The Balance Thing

by Margaret Dumas

  He was completely still for a minute, then a huge grin spread across his face. “Rebecca Mansfield, are you offering to help me with my marketing?”

  God help me, I blushed.

  “Do you want help?”

  Josh got his grin under control. “I’d be honored,” he said.

  I let out a huge breath. I hadn’t realized how nervous I’d been about whether Josh would be willing to listen to my opinions.

  He reached under the mixing board and pulled out a backpack, then rummaged in it until he eventually found a legal pad and pencil. He looked at me expectantly. “Tell me what to do.”

  Music to my ears.

  THREE HOURS LATER Josh was beginning to get a clue. They were possibly the most gratifying three hours of my life. I knew I missed having a real job, but I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the actual work. Figuring out problems, identifying concrete goals, and planning strategies to meet them. The more we talked, the more I realized that I knew almost nothing about Josh’s business. I had no statistics to cite, no demographic data to turn to, no market analysis. The sheer volume of what we’d have to do if we were serious about broadening Vladima’s viewer base was enormous.

  Finally, I could sink my teeth into something other than cartoon necks.

  When we finally ran out of steam, Josh started flipping through the pages of notes he’d taken. “Becks, I don’t know what I was thinking all this time just using your voice when I could have been exploiting so much more.”

  “Exploit away. I’m happy to do it. Besides, as far as I can tell, the major qualification for using my voice is my overall level of bitchiness.” I made a face. “And apparently I have other outlets for that these days.”

  “It’s not just the bitchiness,” Josh corrected me. “It’s also the obvious disdain you have for the material. That comes across as a nice little snobbishness when you record. It makes Vladima superior to the rest of the characters.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. But don’t worry. You’re still a great bitch.”

  Okay, I had started it, but it stung a little anyway. “Josh?”

  “Yeah.” He was packing up his backpack.

  “Am I really a bitch?”

  Something in my voice must have told him I wasn’t joking anymore. He didn’t look at me, but I could tell he was thinking because his eyebrows came together and sort of vibrated. It’s a thing he has. “No,” he finally said, “you’re just old school.”

  “Old school?”

  “You know, like Katharine Hepburn or Rosalind Russell or Joan Crawford. You talk fast and sound smart and you say what you mean.”

  “So I’m a diva,” I said, deflated. “Which is pretty much a bitch in good shoes. Thanks.” At least he was honest with me.

  “No.” Josh seemed bothered by the fact that I wasn’t getting it. “You’re just old school. It’s like you expect to be taken seriously while at the same time you’re this great-looking babe. No!”

  I was just beginning to like the sound of things when he corrected himself.

  “I’m not a babe?”

  He shook his head. “You’re not a babe or a fox or a chick or anything like that. You’re a grown-up. You’re”—a light dawned—“you’re a dame.” He seemed pleased with himself. “Yeah, you’re a dame.”

  “A dame.” This is how he saw me. This is why I should never ask his opinion about anything again.

  “You know,” he went on, “Bette Davis had this great line. She said that if a man asks for what he wants, he’s a man, but if a woman asks for what she wants, she’s a bitch.”

  Bette had a point. “So you do think I’m a bitch.”

  “I think you’re not listening.”

  “I’m asking, Josh. Does everybody think I’m a bitch? Is that why I’m Vladima?”

  He mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “You’re Vladima because you kick ass.” He looked up from the console. “You have power and you’re decisive and you know what you want and you don’t take anyone’s bullshit and you expect a lot out of people and you don’t suffer fools and you’re…” He’d started out sounding angry, but something in my reaction must have cooled him down because he sort of trailed off and looked down at the wires again.

  Wow. It may take a lot to get him going, but it was worth it.

  He finished packing up his things and he spoke again, quietly this time. “Becks, a lot of those things will get you called a bitch, but in my mind and in this world”—he gestured at the console and the sound booth beyond—“they’re what make you a hero.”

  I stood up. I blinked at him. “Really?”

  “Really.” He looked away and cleared his throat. “I wonder what you’d say if I asked you what you think about me.”

  Warning signs started flashing. This was all getting a little too intense. I mean, he’d just said…and I wasn’t used to compliment…and he’d actually spoken more than five words at a time on a subject other than the undead. It was all getting way too real. He expected an answer from me.

  “I think…” I gulped. “I think for a straight guy you know an awful lot about old movie stars.”

  Disappointment flickered across his face, then he nodded.

  And I got the hell out of there.

  Nine

  The countdown to the wedding had begun. The night before we left for London Connie’s parents threw a simple little going-away party for all of her friends who wouldn’t be able to make it to the actual event. And, of course, all of Ian’s friends who were in the same boat. And while they were at it, everyone who would be going to the wedding, too.

  When your living room resembles a tastefully decorated airplane hangar, why not?

  There was a three-piece jazz combo called Hi Neighbor, a swan carved out of ice, a plenitude of eerily similar-looking waiters passing champagne and nibbles, and a buffet that stretched on for about a mile.

  “How does Connie expect us to fit into the damn bridesmaid dresses if we’re going to be fed like this at every damn party for the next two weeks?” Vida asked in dismay.

  “Didn’t you get her instructions?” I asked.

  “What instructions?”

  I pulled a neatly typed 3 x 5 card out of my evening bag. “Number One: Eat a large salad with no-cal dressing before the party. Number Two: Drink one 8-ounce glass of mineral water between each alcoholic beverage. Number Three: Limit alcoholic beverages to—”

  Vida snatched the paper from my hand. “You have so got to be kidding me!”

  I so wasn’t. “It’s what she gives her clients before a big party. I mean, not the socialite clients, but the nervous ones who want to be told how to behave. Apparently lots of brides appreciate it.”

  Vida tore the card neatly in two and dropped the pieces to the floor. “I do not”—she punctuated her statement with a gulp of champagne—“want to be told”—here she grabbed a passing waiter by the arm and exchanged her empty flute for a full one—“how to behave.” She polished off the contents of the new glass. “Let’s hit this buffet.”

  Something told me the party had just gotten interesting.

  Max joined me as Vida went foraging. “What’s the green stuff?” He gestured to an unappetizing platter.

  “Something expensive,” I guessed.

  “You know, I always forget how loaded Connie’s parents are. I really should schmooze them more.”

  “Please. Half the people here are your clients.” I looked around the room and saw evidence of Max’s skill with the Botox needle everywhere.

  “There’s always room for more. And I must drop a discreet hint to Con’s mom about a friend of mine who could take care of her neck.” He gave me a knowing look.

  Vida joined us for the tail end of the conversation. “Max! Connie’s mother is at least sixty, and she barely looks forty-five. Leave her alone!”

  “Honey, if she was left alone, she’d look sixty.” Max sipped complacently. “What’s up with y
ou two?”

  Before I could say “Nothing” and glide away, Vida blabbed. “Becks had a date!”

  “Yes, I heard. The native drums were all over it.”

  “Heard what?” Connie appeared out of nowhere, which was her favorite party trick. “What’s going on? How is everybody?” She party-hugged each of us in turn. When she got to Vida, she whispered something in her ear.

  “No, I’m not wearing a sports bra!” Vida extracted herself from Connie’s embrace. “I’m wearing the thing you had sent over from Nordstrom.”

  “Vida!” Connie’s the only person I know who can yell in a whisper.

  “Well, come on! I can’t help it if I’ve got the tits of a twelve-year-old.” Vida tugged at the ice blue silk of her neckline.

  Max opened his mouth to speak and Vida turned on him. “And if you tell me you know a guy who can turn me into a D-cup, I swear I’ll push your face into the crab dip.”

  Max turned his expression into a smile. “I think I’ll go explore the buffet.”

  “Get me another slab of pâté,” Vida called after him.

  AN HOUR LATER I was shivering on the terrace with Max and Vida. Connie’s parents lived in a Pacific Heights mansion with a stunning view of the bay. We’d slipped away to watch the lights of the Golden Gate through the fog and try to pinpoint when Connie had lost her last semblance of sanity.

  “She seriously sent you a bra?” I asked.

  Vida made a noise that an uncharitable friend might have called a snort. “It came with attachments.”

  Max gave a low whistle. “Dare I ask?”

  Vida sat on the steps and put her chin in her hand. “I can’t wait until this wedding is over and we can have our normal old Connie back.”

  “Don’t worry,” Max sat next to her. “The bridal demon is usually exorcized as part of the wedding ceremony.”

  “Can we not talk about demons?” I joined them on the cold stone stairs. “I get enough of that at work.”

  Two heads swiveled to stare at me.

  “What?”

  “You’ve never called the Vladima thing work before,” Vida said.

  Max agreed. “You always call it the Vladima thing.”

  I shrugged. “Well, since the little nuclear meltdown masquerading as an interview at PlanetCom, I’m starting to think the Vladima thing isn’t that bad.”

  They digested this. Eventually Vida giggled.

  “What?”

  “If we’re talking nuclear meltdowns, I think the date with Chad wins out over the interview.”

  “Can you believe her?” Max asked Vida. He raised his voice in mockery. “‘I thought it was a business meeting!’”

  “I hope you two are having fun,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah.” Vida finished another glass of champagne, and I started wondering if perhaps we should have heeded Connie’s 3 x 5 card.

  “What I don’t get,” she continued, “is why you didn’t at least sleep with the man.”

  “Who?”

  Vida and Max exchanged looks. “‘Who?’” Max mimicked.

  “Chad!” Vida practically shouted. “This allegedly good-looking guy who was allegedly totally hot for you!”

  “Hang on,” I protested. “Aren’t you the one who called me date lazy for dating guys just because they’re hot for me?”

  Vida shook her head. “I said you shouldn’t get into a whole relationship with them. I didn’t say you shouldn’t sleep with them.”

  Stunned. I was absolutely stunned.

  “Why would I sleep with them?”

  “I think I may cry,” Max said hollowly. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Becks, are you honestly saying that you don’t see the point of sleeping with a cute guy?”

  “Of course I see the point! Geez, I have been known to have a good time in bed now and then!” I thought about it. “I have. Several times.”

  “All right then,” Max said. “So what was stopping you with Chad?”

  I gave them a blank look. “He didn’t want sex.”

  Howls of derisive laughter.

  “Seriously! I could tell he wanted to get all involved,” I explained. “Besides, he had a Vladima thing—how creepy is that?”

  “Honey, if I were a sexy cartoon vampire, I would play that card for all it was worth,” Max assured me.

  “Becks”—Vida got her giggles under control—“have you ever considered whether you might be a lesbian?”

  “Sister!” Max threw open his arms. “Welcome to the family!”

  “I’d love to be a lesbian,” I told him. “Except they have to sleep with women.”

  “That is a definite downside,” Max agreed.

  “And despite what you may have gathered from this conversation, I enjoy sleeping with men. Usually. In the right circumstances.” Really.

  “So do I,” Vida said wistfully. “If memory serves.”

  “Been a while, sweetie?” Max inquired.

  “Please. If I uncrossed my legs, moths would fly out.”

  The French door opened behind us, sending out party noises and Connie’s voice. “There you are—get back in here!”

  AFTER WHAT FELT like several years, the party was over. Connie sent her future husband home and dragged Vida and me up to her old bedroom, which her parents had kept as a sort of living museum dedicated to their daughter. She was using the space as a staging area for the vast wardrobe she was taking to England.

  Max had once again cited the Y chromosome and gotten out of the dirty work, so it was just the three of us girls. We decided to attack the problem by peeling off our party dresses in favor of some comfy pajamas of Connie’s and sprawling on her fluffy pink bed.

  Vida summed up the situation. “That’s one shitload of clothes, Miss Bride.”

  We regarded the clothes rack Connie’s mother had provided for the assortment of evening dresses, cocktail dresses, tea dresses, and brunch outfits that Connie had meticulously planned out for each event leading up to the wedding.

  “What are those?” I nodded in the general direction of what looked like a clear box full of photos placed on top of a stack of many, many shoeboxes.

  “Polaroids,” Connie said. “I laid out every outfit I’m going to wear—complete with accessories, jewelry, and shoes—and took a picture of it. Then I listed the event and the date I’d wear it on the back. The pictures are arranged by date and cross-indexed on a spreadsheet I’ve got on my laptop.”

  She saw the looks on our faces. “What? I didn’t want to repeat an outfit.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  Connie got a little huffy. “It’s very complicated. Different people are going to be at different parties, so I had to figure out who I was going to see where and make sure that, for example, Ian’s Great Aunt Penelope wouldn’t see me at three different things wearing the same earrings.”

  “Because that would be grounds for calling off the wedding?” Vida asked.

  I headed Connie off before she could respond. “It must be hard to get everything right,” I said sympathetically. “I guess men have it a lot easier than we do.”

  Connie gave me a puzzled look. “I did the same thing for Ian.”

  Their relationship was starting to become a little clearer to me.

  “You laid out his clothes?” Vida squeaked.

  “I do it all the time,” Connie said briskly. “He wouldn’t have a clue how to dress himself. And unlike most men, he realizes that and appreciates my help.”

  I said it again. “Wow.”

  Connie sighed with something very like pity for us, her spinster friends. “Someday you’ll meet a guy and you’ll understand,” she said in that bridal-superior way. “People think relationships are supposed to be fifty-fifty. That’s just denying the reality.”

  “What’s the reality?” Vida dared to ask.

  “It’s the same in every relationship.” She got up and opened a suitcase. “With clients, with employees, with boyfriends, it’s all
the same. You simply have to seize control from the very beginning.” She looked critically at the rack of clothes. “And never for one instant let go.” She turned to us. “Do you think the ostrich feather on that hat is just a little too much?”

  Vida was too busy blinking really really fast to answer, so I did.

  “Way too much.”

  AS I STAGGERED HOME in the wee hours of the morning, I kept thinking about Connie’s massively organized approach to all aspects of her life, and whether that approach was responsible for her getting pretty much everything she’s ever wanted.

  I had always been something of a control freak myself when it came to work, but I had to admit that I had a tendency to let the other aspects of my life just drift by. Maybe that was the key to my failure with relationships. Maybe I could overcome my date-laziness if I put sufficient planning and organization into the task of finding someone. Okay, I wasn’t willing to call it a Man Plan, but maybe if I had a clear picture of who I wanted, I wouldn’t end up with some guy who made my eye start twitching whenever he started talking about his collection of vintage G.I. Joes.

  Or maybe I should just invest in a Polaroid camera.

  Ten

  I’d been to London before, but this wasn’t the Shakespeare-and-the-Houses-of-Parliament vacation I’d had after my senior year. Nor was it one of the insides-of-hotels-and-conference-rooms business trips I’d taken. This was Wedding London, where apparently every person who had ever met Ian or any member of his family was required by the code of British etiquette to throw a party.

  I’d toasted Connie and Ian in grand hotels and intimate restaurants. I’d drunk to their health in the dining rooms of the wealthy and the tea rooms of the traditionalists. I’d wished for their first child to be a son (actually, I’d raised my glass while others wished for that particular joy) on no fewer than three occasions.

  And we’d only been in town four days.

  Tonight the celebration was in someone’s dining room, on the second floor of a house I was sure I’d seen on an episode of Masterpiece Theatre. Maybe it was Ian’s Great Aunt Penelope’s house, maybe not. I’d lost track. I just smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, they are a lovely couple,” and tried to keep Vida from grumbling too loudly.