Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Holly Grace took a sip of her daiquiri. “I think Francesca might have a few more important things on her mind right now.”

  Naomi smiled, then glanced toward Teddy, who was disappearing into the bedroom to get Ben's chess set. “Do you think she'll do it?” she whispered.

  “It's hard to say. When you see Francesca rolling around the floor in her jeans and giggling with Teddy like a fool, it seems pretty impossible. But when somebody upsets her, and she gets that snooty look on her face, you just know a few of her ancestors had to have had blue blood, and then you've got to think that it's a real possibility.”

  Naomi eased down in front of the coffee table, folding her legs so she looked like a pregnant Buddha. “I'm opposed to monarchy on principle, but I have to admit that Princess Francesca Serritella Day Brancuzi has a terrific ring.”

  Teddy returned with the chess set and began setting it up on the coffee table. “Concentrate this time, Naomi. You're almost as easy to beat as Mom.”

  Suddenly they all jumped as three sharp bangs sounded at the front door. “Oh, dear,” Naomi said, glancing apprehensively toward Holly Grace. “I only know one person who knocks like that.”

  “Don't you dare let him in while I'm here!” Holly Grace jerked forward, splashing strawberry daiquiri down the front of her white sweat suit.

  “Gerry!” Teddy shrieked, racing for the door.

  “Don't open it,” Holly Grace called out, jumping up. “No, Teddy!”

  But it was too late. Not enough men passed through Teddy Day's life for him to give up a chance to be with any one of them. Before Holly Grace could stop him, he had flung open the door.

  “Hey, Teddy!” Gerry Jaffe called out, offering the palms of his hands. “What's happenin', my man?”

  Teddy slapped him ten. “Hey, Gerry! I haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. Where have you been?”

  “In court, kiddo, defending some people who did a little damage to the Shoreham nuclear power plant.”

  “Did you win?”

  “You might say that it was a draw.”

  Gerry never regretted the decision he'd reached in Mexico ten years before to come back to the United States, face the New York City cops and their trumped-up drug charge, and then, after his name was cleared, go on to law school. One by one, he had watched the leaders of the Movement change direction—Eldridge Cleaver's soul no longer on ice but dedicated to Jesus, Jerry Rubin sucking up to capitalism, Bobby Seale peddling barbecue sauce. Abbie Hoffman was still around, but he was caught up in environmental causes, which left it up to Gerry Jaffe, the last of the sixties radicals, to draw the attention of the world away from stainless-steel pasta machines and designer pizzas and back to the possibility of nuclear winter. With all his heart, Gerry believed that the future rested on his shoulders, and the heavier the weight of responsibility, the more he played the clown.

  After giving Naomi a smack on the lips, he leaned down to speak directly to her belly. “Listen up, kid, this is Uncle Gerry talking. The world sucks. Stay in there as long as you can.”

  Teddy thought this was hysterically funny and began to roll on the floor, shrieking with laughter. This action brought him the attention of all the adults, so he laughed louder, until he ceased being cute and became merely annoying. Naomi believed in letting children express themselves, so she didn't reprimand him, and Holly Grace, who didn't believe any such thing, was too distracted by the sight of Gerry's impressive shoulders straining the seams of his worn leather bomber jacket to call Teddy to task.

  In 1980, not long after Gerry had passed the New York Bar exam, he had given up his Afro, but he still wore his hair long in the back so that the dark curls, now lightly threaded with gray, fell over his collar. Beneath his leather jacket, he was wearing his normal work attire—baggy khaki trousers and a cotton fatigue sweater. A No Nukes button graced the jacket collar. His mouth was as full and sensuous as ever, his nose as bold, and his zealot's eyes still black and burning. That exact pair of eyes had done in Holly Grace Beaudine a year ago when she and Gerry had found themselves shoved into a corner together at one of Naomi's parties.

  Holly Grace still had a hard time explaining to herself what it was about Gerry Jaffe that had made her fall in love with him. It certainly hadn't been his politics. She honestly believed in the importance of a strong military defense for the United States, a position that drove him wild. They had raging political arguments, which generally ended in some of the most incredible lovemaking she had experienced in years. Gerry, who had few inhibitions in public, had even fewer in the bedroom.

  But her attraction to him was more than sexual. For one thing, he was as physically active as she. During the three months of their affair they had taken skydiving lessons together, gone mountain climbing, and even tried hang gliding. Being with him was like living in a never-ending adventure. She loved the excitement he engendered around him. She loved his passion and his zeal, the zest with which he ate his food, his uninhibited laughter, his unabashed sentimentality. She had once walked into the room and found him crying at a Kodak television commercial, and when she had teased him about it, he hadn't made a single excuse. She had even grown to love his male chauvinism. Unlike Dallie who, despite his good ol' boy demeanor, had always been the most liberated man she'd ever known, Gerry clung to ideas about male-female relationships that were firmly entrenched in the fifties. And Gerry always looked so befuddled when she confronted him with it, so crestfallen that he—the darling of the radicals—couldn't seem to comprehend one of the most basic principles of an entire social revolution.

  “Hello, Holly Grace,” he said, walking toward her.

  She leaned over to put her sticky strawberry daiquiri on the coffee table and tried to look at him as if she couldn't quite remember his name. “Oh, hi, Gerry.”

  Her ploy didn't work. He came closer, his compact body advancing with a determination that sent a shiver of apprehension through her. “Don't you dare touch me, you commie terrorist,” she warned, thrusting out her hand as if it held a crucifix that could ward him off.

  He stepped past the coffee table.

  “I mean it, Gerry.”

  “What are you afraid of, babe?”

  “Afraid!” she scoffed, taking three steps back. “Me? Afraid of you? In your dreams, you left-wing pinko.”

  “God, Holly Grace, you've got a mouth on you.” He stopped in front of her and without turning addressed his sister. “Naomi, could you and Teddy find something to do in the kitchen for a few minutes?”

  “Don't even think about leaving, Naomi,” Holly Grace ordered.

  “Sorry, Holly Grace, but tension isn't good for a pregnant woman. Come on, Teddy. Let's go make some popcorn.”

  Holly Grace took a deep breath. This time she wouldn't allow Gerry to get the best of her, no matter what he did. Their affair had lasted for three months, and he'd taken advantage of her the entire time. While she had been falling in love, he had been merely using her celebrity as a way of getting his name in the newspapers so he could publicize his anti-nuclear activities. Holly Grace couldn't believe what a sucker she'd been. Old radicals never changed. They just got law degrees and updated their bag of tricks.

  Gerry reached out to touch her, but physical contact with him tended to cloud her thinking, so she jerked her arm away before he could make contact. “Keep your hands to yourself, buster.” She had survived these last few months without him very nicely, and she wasn't going to have a relapse now. She was too old to die twice in one year from a broken heart.

  “Don't you think this separation has gone on long enough?” he said. “I miss you.”

  She gave him her coolest stare. “What's wrong? Can't you get your face on television, now that we're not an item anymore?” She used to love the way those dark curls brushed along the back of his neck. She remembered the texture of those curls—soft and silky. She would wrap them around her finger, touch them with her lips.

  “Don't start on this, Holly Grace.”

>   “Won't anybody let you make speeches on the nightly news, now that we've broken up?” she said nastily. “You really played our affair for all it was worth, didn't you? While I was mooning over you like a stupid fool, you were sending out press releases.”

  “You're really starting to piss me off. I love you, Holly Grace. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone in my life. We had something good going.”

  He was doing it. He was breaking her heart again. “The only good thing we had going was sex,” she said fiercely.

  “We had a hell of a lot more than sex!”

  “Such as what? I don't like your friends, and I sure as hell don't like your politics. Besides, you know I hate Jews.”

  Gerry groaned and slumped down on the couch. “Oh, God, here we go again.”

  “I'm a dedicated anti-Semite. I really am, Gerry. I'm from Texas. I hate Jews, I hate blacks, and I think all gay men should be put in prison. Now what kind of future would I have with a left-wing pinko like you?”

  “You don't hate Jews,” Gerry said reasonably, as if he were speaking to a child. “And three years ago you signed a gay rights petition that was published in every newspaper in New York, and the year after that you had a highly publicized affair with a certain wide receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers.”

  “He was very light-skinned,” Holly Grace countered. “And he always voted Republican.”

  Slowly he got up from the couch, his expression both troubled and tender. “Look, babe, I can't give up my politics, not even for you. I know you don't approve of our approach—”

  “All of you people are so goddamn sanctimonious,” she hissed. “You treat anyone who doesn't agree with your methods like a warmonger. Well, I've got news for you, buddy boy. No sane person likes living with nuclear weapons, but not everybody thinks it's a terrific idea for us to throw all our missiles away while the Soviets are still sitting on top of a whole toy box full of their own.”

  “Don't you think the Soviets—”

  “I'm not listening to you.” She grabbed her purse and called out for Teddy. Dallie had been right every one of those times he'd told her money couldn't buy happiness. She was thirty-seven years old and she wanted to nest. She wanted a baby while she could still have one, and she wanted a husband who loved her for herself, not just for the publicity she brought him.

  “Holly Grace, please—”

  “You go fuck yourself.”

  “Goddammit!” He grabbed her then, pulled her into his arms, and pressed his mouth to hers in a gesture that wasn't so much a kiss as a way of distracting himself from his desire to shake her until her teeth rattled. They were the same height, and Holly Grace worked out with weights, so Gerry had to use considerable strength to pin her arms to her sides. She finally stopped struggling so that he could work her over with his mouth the way he wanted to—the way she liked. Finally her lips parted enough so that he could slip his tongue inside.

  “Come on, babe,” he whispered. “Love me back.”

  She did, just for a moment, until she realized what she was doing. When Gerry felt her stiffen, he immediately slid his mouth to her neck where he took a long, sucking bite.

  “You did it to me again,” she yelped, squirming away from him and clasping her neck.

  He had put his mark on her deliberately and he didn't apologize. “Every time you look at that mark, I want you to remember that you're throwing away the best thing that's ever happened to either one of us.”

  Holly Grace gave him a furious glare and then spun around toward Teddy, who had just come into the room with Naomi. “Get your coat and tell Naomi good-bye.”

  “But Holly Grace—” Teddy protested.

  “Now!” She bundled Teddy into his coat, grabbed her own, and propelled the two of them out the door without looking back.

  As they disappeared, Gerry avoided the displeasure in his sister's eyes by pretending to study a metal sculpture on the mantel. Even though he was forty-two, he wasn't used to being the mature one in a relationship. He was used to women who mothered him, who agreed with his opinions, who cleaned his apartment. He wasn't used to a prickly Texas beauty who could outdrink him any day of the week and who would laugh in his face if he asked her to run a small load of wash. He loved her so much he felt as if a part of him had walked out of the house with her. What was he going to do? He couldn't deny that he'd taken advantage of the publicity from their affair. It was instinctive—the way he did things. For the past few years, the media had ignored his best efforts to draw attention to the cause, and it wasn't in his nature to turn his back on free publicity. Why couldn't she understand that it didn't have a damned thing to do with loving her—he was just seizing his opportunities as he'd always done.

  His sister walked past him, and he once again leaned over to address her stomach. “This is Uncle Gerry speaking. If you're a male child in there, guard your balls because there are about a million women out here waiting to cut them off.”

  “Don't joke about it, Gerry,” Naomi said, dropping down into one of the armchairs.

  His mouth twisted. “Why not? You've got to admit this whole thing with Holly Grace is pretty goddamn funny.”

  “You're really screwing up,” she said.

  “It's impossible to argue with someone who doesn't make sense,” he retorted belligerently. “She knows I love her, and she goddamn well knows it's not just for her famous name.”

  “She wants a baby, Gerry,” Naomi said quietly.

  He stiffened. “She just thinks she wants a baby.”

  “You're such a jerk. Every time the two of you get together, both of you go on and on about your political differences and who's using who. Just once, I'd like to hear one of you admit that most of the reason the two of you can't get it together is because she desperately wants to have a baby and you still haven't grown up enough to be a father.”

  He turned on his sister. “It doesn't have anything to do with not being grown up. I refuse to bring a kid into a world that has a mushroom cloud hanging over it.”

  She regarded him sadly, one hand clasped over her rounded stomach. “Who do you think you're kidding, Gerry? You're afraid to be a father. You're afraid you'll screw up as badly with your own kid as Dad did with you—God rest his soul.”

  Gerry didn't say anything, and he damn well wasn't going to let Naomi see him with tears in his eyes, so he just turned his back on her and stalked right out the door.

  Chapter

  23

  Francesca smiled directly into the camera as the “Francesca Today” theme music faded and the show began. “Hello, everybody. I hope all of you have your television snacks nearby and that you've finished any urgent bathroom business, because I absolutely guarantee that you're not going to want to move from your seats once you meet our four young guests this evening.”

  She tilted her head toward the red light that had come on next to camera two. “Tonight we're broadcasting the last show in our series on the British nobility. As you know, we've had our high points and our low points since we've come to Great Britain—even I won't try to pretend that our last program was anything short of a giant bore—but we're back on track tonight.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that her producer, Nathan Hurd, had planted his hands on his hips, a sure sign that he was displeased. He hated it when she admitted on the air that one of their shows wasn't wonderful, but her famous royal guest on the last program had been incredibly long-winded and even her most impertinent questions hadn't livened him up. Unfortunately, that program, unlike the one they were now taping, had been broadcast live, so they hadn't been able to redo it.

  “With me this evening are four attractive young people, all of them children of famous peers of the British realm. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to grow up knowing that your life has already been mapped out for you? Do young royals ever feel like rebelling? Let's ask.”

  Francesca introduced her four guests, who were comfortably seated in the attractive livi
ng room arrangement that approximated the New York studio set where “Francesca Today” was normally taped. Then she turned her attention to the only child of one of Great Britain's most renowned dukes. “Lady Jane, have you ever thought about chucking family tradition and running off with the chauffeur?”

  Lady Jane laughed, then blushed, and Francesca knew she had the beginnings of an entertaining show.

  Two hours later, with the taping finished and her young guests' responses lively enough to keep the ratings up, Francesca stepped out of her taxi and entered the Connaught. Most Americans regarded Claridge's as the ultimate London hotel, but as someone who didn't want to be away from home in the first place, Francesca felt that the better choice was the tiny Connaught, which had only ninety rooms, the best service in the world, and a minimal chance of running into a rock star in the corridor.

  Her tiny frame was swathed from chin to midcalf in an elegant black Russian sable, which was set off by a pair of perfect pear-shaped four-carat diamond stud earrings that sparkled through the windblown chestnut of her hair. The lobby, with its Oriental rugs and dark-paneled walls, was warm and inviting after the damp December streets of Mayfair. A magnificent staircase covered by a brass-bordered carpet circled upward six stories, its mahogany banisters gleaming with polish. Although she was exhausted from a hectic week, she managed a smile for the hall porter. The head of every man in the lobby turned as she made her way to the small elevator located near the desk, but she didn't notice.

  Beneath the elegance of the sable and the expensive dazzle of the pear-shaped studs, Francesca's clothing was frankly funky. She had changed from her more conservative on-camera outfit into the clothes she had worn to the studio that morning—cropped, tight-fitting black leather pants accompanied by an oversize raspberry sweater appliquéd with a taupe teddy bear. Matching raspberry socks, neatly folded over at the tops, set offa pair of Susan Bennis flats. It, was an outfit that Teddy especially liked, since cuddly-looking bears and leather-clad motorcycle gangs were among his favorite things. She frequently wore it when they went out for the day, whether to raid F.A.O. Schwarz for a chemistry set, to visit the Temple of Dendur at the Metropolitan, or to pay a call on a slimy-looking pretzel vendor in Times Square whose wares, Teddy insisted, were the best in Manhattan.