Nine Women, One Dress(35)

Within seconds of entering the room I was naked between what felt like million-thread-count sheets. Arthur kissed me and then pushed back to the foot of the bed. This scene, of a woman being pleasured by a man and responding with reckless abandon, is being played out in the movies and on television more frequently lately. It must have something to do with the resurgence of the feminist movement. I thanked those young feminists in my head for making me slightly more comfortable with it, but still I tensed up. It’s the reckless abandon that I’ve never been able to get a handle on. I just never felt comfortable enough with someone to let him do that. The few times someone had tried, I’d literally said, “No, thank you.” No, thank you, like I was turning down dessert.

Arthur must have sensed something because he returned to face me. He kissed me on the mouth. “What’s the matter?” He kissed me again.

“Nothing,” I said, but I could hear the nervousness in my voice.

He must have heard it too. He smiled and looked into my eyes. “C’mon. It’s me,” he said before heading down my body again. And somehow then I got lost in it.

An hour later, as I watched him sleep, I realized with a sinking heart that I would probably have to leave him. This was getting serious, for me at least. And he had yet to officially break it off with Sherri, although he promised he would. He opened his eyes.

“Arthur,” I said, very seriously, “tomorrow afternoon I’m going to meet with a headhunter.”

He laughed. “That’s a setup for a sex joke if I ever heard one.”

“I’m serious, Arthur. I shouldn’t be working for you anymore.” I sighed. “Partners shouldn’t break the rules.”

He looked sad. “If you don’t work for me, then I won’t see you every day. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Now I laughed. “You haven’t even broken up with Sherri yet. She called three times yesterday.”

“I know. She’s calling so often because I haven’t seen her.” He sighed heavily. “I’m just trying to find the right time. She’s not the strongest. I’m scared of hurting her.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes.

“You’re right. I’ll do it this weekend. You go to the headhunter, and by next week we will no longer have to skulk around.”

I felt completely content. Being with Arthur this way felt both so new and so old at the same time.

He laughed. “I’m going to miss the skulking, though. This has been my only skulking experience, and I have to admit, it’s sort of fun.”

I laughed too. “It is fun. We still have a little skulking time left. I’m sure I won’t get a job right away.”

“That’s true.” He peeked under the covers and added, “I bet a lot of that depends on my recommendation.” And we were at it again.





CHAPTER 19


Opening Night


By the Diva’s Mancubine


Age: Same as the diva’s (if I told you, I’d have to kill you)





I knew every line by heart. Every stage direction and scene description as well. I had rehearsed every part over and over, except of course for Jordana’s. I had to concentrate hard not to move my lips along with the performance.





ACT ONE



(The curtain rises on DAPHNE BEAUREGARD in bed. It’s a hot August day in Georgia, around eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning. LUCINDA, the maid, enters with a tray of iced tea and biscuits. She puts down the tray and draws the curtains. Daphne, still wearing her eye mask, stirs and reaches to her husband’s side of the bed. It’s empty.)


DAPHNE?Reggie is up bright and early, I see.

LUCINDA?It’s almost noon, Mrs. Beauregard.

DAPHNE?A girl needs her beauty sleep, Lucinda.


Lucinda fixes the curtains across the room.

LUCINDA?Maybe you could use a few more hours.

DAPHNE?What was that, Lucinda?

LUCINDA?I said, Mr. Beauregard has been out riding for hours.

DAPHNE?We have cocktails at the Whitmans’ tonight. I want to wear that darling dress I bought last week in Atlanta. They said Jackie Kennedy has the same one. Lay out my diamonds and my pearls—I’ll start dressing at five. Oh, which shoes shall I wear? Better make it four-thirty. I have quite a few decisions to make.

LUCINDA?As you wish, Mrs. Beauregard.

DAPHNE?And for the hundredth time, Lucinda, you need not call me Mrs. Beauregard.

LUCINDA?Sorry, ma’am.

DAPHNE?Much better. Tomorrow I’ll be lunching in town. Please spend that time dusting off my snow-globe collection. And make sure it’s when Rose is napping. I don’t want her touching them.

LUCINDA?I know that, Mrs. Beauregard.

DAPHNE?For the love of sweet Jesus, please call me ma’am.



At that point I stopped running the lines in my head. I was distracted by the man next to me. He had a small notebook. Probably a critic. He wrote down three words. I tried to read out of the corner of my eye.


Over her head.



Over her head. Oh boy. Could he be talking about the maid? For the love of sweet Jesus, please let him be talking about the maid. Maybe he was from Newsday. We could survive a bad review from Newsday. As long as it wasn’t the Times. Jesus—seven lines in and he already thinks she’s in over her head. And she hasn’t even slipped out of her southern accent yet. That usually doesn’t happen till Act Two.