See Jane Date (27 page)

“I've got a better idea. If Timothy doesn't have to work, you spend the holiday with us. I'd love for you to get to know him.”

“So you really like this guy, huh?” Eloise asked, lighting another cigarette. “You're not scared shitless?”

“I'm more scared than I was during
The Blair Witch Project.
”

Eloise laughed her head off.

M
onday: Waited for the phone to ring. It did, but was never Timothy. Natasha delivered her revised Chapter Two. Aunt Ina instructed me to walk around my apartment in the peau de soie shoes to break them in for the wedding.

Tuesday: Phone rang! Timothy was working double time all week, but how about if he came over tomorrow night. Might be late.
No problem!
Wrote revision letter to Natasha on Chapter Three and for the revised outline.

Wednesday: Timothy canceled—couldn't get away from the hospital. Could I pencil him in for July Fourth for the fireworks and a rooftop barbecue? Sure I could! E-mail from Natasha: She was gung ho to start revising, planned to send the revised, polished first three chapters and the final outline two weeks from today.

Thursday: Phone rang unexpectedly. Timothy working the Fourth, so sorry, but he would make it up to me with
fireworks of our own next week. I was so depressed that I didn't 'fess up to Jeremy that I was free to take on new projects now that Natasha was set and writing.

Friday: Flirt Night Roundtable held at trendy Union Square Café. Amanda, Eloise and I toasted to Eloise's bravery at giving Serge back the ring. Amanda and Eloise insisted Timothy's disappearing act didn't mean a thing—it was just the life of a doctor-to-be.

Saturday: Eloise and I watched the fireworks from the FDR Drive. Got chocolate fat-free frozen yogurts and went home to watch
Dirty Dancing
on television for the hundredth time. Natasha called to wish me a Happy Fourth. She was on page 200 of
What To Expect When You're Expecting
and busily working on
The Stopped Starlet.
Timothy did not call to wish me a Happy Fourth. Discussion with Eloise on what that meant (she insisted in best-friend style that it meant zippo, that the Fourth wasn't Thanksgiving or Christmas or my birthday or even remotely a phone call holiday). Aunt Ina called to wish me a Happy Fourth. So did Grammy. And Amanda.

Sunday: Read the
Times.
Mentally wrote my wedding announcement.
Gregg and Rommely To Wed. The bride will be known as Jane Greggely.
Waited for the phone to ring. It did: Aunt Ina: Had I started breaking in my bridesmaid shoes? (No, I had not.)

Monday: Waited for the phone to ring. Told Jeremy I was workless until next Wednesday. Assigned a new memoir-to-be about a male virgin, age thirty, who was neither a priest nor all that religious. Got a stack of slush manuscripts. Morgan eyed me funny all day.

Tuesday: Called Eloise and Amanda for advice. Should I call Timothy? Or wait? Both said wait. The guy was a doctor, after all. Morgan eyed me funny again. Reminder call from Aunt Ina to pick up my bridesmaid dress.

Wednesday: Picked up the phone instead and put it down twelve times. Read one slush memoir. Left early to get bridesmaid dress. Stopped in on Aunt Ina and Uncle Charlie; Grammy was over. Had a pastrami sandwich and carried my dress home on the subway. Claimed I was just stressed out from work when Ina kept asking if something was wrong.

Thursday: What, I wasn't a person in this relationship? I was calling him. Was it a relationship? Did three dates make a relationship? Did sex? Did three dates almost three weeks ago with sex make a relationship? Answering machine. I left a message. Not too desperate. Just a hello and a “Call me, I miss you.” Morgan eyed me funny again and asked if something was wrong, Jaaane. I told her everything was just fine, thaaank you very much. Wouldn't she love that.

Friday: Flirt Night Roundtable. Held, at this very moment, at Big Sur on the Upper East Side. Timothy hadn't called me back. Amanda was beside herself. Eloise was gnawing her lip. I was beyond depressed.

“I just don't understand what happened with Timothy,” Amanda said. “Should I ask Jeff to call him and find out what's up?”

Eloise exhaled a stream of smoke. “No way. That's too high school. He'll call when he can. He's just busy, that's all.”

For three weeks? “Yeah, right,” I said. “Who's too busy to start up a relationship, eat out at great restaurants and have sex? That's all a couple does for the first month or two. What did I do wrong?”

“You didn't do anything wrong!” Eloise declared, her hazel eyes angry. “He's just a jerk.”

“Hey, we don't know that yet,” Amanda mediated.
“Maybe he's just really busy. The guy
is
a resident. They don't keep the same hours as normal people.”

I sipped my Cosmopolitan. “But he kept the same hours for our first three dates,” I reminded Amanda. “I saw him Saturday, Tuesday and the next Saturday. Now I can't even see him once a month? Please. I'm getting the big blow-off—I know it. I don't get it, but he's definitely blowing me off. I did something wrong. But what?”

“Jane, you did nothing wrong,” Eloise said, pointing at me with her cigarette. “You know what? I'll bet it's the erection thing. Maybe he's embarrassed and—”

“Eloise!” I slapped her hand.

“What erection thing?” Amanda asked, blue eyes wide.

“He couldn't get it up the first time they did it,” Eloise explained. “And he got kinda huffy about it.”

“Amanda, please don't tell Jeff that,” I begged. “If Jeff talks to Timothy and says something about it, I'll die. Timothy will never talk to me again.”

“Honey, don't worry,” Amanda assured me. “I won't say boo, I promise.”

I let out a breath. “Anyway, it only happened that one time, the first time we tried. After that, we did it twice, no problem—and then twice the next morning. He doesn't have trouble in that department.”

“Yeah, but guys are definitely sensitive about that,” Amanda pointed out. “It happened with Jeff in the beginning. He would get so frustrated and embarrassed. It took a lot to make him see I didn't care.”

“So what happened? Did it go away?” I asked.

“Not totally,” Amanda said. “It doesn't happen all the time. But when it does, at least now he knows not to get
upset. When it first happened, I thought it was my fault. But I read up on the subject and learned it wasn't.”

“So what makes it happen? I asked.

“A lot of factors in him that have nothing to do with us. In fact, one article said that the more attracted to you a guy is, the more trouble he can have getting it up the first few times, because he's so nervous.”

Huh. I made Timothy that nervous? I liked that.

“Trust me, Jane,” Eloise said. “With that Miracle Bra of yours, Timothy was definitely overheated by you.” We cracked up and sipped our drinks. “Speaking of Miracle Bras, do you think the Gnat's chest is real?”

“Are her boobs huge?” Amanda asked, waving away Eloise's smoke.

“It's not that they're so big, they're just perky,” I replied. “Everything on her body is perky.”

“So I never got to ask you what her parents were like,” Amanda said. “Were they too fabulous and pretentious for words?”

Mrs. Nutley's strained face popped into my mind. “Actually no. Her dad wasn't there, and her mom was pretty cold. I don't think the Nutleys are too pleased that their daughter is airing her dirty laundry to the world.”

“Does she talk about them in the book?” Eloise asked. “I could see that pissing them off.”

“Nope. She says she's not close to her parents and that she knows she's a disappointment to them, but she doesn't spend much time on the family dynamic. The memoir's not about that.”

“So what are they getting all upset about?” Eloise asked. “She's an adult. If she wants to tell the world about some actor she screwed, that's her business.”

“Yeah, but it reflects on her parents, doesn't it?” Amanda remarked. “She's telling the whole world the
intimate details of a pretty sleazy experience. Her parents have a right to be embarrassed.”

I didn't agree with that. A month ago, I would have. But not anymore. A relationship that had left Natasha heartbroken wasn't sleazy. That she was choosing to write about it wasn't sleazy either. Many celebrities, no matter how they'd achieved that fame, wrote about their personal lives, as did many average Joes off the street. It was carthartic. And that was because Natasha, like everyone else, wasn't writing the memoir to share her private life with the world; she was writing it for
herself.
Whether she was defending herself, learning about herself, documenting a period in her life in her own words for her grandchildren or just writing a very long diary entry, she was doing it for herself. And that she was getting a semi-decent advance to write it was just icing on the cake. I had a feeling Natasha would have agreed to write the memoir for free if guaranteed publication.

“You know,” I told my friends, “I don't think the memoir has anything to do with Natasha airing her dirty laundry. I think it's about her coming to terms with herself, with a painful period in her life. And writing a book isn't exactly easy.”

“Whoa, Jane,” Amanda said, reaching for her gin and tonic. “Since when did you become Natasha Nutley's defender?”

Huh.

 

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!!! Oh, yeah!! Yeah! Yeaaaaaaah!!!

I peeled open an eye. Had the Oh Moaner woken me or had the phone rung?

Ring!

Didn't people know not to call before ten on a Saturday
morning? I snatched the phone, ready to yell at whoever it was. Until I heard Timothy's voice. I bolted up, suddenly wide-awake, and clutched the cordless to my ear.

“Are you still speaking to me?” Timothy asked. “I know I've been MIA for a while.”

“I'm not mad at you, Timothy. I'd just like to see you. It's been three weeks.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.
“Oh!! Oh yeah! Oh!!! Ohhhh!”

“I'm really sorry about that, Jane. I want to see you too, but things have been nuts here. I'm at the hospital right now.”

“I understand, Timothy. I'm just dying to see that face of yours.”

“That goes ditto for me. But they've got us working around the clock. This past week was so bad, I didn't even have a chance to go home once. That's why I haven't called. We've all been sleeping on cots. And it's gonna be bad for a while. But when it's over, I'm going to take you out for the most amazing dinner.”

“Ohhhh! Oh yeah! Yeah, baby! Ohhh!!!”

“Sounds good,” I said, pounding on the wall. “When do you think you might get some time?” Please say soon. Please, please, please.

“I can make a definite date for next Saturday night,” he said. “I'm going to be working like crazy all week, but I'm off Saturday night until Sunday at two in afternoon. We'll have to do something low-key so I can get to sleep early. Is that okay?”

I jumped up and pumped my fist in the air like either a twelve-year-old or a tennis champ. I had my long-awaited fourth date! “That's absolutely fine. I can't wait to see you.” I plopped back down on the futon, smiling
so hard I thought my face would burst. He wasn't blowing me off! He
was
just being a doctor!

“I can't wait to see you either,” he said. “I'll call to check in if I can. Otherwise, I'll see you next Saturday around seven-thirty or eight.”

As we hung up, I realized my period was due next Saturday. Of course it was. Didn't Murphy's Law ordain that? Maybe Timothy wouldn't mind. After all—as everyone I knew kept reminding me—he
was
a doctor.

 

Friday, 3:14 p.m. I was tearing my cuticles to shreds. Today was the big day. Jeremy had promised to get back to me with his comments on the first three chapters and the outline of
The Stopped Starlet
by this afternoon, and I'd been a nervous wreck since noon. Any minute he'd call me into his office to discuss the partial. How I was getting through this day without ripping off the nicotine patch and bumming cigarettes from Eloise was beyond me. Thank God I could count on a Flirt Night Roundtable in four hours. I was in desperate need of a Cosmopolitan. Not only did I have raging PMS, but I was worrying myself into a frenzy. What if Jeremy ripped the chapters to shreds? What if they were off the mark? Too pornographic? Too self-help? Too not what he expected? What if the outline was a mess? Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath. Calm down. He'd loved the excerpt of Chapter One. He'd love the whole partial. Eyes on the little clock on my desk, I bit into another cuticle.

I'd placed the chapters and outline on Jeremy's desk at nine sharp this morning. I was proud of the partial, proud of Natasha for her hard work and excellent writing, proud of myself for spending the past two nights slaving over the manuscript with a pencil. I'd barely had to touch much of Chapter Two, and had only a bit of work to do midway
through Chapter Three. The outline itself was in big, juicy,
New York Times
extended bestseller list shape. I'd done my job well, and I knew it. So why I had forgotten that since the clock struck twelve?
You did good,
I told myself.
You did damned good.
Jeremy
had
to like the partial.