

  “Or it might be a very bad thing.”

  “I’m not really seeing it as a trial separation,” Bradford continues.

  And until those words tumble out of his mouth, neither was I.

  I sit very, very still. Maybe if I don’t move, my world will stop turning upside down. “We just had a silly little argument the other night,” I tell him softly. “Couples have those. It doesn’t mean you need to run off to Hong Kong and disappear.”