Outside In

by Courtney Thorne-Smith

  Not really what Michael was shooting for, but it was a start.

  He heard the front door open and glanced up casually, expecting another one of his fellow insomniacs. He was happily surprised to see Kate. He was a little less than happy to see that she looked as if she hadn’t slept all night. She seemed downright fragile, her velour sweat suit hanging off her like hand-me-downs from a much larger (albeit fashionable) cousin. She didn’t see him right away because her head was down, her eyes fixed on her Uggs-clad feet as she slouched to the counter. She managed a wan smile for Chad as she placed her order, then moved slowly over to the other side of the shop to wait for her coffee, all but disappearing into the nook between the wall and the condiment table.

  Michael considered leaving her alone with her thoughts but decided against it when he realized that would mean that he wouldn’t be able to talk to her. He would compromise by holding off on a hug…for now.

  Kate didn’t see him until he was directly in front of her and even then only mumbled, “Excuse me,” to his feet as she tucked herself even deeper into the corner, trying to clear the way for him to get to the milk and sugar.

  “Kate?” Michael spoke softly to avoid drawing attention.

  When she finally looked up, her eyes were red and swollen, and it took a few moments for recognition to register. “Michael. Hi.” Her hands fluttered around her face, briefly touched her hair where it had escaped from her black baseball cap, and then settled in front of her mouth, as though she was trying to hide.

  She looked like a frightened animal. Michael wondered if her disheveled state had anything to do with Hamilton. If so, he might very well need to kill the bastard. Then Kate would be single, Michael thought brightly. Of course, you would be in jail, so it wouldn’t do you any good. He noticed Kate’s eyes beginning to tear up. He reached up and gently moved her hands away from her face so that he could see her better. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said, her chin trembling.

  Michael grabbed some napkins off the counter and wiped the tears off her cheeks. “Do you want to come over and sit down?”

  “I can’t,” she sniffled.

  “Why not?” asked Michael, fearing that she was about to bolt.

  “Because,” Kate barely managed to choke out, taking the napkins from him as her tears began to flow in earnest, “I have to wait for my coffee.”

  Michael couldn’t help it. He laughed. Thankfully, so did Kate.

  “Okay,” said Michael, gently leading her to his table. “How about this crazy plan: I could get your coffee and bring it to you.”

  “I don’t know,” said Kate. “It’s very heavy. I got whole milk today.”

  “Good. You need it.” Michael pulled out a chair. “Now sit.”

  She sat.

  16

  Hamilton and Sapphire woke up together on their first morning as an official cohabiting couple and, as soul mates are wont to do, spoke at the exact same time: “When should we put out a press release?”

  “Jinx!” they trilled in unison, collapsing into laughter and falling together into an embrace, each privately thinking how great they must look tangled up in the Frette sheets.

  Hamilton pulled back and regarded Sapphire with a serious expression. “We do have other things to consider before we go to the press, darling.”

  “Are you worried about hurting Kate?” asked Sapphire in a rare moment of sensitivity.

  “No,” said Hamilton, true to form. “I was talking about figuring out the proper timing for our debut. Although we do need to consider Kate:—if she plays the victim card, it could impact public opinion of our union.”

  “But I am far better suited to you than she ever was.” Sapphire pouted.

  “Yes,” said Hamilton. “But as unfair as it may seem—indeed, as unfair as it is—Kate’s status as the abandoned woman may generate public compassion and support. I know this is difficult for you to understand, but there are many women out there who have been in Kate’s shoes and might see our love as something untoward.”

  “But that’s so unfair. Can’t you just tell them that she brought this on herself by refusing to wear high heels and proper lingerie?”

  “I wish I could, darling. The fact that it’s all so obvious to you is one of the many reasons why you are such an extraordinary woman.” Hamilton kissed her forehead and Sapphire adjusted her position to avoid the unflattering, harsh morning sun coming through the bedroom window. “But, believe it or not,” he went on, “there are women all over the world who believe that they can wear flat shoes and cotton underwear and still have a loving relationship with a man.”

  “Not a real man.”

  “No, of course not, but they don’t know any better. It is sad, really, because they could learn so much from you, but their minds have been poisoned by the wrong influences—feminists and the like.”

  “Evil feminazis!”

  “Yes,” agreed Hamilton somberly. “All we can hope for is to be a beacon of sanity in this crazy, crazy world.”

  “Oh, Hamilton, I do love you.”

  “And I love you. Now, how long do you think it will take you to get ready to go out and grab a quick bite?”

  “No time at all,” said Sapphire, sitting up in a way that she knew flattered her Mystic-Tanned back. “I just need to take a quick shower, do my hair, and put my face on, and I am good to go. Should we say an hour?”

  “An hour it is.” Hamilton knew it would be closer to ninety minutes, and the fact that she was willing—no, eager—to spend an hour and a half making herself attractive for him made him feel ten feet tall. Kate had always prided herself on being showered and out the door in twenty minutes, which he took as a personal affront to his masculinity. Why did some women believe it was okay to leave the house without makeup? Or stay in with no makeup, for that matter? “And you are worth every second, my pretty, pretty princess.” Sapphire smiled at him beatifically over her shoulder as she slipped into her pink silk robe and kitten-heeled slippers and headed for the bathroom.

  Hamilton watched her walk to the bathroom, swinging her ample bottom from side to side, and thought about the wonderful turn his life had taken. Finally, he had a woman who shared his vision, who really, really wanted a private jet. When he had met Kate three years ago, he had thought that she shared his values and goals and that she had the potential to help him achieve them. True, she had been a bit chunky and her haircut was abysmal, but he thought he saw in her enough raw materials to create a profitable business out of the scrap heap she had made of her career. For that first year, they seemed to be on the same page, both of them focused on her diet and on rehabilitating her broken sense of style. She had followed his advice to the letter, eating only from his list of “allowed” foods, working out with his trainer, and wearing only clothes chosen by his stylist, Armand. He and Armand were happy with what they were seeing, and so were the casting agents who began to open their doors to the remade Katie the Cow. Hollywood loved a comeback almost as much as it loved watching a successful career come crashing down, and with Kate, they had both. It wasn’t long before Hamilton got her a small part on the pilot for Generations, which became the surprise hit of the season. Hamilton thought his dreams were finally coming true, but his dreams soon became a nightmare. His young wife, once so adoring and obedient, began to use volatile words and phrases such as “respect” and “feeling heard.” He had so hoped that Penelope would help Kate to see the value of surrendering to her proper role in their relationship. Tragically, Kate continued to blather on about her feelings and, even worse, her thoughts. She even began choosing some of her own clothes, often showing her disrespect for Hamilton by choosing comfort over sexiness. From there, it was only a matter of time before Hamilton was forced to look elsewhere for the constant stroking that his male ego required. He felt no guilt about ending his marriage with Kate, just the frustration and disappointment that came from working so diligently to try to help someone, only to have that h
elp refused. He didn’t look forward to watching Kate’s inevitable decline: any satisfaction he would gain from being proven right would surely be lessened by how her failure would impact his piece of her future earnings.

  Whatever he lost out on with Kate, however, he was sure to make up for with Sapphire Rose. Sapphire was a real woman. Well, maybe not technically real—she had been completely up-front about the chest, cheek (all four), and lip implants—but real in all the ways that mattered. He had given her Penelope’s book to read after their first meeting in her trailer, when he’d first felt their extraordinary chemistry and sensed that they might have a future together. She accepted it with the graciousness due any gift from a man but admitted that she was not much of a reader and asked Hamilton to tell her about the book instead. She’d listened raptly as he espoused Penelope’s teachings, nodding excitedly as he told her that in exchange for her unquestioning support and adoration he would treat her like a princess—which included regular gifts of jewelry and lingerie.

  “Oh my god,” she had gasped, placing her hand on her overflowing bosom in the general area where her heart might also be found. “It’s like you are reading my mind. I am all about jewelry and not questioning anything!”

  Looking into her sapphire blue eyes (her stage name had been chosen immediately after settling on the perfect shade of colored contacts; she came very close to being called “Ocean Waves”), Hamilton knew they had a future. He also knew that her contract would soon be up for renewal, and he was confident that he could negotiate a very bright, very financially solvent future for both of them.

  And what was more romantic than that?

  17

  By the time Michael made it back with her coffee, Kate had pulled it together a little bit and was looking more embarrassed than distraught.

  “Sorry about that,” she said, reaching up for her coffee. “And thank you for this.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. You paid for it.”

  “Yeah, what is that about?” She grinned. Michael melted.

  He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. It seemed too early in their friendship to sit right next to her, with their thighs firmly pressed against each other. Maybe after their second cup of coffee. “So, do you want to talk about what has you so upset at this ridiculous hour of the morning? I mean, besides the fact that you had to pay for your own coffee.”

  “Well, it’s mostly that.”

  “Kate.”

  “Partly that?”

  “Fine. I will accept that part of your pain is due to the three seventy-five you spent on your latte. I just sense that there may be something else.” And I so hope that something else is an impending divorce…

  “It’s my mother.” Damn.

  “What about your mother?”

  “Well, I’m staying with her because…well, for a while.” Yippee!

  “Really?” Michael worked to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Are you having construction done on your house or something?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Sort of construction?”

  He won another smile. “Well, things at home are being, umm…refashioned.”

  “You are refashioning your house? What does that mean?”

  “You don’t know what refashioning your house is?” The what are you, an idiot? was implied.

  Michael was too intent on getting her to tell him the truth to be offended. “No, I don’t.”

  Kate exhaled an irritated burst of air. “Well, I don’t know how to explain it to you.”

  “Because you don’t know?”

  “What?”

  “Let’s see…how do I make that clearer? Oh, I know—because you are talking out of your ass?”

  Kate was able to maintain an offended expression for almost ten seconds before bursting into laughter. “Damn it! I was hoping if I sounded snotty and superior enough you wouldn’t question me.”

  “Yeah, that’s usually a good technique…if you are talking to a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “Are you implying that you are intellectually superior to your average twelve-year-old?”

  “Only when it comes to seeing through your more basic distraction techniques. I’m pretty sure that even the bottom third of your average sixth-grade class has me beat in all things computer related.”

  “Oh my god, isn’t that so true? They can work computers better than I can work a basic TV remote.”

  “Kate?”

  “What?”

  “Remember how I said I was good at seeing through basic distraction techniques?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, unless you were crying in the corner because of your lack of computer skills, my carefully honed antennae indicate that you’re not telling me the whole story.”

  “I wasn’t crying about my nonexistent computer skills.”

  “I am shocked,” said Michael, clearly not shocked.

  “Yes, I can see that. It’s not really about my mother, either.”

  “That I don’t believe. It’s always about our mothers.”

  “Touché.” Kate laughed. “But it’s not just about my mother.”

  “I see,” said Michael, beginning a terrible attempt at an Austrian accent. “And vould you like to tell me vhy you think that eet is not about your mother?”

  “Are you doing Freud?”

  “Are you avoiding the question?”

  “Yes.”

  Michael let the silence linger, enjoying the small smile that had finally made it all the way to Kate’s eyes. “You’re not going to tell me what is really going on, are you?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” she acknowledged. “But I do feel better.”

  “Good,” said Michael, thrilling at the future implied by her use of the word “yet.” “I suppose that’s something.”

  “Considering how I felt when I got here, it’s a lot. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He decided to go for the golden ring. “Will I see you here tomorrow? I promise to pay for your coffee.”

  “Free coffee? Wow, that is tempting but, sadly, I have to work.”

  “Work? Oh my god, is tomorrow Monday already?”

  “Yes, it is, my writer friend. I guess the days of the week mean less when you make your own hours. Do you write every day?”

  “I have been lately, yes,” said Michael, surprising himself with the realization.

  “I’ve heard that’s half the battle for writers—just getting the words down on paper.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they say: writers write.” And I have been writing every day. Does that make me a writer? wondered Michael, the very idea sending waves of excitement through his body.

  “Well, I admire your discipline.”

  “Thank you. Actually, so do I.” Would the sound of her laugh ever cease to please him? Michael thought not. “I’m sure your work takes discipline, too…whatever you do.”

  “Well, I’m an actress, so there is discipline involved in learning lines and getting to work on time, but once I get there, I am pretty much led through my day like a mentally challenged princess.”

  Deciding it was too early to say I love you, Michael said simply, “You are adorable.”

  Kate blushed, which made her even cuter. “Yeah, well, we’ll see how adorable I am when my alarm goes off at four-thirty a.m.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “No.” She laughed. “It was a deflection. I don’t take compliments well. I’m surprised you didn’t pick that up with your deflection antennae.”

  “Touché, my adorable opponent. Now, why are you getting up at the ungodly hour of four-thirty a.m.?”

  “I have to be at work at six.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Exactly,” said Kate, thinking about the pain of dragging herself out of bed before dawn. Michael’s “ouch,” however, had nothing to do with Kate’s early wake-up call. He was worried about his own. He, too, had to be at the Generations set tomorrow morning. How would “
Michael the writer” explain his presence in Sapphire’s trailer at six a.m.?

  18

  “Hello! I’m home!” Kate called into the empty foyer, hearing the familiar echo of her mother’s empty house. Even her father, who had paid for every one of the dwellings her parents had called home, referred to each one as “your mother’s house.” Of course, in his case, it was really her mother’s life.

  Kate walked down the hall to the kitchen, idly viewing the photos that covered the walls along her route. She noticed something for the first time: her mother was in each and every photo. She was, of course, featured in the holiday photos her parents had done every October at the mall, her mom and dad posed in front of a foggy background of either brown or blue, depending on what they had chosen to wear (or, rather, what her mother had chosen for them to wear). But what Kate now noticed was that Marcia was also in all of her school photos, standing next to the teacher with the other class moms. Kate didn’t have any memories of her mother working at the monthly bake sales or helping out her teachers on craft days, but she did remember watching her mother stride across the school yard in brightly colored dresses and high heels on photo days. She wondered if the other mothers had noticed that Marcia’s version of being a class mom more closely resembled modeling than mothering.

  Story of my life, thought Kate, wondering vaguely if her mother was playing the role of perfect mother at that very moment, regaling her Palm Springs friends with stories of her famous daughter—while her famous daughter sat at her house, depressed and alone. Sitting at the kitchen table, Kate waited for a fresh batch of self-pitying tears, but they never arrived. Instead, images of Michael kept floating through her mind. He had been so incredibly sweet this morning that she had come very close to spilling the whole story of her almost divorce and near homelessness, but the habit of protecting personal information was so ingrained in her that she had found herself dodging his direct questions. He probably thought she was a CIA spy protecting state secrets. If she was lucky enough to see him tomorrow, she determined, she would tell him the truth. She would change some names, of course, to protect the innocent…and the slutty. Stop it, she scolded. You should not even be thinking about him.