Amanda Bright @ Home (5 page)

“How’s Brad? …” Amanda prodded. Brad was Susie’s occasional boyfriend and the usual reason for Susie’s emergency calls.

“Brad?” Susie seemed puzzled by the mention of him.

“Yes.
Brad
. The man you’ve been dating for, what is it now, two years?” Amanda had spent hundreds of hours with Susie parsing Brad. She knew he had a mole on his backside and that he had once bought Susie thong underwear. She knew all about his previous girlfriends and his reasons for breaking up with them. She knew how much he made at his law firm, that he was trying to lose ten pounds, that he played squash and not tennis, that he preferred solid blue shirts to striped ones, that he didn’t like Susie’s taste in ties, and that he preferred Campari-and-soda to gin-and-tonic. Amanda was pretty sick of hearing about Brad—frankly, more sick of Brad than she was of Liz’s sofa. The sofa would be good for another ten years at least, which is more than she could say about Brad.

“But I haven’t seen him,” Susie said, not taking Amanda’s hint. “Not since you and I last spoke anyway.”

“Isn’t he who you wanted to talk about—the reason you came over?”

“Brad? Oh no, not
him.”
Susie laughed. “Brad’s the same as always. I’ve got
much
better news than Brad.”

Amanda gave Susie an imploring look. “What is it? You’ve met someone else?
Tell
me.”

“All right. Sorry. It’s just that it hasn’t happened yet, but it’s going to, and I had to tell
someone
, but keep it a secret—okay?”

“I promise.”

Susie leaned toward her, as if even the shrubbery had ears. “You know how Megabyte is launching a new cable channel—?”

“Yes, of course—MBTV.”

“Well—” Susie hesitated, then burst out, “They’re giving me my own show!”

“Oh, Susie, that
is
great news.”

Amanda felt a flush of jealousy.

“Well, it’s almost my own show,” Susie corrected herself. “I’ll have a cohost. Do you know Johnnie Johns, from the music channel? He’s a veejay, but he wants to do more-serious stuff. Our show will focus mostly on political and current events—the things I’m good at.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be a lot of fun. The producers are trying to appeal to the younger market, you know, the twenty-somethings who are turned off by boring talking-head shows like
Live from the Hill
. They should rename that show
Dead from the Hill,
if you ask me. We’re going to be way more hip. Our set is really cool, too. It looks like a loft.”

“Fabulous.”

Amanda’s attention drifted briefly to a clay pot containing straggly pansies she had not yet replaced with begonias. A broken plastic rake lay next to it, alongside the deflated remains of a kiddie pool she had tried to set up earlier that afternoon. She told herself that she did not envy Susie her show—truly, she didn’t, her ambitions did not run in that direction—but it was the second time in less than twenty-four hours that she had endured the blow of someone else’s good fortune. For a few seconds she felt winded.

“They want to launch it as soon as possible,” Susie continued. “We’re looking at next month. They haven’t nailed down the slot yet but I’m not worried. They’ve promised buckets of money to promote it. If there’s one thing MBTV doesn’t lack, it’s money.”

“That’s for sure. Mike Frith and his billions. Funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“It just occurred to me—you know Bob is—” Amanda thought better of what she was going to say. “Well, Justice and the whole antitrust thing. Bob’s involved in that.”

“Separate branch. Doesn’t affect cable.”

“I guess that’s right.”

“Anyway, it’s great—great for me,” Susie said. “Because you know if you’re not on TV, you don’t exist in this town.”

Amanda brushed away a wasp from her slice of lemon. She ignored Susie’s little jab, convincing herself, as she always did, that Susie was unaware of it. Beauty reduces everyone else to a supporting role. Amanda, Bob, Brad, the whole dancing circle—in Susie’s eyes, they were all just extras in her ongoing drama. Like many supporting actresses, Amanda reconciled herself to her role by telling herself that hers was the more complex character. Susie was clever, but not as clever as Amanda. In college, Susie would entrance men with a light, quick remark, but it was Amanda who followed up with the strong argument. The only time they had a falling-out—a prolonged falling-out—was after Amanda met Bob. Supporting actresses are not supposed to get the man; certainly not before the star herself. Much, much later, Amanda would ask Bob why he had been attracted to her and not to Susie. “That’s easy,” he had answered. “Susie’s the sort of girl you look at but not the sort you get involved with.”

“Why not?”

Bob shrugged. “She’s work. You can tell just by looking at her.”

“Some men might think her worth it,” Amanda persisted, concealing the pleasure she took in his answer. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, she is. But it’s fashion-model beauty. It’s not the kind of beauty that you actually want to touch.”

Amanda’s unwelcome romantic subplot caused Susie to pull away, and for the next few years Amanda encountered her friend more often in gossip columns than in person. After Susie graduated, she landed a summer internship at the Negro Progress Fund, a stodgy but respected civil rights organization. Between photocopying and fetching coffee, Susie sold an article to
Harper’s
titled “Growing Up Black and White.” The article was illustrated by a grainy but heart-stopping photograph of Susie, in a daringly unbuttoned Oxford shirt, brooding over her struggle to find a racial identity. The article—or rather, the photograph—caused a flutter in the national media. Susie was made communications director of the fund by its president, who declared Susie “the face of the next generation.” Suddenly Susie was receiving more requests for media interviews than her boss, an elderly giant of the rights movement who had once marched with Martin Luther King Jr. And once the cameras caught sight of Susie, they would not let her go. A network hired her away from the nonprofit world to give broader commentaries on politics. Somehow she pulled this off: Susie’s secret weapon—to the surprise of men who unwisely condescended to her—was the quick comeback, and her beauty and poise distracted even critical viewers from listening too carefully to what she had to say.

Pretty soon Susie was being groomed to be a daytime anchor, and then a host of her own show. But Susie—as Amanda knew well—was not gifted at asking questions of other people; too often, she talked over them, answering her own question, leaving her guest mute and irritated. The television critics made fun of her and the show was canceled after one season. Six months later a glossy magazine published an especially mean-spirited article—“Whatever Happened to Susie Morris?” Susie took her revenge by dating rich and prominent men. Amanda eagerly followed these boldfaced romances—until they sputtered out. There was a dot-com tycoon, then a senator well known for his womanizing, followed by a network executive and a mining heir (who later turned out to be of ambiguous sexuality).

Amanda accepted the loss of Susie’s friendship—she could not envision even a bit part for herself in Susie’s now star-studded life—but it was Susie who eventually circled back, like a seagull seeking respite on an old, familiar pier. By then Amanda had given birth to Sophie and the old dynamic could reassert itself: in Susie’s eyes, Amanda was once again playing the unthreatening number two to her commanding lead.

That was fine—Susie’s life was nothing if not diverting—but on this afternoon, Amanda’s patience was wearing thin. Susie showed no inclination to leave. She had removed her sunglasses and closed her eyes, tilting back her face to absorb a radiant shaft of sunlight filtering through the trees. Lit this way, against the humble backdrop of Amanda’s backyard, Susie resembled a golden messenger dropped to earth by the gods.

“Mommy?” Ben emerged from the house with a saucepan on his head.

“Ben, what are you doing?”

“Playing knights.” He looked at Susie without interest and then back at his mother. “Can Sophie use your umbrella?”

“No, Ben, no. Not in the house—”

“Ben!” interrupted Susie with mock indignation. “Is that any way to say hello to me?” Susie was given to eruptions of maternal affection toward Amanda’s children that lasted only so long as Ben and Sophie were willing to endure them. The rest of the time she regarded them as sweet but intrusive pets who, after a scratch under the chin or a small treat, should be content to go away and lie down.

Ben ignored her. “Outside can she?”

Sophie appeared behind Ben, stark naked as usual.

“Sophie!” Susie gushed. “Are you going to give Susie a better welcome than your brother did? Give us a hug.”

Sophie trotted over and hugged Susie.

“Did you bring a present?” the little girl asked artlessly.

“Maybe.” Susie rummaged through her handbag. “I know I brought something …” She produced a ballpoint pen.

Sophie looked as pleased with the pen as if she had been presented with a diamond tiara. She turned it over in her hand to admire it.

“Say thank you, Sophie.”

“T’ank you.”

“What about me?” Ben stared greedily into Susie’s handbag.

“I’m sure there’s something in here for you, too.” After another search, Susie came up with a small packet of breath mints.

“Yuck,” said Ben. “I hate those.”

“Ben—”

“I’m sorry but that’s all I have, sweetie.” Susie snapped her handbag shut.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Amanda suggested. “That way the kids can play out here.”

Susie followed her into the kitchen, where Amanda began tidying up the mess the children had left. Susie sat at the table and watched. Amanda balked: couldn’t Susie
see
how late it was? Then she caught herself. Why
would
Susie race home? Awaiting her was a perfectly decorated Georgetown row house sitting perfectly undisturbed. Amanda visualized it all—the sleek beige sofa with its row of silk cushions, unsullied by small fingerprints; the terry robe hung over the treadmill; that day’s mail scattered over the polished wood floor. Lining the book-cases were framed photographs of Susie with politicians, Susie with her parents, Susie at parties, grinning wildly, her arms flung around friends. Late at night, in the dull shadow cast by a single lamp, these pictures would attest to a life of such fun and glamour that Susie could shut out, for a moment, the unbroken hum of the refrigerator and the male voice in the bedroom, trailing down the stairs from the TV.

“What are you doing for dinner?” Amanda asked.

“I’ve got a horrendously busy day tomorrow,” Susie answered, evasively. “I was planning on going to bed early.”

“Would you like to have dinner here? I’m just going to eat with the kids. Bob will be late.”

“Oh, hey, sure. I’m not that hungry. I was just going to pick up something on the way home anyway.”

“Then stay. Only, I’ve got to run to the store.”

“Fine. We can take my car, if you like.”

They packed the children into the narrow backseat of Susie’s convertible. “Yippee!” shouted Ben. Susie popped in her “driving music.”

“Do you think the kids will be safe without their car seats?” Amanda yelled over the blast of electric guitars.

“They’re fine. They’re belted—besides, we’re only going four blocks.”

Amanda allowed herself to relax and enjoy the fragrant summer air blowing in her face. She could get used to going to the supermarket like this. But when she glanced over at Susie, who in her sunglasses looked like a starlet touring the Côte d’Azur, Amanda realized that she had been reduced once again to the supporting role in yet another Susie Morris production.

When Bob got home, the children were asleep and Amanda was in bed, reading. She came downstairs and found him foraging through the fridge like a hungry bear.

“I saved you dinner.” Amanda indicated a covered plate on the counter.

Bob kissed her cheek and pounced on the plate. He tore back the foil. His face fell.

“I wish I’d bought stock in Fresh Farms,” he grumbled, staring at the familiar cold helping of sesame noodles, mixed beans, and boneless chicken breast from the whole foods supermarket where Amanda did most of the grocery shopping. “If as many people lived off their prepared food as we do, we’d be rich by now.”

Amanda bristled. “I didn’t have time …”

“No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine.” Bob rummaged through the cutlery drawer for a knife and fork and opened the fridge again.

“Are we out of beer?”

“Oh gosh, yes, Bob,” Amanda apologized. “I must have forgot.”

“No problem, no problem. I’ll have a Scotch. I think I deserve one tonight.”

He reached above the fridge to the high cupboard where they stored their few bottles of hard liquor. Most of them had been given to Bob and Amanda as gifts and still had little bows attached.

“Thank you, Uncle Joe.” Bob poured himself a large finger of Scotch and drank it down quickly. He filled the glass again with water and sat down to his meal at the small table in the corner of the kitchen.

“How was your day?” he asked, his mouth full.

Amanda poured herself a glass of water and joined him at the table.

“Busy. Not as busy as yours, I bet.”

“Yeah, what a day.”

“You were on television.” Amanda hoped that bluntly asserting the fact would save her from having to admit that she had missed seeing him.

“I was?” Bob paused in his eating.

“Yes. At the press conference.”

“Huh. I thought I’d be out of the shot. How did I look?”

“Good.” Amanda sipped her water.

Bob scraped up the last bits of food with his fork and looked up hopefully. “Is there any more of this?”

“In the fridge.”

Bob fetched the plastic containers and scraped the leftovers onto his plate.

“I thought it went pretty well,” he said, sitting down again. “Frank did much better than I’d hoped. He’s been pretty squeamish about the whole thing.”

“I thought you said he was enthusiastic.”

“He is, he is. But today he really had to take the plunge. I mean, going after Megabyte is no small thing. You want to make sure you have firm evidence.”