There was a reason that in all the years I'd known Armand I hadn't introduced him to Lyla—I didn't want her to chew him up and spit him out like she did to most men. I actually liked Armand and didn't want to see him hurt. While I love Lyla, I had to be honest about her flavor-of-the-month addiction. The woman needed a twelve-step program for chronic heart breakers.
Armand had the good manners to look embarrassed. “Armand Hemingway.” He reached out to shake her hand.
She slid her palm across his, practically slithering closer. “Hemingway, huh? Any relation?"
"Actually...” And there it started. After two hours of listening to how Armand was related to the most famous writer in history, I gave up and went to bed leaving Armand to dish out his line and, much to my surprise, leaving Lyla to buy the thing hook, line and sinker.
* * * *
The diary entry that I'd read covertly in the van came to mind as I made my way backstage, but didn't seem to fit with the images flashing past me—flashing in every sense of the word. That had been the night Lyla found the love of her life just as mine was slipping through my fingers. Here we were just a few years later, and everything was topsy-turvy. The cast was still the same, but the script had changed so dramatically, it was hard to believe I was the same character.
We forged on through fleshy bodies, looking for any signs of Ted. Backstage at a drag club wasn't exactly what I'd expected. Of course, I wasn't sure what I had expected, but it didn't involve naked men in skullcaps wearing full makeup. I was surprised at how calm the aura of the place was, though I could hear an occasion squeal and the word “girlfriend” tossed around more than I'd ever heard in my life.
Lyla appeared to be in awe. “So that's how they get their eyeliner like that. I should hang out here and get some tips. Geez, check out that guy's cleavage! I wish my boobs did that."
"Focus, Ly.” But I was having a little trouble myself. How monumentally unfair is it that a guy who waxes his back is prettier than I am? “I wonder if Ted has his own dressing room."
"Ted? Who's Ted?” A voice roared about a foot above my ear. No, roared is the wrong word. It would have roared if it hadn't been altered to sound about an octave higher than nature had intended. “Sweetheart, if you're looking for someone, you need to tell me her stage name."
I braved a look up and felt like a Lilliputian. The guy—uh, the girl?—was about six-foot-six and needed a shave. I thought for a second he/she might be a bouncer, but the blue-sequined dress pretty much closed the case on that.
"Tiffany Taylor,” Lyla said from behind me, since it was fairly obvious that my voice had been stolen. “She's her old man."
Gigantica grinned. “You must be Maggie. Tiff's told us all about you."
"Oh God.” My voice wasn't working properly, and I actually squeaked. “Um, can I see him? Her? She?"
"Relax, honey, he's a him,” Gigantica said. “Depresses the hell out of a few of us around here, too. Come on, I'll show you his dressing room."
Lyla chortled as we followed the queen in blue down the hall. “Ted's the belle of the ball. Who'da thunk it?"
"Shut up, Ly,” I hissed between clamped teeth.
"What? I think it's great he's a hot ticket around here."
I felt my temples throb. “Oh my God."
We had arrived at a small pitted door with a foil star on it. Below the star was a hand-printed sign reading “Tiffany Taylor.” Below that, a note scrawled in cherry lipstick declared my ex-husband a stud muffin. It was more than Lyla could take.
"Oh, Lord!” She panted in her efforts to contain her delight. “Oh, I need some air."
"I'll show you the stage door,” Gigantica offered.
"Throw in a vodka sour and you're on."
He/she offered her arm, and Lyla disappeared down the hall arm-in-arm with a drag queen in blue sequins.
"I thought you were going to help me,” I hollered after her. “You know, moral support!"
"You'll be fine. Go get ‘im, babe!"
"And thank you very much,” I grumbled, and then took a deep breath in preparation for that fateful knock.
Okay, so I have a tendency toward the dramatic. Live with it.
After pausing long enough with my fist in midair to draw several overly mascaraed stares, I let my knuckles fall against the door, making a tiny rap.
"For God's sake, Paul, I'm not going to dinner with you tonight!"
Okay. Unexpected response. I could handle that. Maybe. “Uh, it's not Paul. Whoever that is,” I said to the door.
A few seconds passed before the knob turned and a familiar eye peeked out from the subsequent crack. “Maggie?"
"Guilty.” I shrugged.
"My God, Maggie!” Ted burst out of the door, still wearing the Bob Mackey knockoff and more eyeshadow than I'd worn cumulatively since I was thirteen. Before I knew what was happening, his lips were pressed to mine in a kiss so persistent I discovered lipstick doesn't taste so wonderful when you're on the receiving end. I couldn't protest, though. I was frozen.
When the wolf-whistles and catcalls started, Ted backed off. “Jesus, honey! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Did you see the show? What'd you think? Boy, you look fabulous!"
"Slow down, Loverboy,” a skinny brunette said as he passed by. “You don't want to drown her with questions."
Ted was beaming, his face one big grin. “Come on, Mags. Let's go inside where we can be alone."
The catcalls started again. Ted didn't seem to hear them. I was still in a state of shock and was barely registering anything. He took me by the hand, leading me into his dressing room.
It was a tiny room but neat with a comfortable-looking couch. On one side of the room was a dressing table buried under lotions, potions, tiny bottles of colored goo and liquids for which I could only imagine a use. On the opposite wall was a rack laden with sequined silk gowns, all with matching shoes.
I have to admit it. I was a little jealous of the wardrobe.
Ted wrapped me in his arms again, pulling me off my feet in a bear hug. “Oh, God, I've missed you."
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the way things used to be. How I loved the breadth of his shoulders and the warmth of his breath on my skin. If it weren't for the falsies poking into my chest, I could just about convince myself that this wasn't the weirdest situation I'd ever been in.
Before he could kiss me again, I pried myself out of his embrace as gracefully as possible. “Ted, let me breathe a second, will you?"
"I'm sorry.” He forced the smile off his face. “I'm just so thrilled to see you, I got carried away. This is all pretty strange for you, isn't it?"
"No,” I said too quickly. “No, it's okay."
"It's all right to be freaked out. I understand."
I had been trying for the last eight hours to psych myself into not being freaked out, to cover myself with an impervious shell. While I was irritated I hadn't pulled it off, it was good to know that it was okay it wasn't working. “I'm sorry, Ted. I'm trying to deal with it all here. I really am."
"I know. It's all right. I'm just so happy to see you here. Really, you look terrific! Are you doing something new with your makeup? I swear you're glowing!"
He reached for me again, but I managed to sidestep and find a perch on the arm of the couch. It was all this hugging nonsense that got me into this predicament in the first place. “Actually, it's that glow I wanted to talk to you about."
Ted's face suddenly dropped, and this time not on purpose. “You're in love.” His voice was low and lifeless. “I knew it would happen someday. I just didn't think it would be so soon after—"
"No, that's not it.” I wondered for a moment who I was trying to convince. “I'm not in love, Ted. With anyone.” I looked at him with as much meaning in my eyes as I could muster. He looked back at me with soulful blue eyes ... lined with electric blue. “Ted, I'm sorry, but this whole look is throwing me off my train of thought. Do you think you could eighty-si
x the makeup?"
He shrugged. “Sorry, babe, but I still have the late show to do. It just takes too damned long to hide my five o'clock shadow to do this all more than once a night.” He brightened. “But if you want, I can take off the dress. Would that help?"
"Sure.” I'll admit it. I was grateful. When he asked me to help him with his zipper, I was a little less grateful. He sat down across from me, crossed his legs and draped his long fire-engine red nails across his bare knees. I decided I had to ignore the nails.
And the bustier. And garter belt.
"Ted, do you remember that night we signed the divorce papers? The last time we were ... well, we were ... together?"
"Oh boy do I remember it.” He leaned toward me and reached out again. “God, Maggie, I miss you."
Focus, I reminded myself. I had a job to do. “Well, we ... we did something that night."
"Besides cracking the top of your grandmother's hope chest?” His fake cleavage bounced as he laughed.
"Well, yeah.” It was no use. I couldn't concentrate. My eyes were glued to Ted's bustier. “Ted, can you take that off or cover it up or something?"
He looked down at himself. “What? You're uncomfortable? Come on, Mags, you've seen me more naked than this. In fact, I remember a few naked times in our shower that still burn my—"
"Naked, yes. With breasts, not so much. And the wig. Honestly, Ted, it's difficult enough to discuss this without the wig."
Ted smiled, but there was annoyance behind it. He slipped off his wig, revealing his dark hair, which had been slicked back in a skullcap. Over his augmentations he threw a terrycloth robe. “Better?"
"It'll do,” I told him. “I'm sorry. I'm trying to be supportive here, but this is hard enough without having to look at ... you know."
"What is so hard to say, Maggie? You know my deepest darkest secrets, you can say anything to me."
I felt the urge to run, but I'd stalled enough. After all, Armand had taken the news pretty well when I told him.
Then again, Armand wasn't the one who'd knocked me up.
"Enough preamble,” I announced, more to myself than Ted. “We created something that night."
He smiled again. “That old loving feeling?"
"No, that old nauseous feeling. Ted, I'm pregnant."
His smile froze, but his eyes darted from my face to my belly and back again. “What?"
"Pregnant,” I repeated.
"With a baby?"
"No, with a goldfish. Of course with a baby!"
The smile was gone, as was his easy demeanor. Instead, he hopped out of his chair and paced. “What are you going to do with it?"
"I thought I'd keep it in a bowl in the front window and show it to all my friends."
He turned to me. “You know, I don't think sarcasm is going to help at this point."
"I don't exactly think it could hurt.” The good news was that I wasn't uncomfortable anymore. The bad news was I was starting to get angry. “Hell, Ted, I'm keeping it. As if there was ever any question."
"And you're sure it's mine?” he asked. Yep. He was still a guy, despite the enormous breasts that were peeking over the top of his robe.
"Of course.” I was trying to cut him a little slack. God only knows why. “For Pete's sake, I didn't expect you to gush or anything at the news, but I didn't think you'd question my moral character."
"What do you want from me, Maggie? Did you expect me to fall at your feet and promise to marry you again? Did you want me give everything up to come home and be a father to the kid?"
"Yes! No. I don't know!” It was true. I didn't know what I wanted. I had imagined several different scenarios, and the possibilities had been running through my head since I'd agreed to let Lyla drag me to Atlantic City. The problem was I hadn't liked a single one of them. “I have no idea what I want you to do, but I sure as hell didn't expect you to act like ... well, whatever you're acting like!"
"Like you're trying to trap me into a marriage you chose to end?"
Okay. Last straw. “Excuse me? You were the one sharing your cherry cheesecake lipstick ten minutes ago. Uninvited, I might add. And now you're acting like I'm the traitor here?"
"Traitor?” he bellowed. “Is one of us supposed to be a traitor?"
"Which one of us is wearing falsies?” Ouch. Low blow, and I knew it. Ted knew it, too, and looked like I'd just hit him with a two-by-four. I took a breath and made my heart stop racing. “I'm sorry, Ted. Listen, I know this is a shock. Hell, I'm still in shock and I've had some time to get used to it."
The heated color drained out of Ted's face. “Yeah, I'm sorry, too. I just need some time to get used to this."
A knock on the door startled us both. “Ten minutes to show time, Miss Thang,” Gigantica's voice called.
Ted grimaced. “I'm kind of in the middle of something, Paul."
"That's Paulina to you, Miss I've-Got-Better-People-to-Do. I don't care if you're in the middle of signing a Middle East peace accord, get your saggy ass out here."
"Shit.” Ted put his face in his palm. “Mags, I've gotta go. Let's get together for lunch tomorrow. At the casino downstairs. By then, I don't know, maybe I'll have a clue what I want to do."
I resisted the urge to shout What you want to do? What about what I want to do? at the top of my lungs. “All right,” I said instead. “One o'clock?"
"Yeah. Sounds good. Tomorrow.” He turned to the mirror and, without another word, put on his wig.
I crept out the door, this time not even noticing the oddly dressed men around me. My mind was still on the oddly dressed man behind me.
* * * *
It hadn't gone so well. That was pretty obvious. What was even worse, though, was that my moral support had abandoned me to return to our room. By the time I got back, she was snoring away and only mumbled incoherently when I tried to chew her out. Still, it wasn't all that surprising when Little Miss Mary Sunshine woke me at the crack of dawn, chirping, “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!"
"Bite me,” was my less than gracious reply.
"Get up, Maggie. You have to feed that growing baby more than peanut butter cups. I ordered room service."
I rolled onto my back, glaring at Lyla through the slits of my eyelids. “Oh look. It's Brutus and Cassias all rolled into one."
"Sorry.” Lyla didn't sound at all apologetic. “But that damned vodka sour Paulina gave me knocked me on my ass!"
"There goes your party girl image.” I closed my eyes again.
She laughed. “Oh, I think that disappeared when the stretch marks came along. Come on, get some breakfast and tell me how Daddy took it."
"Hrgff,” I groaned and rolled out of the bed and onto the floor. I stood up and looked down at my body, covered by an oversized tee shirt. “Holy crap! What is that?"
Lyla looked over at me, unaffected by my squawks. “Um, that would be Bob."
"That wasn't there last night when I went to bed."
"I told you. They do that sometimes. They just pop out.” She walked over and rubbed my now-rounded tummy. “You can still hide him under a sweater. I know some tricks I'll teach you."
I couldn't take my eyes off the bulge under my shirt. “But how? I mean there was nothing there yesterday. Well, maybe a little bulge, but not this!"
"Who knows?” Lyla went back to the room service tray. “Maybe he rolled over, maybe there's more fluid all of a sudden. Face it, Maggie; you're short and pretty tiny. That kid doesn't have a whole lot of room in there. He was bound to make an appearance."
A horrible thought occurred to me and I ran across the room to grab my jeans. The last pair of jeans that actually fit. I slid them on and tried to bring the button to the hole. No dice. I flopped onto the bed and tried to suck it in. Nope.
"What are you doing?” Lyla asked, her mouth full of toast.
"These have to fit. They just have to!"
"They're not going to.” She shoveled some egg. “Face it, you need maternity clothes. You need more pants
than shirts right now, but you might as well get them both at the same time."
I wrestled on, getting tangled in the bed sheets as I fought to fasten my pants. “How am I going to get to the store to buy maternity clothes if I don't have pants?"
"You'll wear mine."
I stopped rolling around and stared at her. “Huh?"
"I know what you're thinking—they're too long. We'll roll them up at the bottom so you won't trip. But since Jack was born, I'm wearing a larger size and they'll fit you fine.” She looked up from her plate. “They'll be tight, mind you. But they'll work."
I gave up on my jeans. “Crap."
Lyla sighed. “What now?"
"I'm pregnant."
Her eyes rolled. “Now there's a newsflash. Gee, Maggie, you're pretty quick. Four pregnancy tests can't convince you, but when your Levis get too tight, it gets your attention."
"It's not that. It's just that everything has changed. Everything. And now ... now that I am getting a little more used to the idea of being alone, this is going to change everything again!"
Lyla separated herself from her plate and came to sit beside me. She gently rubbed her palm on my shoulders. “I know, honey. I can't imagine what this is like for you. But you'll get through it, I promise. Now come get some breakfast and we'll talk about what happened with Ted. Then we're going to go get you outfitted. Okay?"
"Okay.” I sniffled, feeling like a child who needed her mommy. “As long as you promise no leggings."
She laughed again, pulling me toward the table. “I promise. No leggings. Now eat."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twelve
September 4
Keep an eye out for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Lyla is getting married. That's right, Miss I'm-Never-Gonna-Do-It has fallen in love. With Armand. They're both happy, and I'm so thrilled for them, but I hope they don't have to go through what I have.
"This is crazy,” I announced as we drove around the block for the fifth time. “We're never going to find this bridal shop."
Let's Dish Page 12