Hollywood Confessions (32 page)

Today Richard’s blonde hair was perfectly gelled into place in a casual wave, a la early Robert Redford. He was wearing a dark gray suit, paired with a white shirt and tasteful paisley printed tie. He looked downright delish and I resisted the urge to throw myself into his arms, unloading all my worries onto the shoulder of his wool suit.

Another man exited the offices with him, the two of them deep in conversation. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but whatever it was had Richard’s sandy brows drawn together in a look of concern.

The other guy was dressed in Levis, worn with faded patches along the thighs and seat, and a navy blazer over a form fitting black T-shirt. His shoulders were broad and he had the sort of compact build that made you instantly think prizefighter. A white scar cut into his eyebrow, breaking up his tanned complexion. Dark hair, dark eyes and the sort of hard look about him that usually went along with prison tattoos. I hoped Richard wasn’t branching out into criminal defense.

I waited until they’d shook hands and the other guy had walked out of the lobby before approaching Richard.

“
Hi honey,” I said, standing on tiptoe to place a kiss on his cheek.

“
Hi.” He was still staring after the felon, his tone distracted as if I’d just interrupted him during football season.

“
Who was that?”

“
Nobody.”

The way Richard was still staring after Mr. Nobody led me to believe that wasn’t exactly true. However, I had bigger things to think about than Richard’s latest client. Like being late.

“
You’re late.”

“
Huh?” I whirled around, panic rising like bile in my throat. Good God, could he tell already? Insanely I looked down to my abdomen as if it might have grown six inches in the last thirty seconds.

“
We had reservations for one.”

Oh. That late.

“
Sorry, there was traffic on the 405. We’ll just go somewhere else. How about the Cabo Cantina?”

Richard was still staring at the closed glass doors where Mr. Nobody had exited. I wondered again who the man was. He didn’t look like Richard’s typical clients and he certainly didn’t give off that new car scent of another lawyer.

“
I, uh, don’t think I’m going to make lunch today after all. Something’s kind of come up.”

“
Oh, that’s too bad.” Am I a totally bad person that I was actually a little relieved? At least we didn’t have to have
that
conversation now. At least now I had a little time to come up with a better way of dropping the bombshell than, “Richard, we’ve got to buy stronger condoms.” Hmm… I wondered if I could sue Trojan over this?

“
Sorry, Maddie. I’ll call you later, I promise.”

“
That’s okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tonight then?”

“
Sure. Tonight.” He gave me a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing back through the frosted doors and into the bowels of Dewy, Cheatum and Howe. Jasmine looked up just long enough to give me an Elvis smirk before going back to her solitaire game.

* * *

I walked the two blocks back to my Jeep and left another message on Dana’s answering machine. If she didn’t pick up soon I was going to have to start taking résumés for a new girlfriend. I started my Jeep with a roar that echoed in the parking structure and instead of getting back on the freeway, made my way up Grand to Beverly Boulevard. I hit a drive-thru Mc Donald’s and ordered a decadent Big Mac, large fries and a strawberry shake. This was not a day to be counting carbs.

I parked in the lot, enjoying my comfort food in the privacy and full blast air-conditioning of my Jeep. As I slurped the last of my shake, I wondered what to do now. I
should
go back to work, something I’d neglected ever since staring in horror at my calendar this morning. However, the thought of being creative right now didn’t seem quite realistic.

As a little girl I’d always dreamed of being a fashion model, parading down a Milan runway in the latest designer creations as the world ooh’ed and ahh’ed. But by the eighth grade it was abundantly clear I was not going to achieve fashion model height. So, I settled for the next best thing, being a fashion designer. After four years at the Academy of Art College in San Francisco, I was ready to make my mark on the fashion scene. Only I hadn’t counted on it being almost as hard to break into fashion as it was to break into modeling. After begging, pleading and promising to wash every fashion exec’s car in the greater Los Angeles area, I finally landed a job. Designing children’s shoes for Tot Trots. Okay, so it wasn’t Milan, but it paid the bills. Most of the time.

The perks were I set my own hours, I worked from home and I was happy to say that my work had been featured on the feet of fashionable tots everywhere, including the Barbie Jellies last spring and the SpongeBob slippers in the fall collection. Currently I was working on the Strawberry Shortcake high-tops – available in both iridescent pink and sparkling purple, thank you very much.

However, at the moment the idea of spending a day with tiny tot fashions didn’t hold enormous appeal. Kiddie shoes made me think of kids, which made me think of babies, which led to thoughts about condoms that for no good reason at all sometimes broke and led to women being in my current position.

I looked down at my dash clock. One forty-five. Dana was probably getting to the gym right about now for her step-and-sculpt class. In addition to being my best friend, Dana was an aerobics instructor at the Sunset Gym. That is, in between auditions and bit movie roles. Like 90% of Los Angelinos, Dana wanted to be an actress. Though she swore as long as she didn’t moonlight as a waitress, she could keep from becoming a cliché. I figured if I took the 101, I might be able to catch her between classes.

I set my shake down and put the car in gear, pulling up in front of the huge concrete and glass structure of the Sunset Gym in record time. I parked in the lot, declining the valet parking. Yes, in L.A. people actually avoided walking the two yards from the parking lot to the gym before doing their three-mile run. Go figure.

As I entered the gym, a tall guy with a buzz cut and Popeye arms stopped me at the front desk. He looked me up and down, taking in the two-inch boots, Ann Taylor skirt and lack of Nike bag slung over my shoulder. I wasn’t fooling him. We both knew I only used my membership for a swim in the pool on those hundred degree plus days.

After whipping out my ID card and satisfying the steroid gatekeeper, I entered the main floor, scanning past rows of exercycles for any sign of Dana. I spotted her at the front of a class by the windows, stepping and sculpting their little hearts out. I had a brief moment of guilt over my gazillion calorie lunch, but it didn’t last long. Certainly not long enough for me to actually suit up and jump on a stepper.

Instead I grabbed a dog-eared copy of
Elle
, settling onto a bench along the wall to wait. It didn’t take long for the gyrating steppers to finish, breaking into a self-congratulatory round of applause. The teacher of the step class came jogging toward me, her strawberry blonde ponytail swishing back and forth. A perfect size two, she looked like she’d just stepped off the pages of
Sports Illustrated
. And not the swimsuit edition, but the women-who-lift-and-the-men-who-love-them edition. I would hate her, except for the fact that Dana, a.k.a. aerobics queen, was my best friend.

“
What’s up?” she asked, looking down at my high heeled boots with a frown.

“
I just ate,” I said by way of defense.

Dana shot me a dubious look but let it go. Instead she began doing a little jogging in place thing as she talked. “So, I got your message. What’s the big emergency?”

“
I, uh…” I looked over my shoulder as if I almost shouldn't be saying it out loud. “I’m late.”

“
Okay, we’ll talk fast. What’s up?”

“
No, no. Not late.
Late
.”

Dana cocked her head to one side, taking this in before the meaning hit her. “Oh my God. You mean you missed your period?”

“
No. I didn’t
miss
anything yet. I’m just a little late.”

“
No wonder you’re freaking out.”

“
I’m not freaking out. I’m… just a little late.”

Dana shot me the yeah-right look she’d been using on me ever since we bonded over our love of New Kids On the Block in seventh grade. “Right. And that’s why you left four messages on my machine this morning.”

I cringed. Did I really leave four? “Okay fine. I’m freaking out. But just a little.”

“
Did you take a test yet?” she asked, switching to a jumping jacks routine.

“
Like a pregnancy test?”

“
No, an algebra test. Geez, anyone would think you’ve never been late before.”

Truth was, I hadn’t. And that’s what was scaring me even more about my predicament. Ever since my monthly visitor began arriving, I’d been twenty-eight days like clockwork. Which is why I’d panicked and left a near stalker amount of messages on my best friend’s machine. Hey, wait a minute, if she got my messages, how come she didn’t call me back?

“
Why didn’t you call me back?”

Dana got that wicked smile on her face that said she was either dating someone new or about to give someone twenty push-ups.

“
I wasn’t exactly alone.”

“
Do I want to know who?”

“
Sasha Aleksandrov,” she said, switching to a little two-step footwork in place.

“
Excuse me?”

Dana giggled. Yes, grown women with 1% body fat still giggle like middle schoolers with braces when it comes to men. “He’s a Russian body contortionist. Sasha’s the bottom of the human pyramid in the Cirqué Fantastique.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Dana had an uncanny ability to pick guys who were destined for short-term relationships. “So where did you meet Mr. Pyramid Bottom?”

“
Here. He came in with the Spanish trapeze artist to work out last week. I offered to show him how to use the Cybex machine. He doesn’t have them in Russia.”

“
Of course not.”

“
And, we hit it off. He asked if I wanted to see him perform.”

Considering the many meanings behind that statement, I’m betting Dana said yes. She never passed up an opportunity to see a muscular man “perform.”

“
That’s it. I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, covering my ears. Dana giggled again.

“
Okay, so how late are you?” she asked instead.

“
Three days.”

“
And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”

“
Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”

“
Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margaritas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”

“
No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”

At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”

Was I?

“
No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”

“
We see a pink line?”

“
Yeah.”

“
Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

* * *

Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and picked up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.

I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what
if
it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?

I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just
how
closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?

I think I was hyperventilating again.

I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.