Ms. Taken Identity

by Dan Begley

  “Do you ever get tired of that?” I ask. “People more or less pawing you with their eyes wherever you go?”

  She smiles as if I’ve said something terribly amusing, which I don’t think I have. “No. I don’t.”

  “Really? Never?”

  “Really. Never.”

  She can tell I’m having a tough time believing that, because she gives me another smile, this one sympathetic. “Let me explain something, Mitch. Do you have any idea who I was before I was this?” and here she makes a mock grandiose gesture to refer to herself.

  It’s a dangerous question (a thousand times more dangerous than “Does this make my ass look big?”) because if I base it on how she looks today, then subtract fifteen or so years to get her back before it all started, I’m tempted to say something like “the highest-priced call girl in town,” which, I believe, isn’t the kind of thing a woman wants to hear. So I take the easy way out.

  “I don’t know. Fashion consultant for Elle?”

  She just laughs. “No, not quite. I was a secretary for an insurance agent. The woman you’d call to give the make and model and year of your new car, and I’d quote you rates, depending on your age and zip code and what kind of deductible you wanted. Or maybe it was a boat or trailer or motorcycle. I did those too. I sat in front of a computer screen all day and took smoke breaks and was thirty pounds overweight. That was Katharine Longwell.”

  I’ve seen those before-and-after diet ads in magazines. She could definitely do one, if she still has the before pictures. Not that she needs to, with the writing career and all.

  “Those were desperate days, Mitch. I wanted to kill myself. Not that I was actually suicidal, but I just wanted to put an end to that type of life. This is what I’d been so excited to get to when I was a kid and couldn’t wait to grow up? So I started to write. I created a character just like me, a woman who was overweight, stuck in a dead-end career, with a history of bad relationships and no good prospects on the horizon. But then I gave her what I wanted: a fairy godmother, an escape, a way to change her life. She wins a contest to go to the Academy Awards with a celebrity date. Can I tell you it was Pierce Brosnan, even though I called him Brock? Anyway, she finds the willpower to lose the weight, become more assertive and self-possessed, so that by the time she gets to the Oscars and meets Brock, and he’s a dud, she has become fabulous, star quality herself, inside and out, and her life takes off from there.”

  The story she’s talking about is Leading Lady, her first novel. And bestseller. And movie. As if you didn’t know.

  “Let me tell you, Mitch, I had a great time turning the ugly duckling into a princess. And it was easy to do, because it was all in my head, and anything can happen there. But then one day I realized that it didn’t have to be just in my head. I was alive, I still had dreams, and I could change my life, if I wanted. So I quit my job, did some freelance writing, started eating better and going to the gym and smiling more. And maybe I wasn’t having tantric sex with my twenty-two-year-old hunky personal trainer or tying the hands of A-list actors to the bedposts, like my heroine, but at least I was getting second glances, having guys want my number, getting an article published here or there, liking myself. So that by the time I finished writing my book, I was looking people in the eye and taking chances and believing in myself. I’d created a different me, one that my ten-year-old self would be proud of, a woman who was strong and sexy and confident. I’d already won. And then the novel got published and flew off the shelves, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Here, she gives a delicious smile.

  “Has some of it gone to my head? You bet it has. I love my clothes, my cars, my spa retreats, my ski trips to Tahoe, the fact that I can see a handsome young man in a coffee shop and flirt with him and fly him up to dinner on a day’s notice because from the moment I laid eyes on him, I knew exactly the suit he’d look good in. And you do look good, Mitch.” Here, Katharine Longwell—shopper, spa-hopper, and slope-dropper—gives me a smoldering gaze. “But beyond indulging my whims whenever and however I please, it’s also given me the power to take on causes, adopt pet projects, like helping out Bradley with her writing. And I love doing that. Because in my heart of hearts, Mitch, despite the red carpets and Elton John Oscar parties and magazine cover shoots, that’s what I am, too: a writer. And my greatest pride still comes from knowing that I’m able to lay a good story down on the page.”

  “Not according to critics.” It’s out before I can stop it. “I mean, that’s what my cousin says. And she hates them for it.”

  “Ah, the critics. Well, with all due respect, when it comes to the critics, I made a decision a long time ago not to be a Keats.”

  “Pardon?”

  “John Keats. English poet. Familiar with him?”

  “Yeah. A little.”

  “‘Ode on a Grecian Urn.’ ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci.’ Sublime. Anyway, the critics hated his first book of poetry, he never got over it, and eventually it killed him.”

  “Uh, didn’t he also have TB?”

  “Sure he did. But the reviews crushed his spirit, took away his will to fight it. That’s what I believe. In any case, I promised myself I wouldn’t be one of those writers who lived and died by what the critics said. Great, if they loved me. But given the choice, I’d rather have my readers love me.”

  “But isn’t that just pandering, appealing to the lowest common denominator?”

  “Why? Just because the books sell lots of copies and people are entertained?”

  “Yeah, basically. I mean, it shouldn’t really matter how much people are entertained, or how many people read it. A novel should be art.”

  “And it is, sometimes. It’s called literature. Artists do it, like Woolf and Faulkner and Flaubert. The rest of us are a different breed. We’re storytellers. We’re the ones who gather people around the campfire and spin yarns. Except we do it on the page.”

  I cross my arms.

  “You don’t think that’s good enough, do you? That there’s value in just weaving a good story and being entertaining?”

  “No” is what I want to say, but I’m at risk of digging myself, and my cousin, into a bigger hole and blowing my cover, so I just sort of shrug.

  She gives me a smile. “Let me ask you something, Mitch. You’ve heard of the Arabian Nights, right? Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad the Sailor…”

  I nod.

  “Do you know who tells those stories?”

  “Scheherazade.”

  “Good. And do you know why?”

  I honestly can’t remember. So I just shake my head.

  “King Shahriyar’s first wife cheats on him, so in revenge, enlightened soul that he is, he takes a new bride each day and executes her after the wedding night. Scheherazade is his latest, and she knows what’s coming, so on her wedding night she tells the king a story, but she leaves it incomplete, promising to finish the next night. The king is so enthralled by the tale, he puts off killing her for one night, to hear the end. And the next night she does the same, and the next, and the next, until all her tales are told, and he’s been so captivated by the thousand and one nights of her stories, Ali Baba and all the rest, that he permanently abandons his plan to kill her, or any other women. Armed only with her wiles and a collection of entertaining stories, she saves her own life, and the life of every other woman in the kingdom.”

  It sounds familiar now that she’s saying it, so I’ll assume she’s not making it up.

  “Mitch, you’re a smart guy and you can probably see it yourself. But I think there’s a moral there.” She leans forward in her chair and I catch a whiff of her perfume, which still smells great. “Even those stories that merely entertain us have the power to touch us and delight us, and that goes a long way toward making us more human.”

  I’m sure I could rebut her if I wanted, come up with something from Goethe or Stendhal or Henry James that has nothing to do with stories as entertainment. But right now I don’t feel much like tr
ying. Sitting in my new clothes, listening to piano jazz, smelling Katharine’s perfume, watching our waiter serve us our bottle of Bordeaux, I think I’d rather just kick back and enjoy my dinner.

  Later, we drive back to her brownstone to “talk about the book.” What this means, I assume, is that she’ll grab some champagne and slip into a swimsuit the size of a shoestring and shuttle us out to her Bachelor-style hot tub for some one-on-one time (“Time to earn your flight up here, big boy”), so I already have my excuse: I’m allergic to champagne. And swimsuits. And water. But instead of stripping down to our skivvies and “talking about the book,” we actually sit on the sofa in her living room and talk about the book. There are some minor changes she’d make—jazz up some names, tone down a drunken St. Tropez orgy, give the husband a redeeming quality or two (since why would Courtney go back to him, even temporarily, before she winds up with the other guy?)—but overall, Bradley is on the right track, her instincts are good, she’s got a firm grasp of the genre, the writing is strong and funny. In other words, Katharine likes it a lot. So much, in fact, that though it’s only a hundred pages, if Bradley keeps up as she’s going right now, Catwalk Mama could find its way into print.

  I nearly fall off the sofa. “You mean… as in published?”

  She nods. “Of course, I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up too early. This isn’t the easiest business to break into, and even with all my connections, it’s not like I can just wave a wand and get it published for her. But I think it has the chance to be something special. If the rest stays this clever, sexy, and good-hearted, I’d be happy to pass it along to my agent, throw a little weight around, see if I can’t get something rolling.”

  Katharine Longwell as my fairy godmother? “This is great. I appreciate that. I mean, we both do.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t done anything.”

  But we both know she has—in a big way. She smiles and reaches out to clink my wineglass.

  I finish my sip, then stifle a yawn, but not quickly enough, because it catapults Katharine into one of her own, a long catlike thing, as she arches her back and stretches her arms over her head, and the dress pulls tighter across her chest. Apparently, from the looks of things, she’s sleepy and chilly.

  “Mitch, this is the point where I’m supposed to drive you back to your hotel. But I’m just too damned tired. And Brent is off, doing whatever he does.” She puts a hand on my thigh. “How about you just spend the night here?”

  Oh, god: now it’s happening. “Here?” I ask, an octave too high.

  “Here, Mitch. My place. Casa Longwell.”

  “Oh, hey, Spanish. ‘Mi casa, tu casa, sí?’” I cough. “Hmm. Sure.” I give a little bounce on the sofa. “Comfy. No bed for me. Right here is just fine.”

  She laughs. “You’re not sleeping on the sofa, Mitch. I’ve got something much better in mind.”

  She gets up and stands in front of me and offers her hand, which I accept (what the hell can I do?), then leads me down the hallway, shoes in one hand, mine in the other. We stop in a doorway. She flips on a light. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Well, what do you think?” she asks.

  Nothing, since I’m still in the dark. But slowly I squint them open, till I can make out hardwood flooring, forest green walls, and a bed. It’s humongous.

  “You should find everything you need in the bathroom. Fresh towels, a robe, even slippers. Though the other guest room has a bigger TV.”

  Other guest room? My heart begins to beat again. “No, this is perfect. I love it.”

  She tilts her head, shakes out her hair, gives me a sidelong glance. “Of course, if you’d prefer to join me in my bed, that would be fine, too.”

  When I was a kid, I’d occasionally put up a stink when my parents told me it was time for bed, insist I wasn’t tired, plead for another ten minutes of TV time, argue that Scott got to stay up later. Did it work? Never. Because when you’re eight years old, you do as you’re told.

  That’s how I feel right now.

  “Katharine, uh, how do I say this? I’m extremely, um, flattered by the offer. You’re a stunning woman. But the thing is, well, I’m sort of seeing someone at the moment.”

  “Ah. So what’s her name?”

  “Marie.”

  She gives me a smile. “I’ve always liked that name. Marie.” She says it with the care of a poet, gives extra air to the long e sound, and hearing someone say it that way makes me realize how much I love the sound of those syllables. “Is it serious?”

  I freeze, since I’m worried it’s some sort of trick question, like if I say yes, she’ll ask me if my relationship with Marie is more important than helping out my cousin; but if I say no, then why won’t I sleep with her? There’s no good way out of this, not one that won’t result with her hissing at me to give back the clothes I’m wearing, right now, on the spot, since she paid for them, and forget about getting any help with Catwalk Mama, because it’s stupid and terrible, and did I think she was doing it out of the goodness of her heart; and I’ll be left to hail a cab in my boxers and black socks and despicably reeking manuscript. So I just think of Marie.

  “Very.”

  Her face warms. “Then she’s a lucky woman.” She grazes my wrist with her free hand. “Goodnight, Mitch.”

  She starts down the hall, but before she makes it to her room, she begins to unzip her dress, just to let me know what I won’t be seeing. I don’t even allow myself a look.

  In the morning we go out for breakfast, and more stares, but after what she said last night about being grateful for the attention, I’m getting better with it myself, and I even smile a couple times. Let them wonder who I am. She gives me a hug, then Brent drives me to the airport, and by noon I’m on my way back to St. Louis. Sitting at thirty thousand feet, I recap my weekend. Jason made love to a beautiful woman. Bradley has a good chance of getting her novel published. Mitch, well… his luck hasn’t changed a bit. But the people he lives with are certainly doing well.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  You don’t have to be Ebert or Roeper or even Gene Shalit to know what a montage is. It’s that part in the movie where music plays and there’s a collection of mini-scenes that zooms you around from place to place and you get the sense a whole lot is going on. The most famous one ever done, probably, is the training montage from the original Rocky, where Rocky jogs train tracks and back alleys and does one-arm push-ups and punches out sides of beef in Paulie’s meat locker, and all the while that Rocky theme urges him on, horns blaring—da na NA/DA NA na—pushing him harder, faster, higher! till at last he bounds up the steps of the Philadelphia art museum two or three at a time, gets to the top, and looks out over the city and raises his arms in victory, and the gospel choir belts out, “Gonna fly now! / Flying high now” Watch it again sometime and see if you don’t want to get up and throw a few jabs yourself.

  But most of the rest are crap, cheap and lazy ways to push a story along, and the chief pushers, so to speak, are the romantic comedies and their pathetic dating montages. How many times have we seen a couple take a barefoot stroll on the beach, or end a slow dance with a kiss, or meander down the boardwalk eating ice cream, or have dinner on the rooftop of his apartment (with the obligatory scattered rose petals and ten thousand lit candles placed on the table and rooftop ledge and fire escape and every conceivable inch of the place, including the head of every pigeon, and how does this guy have time to light so many candles and cook a gourmet dinner and sprinkle all those rose petals and get his hair so GQ? You’d almost think he had the help of a movie crew).

  That’s why one of my all-time favorite movie scenes is the dating montage from The Naked Gun. Leslie Nielsen is a wrinkled old cop and Priscilla Presley is smoking hot, which means, of course, sparks fly between them when they meet, and before you can say, “He’s a wrinkled old cop and she’s smoking hot,” she’s calling him “Funnyface” and they’re a couple. Roll montage! The music is Herman’s Hermits “I’m into
Something Good” and the two lovebirds run hand in hand on the beach… and clothesline another couple; he accidentally sprays a splotch of mustard on her blouse… and they titter their way through a condiment fight; they look out with wonderment from the bridge of a ship… that happens to be moored to the dock; they come out of the theater doubled over with laughter… and the marquee lets us know it’s Platoon. And when the music stops and the montage is over—complete with song title and artist’s name in the lower left hand corner, like it’s a video on MTV—Priscilla turns to him and says, “I had a wonderful day.” A wonderful day! A wonderful day! Ha! As if couples in love have nothing better to do than giggle and chortle and titter their way through the seconds and minutes and hours of their days, frolicking in frivolity and mirth and hilarity, acting like wacky kids.

  Apparently they don’t.

  To my great surprise and embarrassment, this is more or less exactly the way it goes for Marie and me over the next few weeks. We spend all our time doing wildly fantastic and enjoyable things, it’s all bliss and smiles, and I do feel like a wacky kid, and if I were watching any of this in the theater, I’d throw my popcorn at the screen and threaten to burn the whole place down unless I got my money back. Consider yourself warned, then, if you’re the kind who can’t stomach crappy dating montages (trust me, I understand) and turn away for a moment. For those still with me, here’s a little something I’m calling “Marie and Mitch: October into November.” I’ll get it going with a little feedback from John’s guitar, let Paul and George and Ringo jump in when ready, the tune is “I Feel Fine,” and when you feel those harmonies start to get under your skin, go ahead and play the images, at your own pace.