What We Leave Behind (19 page)

This particular day, I drove up to his house off Benedict Canyon with the video in my purse. It was a typical, gorgeous California day, clear skies, cool, sunny. Neither of us saw the change coming, how the afternoon shifted to something dark and threatening. We took our seats in the media room and watched while the screen brought to life a relationship that nearly everyone should experience and avoid. Passionate and complicated, the tale came with a sticker guaranteeing heartbreak. Marty kept looking at me, unable to comprehend why I was crying so hard. He even offered to go out to the bathroom and get me another box of Kleenex.

“I’m the one who just got dumped,” he said. “Why are you crying?”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “He was a good man. He went back to his wife and children.”

“I know,” I said. What I didn’t know was if I was crying because his goodness made him more appealing or because I identified with Lowenstein, the woman left behind. The movie was hard to watch. “They deserve something more,” I cried out. “Both of them, or maybe it’s that song, that ‘someday when someone else’s arms are around us’ song.”

“Jess, you’re hysterical. I’m not going to let you drive down the hill like this, especially since it’s about to pour. California drivers are the absolute worst in the rain.” And by mere mention of the word, the skies opened up and down it fell, a hard pouncing on the driveway.

“I’m fine,” I said, wiping the tears from my face and asserting what was left of my weathered confidence. Marty opened the car door and threw me into the driver’s seat. He was standing in the rain, clothes soaked through, drops dripping down the sides of his face.

“I don’t like this.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“Call me when you get home so I know you made it in one piece.”

“I will,” I said, looking up at him. Then he bent over and kissed me on the cheek. It was a simple gesture, one showed by friends all the time, but it made me cry even harder.

Jeff Walker interrupted me from Babs’s crooning by poking his head through my open doorway and asking, “You’re joining us for Sharon’s party, yes?” I composed myself and studied the man who had become a friend and colleague in a short amount of time. He was the antithesis of Marty, serious and soft-spoken, with nondescript features. His office was just down the hall from mine. “It’s Halloween. You haven’t forgotten?”

“Don’t you find the idea of people hiding in costumes creepy?” I asked.

“Didn’t you ever want to be someone else for a night?”

“I’m leaning toward no,” I said, deciding that perspective was all about where you sat. Usually, people are never what they seem, only what we wish them to be.

“You have to go, Jess. As one of your bosses, it’s my job to tell you attendance is mandatory.”

“Of course,” I said, reluctantly. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Now, go home. It’s late. That too is an order.”

Sharon Walker’s surprise forty-first birthday party was in full swing when I spotted Marty walking in. Actually, people like Marty didn’t walk in anywhere. They saunter, carrying with them enough energy to ignite a room. Having the party a year after the big 4-0 was Marty’s idea. He said she’d never expect it, and she didn’t.

The event was held at a private home in Holmby Hills, and hundreds of important people were in attendance. Music and film executives, radio personalities, and a handful of actors and musicians decorated the lawns of the sprawling home. Sharon Walker was an über agent at William Morris. There was no profession in the entertainment industry not accounted for. And there was Marty, casually pacing himself through the cache of costumes: a mixture of the comical, the glamorous, and the common. He had no idea he was being watched, wandering through the crowd like a decisive animal on the prowl. Women flocked around him, oblivious to the way he kindly, and abruptly, brushed them off. When he stopped at the nearest bar and ordered himself a drink, I moved in closer.

“Hello, Marty.” I heard Sharon Walker as she approached him at the bar.

“Happy birthday, Sharon,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. “You look positively lovely, the most youthful Cleopatra I’ve ever seen.”

I listened as he dazzled her.

“Who are you supposed to be?” she asked with a smile.

“Just me,” he replied. “I’m not really into dress up.”

“Why do I have a feeling that you are one of the few people in the world that can dress as yourself at a costume party?” He was as striking as I had ever seen him, and even more so because he didn’t know it.

“I’d only wear one of these monkey suits for you.”

“Let me fix your tie,” she said, reaching up to repair the haphazardly strewn fabric. The dark jacket hugged his body, but the tie begged for help. “We need to find you a wife that can do these things for you. You can’t be going out all disheveled.”

Fastening the tie around his neck, Sharon Walker stepped back and surveyed her work, satisfied with the results. “Prince Charming, I presume,” bellowed Jeff Walker from behind them. “I see you’ve already managed to squire away my wife.”

“If she’d have me, I’d take her,” he said, laughing at his old friend, who, I must say, looked terribly silly in his King Tut getup.

“She is a knockout, isn’t she?” he asked his friend while placing his arm around her waist. The affection between them was rare. You hardly saw a devotion like theirs in Hollywood. Could they be the ones to threaten the validity of the married-couples-are-never-happy theory?

Marty said, “You two are an inspiration. Best friends, lovers, Sharon still laughing at Jeff’s ridiculous jokes.” Was he telepathic or was I standing too close?

“Jessica, is that you?” I heard Jeff say, a collection of heads turning in my direction.

“Is it possible that you’re even more gorgeous than Cinderella herself?” remarked Sharon, heading toward me. Imagine my surprise when I opened the box from the costume store, and it wasn’t Sandra Day O’Connor’s robe in there.

“Who are you, and what did you do with Jessica Parker?” Jeff asked.

“Hopefully, she’s under here somewhere holding onto her last shred of dignity,” I said, noticing Marty standing there, not sure if he should laugh or pounce.

“Marty, cat got your tongue?” his friend quipped.

“Okay, little boys,” I said, “recess is over.”

“Thank you for coming, Jess,” Jeff said, walking over to my side, filling the space between Marty and me and kissing me on the cheek. “It means a lot to me that you’re here, to both of us.”

“To all of us,” Marty corrected him. Within a minute, Sharon and Jeff were off welcoming other guests, leaving the two of us alone. Marty inched closer, taking my hand in his, and in one gallant movement, raised it to his lips with a kiss. “Hello Jessica, or shall I call you Elizabeth, or Stephanie, or some other dazzling royal?”

“Jessica will be fine, Marty,” I said.

“I’m Prince Charming,” he teased. “My crown dropped on the way in.”

I tried to avoid his eyes. “I figured you to be a king. Henry, maybe?”

“Then you must be one of my many wives. You look stunning.”

The dress I wore was everything I hated—girly and feminine, white and satin.  It was strapless with long layers of itchy tulle that dragged across the floor and caused me to trip.  The kicker was the sparkly tiara that rested on my head. “All the reasons I hated dress-up as a kid.”

He said, “I like your hair down like that.”

“Thanks,” I said, instinctively reaching for the hair that was free of its customary ponytail.  I appreciated that he noticed something other than the ridiculous outfit.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I think I’ll have some champagne.”

“Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

I laughed.  The slightest step could be life-threatening.

While the band played Frank Sinatra, Marty and I sipped our drinks and watched the others dance. He ignored my pleas to sit this one out. Instead, he grabbed me by the hand, leading me to the dance floor.

I could forget that he was my boss, but not about the crowd of people who were watching us and formulating gossip, which would end up on
Access Hollywood
.

He maneuvered me across the dance floor, taking the lead, like he did everything in his life. His persistence inhibited me from resisting. Some people in the world just evade the laws of gravity, pushing you in directions you normally wouldn’t go. When our arms found each other, we danced as if we had been partners for years. Closing my eyes, I let the music circle around me. I was not the same girl who danced all those years ago with a boy she hardly knew. I was a woman, a lady, and Marty was definitely a man.

“You’re good at this,” he commented, a whisper in my ear.

I lifted my skirt and showed him my real secret: Converse high-top sneakers.

“You need that glass slipper,” he said, pulling me closer.

“Such a romantic.”

“Stick around, and I won’t disappoint.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Shit,” he called out, “Dori’s headed our way.” I turned to see the attractive woman Marty had been dating the last few weeks making a beeline in our direction. Her costume was the sexy, vixen kind. He grabbed my hand and led me to the guesthouse adjacent to the pool.

“What did you do now?” I asked

“Nothing,” he said, watching through the window as Dori stomped off into the crowd.

“It must be something. She looks pretty pissed.”

“You women get too sensitive about these things.”

“What things, Marty?  What did you do?”

“I was supposed to pick her up tonight.”

“You were supposed to bring her here? She was your date?”

“You can call it that,” he said, with a sheepish look plastered across his face.  I didn’t find it amusing.  Throwing his arms up in the air in defeat, he said, “You’re right. I know. It was terrible. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me. Go out there and apologize to Dori.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” I said. “Go out and there and apologize.”

“Why would I do that when we can stay here and play spin the bottle all night?”

“Go!” I said. “Now! Out, out,” I repeated as I opened the door and scooted him down the cobblestone path.

It was hours later when I watched the two of them sitting in a lounge chair. She was rubbing his back, he was smiling, and I climbed into my pumpkin and drove home.

The next morning a large package was delivered to my office.  It wasn’t until I completed a grueling four-hour meeting with a composer and read through two scripts that I remembered it was there. Opening the brown paper, I noticed a smaller box within the box. Lifting up the final top, I studied its contents closely.

I’d never seen anything quite like it, other than in books and film, and I didn’t know who would manufacture such an impractical item, but it was interesting. The note included was written on stationery with Marty Tauber’s name printed boldly across the top.

Next time, don’t forget your slipper
.

Perching the glass shoe on my left hand, I marveled at its sparkle. It could have been my exact shoe size, but I didn’t dare put it on. Instead, as the bearer of such unprecedented adulation, I giggled to myself, like a schoolgirl.

Picking up the phone, I dialed Marty’s office. “Mr. Tauber has been expecting your call, Jessica,” said his secretary, Marla.

“Shocking,” I blurted out to the loud music that played while I was on hold.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“I just opened it.”

“But I sent it priority to arrive first thing.”

“It was here. I just hadn’t gotten to it.”

“Your boss is working you too hard.”

“Shamelessly.”

“Then you like it?”

“It’s clever.”

“What happened to you last night? You didn’t say good-bye.”

“I couldn’t find you,” I lied.

“Want to get a bite to eat?” he asked.

I looked at my watch. “It’s five o’clock.”

“And that’s a problem because…”

“My grandmother eats at five o’clock.”

“Then give me her number. Maybe she’ll eat with me.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Then watch me eat.”

I shook my head from side to side. We’d been through this a dozen times before. Marty had a hearty appetite. He ate at all hours of the day. Breakfast all morning long, lunch at four, dinner sometimes five, then again at ten. It’s amazing he wasn’t grossly overweight from all the food he inhaled.

“Where to this time?” I asked, eventually stepping into the car.

“Mexican,” he said. “I want some tequila.”

It was daylight outside, but in the darkened recesses of Casa Vega, you couldn’t tell. Without any windows, the place was dark, cramped, and crowded. When my eyes finally adjusted, I caught the full Mexican regalia covering the walls, the Mexican men pacing the room with their violins in anxious hands. One of them stopped his fiddling long enough to seat us at a table in a far corner in the back. “Sombrero?” he asked us.

“For the lady,” Marty said.

“No way.” I shook my head as Marty went ahead and placed the oversized, colorful hat on my head.

“You don’t expect me to wear this all night, do you?”

“Are you giving me all night?” he asked.

I pretended not to hear him and threw the hat on the chair beside me, which was fine, because he didn’t even wait for my response. He was busy telling the waitress to bring us a round of tequila shots. “Let’s get hammered,” he said as she walked away. “Let’s get stupid drunk and silly. It’s only five thirty. We’ll be sober well before work tomorrow.”

I said, “I have a dozen meetings tomorrow, and I have to meet with the attorneys about the fine print on Daisy Duke’s contract.”

“Oh, come on, Jessica, lighten up. I’m your boss, for God’s sake. You won’t be fired if you sleep in, and I won’t dock your pay.”

I’d seen this reckless behavior before. “She dumped you, didn’t she?”

It took him a split second to answer. “Like a hot potato.”

“Marty, for someone so full of spontaneity, you really are predictable.”