Good in Bed

by Jennifer Weiner

  I walked to the windows, which overlooked a lit swimming pool in which nobody was swimming. There was a tiki bar with the requisite thatched roof and torches, thronged with people – all young, all gorgeous, most of them pierced and tattooed and looking like they were on their way to shoot a music video. Beyond that, smog, and Calvin Klein billboards, and the glittering lights of the city.

  And there, with his back to the room, with a glass in his hand, staring off into the night, was… oh, God, was it? Yes. Adrian Stadt. I could recognize him from the shape of his shoulders, the set of his hips. Lord knows I’d spent enough time mooning over his pictures. His hair was cut short, and the back of his neck glimmered in the dim room.

  Adrian wasn’t handsome in the classic rugged-leading-man mode, and he wasn’t one of the latest crop of androgynous pretty boys, either. He was more boy-next-door – medium height, regular features, unremarkable brown hair, and standard-issue brown eyes. What made him special, appearance-wise, was his smile – the sweet, crooked grin that exposed an ever-so-slightly chipped front tooth (he always told interviewers that he’d done it falling out of his treehouse at age nine). And those regular brown eyes could convey a thousand variations on bafflement, bewilderment, befuddlement – in short, all of the b words necessary to playing the lead in a romantic comedy. Taken by themselves, the pieces were nothing special, but put them together and you had a bona fide Hollywood hottie. At least, that’s what Moxie called him in the “Men We Crave!” issue.

  I’d been thankfully immune to teenage crushes, had never papered my locker with pictures of New Edition or anything, but I had feelings for Adrian Stadt. Watching him on Saturday Night! as he cringed and whined his way through impressions of Kid Picked Last for Kickball Team or sang the faux-operatic “PTA Mother’s Lament,” I’d felt that if we’d known each other, we could have been friends… or more. Of course, judging from his popularity, millions of other women felt exactly the same way. But how many of them were standing in the Star Bar on a warm spring night in Los Angeles, with the object of their affection in front of them?

  I shuffled back until I was leaning against a pillar, trying to hide so I could stare, uninterrupted, at Adrian Stadt’s back and trying to decide whether I’d call Lucy or Samantha first with the news. Things were going fine until a gaggle of skinny girls on stilettos surged into the room and planted themselves in front of, behind, and all around me. I felt like an elephant who’d blundered into a herd of sleek, fast, gorgeous antelope, and I couldn’t see an easy way to blunder my way back out.

  “Hold this a sec?” the tallest, blondest, thinnest of the girls asked me, indicating her silvery pashmina shawl. I took the shawl, then stared at her, feeling my mouth gape open. It was Bettina Vance, lead singer of the chart-topping power punk band Screaming Ophelia – one of my late-night dancing favorites when I was in a bitter mood.

  “I love your music,” I blurted, as Bettina snatched a martini.

  She looked at me, bleary-eyed, and sighed. “If I had a nickel for every fat girl who said that to me…”

  I felt as shocked as if she’d thrown ice water in my face. All this makeup, my great haircut, new clothes, all of my success, and all the Bettina Vances of the world would see was another fat girl, sitting alone in her room, listening to rock stars sing about lives they couldn’t even dream about, lives they would never know.

  I felt the baby kick then, like a little fist rapping sternly at me from the inside, like a reminder. Suddenly, I thought, the hell with her. I thought, I’m someone, too.

  “Why would you need donations? Aren’t you rich already?” I inquired. A few of the gazelles tittered. Bettina rolled her eyes at me. I reached into my purse and, thankfully, felt my fingers close around what I needed. “Here’s your nickel,” I said sweetly. “Maybe you can start saving for your next nose job.”

  The titters turned to outright laughter. Bettina Vance was staring at me.

  “Who are you?” she hissed.

  A few answers occurred: A former fan? An angry fat girl? Your worst nightmare?

  Instead, I went for the simple, understated, and, not coincidentally, true answer. “I’m a writer,” I said softly, forcing myself not to retreat or look away.

  Bettina glared at me for what felt like an unbelievably long time. Then she snatched her shawl out of my hands and stalked off, taking her gaggle of size zeros with her. I leaned back against the pillar, shaking, and ran one hand over my belly. “Bitch,” I whispered to the baby. One of the men who’d been hanging at the edge of the crowd smiled at me, then walked away before his face could really register. In the instant it took me to figure out who he was, Maxi was back at my side.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Adrian Stadt,” I managed.

  “Didn’t I tell you he was here?” asked Maxi impatiently. “Jesus, what’s with Bettina?”

  “Never mind Bettina,” I burbled. “Adrian Stadt just smiled at me! Do you know him?”

  “A little bit,” she said. “Do you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “He’s in my bowling league back in Philadelphia.”

  Maxi looked puzzled. “Isn’t he from New York?”

  “Kidding,” I told her. “Of course I don’t know him! But I’m a major fan.” I paused, debating whether to tell Maxi that Adrian Stadt had basically inspired my screenplay. Just as Josie Weiss was me, Avery Trace was Adrian, only with a different name, and without the annoying penchant for dating supermodels. Before I’d decided what to say, she connected the dots. “You know, he’d be a perfect Avery,” she murmured. “We should talk to him.”

  She headed toward the window. I froze. She turned around.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t just walk up to him and start talking.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m…” I tried to think of a nice way to say, “in a completely different league than handsome, famous movie stars.” I arrived at “… pregnant.”

  “I think,” said Maxi, “that pregnant people are still allowed to converse with nonpregnant people.”

  I hung my head. “I’m shy.”

  “Oh, you are not shy. You’re a reporter, for heaven’s sake!”

  She had a point. It was true that, in my working life, I could, and have, routinely just walked up to people far more powerful or influen-tial or better-looking than me. But not Adrian Stadt. Not the guy I’d allowed myself a one-hundred-page daydream about. What if he didn’t like me? Or what if, in person, I didn’t like him? Wouldn’t it be better to just preserve the fantasy?

  Maxi shifted from foot to foot. “Cannie…”

  “I’m better on the phone,” I finally muttered. Maxi sighed, charmingly, the way she did everything. “Wait here,” she said, and hurried to the bar. When she came back there was a cell phone in her hand.

  “Oh, no,” I said when I saw it. “I had bad luck with that phone.”

  “It’s a different phone,” said Maxi, squinting at the numbers she’d drawn on her hand with what looked like lipliner. “Smaller. Lighter. More expensive.” The phone started ringing. She handed it to me. Across the room, in front of the room-length windows, Adrian Stadt flipped his own phone open. I could see his lips moving, reflected in the glass.

  “Hello?”

  “Don’t jump,” I said. It was the first thing I could think of. As I spoke, I moved so I was standing behind a pillar draped in white silk, hidden from his view, but in a spot where I could still see his reflection in the window. “Don’t jump,” I said again. “Nothing could be that bad.”

  He gave a short, rueful laugh. “You don’t know,” he said.

  “Sure I do,” I said, with the phone in a death grip in my suddenly sweaty hand. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was talking – flirting, even! – with Adrian Stadt. “You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re talented…”

  “Flatterer,” he said. He had a wonderful voice, low and warm. I wondered why he al
ways spoke in that weird whiny singsong in his movies, if he really sounded like this.

  “But it’s true! You are. And you’re in this wonderful place, and it’s a beautiful night. You can see the stars.”

  Another bitter burst of laughter. “Stars,” he sneered. “Like I’d want to.”

  “Not those stars,” I said. “Look out the window,” I told him. I watched his eyes as he did what I said. “Look up.” He tilted his head. “See that bright star, just off to your right?”

  Adrian squinted. “I can’t see anything. Pollution,” he explained. He turned from the window, scanning the crowd. “Where are you?”

  I ducked even farther behind my pillar. When I swallowed, I could hear my throat click.

  “Or at least tell me who you are.”

  “A friend.”

  “Are you in this room?”

  “Maybe.”

  His voice took on a faint, teasing edge. “Can I see you?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m shy,” I said. “And wouldn’t you like to get to know me better this way?”

  He smiled. I could see his lips curving in the window. “How do I know you’re real?” he asked.

  “You don’t,” I said. “I could be a figment of your imagination.”

  He turned around swiftly, and for a second I felt his eyes on me. I dropped the phone, picked it up, clicked it off, and handed it back to Maxi, all in one motion that I would like to think was smooth, but probably wasn’t.

  Instantly, the phone started ringing. Maxi flipped it open. “Hello?”

  I could hear Adrian’s voice. “Figment? Figment, is that you?”

  “Hold, please,” Maxi said crisply, and handed the phone back to me. I slipped back behind my pillar.

  “Star 69 is the bane of human existence in the nineties,” I began. “Whatever happened to anonymity?”

  “Anonymity,” he repeated slowly, as if it was the first time he’d said the word.

  “Just think,” I continued, “of the generations of pubescent boys who are never going to be able to make hang-up calls to the girls they’ve got crushes on. Think of how they’ll be stunted.”

  “You’re funny,” he said.

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” I replied.

  “So can I see you?”

  I held the phone as tightly as I could and didn’t answer.

  “I’m going to keep calling until you let me see you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you sound very nice. Can’t I buy you a drink?”

  “I don’t drink,” I said.

  “Don’t you ever get thirsty?” he asked, and I laughed in spite of myself.

  “Let me see you,” he said.

  I sighed, straightened my tunic, cast a quick glance around to make sure Bettina Vance was elsewhere, then walked up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder. “Hey,” I said, hoping that he’d get the full impact of my hair and makeup before getting to my belly. “Hi.”

  He turned, slowly. In person, he was adorable. Taller than I’d imagined, and so cute, so sweet looking. And drunk. Very, very drunk.

  He smiled at me. I picked up my phone. He grabbed my wrist. “No,” he said, “face-to-face.”

  I turned the telephone off.

  He was so handsome up close. On the screen he looked cute, not gorgeous, but in the flesh he was amazing, with beautiful brown eyes, and…

  “You’re pregnant,” he blurted.

  Okay, not precisely a news flash, but it was something.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m pregnant. I’m Cannie.”

  “Cannie,” he repeated. “Where’s your, um…” And he waved one arm in the air in a vague way that I took to mean “baby’s father.”

  “I’m here by myself,” I said, deciding to let it go at that.“Actually, I’m here with Maxi Ryder.”

  “I’m here alone,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I’m always alone.”

  “Now, I know that isn’t true,” I said. “I happen to be aware that you are dating a German medical student named Inga.”

  “Greta,” he murmured. “We broke up. You’ve got some memory.”

  I shrugged and tried to look modest. “I’m a fan,” I said. I was trying to figure out whether it would be completely tacky to ask for his autograph, when Adrian grabbed my hand.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Do you want to go outside?”

  “Outside?” Did I want to go outside with Adrian Stadt? Did the Pope wear a big hat? I nodded so hard I was worried I’d give myself whiplash, and darted off into the halter-topped, miniskirted masses in search of Maxi. I located her at last in the crush by the bar. “Listen,” I said, “I’m going outside with Adrian Stadt for a minute.”

  “Oh, you are, are you?” she said archly.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, no?”

  “He seems kind of… lonely.”

  “Hmph. Well, remember, he is an actor.” She thought about it. “Well, actually, a comedian who makes movies.”

  “We’re just going for a walk,” I said, feeling desperate not to upset or offend her, but even more desperate to get back to Adrian.

  “Whatever,” she said airily. She scribbled her number on a napkin and held out her hand for the cell phone. “Give me a call from wherever you are.”

  I handed her the phone, tucked the number into my purse, and rolled my eyes. “Oh, right. I’ll be off seducing him. It’ll be very romantic. We’ll be snuggling on the couch, and I’ll kiss him, and he’ll tell me he adores me, and then my unborn child will kick him in the ribs.”

  Maxi stopped looking sulky.

  “And then I’ll film the whole thing, and sell the rights to Fox, and they’ll turn it into a special. World’s Kinkiest Threesomes.”

  Maxi laughed. “Okay. Just be careful.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and, unbelievably, found that Adrian Stadt was still waiting. I smiled at him, and he led me to the elevator, down and out the door, where we found ourselves standing in front of what looked like a highway. No benches, no grass, not even a lowly bus shelter, or a sidewalk to stroll on.

  “Huh,” I said.

  Adrian, meanwhile, was looking even more tipsy than he had in the Star Bar. The fresh air didn’t seem to be having the sobering effect I was hoping for. He grabbed at my hand, managing to get my wrist instead, and pulled me close to him… well, as close as my belly would allow.

  “Kiss me,” he said, and I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Kiss me! Like a line from a movie! I was looking over his shoulder for the inevitable bright lights and milling extras and director ready to yell “Cut!” when Adrian took his thumb and traced it along my cheek, then down over my lips. It was a move that I was pretty sure I’d seen him perform on screen, but I found that I didn’t much care. “Cannie,” he whispered. Just hearing him say my name was making me throb in places I hadn’t expected to feel anything until the baby came. “Kiss me.” He brought his lips down to mine, and I tilted my face up, and my body away, as his hand curved behind my neck and held my head like it was something precious. Oh, so sweet a kiss, I thought, and then his lips were back on mine, harder, his hand more insistent, as the traf-fic rushed by us and I felt myself melting, forgetting my resolve, my history, my name.

  “Come with me,” he offered, raining kisses on my cheeks, my lips, my eyelids.

  “I’m staying at a hotel…,” I murmured weakly, realizing as soon as the words were out of my mouth that it sounded like the cheapest come-on ever. And what was going on here, anyhow? Could he really be that lonely? Did he have a thing for pregnant women? Was this perhaps his idea of a joke? “Do you want to maybe…” I tried to think quickly. If I were in Philadelphia, if I were standing on a street being groped by the ultimate object of my desire who was very very drunk, what would I suggest? But, of course, I couldn’t think of a thing. Nothing in my life had even come close. “Go to a bar?” I finally o
ffered. “A diner, maybe?”

  Adrian reached into his pocket and produced what I figured must be a valet ticket. “How about a ride?” he said.

  “Can we…” I thought quickly. “Can we go to see the beach? It’s such a beautiful night” Which was not exactly true. It was an extremely smoggy night, but at least it was warm, and there was a breeze.

  Adrian rocked back and forth on his feet and gave me a sweet, slightly dopey grin. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

  First, though, there was the not inconsequential matter of getting him to surrender the keys.

  “Ooh, a convertible,” I cooed when a small red car arrived at the curb. “I’ve never driven one.” I shot him my most coy and charming glance. “Could I drive it?” He handed over the keys without a word, then sat beside me quietly, not saying much except to tell me where I should turn.

  When I glanced over he had his hand pressed to his forehead.

  “Headache?” I asked. He nodded with his eyes shut. “Beer before liquor?”

  He winced. “Ecstasy before vodka, actually,” he said.

  Oof. I guessed if I was going to stay in Hollywood, I’d have to get used to people casually confessing to recreational drug use. “You don’t look ecstatic,” I ventured.

  He yawned. “Maybe I’ll ask for a refund,” he said, and glanced at me sideways. “So, you’re, um… when are you…”

  “I’m due on June fifteenth,” I said.

  “So your, um, husband’s back in…”

  I decided to end the game of fill-in-the-blank. “I’m from Philadel-phia, and I don’t have a husband. Or a boyfriend.”