by Hazel Hughes
Elizabeth turned the pen over and over in her hands while she debated what to write. He was joking about her keeping the pen, she was sure. Mont Blancs started at stupidly expensive and went upwards from there. Besides, there was something engraved on this one. She ran her finger over the lettering and held it up to the light to read it. It read, “Habibi.” “Darling” in Arabic. The first word of the title of her book.
Probably a gift from his agent, she thought, when he landed the part in Cullen Zweibeker’s latest film. She glanced over at Sebastian. The cameras were rolling. An eerie hush had descended over the set which, seconds before, had been all noise and motion. Sebastian and Naomi were standing close together, talking. Sebastian, who was holding Naomi’s hand, brought it to his parted lips. As he kissed it, he looked up, his eyes connecting with Elizabeth’s. He winked.
“Cut!” Cullen yelled. “Cut, cut, cut, cut, cut! What the hell was that, Sebastian?”
“I had something in my eye,” he said, continuing to look at Elizabeth.
“Okay. Whatever. Get it out and let’s take it from ‘hello.’ Come on people: time, money, etc, etc.”
Elizabeth’s face felt strangely warm. What was that about, she wondered? She hurriedly scribbled something in the book and, leaving both book and pen on her seat, walked to the elevator without a backward glance.
As she retraced her steps to the hotel, she pulled her cell phone out of her bag, scrolling through her address book to find “home.”
“Hi guys,” she said, when voice-mail picked up. “It’s Mom. Just checking in. I miss you already. Be good for Daddy. I love you.” She put her phone back in her bag, walking past the doorman into the hush of the lobby toward the girl in the lavender shirt at the check-in desk, distracted by that unfamiliar feeling in her chest that could only be one thing: excitement.
Chapter 3
Elizabeth had to admit that the rooms at the Mercer were pretty sweet. After unpacking her suitcase, she wandered around the minimalist space, turning lights on and off, opening drawers, smelling the complimentary Keihl’s shampoo and body lotion. Gazing out the window at the buzzing streets of Soho, she felt a strange little pang. It was exactly the kind of place she would have booked for her anniversary escape with Steve.
Every year since they’d said their vows in a Napa Valley vineyard blossoming with grape flowers, they had celebrated their anniversary by going away somewhere. Staying at a five-star hotel when their normal budget barely stretched to three. Drinking champagne in the afternoon. Feeding each other bites of crème brulée and over linen tablecloths. Making silly, drunken teenaged love.
Even after the kids came along they’d managed to get away, if only for one night. Steve’s parents or Elizabeth’s mother were more than happy to babysit.
Of course they’d had their problems, especially after Keenan arrived and Elizabeth quit teaching to stay at home and take care of him. Suddenly they were both emotionally and physically exhausted, looking to the other for support and not finding it. But they had both grown stronger from that experience, less dependent. They had soldiered on, through projectile vomit, through months without a full night’s sleep, through teething and job dissatisfaction and computers crashing and cars breaking down. They had even managed to produce Gwen somewhere along the way.
And every year, if only for twenty-four hours, they made the effort to step out of their roles as parents, drivers, bread-winners, cooks, and cleaners to just be Steve and Elizabeth. Five-star Steve and Elizabeth. Pampered, indulged and relaxed, they could remember the firm-bodied, idealistic twenty-somethings they’d been when they first met at the foot of the Reclining Buddha in Bangkok’s Wat Po. That little taste of what they’d been was enough to keep them going through the rest of the year.
But somehow, this year it just hadn’t happened. Like all birthdays and holidays, the planning of their anniversary trip fell within Elizabeth’s purview. And for once, she dropped the ball. Of course, she was juggling several others at the time. She’d just finished a book tour across Eastern Canada, and was trying to finish the first draft of her second novel by a not-unreasonable number of weeks past deadline. She saw the date circled in red on the kitchen calendar and decided to ignore it. Steve hadn’t even noticed.
Flopping down on the king-sized bed, she dialed Steve’s cell. It rang four times before he picked up.
“Yeah? What is it, Elizabeth?” he said. She could hear the sounds of kids laughing in the background.
“Uh, hi yourself,” she said, the warm bubble of love she had felt for Steve bursting at his brusque tone.
“We’re kind of in the middle of something. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I got here okay.”
“Great. Can I call you back?”
Elizabeth heard a cheery voice say, “Here’s your order, sir. That’ll be 22.50.”
“Gotta go,” Steve said, and hung up. Elizabeth stared at her phone, fuming. They were at McDonald’s, damn it, after she explicitly told him to lay off the fast food. Steve was going to turn Keenan and Gwen into roly-poly junk-food junkies just like him.
She stood up, throwing her phone at the bed in frustration. Why did he always have to do the exact opposite of what she told him when it came to the kids? Of course, they loved it. Steve was the fun one. She was the one who helped them with their homework and made them eat their vegetables. Steve was video games and chocolate sundaes and staying up past their bedtimes on a school night if he was going away on business the next day. She was the one who was left to deal with over-tired sugar-shocked children.
Elizabeth realized she was pacing and stopped abruptly. She was in New York, on the set of a hit movie in the making. Her movie. What the hell was she doing wearing a path in the walnut-stained hardwood floor? She grabbed her laptop and her bag and walked out the door, leaving her phone lying on the bed.
*
After spending eight hours on the set of Habibi Baby, Elizabeth was pretty clear about a few things.
One: Her consulting gig was a joke. She had sat in her Elizabeth Holmes chair tapping away on her laptop for most of the day, and the only person who consulted her on anything was Charles, the craft-services guy, who wanted to know what she thought of the brown rice vegan sushi.
Two: Making a movie was a lot like setting up fireworks – a hell of a lot of fuss for a few minutes of glory. On top of all the time the actors spent in hair and makeup, there seemed to be endless consultations about camera angles and lighting. And then there were the takes. Elizabeth counted fifteen for a two-minute exchange between Sebastian and Naomi, each bracketed by discussions with Cullen and makeup touch-ups and bathroom and smoke breaks.
Three: While the actual process of making a movie was a big yawn, the dynamics between the actors and Cullen were fascinating. All those huge egos in such a contained space. Elizabeth thought she just might have the foundation for her next novel.
It was going on 10:30 and the crew didn’t seem to be showing any signs of wrapping up for the day. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was ready to call it quits. She was normally in her pajamas reading a book by 10. She stood up, closed her eyes and reached for the ceiling, luxuriating in the delicious sensation of the stretch.
“Oh!” she gasped, eyes snapping open, as she felt a warm hand on the exposed skin of her stomach. It was Sebastian.
“Sorry,” he said with a sly grin. “I couldn’t resist.”
Elizabeth took a step back, pulling her shirt down. She laughed, feeling embarrassed, shocked and ... something else. Aroused. “Wow. I knew you movie people were touchy-feely, but ...” she pretended to look in her bag for something so that he wouldn’t see her blush. “We writers are kind of hands off, you know.”
“Right. Shy. Retiring.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“You got it.” She felt calm enough to look at him, now that they were joking. She handed him his copy of Habibi Baby.
“Did you write what I asked?” He had
a tiny dimple in his left cheek when he smiled like that.
“Not quite.” Elizabeth slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her laptop.
Sebastian opened the book and began reading. She slid his Mont Blanc onto the page, saying, “Oh, and you’d better keep this. Your agent wouldn’t be happy to know you’re giving away a fraction of her hard-earned commission.” Elizabeth didn’t know who his agent was, but she was willing to bet it was a woman.
She started to walk away, but Sebastian followed her, reading aloud. “‘Sebastian: To the success of our joint venture. A more perfect Michel doesn’t exist. Best, Elizabeth.’ Cute.”
“Thanks.”
Michel, the character Sebastian had been cast to play, was a sexy, charming Lebanese hottie. He was also a cheating scumbag with a dubious IQ and a foot fetish.
“Of course, I’m nothing like Michel. I mean, other than the obvious physical attributes.” He winked at her.
“Right.”
Elizabeth had watched Sebastian flirt with Naomi, two other actresses, the makeup artist, the hair stylist’s assistant and Charles, the craft-services guy. She thought she had a pretty good idea of what Sebastian Faulkner was like. She reached out to press the elevator button, but Sebastian intercepted her hand. She pulled it away. He leaned against the wall, blocking her access to the button.
“Really.” He gave her an intense brooding frown, taken right off the ad for AWOL. Elizabeth tried not to laugh.
“Okay. I believe you,” she said, eyes wide, as if she was telling Gwen she believed in her invisible friend, Pinky the Ghost. “Now may I ...?” she gestured vaguely toward where the elevator button was, blushing again when she realized that she was pointing at Sebastian’s package.
Sebastian laughed and stepped aside. “Absolutely.”
She pressed the button and waited for the elevator to arrive, tapping her foot and pretending not to be aware of Sebastian. She felt as awkward as an octogenarian nun at a gay pride parade. Elizabeth had led a pretty cloistered existence since she quit teaching – a profession heavily dominated by women in the first place. She hadn’t flirted since college and couldn’t quite remember how to straddle that fine line between fuck you and fuck me. In fact, she had probably never been too good at that, seeing as how most of her forays into flirting had ended up with her sneaking out of some boy’s room in the wee hours of the morning with her panties on backward.
She could feel Sebastian looking at her, which only increased her discomfort. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw his hand move to touch a strand of her hair and she flinched.
“Sorry. Too touchy-feely for you?” he asked.
“Yeah, a bit.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was smirking.
“It’s incredible. Like Rapunzel.” He stepped closer to her and ran his hand slowly down the length of her hair to where it ended at her waist. If anything, he seemed to be encouraged by her obvious discomfort.
Mercifully, the elevator arrived with a ping, and Elizabeth all but rushed to get in.
“Uh, thanks. See you.” She pressed the button for the lobby repeatedly, as if that would make the doors close quicker. But Sebastian put a hand in front of the door and held it open.
“A bunch of us are going to the Submercer later. It’s a sick scene. Amazing DJ. You should come.”
“Mm. I’ll think about it.” Elizabeth said, trying to look like she was seriously contemplating it. Like she, a housewife from Iowa, was going to hang out at a bar with a bunch of Hollywood movie types. And she felt awkward now?
“Great. I’ll stop by for you. You’re on the third floor, right?”
“Uh, yeah, how did you ...?” but he had stepped back and the doors were shutting.
Elizabeth felt giddy and lightheaded all the way back to her room, like she had when she had been in labor with Keenan and had taken one too many hits of the gas and air. She knew Sebastian’s flirting didn’t mean a thing, but it was intoxicating to feel desirable again. She flopped backwards onto the bed, landing on something hard. Her phone. She picked it up. Steve hadn’t called back, but both Emily and Nina had sent texts, and Abbie had called. She dialed Abbie’s number first.
“Lizzie! How are you?” Abbie asked. She was panting a bit, so Elizabeth guessed she was walking.
“Want to come to the Submercer with me tonight?” she asked, half-hopefully.
“Oh, honey, I’d love to but I’m already in Brooklyn. Ain’t no way I’m going back to Manhattan. Did Cullen ask you to go?”
“Cullen hasn’t said two words to me since he showed me to my special chair in the corner. No. Sebastian Faulkner asked me.” She tried to keep her tone casual.
“Ooh. Watch out for that one,” Abbie cautioned.
“Yeah. He’s a big flirt, I know, but I don’t think I have anything to worry about.” Elizabeth absentmindedly stroked her stomach where he’d touched her. She could still feel the imprint of his hand.
“Well, word on the street is he broke up the marriage of his former agent. I heard the husband caught them doing the nasty in the bathroom at the Emmy’s.” Abbie’s voice was hushed.
“Look Abbie, if you were a man and you could get it on with me or Naomi Clamp, who would you choose?” Elizabeth asked.
“Uh, well ... not that you’re not beautiful, Lizzie,” Abbie began.
“Exactly!” Elizabeth said, feeling the tiniest twinge of regret. “Anyway. I should probably go to bed, so I can be fresh and ready for another hard day of consulting tomorrow.”
“Oh, Lizzie,” Abbie sighed, “Just try to think of it as a working holiday. Check in with Cullen tomorrow then go do the tourist thing. You know, the Empire State Building. The Met. Sephora. And meet me for lunch, my treat. I know a great little Vietnamese place.” She giggled. Elizabeth knew she was talking about the sandwich shop beneath her office, but she couldn’t complain too much about a ten-dollar lunch when Abbie had managed to comp her a room at the Mercer.
“Okay. See you tomorrow at, what, one?”
“Perfect. We can go over my notes on your first draft. That’ll keep you busy when you’re not consulting.”
“Great.” Elizabeth hung up. She was not looking forward to seeing those notes. She was sick of looking at the thing. Still, it would be better to get started on it now, while she didn’t have the distractions of the kids and Steve.
It was late, but Elizabeth didn’t feel tired. It must be that New York energy, the ambient vibe from the city that never sleeps, she thought. She knew Emily would be asleep by now. Her radio show started at 6:00 and she had a half-hour commute to the station in Ottumwa. But Nina would still be up. Elizabeth called her.
“’allo Leez,” she answered. “How is New York?”
“Well, I haven’t seen much of it. I’ve been on set all day. Some of the cast invited me to a club tonight, but ...”
“But what? Oh my God, Leez, why are you even thinking about it? Go!” Nina was insistent.
“Aw, come on, Nina. I’m too old for that.” Elizabeth stood up and examined herself critically in the mirror. Thanks to her obsessive need to run, her body looked better than it had in college, but there was nothing fine about the laugh lines that crinkled in the corners of her eyes when she smiled.
“Nonsense! You are only as old as you think you are. You love to dance. You must go!”
“You think?”
“Absolutely! Put on some lipstick and some fuck-me heels. Have some champagne. You deserve it. When do you ever get to have fun, hm? This is your chance. Don’t be, how do you say, the wet bed clothes.”
“Okay. I’ll go.”
“And call me tomorrow to tell me all?”
“Yep.” Elizabeth hung up, smiling. She loved Nina. You could always count on her to bring the joie de vivre.
Elizabeth rifled through her wardrobe for something suitably hip and trendy to wear to one of Manhattan’s most exclusive clubs and came up with ... nothing. Hip and trendy hadn’t been her vibe since Keena
n, if ever. She pulled on a pair of slim dark jeans and the white wife-beater she normally wore layered under long-sleeved shirts when it was cold. Because she was tall for a woman and Steve was average, at best, for a man, she didn’t normally wear heels. But she had gone on a shopping trip to Chicago with Nina and Emily last year and found the most exquisite silver snakeskin stilettos. Nina and Emily didn’t have to twist her arm too hard to make her buy them. Of course, they’d never been worn. Fairfield wasn’t a stiletto kind of town. She strapped them on now, feeling instantly sexy, even powerful.
Until she looked in the mirror.
What she saw looking back at her wasn’t the sexy, ageless Elizabeth in her mind, but a thirty-eight-year-old mom in a man’s undershirt and a kick-ass pair of shoes. She put on some black eye-liner hoping it would help, but it only made her look tired.
“Who do you think you’re fooling?” she said to the woman in the mirror. She was sitting on the foot of her bed taking her shoes off when she heard a knock at the door.
“Shit!” she muttered and hobbled with one shoe on to answer it. It was Sebastian. And Naomi.
“Hi Liz! Are you ready to bring it?” Naomi squealed, dancing into the room. She was wearing a tiny scrap of blue sequins that barely deserved to be called a dress and open-toe black booties.
“Looove the shoes,” she said, a rush of kinetic energy. “Oh what a great view you have. Where’s your makeup? I love putting makeup on all my girlfriends. If I didn’t have talent, I’d do it for a living. Is this all you have? Oh, well, sit down. Seb, just hang. This won’t take two secs.” Naomi began working with Elizabeth’s limited supply of brushes, enveloped in an air of intense concentration and lemony scent.
