Alexandra Waring (39 page)

She nodded.

“Fifteen.”

“Oh, no,” Betty said again, looking away.

After several minutes she turned back toward him. “I do like her, you know.”

“You said that.”

“Yeah, well, I do,” Betty said. She paused and then said, “Will you guys get married on the farm? Could I come if you did? I always wanted to see where Auntie Em lived-see—if Kansas is in black and white.”

Gordon smiled, glancing over. “We’re thinking maybe New York, but either way—of course you’ll be invited.” Betty nodded, looking away again. Then she turned back again. “Will Christopher come?”

Oh, great, just what he needed to get depressed—to think about Christopher. “Yeah, sure,” he said, although he doubted it, certainly after what had happened this week on his trip to Paris.

It had started out well enough. His flight had been on time, a car was waiting there at the airport and they drove to the Place Vendôme, where he checked into the Ritz. While the driver rewrapped Christopher’s present for him in the trunk of the car (customs had really done a number on it), Gordon showered and changed, trying to dispel any anger (or at least hide it) that he felt toward Julie, since Christopher was the kind of kid who picked up vibes like that out of the air. And, after all, it
was
with Julie that Christopher lived, and it
was
that old man, Ruvais, that Christopher saw every day, and so if Christopher loved them, then.… So as they drove over, along the magnificent Avenue Foch, along the rolling lawns and lines of trees and fairy-tale urban mansions stretching west from the Arc de Triomphe, Gordon tried to view the past through Julie’s eyes, a tactic which had proved helpful in changing his attitude on previous visits.

I am pretty and talented and have a beautiful son. I am married to a man I do not love. I do not like sex. I am bored. I want to go back to work but the husband I do not love does not want me to. I meet Émile Ruvais, the director, the national treasure of France. He is class and he is genius and he is in love with me. He is much older, affectionate and not as sexually demanding as my husband. Émile says he cannot live without me. He says three wives have made him wise about marriage. He says I will be his last wife, that he can guarantee custody of my son, that he does not want more children, that I will be free to work as much as I please. He will put this all in a premarital agreement. All I have to do is write Gordon a note, open this door, carry my son out to that car and get in, and I will be free of Hollywood, free of him I do not love, and free of this house I hate. A house in Paris, a chateau in Burgundy, a flat in London, an apartment in New York. Film work in Émile’s movies. Everything I want.

“Papa! Papa!” Christopher had cried, coming down the steps of the house and nearly falling.

Gordon swept him up into his arms, hugging him for dear life. “What’s this Papa stuff?” he growled, kissing his son’s head.

“Daddy,” Christopher sighed, clinging.

Gordon smiled, his throat hurting not a little. And then he held Christopher out, his feet dangling three feet off the ground. “Look at the size of this guy, will you?” he said. He was growing quickly, this son of his. And he was blond, this child of his and Julie’s, with Gordon’s brown eyes, but otherwise showing Julie all over—the mouth, the narrow face, the high cheekbones. And Christopher would not be very big, taking after Julie’s side too. But he was a great kid, his son, a smart, lively, loving little kid, even if Julie was trying to make a sissy out of him. God, what was this outfit? Dress gray shorts and jacket and cap? What was he supposed to be, Little Lord Fauntleroy?

“Qu’est-ce qui’il y a dans la boîte?”
Christopher said, pointing to the birthday present that Gordon’s driver was taking out of the car.

Didn’t Julie even have him speak in English anymore? “English, please, slugger,” Gordon said, setting him back down on the ground.

“What’s in the box?” Christopher said, pulling him over to it.

“Bon jour, Monsieur Strenn,”
the butler said to Gordon, coming down the steps in his uniform.

“Hi,” Gordon said, offering a small hint that he didn’t feel switching over to French. Christopher was tugging on his hand with one hand and clutching the ribbon around the box with the other. “Just a second, slugger,” he whispered.

“Madame est sortie,”
the butler said.

“Where’d she go?” Gordon asked him.

The butler smiled, bowing slightly. “Madame has gone out for the afternoon and wishes that you use her home in her absence.”

“Can I open this now?” Christopher said, scrunching one eye up as he looked up at Gordon, as if this effort might somehow get a yes out of him.

“Madame thought perhaps the garden,” the butler said. “Madame thought since it was such a lovely day.”

“Yeah, madame,” Gordon muttered, stooping to pick up Christopher’s present.

“The footman will—” the butler started to say.

“Daddy’s
going to carry it,” Christopher told him.

“Okay, Christopher,” Gordon said, hefting the box, “lead the way to Madame’s garden.”

And so Gordon and Christopher went out into the garden and opened his present and ‘spent all afternoon building things with his building blocks. Julie arrived home (looking wonderful, of course—but at least she was getting
older
, which he knew killed her a little every day, if she was still the Julie he knew), and she and Gordon even managed a laugh or two before he left. But then that night, after Christopher had gone to bed, Julie called Gordon at the hotel to discuss Christopher’s plans for the summer. The problem, she explained, was that she and Emile were going to Yugoslavia to shoot his new movie, and so, unless Gordon wanted to take Christopher full time in London for July, the Ruvaises would be taking him with them. Gordon asked how was he supposed to take care of Christopher when he had an entire production to baby-sit, and pointed out that it was damn strange that all of a sudden Ruvais had to shoot in Yugoslavia in July when he
knew
Gordon had been planning to spend every weekend with Christopher in Paris.

“Of course I’d like Christopher with me in July,” Julie said, “but I’m offering you the chance to have him with you. Don’t you understand? You can have your son all month and then see him every weekend in Paris in August. I’ll send the nanny and—”

“He’s not going to want to be away from you,” Gordon said quickly. “And I can’t take care of him while I’m working.”

“I’ll send Mrs. Twickem, his nanny,” Julie said.

“I can’t have him around when I’m working,” Gordon insisted.

“Why not? I do,” Julie said. “I’m dying to take him to Yugoslavia with us.”

“What do you mean working?” Gordon said. “You’re not even in the stupid movie.”

“It’s not stupid, I am in it and besides, Gordon,” she said, her voice growing louder, “Émile is my husband and he likes for me to be with him when he works on location.”

“You never went with me anywhere,” Gordon said.

“You never went anywhere after you married me,” she snapped. “If you had, we’d probably still be married. So just grow up, Gordon, and at least pretend you’d like to spend some time with your son.”

“What?” Gordon yelled, about to throw the phone out the window. “I
do
want to spend time with him—I want him with me.”

“Well then, take him! You always say you want him and then you never do. For crying out loud, Gordon, with all your girlfriends in the last four years, you’d think you could have found one by now that even likes children.”

“Alexandra loves children,” Gordon said.

“Oh, Alexandra,” Julie groaned. “Is she back again?”

“Yes, she is, for your information,” he said. “Permanently, if you must know.”

Julie’s voice turned as cold as ice. “Oh, don’t you start in on me about Alexandra, Gordon Strenn. I heard about her almost every goddam day we were married. We
all
know how wonderful your Alexandra is. We
all
goddam well know how great she is in bed—don’t we? Don’t we, Gordon? You sure as hell threw it in my face often enough!”

“Yeah, and it sure didn’t help, did it?” Gordon said.

There was a long silence.

And then Julie hissed, “You listen to me, Gordon Strenn. I am sick and tired of your complaining and your tantrums about Christopher and about Émile and about me and about our life as a family when you don’t make the slightest effort to help raise our son.”

“That’s not true—”

“It
is
true,” Julie screamed. “And as long as you’re screwing Alexandra, you’re
never
going to participate in his life because she won’t have anything to do with him.”

“That’s not true!”

“It
is
true! You don’t love Christopher and you never loved me—”

“Julie, stop it!”

She was sobbing now. “You don’t love anyone—you don’t even know what it is! All you know how to do is fuck-you never knew how to love anyone-you never did—your goddam mother saw to that, didn’t she!”

“I’ve got a token for the tunnel,” Betty said.

“What?” Gordon said, startled.

Betty was holding out a large metal coin. A token. “For the tunnel. Here.”

“Oh,” he said, taking it from her, “thanks.” He downshifted into third, changing lanes as they approached the toll for the Midtown Tunnel.

“Something 1 said?” Betty asked him.

I’m sorry, what?” he said, glancing over at her.

“Ground control calling Gordon,” she said, holding a fist to her mouth like a microphone, “come in, please.” She leaned closer. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, downshifting to second.

“Hey, Betty,” he said a few moments later, as they waited in line for the toll, “how are you about kids?”

“Adore them,” she said.

“You do?” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “An aspiring rich and famous actress like you?”

Betty looked around to see if anyone was eavesdropping and then she leaned forward. “Don’t tell anybody,” she whispered as Gordon inched the car ahead, “but children are right up there over being rich and famous.”

“Really?” he said, looking at her.

She nodded, smiling.

“I didn’t know that,” Gordon said, turning back to the road.

Huh. Maybe there was a way to bring Christopher to London after all.

27
The Unveiling
Part IV: Langley

Until Jessica came into the studio, Langley couldn’t believe that she was responsible for putting Belinda in such a euphoric mood. He hadn’t seen Belinda this happy in a long, long time. From the time they had taken their seats in the studio audience, Belinda hadn’t stopped talking about how marvelous Jessica was, how Jessica absolutely had to come out for dinner this summer, and all about how Jessica’s makeup and hair were done, and how Belinda had picked out Jessica’s jewelry for the show. But then, when Jessica came into the studio, Langley realized that this Jessica—the good sport who had been nice to his wife (god, he had died a thousand. deaths when Belinda insisted on meeting her)—was a Jessica he was not familiar with. And then he thought what an idiot he was, because of course this was the Jessica Wright that people loved, the Jessica Wright that had made Jessica such a success.

When Jessica made her entrance the audience—unprompted started to clap and then were up on their feet, clapping and cheering. (Langley and Belinda too; the moment was like that. The moment Jessica appeared there was an inexplicable surge of energy in the studio, as if she were their victorious candidate coming in to make her acceptance speech.)

“Hi, everybody, hi!” she called, waving at everybody, hopping onto the set. (Even her guests were standing, clapping.) “Thank you, thank you,” Jessica said, smiling, radiant. Then she went quickly down the line of guests, shaking their hands—while everyone continued to clap —and then she turned around, still smiling, shaking her head, clearly elated. “Oh, gosh—come on, you guys, we’ve got a show to do—thank you, thank you. Oh, no—look,” she said, looking across the studio.

Everybody in the DBS newsroom and conference room was waving.

“Hi, you guys,” Jessica called, waving back. “Remember, everybody,” she said, turning back to the audience and pointing to the newsroom, “Alexandra Eyes and the Dancing DBS Newsettes over there are on just before us at nine—Channel 8 here in New York, WST.” (People were taking their seats now.) “This show today,” Jessica continued, “as I think you know, will be taped and broadcast tonight at ten. But we do tape it as if it is a live show—meaning that these cameras roll for one hour, no more, no less.”

And then Jessica walked out to the edge of the stage and, walking back and forth across it, started explaining various things about the show. (It took a while before Langley caught on that she was not so much warming them up for the show as she was gradually calming them down, trying to draw them into a mood far different from the jubilation of moments before.)

She reminded them that the topic of discussion today was wonderful moments in sexual intimacy (some guy said, “Yeah!” and Jessica smiled, lowered her voice to its sexiest and breathed, “Exactly,” making everyone laugh and prompting two catcalls to be made—one by someone in the audience and one by a member of the crew), explained the format of the show and then briefly ran through some of the technical stuff that would be going on in the studio. They were told they should ignore Lilly, the floor manager, who would be running around giving Jessica signals pertaining to cameras and time; and they should ignore Mel, the man with cue cards, who would no doubt be jumping up and down because she was going to do her best to ignore him. (“I mean really, look at this,” Jessica said, snatching a card out of his hand and holding it up:

HI, EVERYBODY, I’M JESSICA WRIGHT
AND THIS IS THE JESSICA WRIGHT SHOW

“As you can see,” Jessica said, “everybody around here’s real relaxed about me going national. Notice the generous allotment of ad lib.” While everybody laughed, she looked at Mel, putting one hand on her hip. “So what do you think I’m going to say? ‘Hi ya, I’m a Miss-a Pookie Pie-ya’?”)

She told them to try and ignore the cameras, particularly the one zooming around on the crane (“Hi ya, Zeph,” she called, waving. Zeph, perched on high, waved back); and they could, if they wanted, look at any of the monitors to see what was going out over the air. (“But please, remember that only one of us around here is allowed to be narcissistically self-involved with how she looks over the air and if you don’t know who that is, ask my producer, Denny—Denny, say hello to everybody—” “Hello,” Denny said, waving from near the studio door.) Jessica asked, however, that they not ignore the assistant producers, who would come out into the audience during commercial breaks to hear what audience members would like to say on the air. (“They’ll want to know the general thrust of your question or comments,” she explained, “just to make sure you’re in step with the show, that’s all.”)

And then, finally, she reminded them that there were no cues for laughter or applause or anything, so they should simply be themselves. “Which means,” she added, stepping down off the stage and walking up one of the aisles into the audience, “that you should give our guests the same consideration that you would give your best friend. The kind of stuff we’re talking about today is the kind of stuff your best friend might tell you at two in the morning, after a whole lot of partying. It’s special, it’s personal, and it’s being shared with us today because well, just for once, we thought we should dwell on one of the positive aspects of life, of the gifts connected with sex. Yeah
…
The gifts of sex. Remember? Like that one wonderful time you had that has kept you going back for more ever since—even though you’ve never been able to quite reproduce that wonderful one time? Find that magic combination again?”

Then Jessica took her seat on the set and introduced her four guests to the audience, explaining that when those cameras rolled she wanted the audience and guests to feel as though they were on the same side—that a kind of intimacy was occurring here, in the studio, between them, as they shared their life experiences with one another. She wanted them to forget about the cameras and to trust her to take care of establishing a relationship between all of them and the viewers who were locked outside, who were sitting at home and could only look in at them, through the window, so to speak.

The guests then talked a little about themselves to the audience: Karen, a sixty-three-year-old wife, mother and grandmother; Ted, a forty-two-year-old husband and father; Cindy, a twenty-four-year-old wife of four years; and Hart, a thirty-year-old newlywed. Jessica started asking some questions of her guests, and of her audience, about sex. At first everything was pretty stilted, but after a while, aware that the cameras were not on yet, everybody loosened up a little and people started laughing a little, fooling around, and Jessica then, suddenly, it seemed, was having problems trying to keep her guests from telling their “best moment of sexual intimacy” before the show started.

By the time the actual taping began (right on time, to the second, Langley noticed, as if indeed it were live), Jessica had succeeded—they all did feel like they were on the same side, audience and guests and Jessica, and like whoever might be watching through the camera was definitely an outsider. Langley thought it was like playing poker all night and then having someone come in to watch for a while, someone you had to trust wouldn’t disturb things so you could get on with the game.

“Hello, everybody,” Jessica said into the camera after her real cue, standing with a wireless microphone, “I’m Jessica Wright and”—she paused, smiling, clearly delighted by it all—”and hello, America,” she said, very friendly. “This is so neat, because, as most of you know, this is the first time our show has been seen nationally. So one day we’re in Tucson—hi, everybody!” she said, waving into the camera. “So one day we’re in Tucson, and the next we’re in New York City, appearing over the DBS television network. And do I love it,” she said, laughing, stepping back.

“Can we get a camera down here?” Jessica then said, suddenly sweeping down off the stage and into the audience. This was a total surprise to everyone. “Some of my old friends, fans from out West, flew all the way here to be with us today,” Jessica said. She asked them to stand up and quickly (without anything about it on the cue cards), pointed out who was who: “Mr. Roger Hacksdergen, from Portland, Oregon; Mrs. Judy Filanderbin, from Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, Ms. Ellen Sinclair from San Francisco, California; Mr. Rudy McQuire from Dallas, Texas; Mr. Bill Mecujah from San Diego, California; and Mrs. Helen Potter of Lawton, Oklahoma. And the shy woman sitting here is Mrs. Belinda Peterson, part of the time from Aspen, Colorado. And while we’re at it I’d like everybody to meet Mr. Langley Peterson, the president of the DBS television network. He’s my boss, guys, so everybody please say hello to him. Won’t you take a bow, Langley?”

Langley, stunned, stood up slightly and nodded, as everybody in the audience, laughing, said hello.

(“
Smile
,” Belinda whispered.)

Langley smiled and quickly sat down. couples to make love to each other

“Okay, everybody,” Jessica said, whirling around (her dress flying up after her) and going back up on the stage, “for those of you watching at home, we’ve been talking about the most exquisite moments of sexual intimacy that we’ve ever had.” (Jessica just talked away, seemingly oblivious to staging, though after a while Langley realized she was indeed very aware of the camera placement since, with all her waltzing around, she always stopped directly in position for one of them.) “Lucky people,” she murmured most provocatively, standing onstage, smiling into a camera, “you get to drop in just when we’re getting to the good part.” And then her voice returned to normal.

“For those of you who don’t know much about television, one of the best ways to generate ratings is to promise to talk about sex. But our idea tonight was not so much to titillate you as it was to try and give you something. I don’t know quite how to say it, but I’ll try.”

She paused for a long moment. And then, “I’d like every person in this room, and every person watching at home, to feel a little bit better and a little happier about life in general after watching this show. I’d like couples out there who haven’t made love to each other in a long time—for whatever reason—to at least look at each other a little more kindly, remembering the good days that first brought you together. I’d like couples to make love to each other—
after
the show, please—this is not Johnny Carson—” (Laughter.) “I’d like people who are temporarily alone to remember that they are temporarily alone—and that perhaps this show might inspire you to take some action on behalf of yourself. To maybe make that phone call, write that letter, sign up for the dating service, go to the church mixer—whatever—or maybe to just recognize the fact that, as human beings, companionship is a basic necessity, and that sexuality is part of the package we’re given at birth. We can’t just wish it away—just as we are not meant to throw it away.

“I don’t know,” she said then, sighing slightly, moving across the stage to stand at one corner of it, “I’d just like for all of us to pretend tonight that we all belong in the same universe, and that there are some really wonderful things about being a part of it, about being human, about falling in love, and about how we physically express it to one another.” She smiled, into the camera, blinking twice. “We’ll be back,” she whispered, and the monitor faded to black and then faded up to a soap commercial. Jessica lowered the microphone and went to sit with her guests. A hushed, congregational feeling had settled over the studio.

“She’s wonderful, Langley,” Belinda whispered, watching as an audio assistant clipped a microphone on Jessica.

Langley nodded, looking up at their national commercials running over the monitor: dishwashing liquid; a Japanese car built in America; disposable diapers (“Thirty seconds, Jessica,” Lilly said); and the monitor went blank for the thirty seconds where the DBS affiliates would insert the local ads they had sold themselves in their markets.

The taping resumed, and the guests started to tell their simple, brief stories of their most exquisite sexual moments—each of which, Langley noticed, was linked with being in love with the partner. (He was relieved, thinking they would at least have some kind of leg to stand on when Cordelia saw this—though this would not help them at all if Jessica later did what she said she would do: do this exact same show except with homosexuals.)

Belinda, sitting beside him, kept sighing, quietly. But they were not unhappy sighs. No, she looked captivated, caught up in the romance of it.

He couldn’t believe it when Adele announced this afternoon that Belinda’s car had just been waved through the West End gate. He had invited her, of course—she was just out in Greenwich—but never dreamed she’d show up. But then, once Belinda had arrived upstairs, telling him she wanted to meet Jessica Wright, the full story came out.

Belinda had a “friend” named Patience “Pooh” Tillington Hubin whom she hated very much. They kept roughly the same rotation schedule—Greenwich, Manhattan, Aspen, Palm Beach, Europe—and Pooh had taken to sabotaging Belinda’s dinner parties when she was not invited. (In January, in Aspen, Pooh had hijacked some mega singing star who was supposed to have come to dinner at Belinda’s. “It is beeyawn mah comprahenchun hayow enywun kin stayund that beeyutch,” Belinda had said over the phone to Langley. [Belinda’s accent tended to come out when she was upset.] She was so upset, in fact, she actually asked Langley if there wasn’t some way he and Jackson could put Pooh’s third husband out of business so as to pull the plug on all that new LBO money that Pooh was using to make her life miserable with.)