What Men Want (8 page)

I opened my laptop and went to Google. So I was losing it. A moment later, thousands and thousands of mentions came up, including the entire filmography of Bridget Bardot. I scanned through them and
soon came to the girl who I assumed would be the new Model Thin face and body.

So she wasn't some neophyte. They had picked a runway model, just twenty-three years old, but already at the top of her game and clearly well known to European fashion designers and Paris
Vogue
along with other popular European magazines. Clearly she would be paid several million to give up her other work and lend herself exclusively to holding up the worthless can of artificially sweetened gunk that contained milk and air held together with emulsifiers, additives, flavoring agents and artificial coloring.

I clicked on a Web site that included models' portfolios, and a moment later, there she was in a skimpy T-shirt that showed a few significant inches of taut midriff over a short denim skirt with a frayed bottom, and pink shearling boots with the wraparound straps hanging open. The next page showed her in a bikini, holding a matching pareu above her head, but the next, full-page picture was the showstopper. It was a Valentine's Day picture done for Victoria's Secret and she was wearing the bra of all bras.

Forget satin, lace, padding, underwire and all the other cleavage enhancers. This one was made from rubies, all linked together with eighteen-carat-gold mesh, a mere five million dollars' worth of support. And her cleavage? Let's just say that Mother Nature didn't shortchange her.

So I was wrong. She didn't need to fantasize
about looking as good as Bardot. She was better than Bardot, reminding me of one of the Estée Lauder models because of her lightly tanned skin, cat-shaped green eyes and full mane of honey-colored hair streaked with gold that made her eyes stand out like radiant tourmalines. She was from Santa Monica, California, and truly looked like a lean, muscular surfer girl. I sat and stared at the face of the girl that Chris would be writing dialogue for. The Model Thin muse who would get American women of all shapes and sizes motivated to buy a useless diet drink so that they could hope to look like her.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the face. How did it help to know the enemy? I closed the laptop and left the room.

The irony is, I was never the jealous or insecure type. Never. Maybe it's because Chris and all the other boyfriends that I've had have never given me reason to be. I've been lucky, I suppose. In every serious relationship that I've been in, both of us have been monogamous, at least while things were good. But this was different. It felt as though the gods had allied themselves against me. I was sent off on a story. It was Christmas. Chris was going to be alone. And as luck would have it, he writes a commercial for a svelte, fabulous girl and the casting director comes through with someone astonishingly beautiful and, according to the little I could glean about her social
life, single and available. Could there be a more catastrophic sequence of events?

Clearly it was payback time. Had I done something wrong in a previous life? Or this one? It must have been the fact that I had become impossible to live with, high-strung, and unduly hard and demanding on Chris. My job made me mean-spirited, never mind the PMS and the perpetual need to vent at the end of the day. All in all, I had become hard, brittle and simply unlovable. Bridget was his ticket away from me. If she hadn't come along, someone else would have—maybe just a twenty-something secretary from his office, or one of the wide-eyed college freshmen that the copywriters and other professionals sometimes “mentored.”

I changed, put on makeup and went down to the bar. A daiquiri would help, intravenously. Food would help too if I could summon the appetite to eat. I walked out to the pool and sat at a bar with a thatched roof. The bartender was using three blenders at once to turn out fruit daiquiris in yellow, white and peach. I wanted to order one of each, but settled for peach and sat back to watch the scene around the pool.

“Here on vacation?” a man asked me. He sat down on the bar stool next to mine. He was dressed in a beige linen suit.

“Well, it is a vacation,” I said, half smiling. “What about you?”

“Business,” he said, shrugging. I looked over and
noticed the wedding band. Obviously he was traveling alone. Men were rarely so outgoing when they had company.

“What do you do?”

“Movie production,” he said, sipping his drink. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I shook my head.

“What kind of movies?”

He smiled, amused. “Major.”

“Ah, you must be the one doing the remake of
Beach Party,
” I said. “I always hoped they'd make more of those. I was such a big fan of Annette Funicello.”

He laughed and stared at me. “The good old days,” he said, then leaned closer. “Great eyes… Blue as the water.” He didn't blink. “Why won't you let me buy you a drink?”

“I'm fine paying for my own drinks.”

“Independent woman. I like that.” We sat there looking out at the water not saying anything. Then he turned back to me. “So what do you do?”

“I write.”

“About?”

“All kinds of stuff.”

“Would I know your name?”

I got up and picked up my drink to take with me. “Maybe,” I said, walking away.

I went back to the room slightly tranquilized, and tried on the bikini that Chris had bought me. Dresser
drawers are like Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory where mysterious chemical changes take place. Twelve months earlier, the suit was lipstick red. Now it looked heathery red, faded and even misshapen. The gold ring that linked the two cups was slightly bent out of shape. With the needed manipulation, I managed to flatten it. I put the suit on and then tucked in what needed to stay inside. I couldn't help thinking though about how Bridget would look in a bathing suit. Her thighs were long, lean, and firm. I looked down at mine and then reached for my wrap-style cover-up before going down to the pool, all the while dissing myself for not taking the time to buy a tube of thigh-firming cream made with caffeine, or whatever magical ingredient they put in to make cellulite plump up temporarily.

The pool was almost empty, and rather than standing there and inching in, I ducked under the water and began swimming laps, ignoring the soreness in my arms and concentrating on the rhythm of gliding up and back across the pool. Of course, I scolded myself for not taking the time to do all those arm-sculpting exercises on the pages that I had carefully cut out of magazines (“Shapely Arms In Two Weeks Flat”) and put inside my dresser drawers. But the more I swam, the calmer I felt, reciting a mantra in my head about self-love and worthiness. Finally, I pulled myself out and sat down on a lounge chair in the sun. A vitamin D bath had to help; I was sorely sun deprived.

Later, I scanned the area. No groups of men talking about escaping New York City. No such luck. I'd have to go back to the bar. It was the only place where I would be able to meet anyone.

It occurred to me that I might be dead wrong either about the city officials being here, or the fact that they really were holding meetings and sharing information that would make their junket totally justifiable. If I was totally off base, my editor wouldn't forget it. Still, I had a hunch and my instincts usually didn't fail me, so I vowed to talk to people like the sparkling, outgoing woman that I wasn't, but could turn on, as needed.

The next thought that panicked me was wondering what Slaid Warren was writing about. In my rush that morning, I had forgotten to read his column. It took a couple of days to get the newspapers in St. Croix. Connecting to the Web wasn't always predictable—so I called my office. I dialed, and after finally reaching the operator, was immediately put on hold. What else was new? If someone was walking a thin line between talking to the press or not, the speed with which they sent you into the black hole of “HOLD” would immediately convince you to hang up and keep the information to yourself, or worse, call another paper.

“Carol, it's Jenny,” I said to the metro secretary.

“Hey, wearing SPF 15?” she said.

“No, we're having a torrential downpour,” I said,
to please her. “Listen, I was just wondering what's in Warren's column today.”

I heard pages turn. Then more pages. “A big heave on corporate donations to the mayor,” she said.

I felt myself relaxing. “Great. Nice to know he's not on his way down here.”

“No,” she said, “and it looks like there's a part two coming next column.”

We didn't always write about the same issues, but more often than not if something caught my eye, Slaid was onto it too. The corporate-donation issue was a big one though and I was sure it would keep him at home. Since other reporters on my paper had already been assigned to it, it was one story that I was happy to stay away from. I showered, put on tinted moisturizer, blush, a pale green sleeveless silk dress and silver high-heeled Prada sandals that killed, but I didn't care—they made my legs look long and lean. A five-nine me strutted down to the bar.

Forget how far we've come, a woman sitting by herself on a bar stool beams out PICK-UP BAIT and nothing you do can change that. Reading? It looks ridiculous—you're not at the library, or Starbucks. Blabbing on the phone? Even if you can connect, it's worse than reading. The best you can do is try not to look lonely. Anyway, if you're strategically seated at a resort's main bar long enough, just about everybody will pass by, if not actually stop to have a drink and be part of the scene.

By nine, I recognized three faces that I was hoping to see, confirming my suspicions. They stood together talking and laughing, looking as relaxed as New Yorkers possibly can when they're out of their element. Did I dare try to join them? I decided to hold back. What I'd aim for was to get a table in the dining room near theirs, assuming that they ate in the hotel and didn't go out. I finished my drink and then ordered a Coke to avoid getting totally plastered. Then I tried, for just a few minutes, to decompress and pretend that I was on vacation, rather than chasing a story. I would count my blessings, not dwell on my ill-timed departure. My thoughts went back to Chris. Then they volleyed back and forth between Bridget and him.

Was I so insecure that I was convinced that once my boyfriend was put in the same room as a fashion model, he'd follow her like a dog chasing fresh meat and forget me?

Yes. And worse, he was alone with nowhere to go. And what about the model? Would she be stuck in town as well, without family or friends? The only encouraging thought was that the information I'd found online was outdated and she now had a boyfriend. Or was she gay? That thought raised my spirits considerably.

Thinking of B, because it helped to reduce her to a single initial, even less than her two-vowel name, I remembered the moment when I was telling Chris that Moose didn't made a move on Ellen.

“So let her make a move on him.” He wouldn't mind if a girl came on to him, he said. I motioned to the bartender for the check. I looked at my watch. Would he still be out at the restaurant? For some reason I felt as though I had to keep track of him. I signed and started to get up.

“Want to join me for dinner?” I turned to see the movie man from the pool bar. The jacket was gone. He was wearing a black alligator shirt with linen pants. He was tan.

“Sure,” I said. Why not?

M
y second drink and it was generous on the rum. I sipped slowly. The fruity tropical drinks go down easy, not to mention how quickly you adapt to the let-your-hair-down world that I was in. I listened to a steel band somewhere out of sight playing “Yellow Bird.” They played it so often. Was it the national anthem? My private thoughts were making me laugh out loud, a sure sign that my alcohol level was escalating. I chided myself for not slowing down. I wasn't with Chris. I was out on a story. We toasted, and briefly scanned the menus.

“You're going with the fish,” he said, peering up at me from the menu. I stared back at him.

“And you're going with the steak, even though you know if your wife were here she'd tell you to have fish.”

“Everyone needs a vacation, right?”

“Vacation from?”

A small smile. “Fish.”

His name was Jack Reilly. He was maybe forty-five and headed one of Hollywood's major production companies. Reilly Films was behind at least half of the country's top-grossing films. He wore his company name proudly, stitched on the upper left side of his golf-style shirt like a designer logo, just above an oversize alligator, big enough to swallow the Lacoste-size one. So he had a sense of humor.

“Love the shirt,” I said. “Never mind films, you should go into business selling those.”

“We sell them at Fred Segal,” he said.

“Of course, I should have guessed.” Fred Segal was one of L.A.'s trendiest stores, a place where celebrities bought not only makeup, but also clothes ranging from funky to latest designer. It was a place where you might run into Jennifer Aniston and Julia Roberts, or Mary-Kate and Ashley.

“So what are you filming now?” I asked. He offhandedly mentioned a film with Cameron Diaz and Ed Harris, and another with George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez.

“Aren't most of the films these days made in Canada?”

He nodded, rolling his eyes.

“Too many trees, huh?”

“And we'd rather support the U.S. economy.” Then he shrugged, brushing aside any further talk of work. The waiter came by. I ordered barbecued lobster. He ordered jerk pork ribs.

“So how long are you staying?” he said, reaching for his drink.

“Just a few days,” I said. “I hope to be back before New Year's. You?”

“Same.”

“Nice place for you to hold meetings,” I said.

“Why not mix business with pleasure?” he said, leaning closer. He sipped his drink, and I waited to see who would look away first. He didn't. “So what happened to your boyfriend? You break up?”

“Sometimes you need to get away by yourself,” I said. He nodded knowingly.

“You ever been down here before?”

I shook my head and reached for my drink, playing with the straw.

“You?”

“I used to come down every Christmas. Have you been to Buck Island?” I had heard of it but I'd never been there.

“What do you do there?”

“It's an uninhabited island a mile and a half from here,” he said. “Six thousand feet long and half a mile wide. Do you snorkel?”

“Not often.”

“You have to go,” he said. “It's the perfect place. Buck Island is a national monument. I was going to go tomorrow. Why don't you come along?”

“But you're here on business,” I said, pulling back on the reins.

“I can duck away for a while.”

I hesitated, feeling as though I was getting backed into a corner. I didn't know him, so why would I go off alone with him? On the other hand, what better way to find out what he was up to.

“Maybe,” I said, holding him off. “Let's see how tomorrow goes.”

He nodded, and reached over and squeezed my hand. It was a relief when the food was set down between us. I cracked open a red, semicharred lobster claw, revealing a thick tuft of white meat, and dipped it into a pot of melted butter. I wanted to moan with delight. As I got ready to crack the second claw, two city officials who I recognized from their pictures passed by.

Now, with my hair longer than it was in the head-shot for my column, and my body a size smaller than when the picture was taken, I was sure that my identity was secure.

“Jack,” one of them said, stopping at our table. “We were looking for you earlier.” He turned toward me, lowering his eyes momentarily to my cleavage. I was tempted to use the lobster claw as a weapon. “I see you've got a more interesting dinner partner
than one of our group,” he said, assuming an intimacy that I resented.

Reilly smiled briefly. “Let's have breakfast,” he said. “I'll be down around eight.” The official patted Reilly on the shoulder. When he walked off, I waited a moment and then turned to him.

“So how is it filming in New York City?” I asked.

“It's a great town.”

“It must be a huge undertaking to get your crew settled in and get all the permits you need.”

He shrugged, obviously fairly blasé about the production process. “They welcome our business and do their best,” he said, obviously not eager to talk with me about it. I decided to stop peppering him with questions and run the risk of turning him off. Instead, we made small talk about my last trip to L.A.—and how I'd probably never consider living there because I'd be consumed with the thought of the next earthquake.

“You have to die of something,” Jack said, obviously unperturbed by the specter of natural disasters.

“What makes you nervous? Losses at the box office?”

“Now you're reading my mail,” he said, staring back at me.

We made small talk for the rest of the meal. When there was nothing left except lobster shells and rib bones, he signaled for the waiter.

“You can't pass up the dessert,” he said. We scanned the menu and looked up simultaneously.

“Chocolate fondant,” we said in harmony. The marriage of semisweet chocolate, gobs of heavy cream, butter, sugar, flour and eggs can literally be heart-stopping, but hey, I was out of New York, in a gorgeous place—it was time to indulge. We took turns working our way into it, taking small bites, pretending to be civil. One forkful, then another, then another, until our forks touched in the middle. I put mine down, urging him to have the last bite. He lifted the fork and reached across the table, putting the dessert to my lips. I shook my head.

You're not going to sleep with me, Reilly.
He didn't seem to be reading the message. My discomfort made me think of Chris. Not only was I feeling guilty about where our innocent dinner might look as though it was leading, but also, I began to fixate on whether he was in a similar tight situation with—I refused to think of her name.

Perhaps he would go out with her just to get inspired. Just looking at her would make his adrenaline soar and he'd come up with the most arresting campaign that he could put together. On the other hand, maybe her very presence made him freeze up, so that all he could think about when he was with her was getting into her pants.

I looked at Jack and decided to get back to my room before he offered me more than a forkful of cake.

“That was fun, thanks,” I said, sliding my chair back. “I have to get back.” He looked at me curiously
for a minute, narrowing his eyes as if trying to figure out the strategy of an opponent across a poker table, and then simply smiled.

“My pleasure,” he said. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

I got up and headed for the elevator. Why did it look as though everyone was more at ease than I was? People were sitting at the bar or around small tables as if they had nothing more to worry about than whether they'd stay up for the midnight brunch or not.

As soon as I got back to my room, I kicked off my shoes and jumped on the bed. I reached for the phone and sat with it in my lap for a minute before I dialed. Fortunately, the flowers on the table didn't include a daisy, because at that moment I was in the pathetically helpless state of mind where I would have plucked it, chanting,
He loves me, he loves me not…

 

One ring, two…three…four…and then my voice on the answering machine. “You've reached Jen and Chris, we're out right now, please leave us a message.” I held the receiver without breathing, and then hung up. I'd rather catch him as he was walking in. It seemed less premeditated to just call instead of leaving a message that would reveal my near hysteria. I'd be cool. I wasn't falling apart because he was involved in an advertising campaign that involved a drop-dead-gorgeous model. So what? I could handle it. I was sophisticated, secure, I had a great job, I'd been around the block.

Why would someone like me be doubled over with
agita?
It didn't matter that I was hours away in the Caribbean and he had the entire apartment to himself. It didn't matter that I would never know if he was fooling around, even in our bed. Not only could he have a one-night stand, he could move her in for a long, leisurely weekend. I would never find out unless he failed to change the sheets and they were scented with her perfume, not to mention anything else.

I stared at the clock. Almost ten. I tried his cell phone but he didn't pick up. I'd wait half an hour and call again. I did. I called at ten-thirty. At eleven. At eleven-thirty. I had become the Stepford girlfriend dialing frantically as though I were programmed to do so. At eight and a half minutes after twelve, he picked up the home phone.

“I didn't wake you, did I?”

“No,” Chris said. “I just got in.”

I paused for a nanosecond. He got a point for honesty. “Oh…where did you go?”

An equally pregnant pause. “The art director on the account had a party,” he said. “Everybody from work went over after we'd finished at Carmine's.” Using every molecule of restraint that I could summon, I didn't ask for the guest list.

“Oh,” I said, all innocence. “Was it fun?”

“Yeah, it was cool,” he said.
Cool
was Chris's favorite word. It drove me crazy. He was a copywriter—
how could he fixate on that sophomoric expression? I suppose I should have taken some comfort in the fact that he didn't say it was
awesome.
Eventually, I just ignored it.

“How are you doing?” Chris asked. “Toughing it out?”

“There are worse places to be,” I said. “But I miss you. I'm in this great room with a king-size bed and a mountain of down pillows, not to mention a view of the water, and I'm all by myself.”

“I miss you too,” he said “Everybody's getting ready to leave for Christmas by the end of the week. If I didn't have to lay the thing out basically on my own, I'd join you.”

“When are they shooting?”

“We're trying to set it up for a week from Friday,” Chris said. “Bridget wants to go up to her weekend house in Connecticut though, so it all depends on her availability.”

“Well, I guess she's a superstar,” I said, hoping that I didn't sound snotty. “They probably have to work around her.”

“No, actually, she's really down to earth,” he said. “I was surprised. She just needs to get away a lot. I guess it's because she's in the limelight so much.” That's what I loved about my guy, he was so simpatico.

“Well, I hope it works out,” I said. “I know that you probably want to wrap things up.” There was a silence for a couple of seconds.

Well?

“Yeah, well, we'll see,” Chris said. “Anyway, call me when you know your sked. There's going to be an amazing party here on New Year's. I hope you're back for it.”

I immediately felt myself sinking into depression. I thought about New Year's Eve in New York with crowds of people thronging Times Square waiting for the ball to drop. Even though I liked to hunker down, there was so much energy in the air and on the streets. It felt like the whole city was either on its way to or from a party.

“I will,” I said, “but I'm just not sure yet what's going on here…but anyway, where's the party?”

“A cool penthouse on Central Park West.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “The terrace is all glassed in like a greenhouse, with enormous palm trees everywhere. It's decorated like a movie set with white silk lounges, and there's a Jacuzzi done in green-and-white Moroccan tile big enough for ten people. It's so completely cool,” he said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Sounds amazing. Who lives there?” I said jokingly. “Paris Hilton?”

“Guess again,” Chris said.

I hesitated. Other than thinking of Donald Trump, I was coming up dry.

“I give up,” I said. “Who?”

“Bridget.”