Looking for a Love Story (34 page)

All those life lessons I’d been cherishing suddenly seemed like the kind of bad advice you get from television talk shows and astrologers.
I was back to curling up in a fetal position in my bed—or would have been, if I hadn’t been afraid that Show Biz would find me there. And I still had to walk Lancelot three times a day. I called Chicky to give her the bad news. She summoned me to her room, and soon I was sipping tea and munching cookies and trying not to cry.

“I failed,” I told her. “I’m sorry.”

“Do we have a good story, Doll Face?”

“Damn good.” I bit back tears.

“Then I want you to see something,” she said. She whipped out a TV remote and, after a few seconds of futzing with it, a segment of one of those shows that deal with the glorious world of entertainment popped up on her screen. “I saw this last night and I Tivo-ed it,” she announced proudly. What she had recorded was an interview with two kids—a boy and a girl—who had been hugely popular on their teen-oriented nighttime television show and were now not only a romantic item but were looking for a project to do together.

“CeeCee and I want to stretch and grow as artists,” said the young guy.

“And we have great chemistry,” said the girl.

“Yeah, we want to take advantage of that while we’re still hot for each other,” said her male counterpart. “We’ve already inked a deal with a producer. Now we just have to find the right script.”

“One that touches us here,” CeeCee indicated her impressive cleavage and presumably the heart beating beneath it.

Chicky paused the interview and said, “Well, what do you think?”

“If I were CeeCee, I wouldn’t be picking out an engagement ring just yet.”

“I meant, what do you think about them to play Joe and Ellie? I’ve watched them on their show, and they can act.”

“Chicky, what we have is a novel, not a screenplay.”

Chicky waved that one away like she was swatting flies. “You’ll rewrite it,” she said.

“Even if I could do that,” I went on, “I don’t have any connections in television—or in show business. Those two actors are coming off a hit series. Everyone in the world will be swamping them with ideas for scripts. Do you know how hard it would be to get them to read a whole book? And ours hasn’t even been sold.”

“Oh, I don’t think you should try to reach them. I was thinking you should get in touch with the producer. The one who has a deal with them.” Chicky looked down at her hands. “Because you happen to know her.”

For a second I was confused. “I don’t know any—” I started to say; then I stopped. “Andy Grace,” I said.

“Bingo.”

“The last time I saw her, we were at a very public function and I was dumping very cold water on her.”

“Yes.”

“I also referred to her as a postmenopausal slut.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’ll have some fence-mending to do.”

“I’m not the one who has to mend fences. I didn’t steal
her
husband.”

“Leaving aside the question of how much you really wanted to hang on to the man, she’s probably our only chance.” She turned to the picture of Ellie and Joe on her wall. “I thought you wanted to honor them, Doll Face.” She turned back to me. “Of course, if it’s too much to ask—”

“Stop trying to play me.”

“Damn, I’m losing my touch.”

“No, I’ve just been watching you in action for a while.”

“Okay.” Then she looked at me very seriously. “Francesca, give it a try. What do we have to lose?”

I looked at her picture of Joe and Ellie on the wall—my great grandparents. I thought about all the good things that had come into my life since I’d met Chicky.

“It’s worth a shot,” I said.

Maybe we do learn life lessons after all.

CHAPTER 36

Jake was the one who finally set up the meeting between Andy and me. Our phone dialogue went like this.

HIM: You want me to ask Andy to take a meeting with you? Why the hell would I do that?

ME: Because you remember me fondly?

HIM: Think again
.

ME: Oh. (I make my voice quiver) Well, I’m sorry, Jake. Really so sorry. (There follows a section in which I do some ad hoc fake weeping, while Jake, who was never a bad person—just really, really shallow—attempts to console me.)

HIM: Francesca, I’ll ask Andy. But I don’t think it will do much good. That video of you … when you—

ME: Doused her?

HIM: It’s still getting hits on the Internet
.

ME: (unable to swallow a giggle) Really?

HIM: You think that’s funny?

ME: No! Absolutely not! Can you smooth it over for me, Jake? I know I don’t have any right to ask you, but could you? (Wistfully) For old time’s sake?

HIM: (Big pause) It’s not going to be easy, but I’ll see what I can do
.

ME: I don’t know how to thank you
.

HIM: Francesca?

ME: Yes?

HIM: Cut the bullshit
.

ME: Okeydokey
.

He called back two hours later to tell me to buy my plane ticket.

THE SCENE WITH
Andy was going to be difficult, I knew that. For starters, if Jake was right, my crack about her being a postmenopausal slut was still circling the globe. Any woman who took good care of herself the way Andy did was going to be pissed about someone mentioning that she was postmenopausal—the slut part probably hadn’t bothered her all that much. And then there was the fact that I was still angry at Andy. As I’d said to Chicky, she had stolen my husband. And I don’t care how evolved you are, no one can survive being replaced with their ego intact. Well, no one except my mother, the feminist icon. Most of us can’t help asking all those What-does-she-have-that-I-don’t? questions. And the answers we come up with at three in the morning aren’t likely to make us real chipper.

But I had to be chipper—and conciliatory, if not placating—when I had my sit-down with Andy. So I have to admit I was pretty nervous on the trip to LA. To give myself strength, I reread the
story I’d written about Joe and Ellie. And as I read, I finally knew what I wanted to say.

ANDY AND I
met in her office, which reminded me of the sleek room Jake and I had once put together for my office in New York. She looked exactly the same way she had the last time I’d seen her—although drier. And she’d had her chin done.

“I want you to know there is no way in hell that I will produce anything you’ve touched,” she said, after she’d closed the door behind me. “I’m only meeting with you because Jake asked me to.”

“I know that,” I said. “You’re doing it for him, because you love him. You and Jake are perfect for each other.”

I think that threw her a little. “You don’t know whether we are or not.”

“I knew him pretty well, and you were my friend. And you two being together—it’s so obvious, I should have seen it from the beginning.”

“I didn’t take him away from you. No outsider can break up a relationship that’s working.”

“Absolutely not. That’s why I want to thank you.” That threw her more. “It took Jake four tries at marriage, and I don’t know how many times you’ve given it a whirl … but the two of you finally got it right. And I’m not just saying that because I want you to read my project.”

“Do you really think I’m going to believe that?” But there was a trace of doubt in her eyes. Maybe she could tell that I meant what I was saying.

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not. You did me a favor. Jake probably wouldn’t have left me if he hadn’t had you to go to, and I never would have left him because I didn’t know what a marriage
should be like. We might have stuck it out. And that would have been too bad. Now what he’s got is great. And I have a chance to find that someday. So, thank you.” I put my manuscript on her slick glass coffee table. “This is a love story—a real one. You should read it. I think you’ll like it.” Then I walked out.

CHAPTER 37

“Where shall I put the hand wipes?” Sheryl demanded, as she bustled into the bathroom. “You can’t put out finger bowls at a buffet. Which is why I always prefer a sit-down dinner party.”

“Hand wipes?” I repeated vaguely. I was busy putting a pink daisy in my hair.

“Show Biz says he’s serving barbecued ribs,” Sheryl said patiently. “We have to have some way for people to clean their fingers.” She turned to my mother, who had just come in. “What do you think, Alexandra?”

“Put a roll of paper towels on the sink, in here,” my mother said.

“We’ve got over fifty guests coming,” Sheryl said, in the tone of one explaining what green looks like to the color-blind. “There is no way you’re going to fit all of them in this little powder room.”

“Okay, everybody but Francesca out of the bathroom,” Show Biz said, sticking his head in. Then he turned to me and added, “And you better get a move on. We’re on a schedule; we’ve got to feed the crowd before the movie starts.” He disappeared, and I raced into the bedroom to pull on my dress while Annie watched. That was when I noticed how easily the zipper was going up. Six dog walks a day and Show Biz’s smoothies for breakfast seemed to have tightened my hips. And the best part was, I hadn’t even known it. For the first time since I hit puberty, I hadn’t been weighing myself every day. Or every hour. I’d been too excited about other things.

“Like the movie,” I said to Annie. “As in
my
movie. The one I wrote. Based on the book, which I also wrote. About my family.”

It had taken Andy two weeks to convince CeeCee and her boyfriend that Chicky’s book was the project of their dreams. And it had taken me another two months to write the script. Then it had taken another eight months for the LA folks to shoot the movie, edit it, and do whatever else they do. Tonight it was going to air on television.

We had rented a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard and a ton of chairs, and Show Biz had ordered enough ribs to feed our entire zip code. Then, in his role as mine merry host, he had invited everyone Chicky and I had ever met to watch our movie with us. Sheryl, her husband, and Nancy had flown in from the West Coast. My brother and his family had flown in from Reykjavik (I still don’t know what the hell he does there). Alexandra and Lenny had picked up Chicky at Yorkville House, along with the staff and all the ambulatory residents of the center, including the Swinging Grandmas.

“Paying off this extravaganza will probably take every dime I’ve earned for the screenplay,” I told Annie, “but I don’t give a damn. I’m soaking in the moment!” I took my lucky scarf—the pink chiffon
with the ruffles—out of my drawer and wrapped it around my shoulders. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” I said, to my image in the mirror.

“Looking good, Doll Face,” growled a familiar voice behind me. I turned to see Chicky. She was wearing a green satin pants suit, and her golden curls were recently tinted and gleaming.

“You look like a million bucks yourself,” I said.

She fingered her lapels, which were liberally sprinkled with sequins. “Just giving ’em a little glitz and glam,” she said. Then she held out a thin rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper. “I want you to have this, Doll Face,” she said.

I knew what it was without opening it. “I can’t—” I started to say. But she reached up to put her fingers on my lips.

“I want you to keep them with you,” she said. “I think they will be good for you. Remind you of things you need to remember. And now I can pass them on to family.”

So I took the package, unwrapped the picture of Joe and Ellie in the gilded frame, and I set it on my bureau.