Charming Christmas (15 page)

19

A
fter that night with Woody, after I'd looked into his eyes and seen the pain I'd caused, I wanted to take the next train out of Baltimore. I fantasized about arriving in New York a week early, taking a small hotel room, visiting galleries, spending afternoons reading novels in coffee shops, and generally escaping into some other woman's cosmopolitan life. I came this close to leaving, but in the end, I couldn't give up on Mrs. Claus that way.

“Are you crazy?” Lanessa told me over the phone. “First of all, you and the Wood Man are both consenting adults, so really, I'm not busting a gut crying over that one. I mean, got a sensitive nose, then don't go sniffing around. That's what I say.”

“You have never said that. And I feel really bad about it. I can't help how I feel.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But that's one thing. You staying in Baltimore for some two-bit department-store Santa job, that really rattles my cage. I mean, what do you get, minimum wage? To baby-sit snot-nosed droolers while their mommies go off and spend pots of money that all goes to Rossman's?”

“I'm the only Mrs. Claus they have. The kids need me.”

“The kids need a sitter. You need a life.”

“It's only one more week,” I said. “After that I'll have a life again, but for now, I don't know, it just makes me feel good to do something special for other people every day. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?”

“For me? Christmas is about finding a suit that doesn't make my ass look too fat beside my skinny-butt sister who won't come off Atkins. But if the Mommy Claus thing makes you feel good, more power to you, honey.”

 

 

Having spent months rehearsing in dance studios to escape my feelings for Bobby, I considered myself a master of sublimation—an acquired skill, which I would need to rely on over the next few days. It helped that I worked in such a busy, cheerful place—a department store at Christmas—and I soaked up that Christmas spirit, admiring the dedication of my coworkers and the service of all the retail clerks in the store. In its own way, Rossman's was pulling off a Christmas production that rivaled all the bells and whistles of the show I'd danced in last year, and I saw rave reviews every day in the wonder that lit the faces of children who believed they were about to meet their greatest hero of all time. Every time the carolers sang “tidings of comfort and joy” or “deck the halls,” every time the toy train pulled around the gingerbread house full of expectant children, each time I squatted down to meet a child on his or her level, I felt very much a part of Christmas.

I tried not to lose that connection when the dreaded day of
The Nutcracker
filming arrived. It was unsettling to see the production crew treading on our Santaland displays when I reported in that morning, but we all tried to be patient.

“It's overlit!” someone yelled so loud that the child I was leading to ZZ's cozy Santa home winced. “I need gels on this tree over here.”

“Okay, Virgil,” I said to the boy, pointing to three cables snaking across our path. “Do you think you can jump over these the way Santa's reindeer hop over a house?”

“Sure.” He hopped merrily in his mini–Air Jordans, then glanced up at me for approval.

“Good job,” I assured him, weaving around the new tier of employees who were adding to the noise. So far there'd been no sign of Bobby or Destiny, but one of the carpenters told me that the talent and producers were the last to arrive on set.

“And who is this?” ZZ asked, smiling at the shy boy holding my hand.

“This is Virgil, Santa.” I began to lead him over to the large velvet chair, but Virgil pushed ahead and lifted his hands so that ZZ would pull him into his lap. The boy's aunt took a seat on the sofa.

“Thank you, Mrs. Claus,” ZZ told me. “And would you be so kind as to ask those young people to quiet down a bit? Virgil and I need to talk.”

I nodded, feeling weary already. “I'll do my best.”

Out in the gingerbread maze waiting area, no one on the crew wanted to hear my “Quiet, please!” message.

“It's a bit surreal,” Regis told me as we watched a man on the crew struggle with a scaffold, cursing all the way. “They want us here for background, and yet they really want us to be invisible. Now I understand why those Hollywood types call the people in the background ‘atmosphere.'”

As the day wore on, I began to feel more and more invisible. The cast began arriving, and they imposed more than the crew, asking us for coffee runs and telling two of the elves to leave because their costumes clashed with the show designer's scene. ZZ seemed determined to keep the peace, though even he drew the line at dismissing our elves, who were sent to the front door of the store to hand out coupons.

At one point, while sitting on a gumdrop chair, trying to console a lost child, I looked up to find the TV Olivia standing over me, her hair swept back with a fat headband, her blouse covered with a white paper bib, most likely to contain the crimson gloss on her lips and the heavy pancake make-up covering her skin.

That chin . . . That tiny nose! Up close, she looked more like the anti-Olivia.

I squinted at her, wondering why her features didn't come together as an organic whole in my mind. Most likely because she was not me, not at all. And there was also the possibility that the individual pieces had been doctored beyond natural proportion—but that was a matter between the actress and her plastic surgeon.

She looked up from her script and met my eyes with keen recognition, and I braced myself.
Here it comes, the moment of connection when this actress realizes how Bobby exploited me.

When she pointed at me, my heartbeat thundered in my ears, and my nerves were on edge. “I need to sit,” she said simply.

I looked down, realizing that I occupied the only adult-sized gumdrop seat in the candy garden. She wanted my seat. The woman was building a career on my ass, and she wanted me to give up my seat.

Stung by adrenaline, I rose, ready to lunge at her, send her pretty fake red hair flying in a catfight . . . but I was caught by a slight hiccup beside me from the girl who'd lost her mother. And it occurred to me that a mud-wrestling Mrs. Claus was not the best image to impress upon a worried child.

Oh, hell, the obtuse actress could have my gumdrop chair.

“Come on, sweetie,” I said, taking the child's hand. “Let's look for your mommy near the Santaland entrance.”

As we made our way through the maze, the set now swarming with taut production people talking into headsets, I tried to take a deep, calming breath. No matter what happened today, I had to remember my role, my image, my elegant red suit. Mrs. Claus would not engage in catfights. Mrs. Claus would not kick her ex-boyfriend in the nuts and curse out his wife . . .

No matter how tempting the opportunity.

 

 

It was another two hours before Bobby and Destiny arrived and started adding their varied opinions as to the setup of the scene to be filmed. By that time my anxiety had begun to fade, but it all came rushing back when I locked eyes with Bobby.

Oh, shit.

I squeezed my eyes shut to break the connection, relieved that I hadn't cursed out loud. Not that the twin toddlers I was escorting would notice, but their dad was right on my heels. I helped the boys off the train, trying to map out a way around Bobby and Destiny without having to climb the fake mountain of snow. Unless these toddlers learned to master fiberglass-mountain pickaxing really fast, that was not gonna happen.

“Let's go see if Santa is ready now,” I said, taking their little hands and walking with my head down.

As I passed the crew, Destiny was engrossed in a critique of a sweater she'd seen downstairs on the sales floor, but Bobby caught me.

“Hey, there,” he said, nodding. “What are you doing here?”

“Just doing my job.” I forced a smile, hustling the boys along.

“No, wait,” Bobby said, tapping one of the elves on the arm. “Hey, mac, help us out and take the kids?”

The elf, an out-of-work welder named Alton, eyed Bobby with sleepy eyes, but welcomed the boys. “Follow me, guys.”

“This is Olivia, honey,” Bobby said, sounding forlorn.

I thrust my hand at Destiny, the blond Hollywood daughter of tabloids. “Hello, I'm Olivia Honey.”

No one noticed my joke as Bobby reminded his wife, “Remember I told you she was here in Baltimore?”

“Now, wait! Is this the
other
Olivia?” Destiny eyed me hungrily, and I had a feeling that any blemish, any perceived flaw would be devoured with relish in a later conversation. “Ow, how cute! Did our casting director hire you to be Mrs. Claus?”

I shook my head. “Actually, I work for Rossman's.”

“Ow, how funny. Isn't it funny? And what, you gave up the Rockettes for this?” She gestured around our beautiful Santaland as if it were a washroom at Penn Station.

“I like it here,” I said slowly. “And I love Baltimore. Unlike your Olivia.”

Her smile didn't reach her eyes. “Yeah, well, that's all very nice, but Bobby, did you see the way they have Olivia and Frank entering through that maze? It's a problem.” And with that, Bobby and the crew were pulled over to the other side of Santaland to deal with the many “problems” that disturbed Destiny's delicate sensibilities. She didn't like the snow background or the giant gumdrops. “What are they, stalagmites?” she snapped. “And these elves look like escapees from a North Pole prison. I think we need all new casting on the elves.”

I couldn't hear her response when Bobby explained that the elves were free atmosphere, compliments of Rossman's. I didn't care how they decided to shoot around our winter wonderland or if they decided to edit out our gumdrop haven.

At that point, I felt such a strong sense of relief that I wanted to laugh out loud.

“That woman is a holy terror,” Regis confided.

“Isn't she?” I smiled.

“The whining. The complaints. Every other word out of her mouth is ‘problem.' How can anyone stand to work with her?”

“Ha!” I snapped my fingers. “It's so perfect. I totally get it now.” When he shook his head in confusion, I explained, “Since that show premiered I've been wondering how Bobby dreamed up the Olivia character, so bugged that he could have seen all those negative qualities in me. But now I get it. I see who really inspired the villainous Olivia.”

He gasped. “Of course! His own wife.”

I nodded so vigorously the tassel on my Santa cap shook. Suddenly one of the worst days of my life was transforming into something else, a day of liberation.

The Nutcracker was not me.

Destiny could take all the credit for inspiring Bobby to create the bitch of Baltimore. And somehow, when awards were being handed out, I was sure Destiny would be there, her iron jaws ready to smash and devour his nuts, the academy's nuts, the network's nuts . . .

20

S
antaland got even crazier when Bobby's nieces and nephews arrived. Ranging in ages from two to nine, they appeared with shrieking police cars and gurgling stuffed toys and musical instruments since Bobby's sister, chaperone of the day, had made the unfortunate decision to stop in the toy department first.

“Look who I found in the toy department.” Charley, the shining star from Personnel, led them over, apparently in an attempt to reduce losses in the toy division.

The oldest boy swayed in, swinging a portable electric piano playing a programmed version of the Beatles's “Let it Be.” Three others zigzagged around him in a game of Monkey in the Middle that had one of the little girls sobbing, demanding her stuffed toy back. A younger boy marched behind him banging on a boxed drum slung around his neck.

“Uncle Bobby! Listen to this . . .” the oldest boy shouted over the music. “Gunnar and I are starting a band. Can you film us? You can do our music video.” Gunnar launched into a drum roll, while the stuffed animal flew into the line of waiting toddlers and one of the nephews dived in after it.

“Bobby . . .” Destiny pressed a hand to one temple. “They're giving me a migraine. Make it stop.”

“Please, Uncle Bobby,” chimed in his sister, whom I remembered as Chelsea, “make it stop. I've been stuck with them since Christmas break began.”

Bobby raised his hands. “Hey! Trevor? We've got a show to do here. Ugh . . . guys? Boys and girls . . .”

A tug-of-war was going on over the stuffed animal, while Gunnar began to tap out a beat on one of the camera cases.

“Cut!” Bobby shouted. “We need quiet. Trevor? Turn that off!”

Trevor gave him a thumbs-up, then switched to a canned version of a Ricky Martin song, while two of the other kids were now rolling on the floor, wrestling over a toy.

Two of the Santas peeked out from their doorways, while Charley from Personnel shouted something to Bobby. Destiny was complaining to Chelsea, who sank down on a gumdrop and buried her head in her hands.

Enough was enough.

I went over to Trevor and flipped the black switch to Off, killing the music. “We'll return this for you,” I said, slipping the strap off his shoulder. “Why don't you go say hello to your uncle.”

He squinted up at me. “Hey, I remember you. You've been at our house.”

“You must be mistaken,” I told him. “I'm Mrs. Claus.”

Next I closed my hands over the drumsticks and told the banging boy that he'd better get in line if he wanted to see Santa. The stuffed animal was returned to the youngest one, while the other toys were quickly collected and the nieces and nephews joined the line.

Handing the drum over to Charley, I was relieved to hear strains of “Joy to the World!” once again. These kids had always been a workout; why did Bobby think they belonged here while he was trying to shoot a show?

Within a few minutes, order was restored. The nieces and nephews had moved on to see various Santas, Destiny had returned to the hotel to nurse her migraine, and the crew was sent off for a lunch break.

I tucked a toddler onto the train and stepped back with a sigh. “At last,” I told Regis, “peace returns to the North Pole.”

“Not for long,” Bobby called from one of the trees where extra lights were being strung. “My guys will be back in an hour, and then we'll finally start shooting.”

“Finally is right.” I joined him, feeling less stressed now that Destiny wasn't here to dissect me. “Your crew takes forever.”

“We're perfectionists.”

“Good luck with that. Just try to stay out of the way of our youngest customers. Santaland is a special experience for them, and swearing cameramen shouldn't be a part of it.”

He laughed. “You know, we could use someone like you to keep the crew whipped in shape. A tough production manager is hard to find, and I like the way you took control of the situation back there. I think Trevor is still stunned.”

“Hey, Mrs. Claus does not mess around. You can spend days futzing around on one shot, but Christmas comes only once a year. The Claus trade is a seasonal business.”

Bobby released the strand of lights and turned to face me. “I miss your sense of humor, Livvy. Your quick wit.”

“You think I'm being funny?”

“You always did make me laugh. Picked me up when I was at my lowest.” He glanced over at the cameras set like three aliens across the maze. “I'm sorry you weren't a part of this, Liv. It should be your success, too.”

“As I told you, any time you want to send me a check, I'm easy to find. Mom's still got the house on Lombard. You do remember it, don't you?” I wanted to add that we'd both lost our virginity under that roof, but somehow it didn't seem an image befitting Mrs. Claus.

He picked up a strand of my hair and studied the curl at the end as if it were a precious gem. “I'll never forget that house. I can't forget you, Liv.”

“Well, considering the fact that you're married to someone else and I am not the type of girl to mess with a marriage, I think you'd better start forgetting fast. Amnesia, if possible.”

“I made a mistake. Destiny doesn't make me happy.”

“So find a therapist. And really, Bobby, why do men think the world owes them happiness?”

“I keep comparing her to you. To the way you made me feel.” He dropped the strands of hair and let his fingertips slide down the side of my neck. “We were good together. Don't you ever think about me, about us?”

“Think about us?” I wanted to ask him where he was when I broke my ankle and needed a ride to physical therapy. Where was he when I had to hobble up icy stairs on my ass? When I had to close up my apartment and pay an arm and a leg to have things shipped? I'd been thinking about him a lot at that point, lots of toxic thoughts. Like why was he seeing Destiny behind my back, laughing in the warm California sun while I was dancing my butt off in the Christmas show? Where was his freakin' brain when he should have at least called me and let me know he'd had a change of heart?

I wanted to make him regret his actions. And most of all, I wanted him to regret breaking up with me.

“The thing is, Destiny and I have been on the rocks lately. We've discussed divorce. I know it's a big
if
, but if things worked out that way, would you give us a chance, Liv?”

My pulse grew loud in my ear as his words took impact. This was my chance—my do-over! Bobby wanted me back. We could have our life together . . . an entertainment couple, our photo in
People
magazine, our mailbox full of invitations to red-carpet premieres and awards ceremonies . . .

We could have it all back, including our crappy, dysfunctional relationship in which I exhausted all my energies to nurse his delicate ego.

“I know, this is really sudden, and I don't mean to overwhelm you.”

I blinked, suddenly realizing how weak his chin was without the beard and the way his upper lip curled into a constant half smile; once I'd found that smirk attractive, rebellious, and bold. Now, it just struck me as the smirk of a weenie.

“To be honest,” he lowered his voice to that dream tone, “I've been asking around to see if you'd hooked up with anyone. When I heard you were still on your own, I figured we might have a chance.”

“Really?” I smoothed the white fur jacket hem over my hips, wondering what sort of married man sniffed out the dating status of other chicks. How could Bobby have sunk so low? He'd become such a disappointment as a husband, even if he wasn't
my
husband.

With a deep breath, I let him have it. “The truth is, we would never last together.”

Bobby cocked his head. “What?”

That sinking-heart feeling came over me as I realized the time and effort I had sunk into foolish dreaming. “You're married, Bobby.”

“But maybe not for too long. And you're not involved with anyone. We could hook up again, Liv. Just like old times.”

“It's not going to happen,” I said, trying to bow out gracefully.

“And why the hell not?” His eyes flashed with anger, and I could see that once again it was about boosting Bobby's ego, another exercise in face saving.

“Because she's with me.” The scratchy voice came from behind me, and I turned as ZZ stepped forward and slid an arm over my shoulders. “Liv and I try to be discreet, but we hooked up a few weeks ago.”

Bobby cupped a hand over one eye, then lifted his forehead, as if peering through a scope at this new worldview. Or maybe he was getting a migraine, too. “Really?”

I flattened my palm against ZZ's back, glad for the support.

“We've got some plans,” he said, stroking his beard. “Looking forward to the end of this gig. We figure we'll head south, tour the Florida Keys on my hog.”

“Love the hog,” I said, turning to ZZ, “but, honey, it's not very practical here in Baltimore.”

“That's why we're out of here, Red.”

Squinting at me, Bobby shook his head. “You should've told me before I . . . Never mind. Okay, guys, I'd better get back to work now.”

As Bobby disappeared behind the hill of snow, ZZ still held on tight for effect. “No wonder your mother calls him Booby.”

“He's an asshole, I know. Thing is, he used to be the asshole I loved.” I wasn't sure how I felt. Disappointed at Bobby's lack of morality? Pleased that he'd wanted me back? Relieved to be free of him?

ZZ shrugged. “Consider yourself liberated.”

“Or something like that.”