“Well, I suppose you have a point there. It’s a toss-up between you two for the part. Look, the romance in these movies, it’s not supposed to be some sort of dark mystery. It’s a conceit, a way to show different sides of the main character, what she’s struggling with. It’s a way to make an internal struggle dramatic. People see themselves in that struggle. They keep using that structure because it’s familiar to most people and makes sense to them.”
“Well, it isn’t familiar to me. Anyway, why is it always a triangle? Why isn’t it a square or an octagon? That seems more realistic.”
“You’ve been in a love octagon?”
“No, but, you know, if you aren’t with one person you really love, it’s more complicated than a stupid triangle. The problem isn’t because of one other person you wish you were with. In life, there’s a million people you might have feelings for, depending. There’s either one person you love and you’re happy or there’s a bunch of people who could be right, if only the timing was better, or they didn’t still have feelings for an old girlfriend, or whatever. It’s mostly timing. I’m in a good relationship, but I pass three people a day I could imagine going on a date with.”
“You pass three people a day you could imagine going out with? That’s being in a good relationship?” Dan is smiling, which frustrates me even more.
“You’re twisting my words. I don’t mean I’m in love with the random people, but I think about the random people and wonder about them, whether it’s the guy on the subway or, you know …” Dan looks at me expectantly, but I trail off, suddenly worried that we’re not just talking about the movie anymore. I press on, determined not to let go of my point. “And then there’s work, too—I mean I have a very strong attachment there, too, you know, so maybe that gets mixed in … and, anyway, you see how quickly one could get to a love octagon.” I stop abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, causing an old lady pushing a little trolley with her groceries on it to nearly crash into me. “Excuse me,” I say to her, suddenly flustered. “Anyway, I’m not talking about us.”
Dan’s eyebrows raise a little, and he stops on the sidewalk, too. “I didn’t say you were talking about us.”
“No. Right. I know. I’m not. I’m just trying to illustrate how ridiculous the love triangle concept is.”
“I understand,” he says.
“By saying there are potentially other shapes.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he says, nodding sincerely.
“Other unique shapes. Other shapes that feelings take. Other feeling shapes,” I say idiotically, as if randomly rearranging the order of the words helps strengthen my point.
“But you’ve never been in a love triangle?”
“Definitely not.”
“You’ve never had feelings for two people at the same time that were confusing?”
“No,” I say, but I can’t look him in the eye.
“Can we talk about the wedding?” Dan says gently, after a pause.
“No. What? Why? What is there to talk about?”
“I held your hand, and it seems to have upset you.”
“Oh God, I haven’t even thought about that.”
“No? You haven’t thought about the night at Sardi’s either?”
“No—hardly—not at all, really. I just had that weird anxiety thing at the wedding for some reason.”
“I know. You started sweating.”
“Did I?”
“And shaking.”
“Oh, well—”
“Because I took your hand …?”
“Yes—well, no. Because of what it meant, I suppose.”
“There’s something here, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know …” I say, involuntarily walking backward away from him on the sidewalk.
“Well, I feel something. I do. And, I’ve thought about it since … watch the mailbox—”
“Can we not talk about this?” I say, and turn, sidestepping just in time, narrowly avoiding the big blue mailbox on the corner, and start walking fast, head down, wanting to put distance between us.
“I don’t know either,” Dan calls after me. “That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know what it means either.”
I’m stopped on the sidewalk by the sound of Dan’s voice, but by something else, too—something more specific that’s caused me to come to an abrupt halt. With a start, I realize that what stopped me in my tracks was disappointment. I realize I’m disappointed to learn that Dan isn’t any clearer than I am about what happened, or what didn’t happen. I expected he was for some reason. I pivot on my heels and start to walk slowly back to him.
“I mean,” Dan says, looking sheepishly at his feet, “I haven’t really recovered from the fact that I was engaged not that long ago. And I’m still not able to work, not really, and so I feel like I’m all over the—”
“Dan,” I say, planting my feet, noticing a strange hint of sarcasm in my voice. “Puh-lease. You don’t owe me an explanation. After all, I have a boyfriend.”
Dan’s face reddens a bit, maybe in response to my tone. “Is that what he is? A guy I’ve never met even though I live with you, who calls you to come over late at night? That’s your boyfriend?”
And even though James hasn’t ever used the word to describe himself, and I’ve never called him that to his face, I don’t like Dan’s insinuation. “Yes,” I say with as much certainty as I can summon.
“Franny, if this was the movie of your life, and you happened, in the movie, to be in a love triangle, which I know is impossible given your very valid shape theories, can you say he’s the guy our heroine ends up with? Can you honestly say he’s the obviously right guy in the movie?”
“Why are we making a movie of my life at all?”
“For the sake of argument.”
“Who would go? Nothing happens in it. What would we call it? Counting Tips? Unemployed Actress? Losing Joe Melville?”
“Maybe I’m wrong. I’m just wondering if perhaps what’s bothering you about the movie we just saw is that you recognize something of yourself in what you claim is an unrealistic cliché.”
Dan isn’t trying to be mean, he never is, but his words sting as if he meant them to. The worst part of having this discussion is that it can’t be over, not really, because now we both have to walk home to the same place. I wish I could just go home and tell my roommate about this strange afternoon I spent with a guy I know, and how he insulted me with his preposterous theories about me, but I can’t, because they’re the same person. We walk the rest of the way in silence.
What a mess. Maybe I should move out, I think to myself. I’m amazed it hasn’t occurred to me before. I guess because generally I’m so happy to come back to the apartment and sit on the sofa and watch something on TV with Dan while he balances a beer between his legs. What if I moved out? Jane and I would still see each other all the time, I’m certain of that. It would be hard to find a new place, especially one as big and relatively inexpensive, but maybe it’s time. Things have become too complicated. What would it feel like if I didn’t live in our apartment? I wonder.
I would miss the place itself. I would miss the way the light floods my room in the morning, would miss the view of the rooftops of other apartment buildings, would miss watching our neighbor Frank predictably have the same day over and over, would miss the beautiful creaky wood floors that broadcast whoever is coming up the stairs by creaking in direct proportion to their weight and mood.
And I’ll admit, I would miss Dan in some ways. I like watching Law and Order with him, even when he ruins the ending by guessing who the killer is before I do. I’ll miss his overly elaborate explanations of why the director is moving the camera in a certain way. I’ll miss his comments on a piece of dialogue he finds particularly poetic. I’ve learned a lot from seeing those kinds of things through his eyes. But the feelings I have for him are confusing, and having to see him all the time makes figuring them out impossibly complicated.
Whether or not my d
eadline runs out, and whether or not I stay in New York, I have to face the fact that living with Dan has become an uncomfortable proposition.
I think I should move.
27
You have three messages.
BEEEP
Dude, it’s Deena. I just got a call that I’m finally going in for fucking Law and Order this week. Wish me luck! See you in class, kid.
BEEEP
Hello, I’m calling from Dave O’Brien’s office, over at Kevin and Kathy? We’re just calling to let you know the show’s coming back next Tuesday at eight thirty, and your episode will be airing then. We tried calling your agency, but, er—anyway, just calling to let you know.
BEEEP
Hey, babe. Can’t wait to see you tonight. A messenger’s going to drop off the clothes and the passes, and I’m sending the car for you at six thirty, okay? Screening’s at seven, don’t be late.
BEEEP
The minute James got back into town, any doubts I might have had about us evaporated. He was tanned from the sun, proof of his days spent shooting in the desert, and the sight of him made me melt.
I’m confused by his message, though. We’d discussed going to the premiere of his movie together.
“You’re sending a car?” I say when he picks up. “Like, a rental car?”
“No, like a car with a driver. To pick you up.”
“Like a limousine?”
“Well, no. It’ll probably just be a town car. A sedan. Is that okay?”
“Of course! I mean, I’ve never even … But where are you going to be?”
“The cast has to be there early. I’ll meet you at the end of the red carpet.”
I’m curious, but I’m not going to ask how one knows where the beginning or end of a carpet is, red or otherwise. I imagine the beginning to look something like the swirl where Dorothy sets out with Toto to follow the yellow brick road. I picture a welcoming committee of munchkins, and Glinda the Good Witch, who will help me find my way.
“Okay, great,” I tell him, managing to sound more confident than I actually feel.
That afternoon, a messenger arrives with a garment bag I have to sign for. In it are two beautiful cocktail dresses, both with the tags still attached.
“He bought these for you?” Jane asks, impressed.
“Well, I’m only keeping one, but yes.”
“These are like real designers,” she says, running her fingers over the shiny satin.
“Which one’s better, do you think?”
“Well, I’d have to see them on, of course,” she says, tilting her head to one side, as if trying to picture me in them. “At first glance, the black is safer, but the green makes more of a statement.”
After trying each one on a dozen times in front of the bathroom mirror, I decide to wear the green dress with the plunging neckline. I put on my highest heels, beautiful to look at but nearly impossible to walk in, and I enter Jane’s room and pose with my hand on my hip and one foot angled in front of the other, model-style.
“I’ve decided to become a statement person from now on.”
“I’m so proud of you!” Jane squeals.
I put on much more makeup than I normally do, and Jane helps me put my hair up using about a thousand bobby pins. I check my reflection in the mirror from every angle. James will be impressed, I think with pride.
I make a grand entrance, gliding daintily down the circular staircase where Jane and Dan wait, beaming up at me with pride, like I’m going off to prom.
Dan’s face goes red as I get closer and he lets out a long slow whistle. “Wow,” he says in a husky voice, as I reach the bottom stair.
Jane nods her head with the pleased air of an expert. “Gorgeous.”
But then my hair starts to fall in the back, and Jane takes me back into our upstairs bathroom to put another thousand bobby pins in it. I can hear the driver ring our intercom and my heart leaps as I race downstairs, but then I can’t find my lipstick, so I take off my shoes and run back up, where I discover it under the bathroom sink. I tear back down the stairs and hover in the kitchen for a moment, putting my shoes back on and trying to catch my breath.
“Do you have any cash?” Dan asks. “You should tip the driver.”
“Shit! I forgot,” I say, already feeling that I’m slightly miscast in the role of premiere-attending actress. He takes a ten and a twenty out of his wallet and tucks them into my evening bag. There’s something so sweet about seeing his giant hands fumble with the clasp on the small satin bag, the same vintage loan from Jane that I brought to Katie’s wedding, and for a moment I wish I were staying home to watch something with him on the couch instead of going off into the unknown of whatever a “premiere” might be.
I have to make about three more trips up and down the stairs to retrieve my forgotten powder, change the bra whose strap is showing (“switch it for the black one,” Jane says), and do one last hair-and-makeup check in the mirror. Finally, I say goodbye with a “ta-daa” at the door, and Dan and Jane give me a little applause as a send-off. I walk gingerly down the carpeted stairwell, slightly unsteady in my heels, gripping the banister for support, and find the impressively shiny black town car in front of our building, with a driver standing beside an open door that’s waiting just for me. I pause on our stoop, looking east and west, hoping a neighbor might see, but there’s only an older man walking a small dog way off down the block, and I enter the car without an audience.
The driver’s name is Benny, and he asks what radio station I’d like to hear.
“Anything’s okay. Whatever you like.”
He turns to a station playing an old Carpenters song, and for about ten minutes I just stare out the window, enjoying the music and the quiet and the cool feel of the soft black leather seats. I’m going to my first premiere. I feel pretty and confident, as if I’m Diane Keaton or Meryl Streep, attending the opening of one of their own films, surrounded by friends and well-wishers. Someday, maybe …
The car glides along gently, so different from the rattle of the back of a cab. After a while, I notice an ashtray in the armrest of my seat, and a box of Kleenex, and some individually wrapped red and white peppermints in the middle console.
“Is it okay if I smoke, Benny?”
“Of course, madam.”
It’s then that I realize the evening bag I’ve been gripping tightly in my lap isn’t my evening bag at all, but my brown leather Filofax. I must have grabbed it instead of my purse.
“Oh!”
I must have put the evening bag down on the table by the front door as I was saying my goodbyes, and in my rush to leave, picked up the Filofax instead.
“If you’re out of cigarettes, madam, I can offer you one.”
“Yes, please, I—I forgot them,” I say, trying to swallow the panic that is trying to rise in the back of my throat.
Benny hands me a menthol cigarette from a crumpled pack he produces from his inside jacket pocket, and expertly holds a lighter for me over his shoulder without taking his eyes off the road. I crack the window and exhale deeply.
I don’t have my powder.
I don’t have my lipstick.
I don’t have my house keys.
I don’t have any money.
I don’t have the passes that say I’m invited to the screening.
It also occurs to me that I’m not sure how I’m getting home. I suppose James and I will go back to his place, but what if I can’t find him at the theater? Suddenly our plan seems so flimsy, and without my purse I feel totally unarmed to face the night.
“Benny, do you … are you taking me home as well?”
“No, Madam, I’ll only be taking you to the event.”
“Oh,” I say, my voice very small.
It’s too late to turn back now. We’ve already crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and James said not to be late. I’ll just have to find him when I get there. I press my lips together lightly. It feels like there’s plenty of lipstick still on them, but I
’ll have to be careful not to accidentally wipe it off. I try to hold my lips apart a bit, which makes them feel dry. My head is pounding now, from nerves and the menthol cigarette and all the bobby pins.
The premiere is at the Ziegfeld on 54th Street, where I’ve been once before with Jane to see a re-release of Funny Girl. But as we turn onto 54th Street from Sixth Avenue, I hardly recognize it. Even though it’s nighttime, the face of the movie theater is so bright it looks like the sun is beating down on it, but it’s hard to tell where all the light is coming from. There’s a crowd spilling off the sidewalk in front of the theater and a line of people across the street waving and taking pictures. A police car and two news vans are blocking traffic, and a policeman with a whistle is waving cars toward the next block.
“This is as far as I can go, I’m afraid, madam. You’ll be all right from here?”
“Yes—I’m—I’ll be fine.” But my voice sounds tinny and faraway.
Benny pulls the car to the curb and steps outside, and for a moment I’m confused and a little hopeful—maybe he’s going to park the car and walk me in? But then I see he’s just coming around to open my door for me. I wobble unsteadily to my feet.
“Thank you so much, Benny. I forgot my—I don’t have any …”
But Benny waves my apology away with a smile and a nod.
“Please, madam, enjoy your evening.”
I totter to the sidewalk as the town car glides away. I’ve gone only a few feet, but already Benny and the dark comfort of the car seem part of an evening long ago that’s now been swallowed up into the night. I try to walk as gracefully as I can, although my shoes make me feel like I’m walking on tiptoe. I keep my head down and I aim for what I hope is the entrance.
Thankfully, there does seem to be a “front” of the red carpet, in the form of a velvet rope and a girl wearing a black cocktail dress and a tight ponytail, holding a clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other. I look around, hoping to see James, but I can’t spot him anywhere. I hang back for a moment and watch the girl as she waves a few people in without checking their names. Maybe she won’t check mine either. I decide I’ll try to walk past her as if I don’t see her. I try to look confident and in a rush, but my attempt at walking briskly backfires as my left heel snags on the carpet, and I trip and practically fall into her clipboard.
Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel Page 25
