Room for Love (29 page)

“You are so cranky today,” she says. “I will talk to you later. Goodbye.” And she hangs up. I blast “S.O.S.,” ABBA's masterpiece, and take out my rage on the apartment, which I clean like a demon until I'm so exhausted that I tumble into bed and fall asleep immediately.

When I wake up the next morning, Anthony isn't there, as usual. I don't even get angry, I'm so used to it. I shower, feed the dog, take her out for her morning poop, and head off to face the evil subway crowd.

“I feel like shit,” I tell Sam first thing in the door at work.

“How like shit?” she asks.

“Oh, I don't know, queasy, listless, no energy.”

“Could you be pregnant?” she asks.

“Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean everyone is,” I snap. “Sorry. No, I'm not pregnant.”

When I sit down at my desk, I'm suddenly not so sure. I look at my calendar and realize that thirty-four days have gone by since my last period began and I usually get it every twenty-eight.
Wow,
I think,
what if I am?
My skin is sallow. I feel fat. Oh my God, what would I do? I picture lying in bed with Anthony and telling him that I'm pregnant, his sleepy face blissful with anticipation. I suddenly feel elated, imagining myself with a big, swollen belly under a totally stylish, bright red babydoll dress. I picture Anthony awed as he feels our baby practicing kickboxing maneuvers inside me, sitting nervously by my side in the hospital as I wait for another round of contractions to attack, falling asleep with our baby girl on his chest in front of a boxing match, throwing a football to a skinny little doll in shorts and a tie-dyed shirt with pink Popsicle on her face, zinc on her nose, and pale, freckled skin just like mine.

I decide that if I were pregnant, I would have the baby. I would marry Anthony and have a baby. We could hold the ceremony at his parents' place in the country (which I still haven't seen, even though he keeps promising), just a small wedding for our closest friends and family in the lush garden I imagine with gently swaying oak trees and multicolored poppies everywhere, and then we could have a big party in the city, maybe on Jeremy's fabulous roof deck, so that everyone we know could celebrate with us.

I call Courtney, with whom I've been playing a cautious game of phone tag, and tell her that I'm worried I might be pregnant and that if I am, I think I would keep the baby. “Are you sure Anthony feels the same?” she asks.

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Totally.” But I'm not, really. He does care about me, but he sure doesn't like to talk about the future. The serial-monogamist conversation springs to mind for the first time in a few weeks. In my mind, I tell him that I'm pregnant, and this time his face darkens with anxiety and suspicion.

“Hmm, I don't know, actually. I think so.”

“Well, let me tell you something, Jacquie,” Courtney says. “Never believe you can read a man's mind. You might think you're in sync and your energy and desires mesh, but you never really know. Men are another species and it's as different from ours as a monkey or a mule.”

“I don't buy that whole Venus and Mars thing. We're all people.”

“Well, I'm starting to think it makes some sense.”

“Court, this doesn't sound like you at all. Are you okay? Is everything all right with Brad?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she says. “We're fine. We've had some hard conversations lately, but I don't really want to get into it. It's a big mess that I don't want to lay on you.”

“Courtney, if you can't lay it on me, who can you lay it on?”

“I don't know. I don't feel like I have anyone but Brad to talk to about my life, and he's not around right now, so I guess I've been feeling pretty lonely.”

“Well, why wouldn't you tell me about it?”

“You're on another planet. You're always looking over my shoulder at someone more interesting walking past or dragging the conversation back to Anthony or your job and I just don't know how to compete with those things. And lately you haven't even been around at all.” I'm floored. “Jacquie, I'm sorting through some difficult issues that I've got to sort through alone. I should really go.”

“Court, come on. I'm sorry I've been preoccupied, but I really want to talk to you. Please tell me what's going on.”

“I will, Jacq, but another time, okay? I'm angry and busy and I should really go.”

“But, Court,” I say, and realize she's already hung up.

On my way home on the subway, there's an adorable little black boy in a Yankees cap eating M&Ms on the seat across from me. His animated face moves into bold shades of ecstasy when he's sucking on chocolate, then horror when his mother, a young pregnant woman, asks him to give his grandma an M&M. He refuses, then reluctantly acquiesces only after his mom calls him selfish and orders him to hand one over. When he catches my eye, I hold out my hand for a piece of candy, and he looks perplexed, then grins and thrusts a handful in my direction. I shake my hand to let him know I was only joking. He grins at me again and I grin back. Then he frowns dramatically and I frown back. A woman gets on at the next stop and starts singing a hymn so loudly that it resonates through the entire car. As she repeatedly belts out the words, “I'm going to see the Lord, my Lord, oh Lord, the Lord,” the volume increases to an acidic shriek and people drop their heads to hide their laughter. The little boy smiles at me and once again holds out an M&M in my direction. I shake my head, as his mother hustles him off the train.

Before bed, I call Anthony in the editing room. “Hey, baby, I wanted to ask you something,” I say. “Totally hypothetically, what would you do if I got pregnant?”

“Throw you down a flight of stairs,” he says, without missing a beat. He laughs. “I'm kidding!” he says. “Jesus, I'm kidding. How cute would little Jacquie babies be?”

I get out of bed and write a quick e-mail to Clancy proposing my next story:
Are men really dogs—simple creatures who live to be fed and have their tummies rubbed—and women purring pussycats that will scratch your eyes out if they don't get what they want? Are we two different species entirely? Let's see what the movies have to say about people who love each other but just can't get along.

When I wake up, I have my period.

12

24 YR OLD M SEEKS ROOM A.S.A. FRICKIN' P. Moved into an awesome Gramercy apt with this awesome dude and 5 mins later he's back with his chick & I'm out on my ASS. If u have a rockin' 2bd in a rockin' hood and need a rockin' roomie, let me know. Can pay 800 buckaroonies. Gilbert.

I have been dreading the day my apartment article comes out. The excitement I know I should experience never comes, because I know that when Anthony inevitably finds out, I'm going to have some serious explaining (and ass kissing) to do. I wake up on Monday morning to a feeling of doom.

Our weekend was glorious, like the early days of our relationship. Anthony came home late Friday night, nudged me awake, and said, “Guess what? I'm taking the weekend off.” He put a red rose, the kind you buy from vendors on the streets of Williamsburg on weekend nights, into my hands so I could feel its smooth petals and snuggled up to me. “Let's just do nothing all weekend, okay?”

Apparently he told Will to get the show as close to perfect as possible by Monday, when Anthony would be in to give him the thumbs-up. He said he was confident that Will could do final tweaks without him. We spent most of Saturday and Sunday in bed, leaving only to walk the dog, answer the door when food deliveries arrived, and once sprint to the deli to satisfy a rabid craving for strawberry lemonade on my part and Oreos on his. We ignored the phones, watched movies on cable, slept for God knows how many hours in a row, blasted tunes and danced on the furniture, and had lots of slow, stupid sex, as day blended into night blended into day again.

And then it was Monday and I awoke with eleven pounds of steaming hot dread piled menacingly on my chest and preventing me from breathing right. As is usually the case with bouts of dread, this one turns out to be justified.

My phone rings just as I'm getting out of the shower. It's Clancy, shedding her clipped monotone for the first time since I've known her to shriek with delight.

“Your piece is on the stands!” she says. “I put three copies in the mail to you, but you can go grab one at any newsstand. It looks incredible.”

“That's so exciting,” I tell her, trying to work myself into some semblance of gratitude.

“And that's not all!” she says, and pauses to let me wonder for a minute what she could be referring to. “You, my dear, are going to have a column, a regular, monthly sex-and-the-movies column. Sorry we're going with sex over love or romance, but you know how salacious sells. We're calling it ‘Reel Sex,' R-E-E-L Sex.”

“No way,” I say, plunking down on the edge of the bed and letting my wet towel fall around me.

“Yeah way. Brought it up to the editor in chief weeks ago, but, as with everything else, she took her time. Got back to me this morning. She's into it. One an issue. Eight hundred words, each at thirty-two hundred dollars. I'm putting a contract into the mail today.”

“Wait, that's more than two dollars a word.”

“It's four. You're a columnist now. We're very good to our columnists.”

“Oh my God!” I say, jumping off the bed and doing a goofy naked dance. I must look like such a geek, I'm happy that Anthony isn't there to see me. “Clancy, you're the best. Wow!”

“When you have some time, can you get me ideas for your next, say, six pieces? I'll want to submit them for approval, and we'd like for you to start hooking your lead to an upcoming release. You know, find a sex-oriented theme among films about to hit theaters and flesh the idea out using your extensive knowledge of films past. That okay?”

“Yeah, no problem. It's a good idea.”

She hangs up and I can't decide who to call first. This is the kind of news my mom will eat up, but it's only six
A.M
. in California, so I'll wait. I dial Alicia, who wants to take me out for a celebratory drink tonight. While we're on, my phone beeps.

“Jacqueline Stuart?” a woman's voice asks.

“Yes.”

“My name is Hildy Baker. I'm a producer for
Between the Sheets of America.
”

“Hildy like Rosalind Russell in
His Girl Friday?
”

“Named for her, actually. I used to want to kick my parents' butts for it, but now I think it's kinda different, kinda cool. Anyway, you familiar with the show?”

“Of course, the talk show with that funny guy in the bow tie.”

“Yes, Conrad Watts, covering love, romance, and everything sultry in this great nation of ours.”

“Sounds good,” I say, putting on my bra and underwear. I'm verging on late for work.

“Well, we read your article about pretending to look for a roommate and thought it was sharp and sexy, the kind of story we're always looking for.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “How'd you get my number?”

“I called four Jacqueline Stuarts in the phone book before an answering machine at the fifth's gave me this number.”

“Nice job.”

“We have a last-minute opening in our schedule tomorrow and were hoping you'd be able to come on the show to talk about your experience,” she says. “We'd tape tomorrow and it would run the next day.”

“You mean I'll be interviewed on TV?”

“Exactly, by Conrad and his cohost, Christine.” She tells me not to wear white and gives me the address of the studio. I agree to be there at nine
A.M
. Now I can't avoid calling my mom, who sounds very groggy.

“You're not gonna believe this. You ready?”

She hums the affirmative.

“Okay, my
Luscious
article came out today.”

“Um-hm.”

“Go pick it up, okay? I'm really excited about it. It's my first article in a major national magazine. And here's the best part—I was offered a column! A monthly column where I give relationship advice based on the movies.”

She squeals. It's a squeal as ecstatically shrill as that of Benjamin Braddock's mother when he announces he's getting married in
The Graduate.
I pull the phone away from my ear. “That's great, honey.” She's always gushing about the accomplishments of her friends' kids and giving me advice that makes no sense about how I should go about getting a column, which she views as the ultimate sign of success for a journalist. Her moment has finally arrived.

“I get paid thirty-two hundred per piece!”

“Is that a lot? Hold on one second.” I hear her saying, “Richard, Richard, wake up. Jacquie got a column at that women's magazine. Every month. Three thousand dollars for each article!” I hear my dad murmuring, “A column? What?”

“Oh, you are so clueless, Richard. Jacquie! She has a column!” she says. “You know, a regular column, a regular article that she writes for them every month. It's what I've been telling her to get for years now and she's finally doing it.”

“Good, good, tell her good,” I hear him saying, still half asleep. I smile, imagining him in his red pajamas and salt-and-pepper bedhead trying to work up some enthusiasm through his stupor.

“But listen,” I say. “I'm going on TV tomorrow to talk about the piece on this talk show.”

“Which one?”

“It's called
Between the Sheets of America.
”

“Is it about sex?” She sounds as aghast as she can at six
A.M
.

“Sort of, sex and love and romance, anything like that.”

“Can we watch it?”

“Yeah. I think it's on at nine Wednesday night. Check the
TV Guide.
”