Nothing To Lose (A fat girl novel) (29 page)

“I won’t be happy about it in the morning.”

“How do you know? I may not be so bad.”

“That’s just the problem,” she said. “You’d probably be wonderful and then think how awful it would be for me if it didn’t work out.”

”I think you’re being unnecessarily pessimistic, but we’ll do whatever you like. We can still see each other. How far can I go? Kissing? Hugging?” He was teasing her.

“No further tonight,” she said.

He took her home and she insisted he keep the cab so he kissed her quickly while she kept her eyes glued to the driver’s neck.

“See you tomorrow,” she heard him call out cheerfully as the cab drove away.

The next time he asked her out was two days later and she told him she couldn’t sleep with him while they both worked at Burdie’s. “It would get too sticky,” seeing immediately that it was a poor choice of words. Later, at the theater, she also told him she would understand if he chose not to continue the relationship. He told her to shut up in a rather loud voice during the second act of Amadeus. The people behind him told him to shush.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In late September, she decided not to go to work and called in sick. She wasn’t sick. My internal clock is telling me something, she said to herself out of the blue. After the call, her internal clock nudged her into a ‘dress for success’ gray suit and out to the Jerry Fields Employment Agency, specializing in jobs for the advertising profession.

She sat there numb and uninterested in what would happen. Maybe that was the perfect attitude because the male interviewer liked her portfolio and kept giving her sly happy looks while he turned the pages. He made her feel she had held out on him about how good she was. “Retail experience is the best preparation for agency work,” he said with controlled optimism. “Of course, this won’t be your big move. It will be your middle move.”

“Fine,” she replied with equally controlled enthusiasm.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No.” Her only question, he couldn’t answer. Suppose Luis stopped seeing her when she wasn’t so handy? Well, if that were true, wasn’t she better off without him? Only a jerk would accept such a wobbly connection. A happy jerk.

Before the day was over, the Jerry Fields man had found her three jobs or at least the possibility of three jobs. “Three very different company profiles,” he said. “J. Walter Thompson is a behemoth but it gives you plenty of room to move around. Donaldson, McKee is conservative, mostly financial advertising that is limiting but their salary is the best. Sinclair and Chewalt is a comer. Very loose. Very experimental. They would certainly let you do your stuff.”

She didn’t want any of the jobs. She wanted to stay with Luis, which probably meant she would get all three.

With the excuse of a sudden dental emergency, she took the morning off and kept all the appointments. By three o’clock, back at her desk at Burdie’s, she found out that J. Walter Thompson and Sinclair and Chewalt would both be happy to have her. Thompson was willing to pay $35,000 but she would work on industrial and trade accounts whose ads only appeared in specialized trade magazines.

Sinclair and Chewalt would only go to $30,000 but they wanted her to work on spaghetti products and a toy doll that said thirteen things when you pulled a chatty ring on the back of her neck. The Jerry Fields man told her to sleep on it but by five o’clock her stomach was in such knots, she called him back. If he were already gone, she would take it as an omen and forget the whole thing. He answered on the first ring.

“This is April Taylor,” she said quickly. “I’ve decided on Sinclair and Chewalt.”

“Good choice,” he answered cheerfully. “I’ll call them right away and let them know.”

On the way home that night she was thinking that it would not be so bad. She wasn’t going to a different country. It might even be better. She could certainly sleep with him now. But she couldn’t quite convince herself that things would be all right. She didn’t know if she had done something very good. Or very bad.

When they got out of his limousine the following day, April took his hand in hers and whispered, “I can sleep with you now.”

“Oh, why? I mean why now?”

“I got another job yesterday.”

“Another job? You’re leaving Burdie’s? He stopped walking and turned her around. “You can’t mean it. Why didn’t you say something?”

“What was I supposed to say: Is it okay if I look for a better job with lots more money and more creativity? You’re making it sound as if I did something underhanded. This new job is at an agency. The big time. National accounts.”

“What national accounts?”

“Spaghetti.”

“Oh, well, spaghetti. Why didn’t you say so?”

“And toys. A doll.”

“A doll, too?” His eyes widened with mock respect.

“And you can stop making fun of me. It’s a wonderful opportunity. Anyway, you should be happy because now I can sleep with you.”

“Great. How about next week?”

“Next week?” She looked ready to cry.

“Gotcha.” He laughed. “That was for leaving Burdie’s. If you insist, we’ll make it tonight.”

“I insist.”

“Before or after dinner?”

“Before.”

“Your house or mine?”

“Yours.”

“Have I left anything out?”

“I don’t think so.” She was happy to see that he was nervous, too. They were both nervous and silent until they reached his apartment.

The first thing he did when they were alone was to put four fingers across the nape of her neck. His thumb indented her mouth and he maneuvered it across her cheek several times, as if the texture of her skin was irresistible. This unspectacular beginning opened every valve in her body. By the time he kissed her, she had turned to liquid. Where were her bones? He was looking at her body, a body that was new to her and still made her shy. She blessed Don and god and her own bone structure for giving him pleasure. Finally, she searched his face for clues as to what was in store for her and was reassured. It was going to be all right. More than all right. She was finally living her life.

He made love to her at eight o’clock, eleven and now again at six in the morning. He was both strong and tender. Personal and impersonal. His tenderness and concern made her want to cry. Now he was staring at her back and half of her buttocks in the available light. The person she most admired in the world was free to look her over in the most vulnerable position. She continued to be still, her head resting on her arms, her breasts half squashed beneath her. Once on the radio, a psychologist had described how ashamed women could be of certain parts of their bodies. Passion wasn’t as important as to keep from being seen. They would contort and struggle to hide themselves and bless the dark. Bless the dark. This moment confirmed all that she had won.

There was stirring and a tug of the covers. “Why aren’t you married?” He asked everything as if he had a right to know. Executive privilege.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“No. Yes.”

“Deep down, I knew you’d be coming down the road one day and how could I pass that up?” Her mouth was straddled over her forearm and the words were muffled.

“Don’t be glib.”

“Okay.”

“Look at me.”

“Okay.” She sat up slowly poking one leg out of the covers and then raising it slightly before sending it down again as an anchor to help her up. She put her arms around her leg as if she loved it and played with her anklebone, momentarily transfixed by its boniness. Then she rested her cheek on her knee and stared at him. “I was married.”

“You were?” He sat up.

“First you’re surprised that I wasn’t married. Now you’re surprised that I was.”

He ignored her. “What happened?”

Her hair now hid her face. “Easy come, easy go, “ she said ruefully.

“Not funny.”

“You said it,” she agreed soberly. “He left me.”

He wasn’t prepared for that and didn’t respond. She felt her moment of contentment ebb away. The phone rang. The phone had rung twice the previous night but he hadn’t answered. Now, he seemed relieved to be interrupted. Who could be calling at seven in the morning? She got no clues from his responses – a series of grunts and assents, a blatant yawn and a good-bye. She lay back down, pulled the sheet around her and covered her eyes with her arm. He was quiet. She could feel him mulling over the fact that her husband had left her. If Don had heard that! You told him what? Why didn’t you just add that you had a record of mental illness?

It must have been very painful for you,” he said finally.

She kept her arm over her eyes and bobbed her head up and down. “Want to talk about something more cheerful?” he asked. Again she bobbed her head. “How about Mrs. Beck? I haven’t forgotten her thoughts on Pizarro.”

She took a deep breath and sat up. “Well, Mrs. Beck wouldn’t go for this scene. She was all for sex but not for free.” She tried to sound lighthearted.

“She wanted you to get paid for it?” He feigned shock.

“No. She wanted us to get married for it. She made up a song to help keep us pure. Be Kind To Your Openings.”

“Oh, my god. I don’t want to ask which openings she had in mind.”

“Want me to sing it?”

“No, thanks.”

“I guess it’s time to get up anyway.” She picked up her clothes and handbag and headed for the bathroom. The sink was sculpted into the shape of a shell set on a slim pedestal. There was a single faucet that didn’t respond to pulling or pushing or twisting. Suddenly, it tipped backward and a gush of water hit her in the stomach. She left the sink and sat down to pee. The toilet was low and sculpted, too, but- thank god – flushed in an ordinary way. There was no evidence of a medicine cabinet. Didn’t he ever get a headache? Her first glimpse of the apartment the previous night had been a surprise.

“Okay, I give up,” she had said. “Where’s the furniture?”

“This is it.”

“Which is it?”

“The platforms are the furniture.”

“Where do you sleep? Where do you eat? Where do you put your clothes?”

He began to show her all the ingenious carpentry – tables that flipped out from the wall, clever decorations that pulled out hidden doors that, in turn, revealed rows and rows of recessed shelves and drawers. “The bed,” he said sheepishly, “is completely undetectable by day.”

“Why is it such an advantage to hide everything? she asked mystified.

“You’ve just put your finger right on the dilemma,” he said. “It’s no advantage. It’s repressive and a nuisance.”

Staring at herself now in his overly mirrored bathroom, she felt as if all of it had taken place several days ago. She had another go-round with the faucet, washed her face and rubbed her index finger vigorously over her teeth. Then she got dressed, put on mascara and, unable to find her blusher, pinched her cheeks until they hurt. With her handbag slung over her shoulder, she went to say goodbye.

“Thanks for a wonderful evening.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I’ll get you a cab.”

“Thanks. I can get one.” She waited for him to say something about seeing her again but he didn’t. He had put on a terrycloth robe and followed her to the door. With her high heels, she was only a couple of inches away from his eyes, which looked puzzled and concerned.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure. Perfect.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you think so?”

“I shouldn’t have asked you about your marriage.”

“It’s okay.”

“I couldn’t understand why you would still be unattached.”

“Yeah, well, don’t say anything nice to me or I’ll start to cry.”

“Why would he leave you? You’re a terrific girl.”

“There. Now you’ve done it.” She pulled a Kleenex out of her handbag and wiped her nose. She waited for him to say something else that was nice but he chose that moment to clam up. They stood awkwardly, staring at each other.

“Well, so long.” He kissed her solemnly on the cheek.

“So long.”

She didn’t hear from him for six days. “Wonderful,” she chastised herself in the mirror. “You were wonderful. Now all he can think of is that you sleep around and your husband found you unlovable.” Then she became angry with herself for thinking that way. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She looked and felt better than she had ever looked and felt in her life. Just because he wasn’t bowled over didn’t mean she was damaged goods. Anyway he had too much on his mind to be bowled over by anyone. What she wasn’t going to do was sit around waiting for a call. That would be stupid. After work she went shopping for the loft and bought two occasional tables in blond oak and some fancy sheets. The following night she returned the sheets. They might not fit her new bed. She also cancelled the tables, realizing they were out of scale with her outsize space.

For four days, she avoided Don, unwilling to confide in such a harsh critic. On the fifth day, after half a glass of wine before dinner, she spilled everything.