Mine Are Spectacular! (29 page)

Am I the only one worried about harassment in the workplace? But anyway, that was fast. Word gets out that there's a handsome single man in the city and he's a hotter commodity than a rent-controlled apartment on Riverside Drive. I guess James is going to be just fine. And I can happily take on the role of friend, advisor, and supportive ex-wife.

“If you want to impress her, tell her what a great dad you are,” I say conspiratorially. “Women like that.”

James laughs. “Thanks for the advice. Anything I can help you with over there?”

“I think I'm okay,” I say, really meaning it. “See you when I get back.”

“Yup, you will,” James says. “Dylan and I are planning to build one heck of a Mars lander. Right in the middle of your living room.”

Chapter EIGHTEEN

THE FLIGHT BACK FEELS
about half as long and twice as comfortable as the flight over because I spend it sleeping contentedly on Bradford's shoulder. And then there's that little bonus of our being in first class, where the seats don't just recline, they turn into beds. When we get home, Bradford takes a whole week off from work and so do I. The kids complain that they want to be on vacation, too, so we take them for a special day in the city where we cover two museums, three streets of shopping, a carriage ride through Central Park and a night at the Big Apple Circus, which Skylar doesn't complain about. Maybe because one of the clowns comes over to flirt with her and brings her into the ring.

“I knew I'd think the men she dated were buffoons,” Bradford says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “But who thought I'd actually be right.”

Afterward we go to The Carlyle so Skylar can feel sophisticated drinking an alcohol-free piña colada in the elegant Bemelmans Bar while listening to the dulcet piano music. She marvels at the whimsical murals on the walls, and she's delighted when we tell her they were created by the man who wrote the Madeline books.

“The bar was named after him, and he lived in the hotel,” I explain.

“I could live here, too,” she says, contentedly twirling her drink with her swizzle stick.

Dylan admires the ice-skating elephants painted on the walls for a while, but he's less impressed by the intimate, romantic room than Skylar, and he falls asleep in Bradford's lap.

“A perfect night,” Bradford says, when we're back at Hadley Farms and he's carried the still-sleeping Dylan to bed. Skylar, on the other hand, is wide awake. She pulls a colorful Post-it from the pocket of her Cynthia Rowley jacket. “Do you think it's too late to call the clown?” she asks. “He gave me his number.”

“How dare he do that!” Bradford says, quickly falling into the role of furious father. Predictably, his ire just makes Skylar that much more interested in the whole idea.

“He had floppy shoes, but he was kind of cute,” she says, like any teenage girl trying to test her limits.

And for once, stepmom-to-be can do better than dad.

“General rule I've found useful,” I tell her with a wink. “Never date a man who wears more makeup than you do.”

Sklyar laughs, probably just as happy to be off the hook. “But he could have taught me so much about eyeliner,” she says, tossing the Post-it into the wastebasket and heading off to her own room.

When she's gone, Bradford gives me a hug. “Stop giving me new reasons to love you. I have too many already.”

Two nights later, Bradford and I are back at The Carlyle, this time sitting at a table with Kate, waiting for Owen to show up. We had so much fun the other night, we decided to come back. But trying to replicate a great evening never works.

“I'd like to tell you that Owen will be here any minute, but he's never on time for anything,” Kate grumbles, halfway through her second cranberry juice and vodka. I always think drinking cranberry juice in public takes a brave woman. Either she really can't live without the taste or she has a urinary tract infection.

“I'm sure he's very busy,” Bradford says, glancing sideways at me and obviously wondering how often I've made the same complaint about him.

I put my hand reassuringly over his. “You're worth waiting for, honey,” I say.

“I'm not sure Owen is,” Kate says, delicately squeezing a wedge of lime into her drink. And then tossing the rind into her hors d'oeuvre plate so vigorously that it bounces across the table.

I was never a great fan of Owen's, but ever since Kate told me about his needing occasional flings, I've been trusting him less and less.

“Owen still thinking about wandering into other pastures?” I ask Kate.

“Not that I know of,” she says tightly. “It's just hard to be at his beck and call every minute. And now he wants me to cut down on my office hours so I can be even more available to him.”

“Not exactly why you went to Harvard Medical School,” I say.

“He loves it that I went to Harvard,” Kate says, correcting me. “That's part of my appeal. It gives him some cachet since he went to C.W. Post.”

“So this is always about him, not you?” I ask.

“It's starting to feel that way,” Kate admits. “I didn't mind before because it was so new and romantic that I wasn't seeing straight. But now I'm thinking long-term, and I'm realizing there's a difference between a fling guy and a forever guy.”

I turn to Bradford. “You're the forever kind of guy,” I tell him, in case he's stymied trying to decode girl talk—or wondering where he stands.

“I'll take that as a compliment, even though I prefer to think of myself as a sex god,” Bradford teases.

“Did I hear someone say sex god?” calls out Owen loudly, strutting toward the table, Blackberry in hand. “Because Mr. Sex God himself has arrived.”

Despite herself, Kate laughs and stands up to give him a kiss. She introduces him to Bradford, and when they shake hands, I notice Bradford carefully taking Owen's measure. Women check each other out when they meet to see who's prettier, thinner and has the better shoes. How do men judge each other? Owen's got the bigger wallet, but Bradford's got the better body. My man wins.

“What are we doing in Bemelmans?” Owen asks. “Who picked this place?”

“It's pretty,” Kate says. “Nice music. Great drinks.”

“Don't be cheap,” Owen says. “Woody Allen's playing in the other Carlyle bar across the lobby. What's the matter, you guys can't afford the cover charge?”

Kate looks humiliated, Bradford looks amused, and I'm pretty sure I can get the same Diet Coke in either place. Though it probably costs more a hundred feet away.

Owen's made an executive decision and he's not waiting for a vote. He officiously tells the waiter to move everyone's drinks to the Café Carlyle.

“I don't think there are any tables available, sir,” says the waiter.

“They'll find one for me. Tell the maître d' it's Owen Hardy. And give him this.”

I'm not sure whether Owen hands him a hundred-dollar bill or the phone number for the madam who arranges threesomes. But a few minutes later, we're sitting inches from the stage, waiting for Woody and his group to start their next set. I'm glad he's got this gig. His clarinet playing's got to be better than his last few movies.

Woody comes back from his break and everyone in the room immediately falls silent. Except for Owen, who chooses that moment to make a call on his cell phone.

“Don't tell me you couldn't make the deal!” he barks. “When I say to buy it, you buy it! Get it?”

The problem with a cell phone is that he can't slam it down. Best he can do is jab his thumb at the little disconnect button. And then pound out another number.

“Hello. Are you listening to me?” he demands loudly to his next call.

“Keep it down,” Bradford says evenly. “People want to listen to the music.”

Owen, not used to being questioned, glares at him and leaves the table, presumedly to make a few more calls outside. Kate looks disconsolate and I pat her hand comfortingly.

“Something big must be up,” I say consolingly.

“Something big's always up. Screaming into the phone is just part of his usual routine,” Kate admits, shaking her head. “He's all about conquest. No matter what he's doing, there's something more important. The next building he can buy, the next business he can swallow up. Once he gets what he's after, it's just not interesting to him anymore.”

I nod and don't ask the obvious—whether now that he's captured Kate, Owen is out looking for another challenge. All the traits that make him a successful billionaire add up to his being a lousy boyfriend. Kate knows it and she probably even gets the irony. She's not laughing, but she's not crying either.

“I'm getting so fed up with him,” she whispers to me.

“I can see why,” I admit. “This was supposed to be fun. The first time the four of us are getting together.”

Kate makes a face, and then turning to Bradford, she says, “I'm sorry about Owen. Don't be offended. I can't even make an excuse for him.”

“You don't have to worry about me,” Bradford says. “At the moment, I'm more worried about you.”

Kate sits up a little straighter and adjusts the diamond stud at her ear. “I'm going to be okay,” she says. “I'm glad you guys came tonight. It helps to look at someone through your friends' eyes. I can only imagine what you're sitting there thinking.”

No she can't. Because I've already moved on from what an ass Owen is and I'm thinking about how to get Kate to break up with him. And whether I should really be concerned that she's drinking cranberry juice.

Kate keeps glancing back, looking for Owen to finish his deal outside and turn his attention back to the table. But when he doesn't reappear, Kate starts to get annoyed.

“I'm going to the ladies' room,” Kate says, grabbing her Fendi clutch and standing up.

“I'll come, too,” I tell her, half suspecting that she's really heading off in search of Owen. I give Bradford a little kiss. “We'll be right back.”

Sure enough, out in the lobby, Kate immediately spots Owen still yammering on his cell. She walks over decisively and taps him on the shoulder—but when Owen turns around, he waves her away without missing a syllable. She stands in front of him for a long minute. And boy, can a minute be a long time when you're being ignored.

“Are you coming back inside?” she finally asks.

He pulls the phone away from his mouth. “No,” he says. “Sorry, babe. This is going to take a while. And I've got something big going on tonight. Not going to make it home.”

Kate spins around and comes back over to me.

“Listen, I'm going to leave,” Kate says. “You and Bradford just stay and have fun.”

Before I have a chance to argue with her, Kate's striding out of the lobby and smiling graciously at the doorman who pushes the revolving door for her. I run outside to try to talk to her, but she's already getting in a cab. I walk slowly back inside and notice that Owen has been watching the whole scene—but hasn't bothered to do anything about it. I sigh and decide to make the most of what's left of the evening. Bradford's waiting for me at the table, and there's nothing I can do about Owen. He's a jerk, but unfortunately, at the moment, he's Kate's jerk.

 

The invitation to the Daytime Emmys comes bright and early the next morning. Regis Philbin himself calls—and I don't believe it's really him until I ask him to say “Is that your final answer?” Yup, the voice is unmistakably the one I've heard on morning TV and making millionaires at night.

Regis, charming and ingratiating, tells me that he's the host of the show and has great news.
Afternoon Delights
had premiered too late in the season to qualify for a nomination, but Kirk and I have been chosen to be presenters at the live awards telecast.

“We can't possibly do the show without you,” he says ingratiatingly. “How can you have the Daytime Emmys without daytime's two biggest stars?”

I go blank for a moment. Does he really mean us? “Kirk and I are daytime's two biggest stars?” I ask, practically squealing in delight.

“Not really, that's me and Kelly. But we had a last minute dropout and our producers have called everyone else on the list. Show's two days away. Can you do it? Can you save us?”

“I don't have anything to wear,” I say.

“Yes, you do,” says Regis. “Our stylist has a whole rack of size fours sitting right here.”

“Great. Maybe I can wear two of them.”

Regis laughs. “We'll take care of you. Just say yes.”

“Yes! Yes!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. Maybe I should audition for an Herbal Essence commercial.

“Terrific. Rehearsal tomorrow at two o'clock. Come to the stage door at Radio City Music Hall.”

Right after we hang up, I call Kirk to tell him the news. A moment later, Kirk's other line rings and he puts me on hold, then quickly comes back.

“Can't talk,” he says excitedly. “Regis Philbin's on the other line. Did you know he can't do the Daytime Emmys without daytime's two biggest stars?”

I'll let him find out for himself that Regis doesn't mean us.

The next day when I arrive for rehearsal, I'm immediately ushered inside by a young intern and introduced to the eternally impish Regis himself. The man looks awfully good for someone older than the Constitution. If he's on TV at this age, he must have had plastic surgery. Kate told me to look for scars behind the ears, and I crane my neck oddly as we shake hands, trying to get a good view. All I get is a crick in my neck.

Another producer, a cute guy named Bill, whisks me away and the next few hours are a whirl of fittings, script readings and flubbed lines. When I get onto the cavernous stage, I just can't seem to say, “Our next nominees are the wittiest, wiliest women around.” I keep saying “awound,” imitating Barbara Walters without meaning to. Sure Barbara built a whole career on that little speech tic, but what are the odds of lightning striking twice?

Bill breaks up laughing every time I mess up the word, but he won't change the line. “That's the funniest thing in the whole show,” he tells me.

Kirk, my copresenter for the evening, has just rushed over from his soap set and has a solution. “Want me to take that intro?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” says Bill. “Get your own comedy material.”

From the stage, I look out at the audience, currently consisting of large photographs of the stars, propped against the chairs where they'll be sitting. Seems to make sense. Other than Kirk, most soap stars I've met really are two-dimensional. Right now, the pictures are set so the cameramen know where to locate the stars tomorrow night when their names are called. Too bad it can't stay this way. The photos are a lot less likely than the real people to pitch a diva fit if they don't win.