Punchline

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “Why don’t you fellows go and sit down?” she asked. “You aren’t looking for someone, are you?”

  “We’re waiting for a table,” Darryl said. “Mind if we share yours?”

  “Sorry. We won’t have any spare seats when—” Belle stopped as Janie grabbed her arm.

  Sunshine gleamed off Mira Lemos’s raven hair as she made her way up the terraces. In her suit and pumps, the marketing director formed a picture of crisp professionalism.

  “Go on!” Belle gave Darryl a shove. “Take our table! We’ll wait!”

  But his eye had fallen on Mira, as well. “Don’t be silly. We’d be happy to join you. I’m sure Ms. Lemos wouldn’t mind.”

  As the marketing director came through the door, Belle made a feeble attempt to divert the woman’s attention. “I’d like you to meet my fashion editor, Janie Frakes,” she blurted. “Why don’t we go sit—”

  “And of course you remember me.” Darryl favored the woman with a dazzling smile.

  To Belle’s dismay, Mira wouldn’t hear of banishing Darryl and Greg. The more, the merrier, she insisted.

  It was hard not to grumble as the men rearranged the plates and swiped vacant chairs from nearby tables. Those big masculine bodies crowded Belle and Janie, but left extra room for Mira.

  However, Belle knew better than to make a fuss. Sometimes a person had to accept defeat gracefully, and then watch for any way to turn it into a victory.

  They made small talk through the antipasto. Once their meals arrived—fettuccine for Belle and Greg, salad for everyone else—Mira asked about their preliminary ideas.

  Glancing at Belle for approval, Janie said, “We’d like to focus on coziness and intimacy. A ‘Just Us’ theme could help humanize the mall.”

  ‘“That’s a good idea.” Mira made a note.

  “I’d say you need a larger idea to match your grand scale“, Darryl interjected. “‘Just Us’ makes me think of linens, tableware and lingerie. Whereas ‘About Town’ includes the whole range of shops, not to mention the Cineplex and the restaurants.”

  “It has a more sophisticated connotation,” added Greg.

  “This is the age of the family,” countered Belle. “Commitment is in style. ‘Just Us’ connotes nesting and homebuilding.”

  “I like that.” Mira made another note.

  From the grim set of his jaw, Darryl wasn’t about to concede the advantage. “And men can’t build families?” he challenged. “Men can’t maintain intimacy? Haven’t you heard how many dads are becoming single fathers, and doing it successfully?”

  “A tiny minority,” Belle objected. “Then they complain and play on everyone’s sympathy.”

  “Interesting points,” said Mira. “Sometimes an interchange like this is more productive than meeting with people separately. It generates creativity.”

  Belle didn’t consider today’s meeting productive. In fact, her whole presentation had somehow gotten lost in the squabbling between her and Darryl.

  Then, glancing out the window, she saw the one person who could rescue them. The pink ghost, blond hair squiggling loose from her chrysanthemum-trimmed hat, sauntered up the terraces waving and smiling like Carol Channing making an entrance in Hello Dolly.

  People waved, eager to catch the eye of the city’s preeminent arts patron and hostess. The maître d’ scurried forward solicitously, and Sandra accepted his welcome with a gracious tilt of the head.

  Perfume wafted from her fluttering hands and every eye in the room fixed on the layers of hand-painted silk adorning her slim frame as Sandra advanced across the room. There were hundreds of actresses in Los Angeles and dozens of socialites, but only one Sandra Duval.

  Belle jumped up to greet her. The sudden movement made her feel lumpish and wrinkled, and she smoothed down her smock. She could feel Darryl’s gaze rake her body, and hoped he hadn’t noticed her weight gain.

  Halfway across the room, Sandra stopped to chat with an acquaintance. Belle was about to go shanghai her boss when a waiter with the world’s worst timing pushed up a dessert cart and halted, blocking her path.

  “We don’t want anything, thank you,” she said.

  “We have a wonderful cherry cheesecake today,” the man announced as if he hadn’t heard. “And have you tried our chocolate raspberry torte?”

  “Didn’t you hear the lady?” snapped Darryl. “If she says she doesn’t want dessert, you shouldn’t tempt her.”

  “Sorry, sir.” The waiter angled the cart away.

  Belle glanced at Darryl with a trace of annoyance. “Thanks for the help, but I can handle temptation all by myself.”

  His glance flew to her waist. “You used to have a terrific figure.”

  She knew she ought to ignore the remark, but she couldn’t. Maybe it was a hormonal surge, but these days she found it almost impossible not to lash out when provoked. “Why don’t you come right out and say I’ve been overeating? Isn’t that what you mean?”

  “Overeating?” Sandra arrived at the table like the Queen Elizabeth II cruising into New York Harbor. She spread her arms in a gesture of delight. “Why, just look at the woman. This increasing girth is not the result of morsels passing her lips, I assure you!”

  Sandra Duval might appear to have a heart and mind of fuzz with her displays of imperious frivolity, but, as Belle recalled from their student days, she was a sharp observer. Sandra often saw clearly what everyone else missed.

  Before Belle could signal or do anything more than stand there with a sinking sensation, she heard her employer proclaim, “How could you possibly think Belle is fat? Where are your eyes? Anyone can see the girl is pregnant!”

  DARRYL SANK INTO the chair in his office, feeling as if he had been thumped on the head by a dozen volleyballs in rapid succession.

  Belle Martens was pregnant. That was one possibility that had never occurred to him. For a sophisticated man about town, he had sauntered through the past few months like an ignorant schoolboy.

  At first, as he’d sat in stunned silence at the table, he had been willing to believe her proclamation that she’d had artificial insemination. Why not? Everyone else had bought it.

  Okay, maybe that fashion editor had regarded him with a flash of disgust, but he might have misinterpreted. It was the kind of gaze Janie Frakes usually reserved for Greg, and it was possible Darryl had intercepted it by mistake.

  Certainly Sandra Duval hadn’t batted an eye. Well, that wasn’t quite true. Actually, she’d batted her eyes frequently, showing off long lashes that had probably once graced the butt end of a mink. But certainly she hadn’t questioned the provenance of Belle’s baby.

  Baby. The word clanged through his head like a bell. The End of Your Liberty bell.

  On the desk, Darryl’s phone rang and he let the machine answer it. It was a free-lance writer calling to pitch him story ideas. He couldn’t deal with routine matters, not now.

  He made a bleary assessment of his office. The building had needed a face-lift when he’d purchased it three years ago. It still did. Beneath the old movie posters, the paint was peeling. The entire Roman Empire could have suffered lead poisoning and died from his windowsill alone.

  It had seemed like a good idea to buy About Town its own offices. And what a steal it had seemed when, in the middle of a recession, a building had come on sale at a reasonable price right on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Darryl had admired the open courtyard in the center and the balconies running around each floor. But the most attractive part of the deal had been the fact that the first level was occupied by shops.

  With the rental income, he managed to make the payments. But there were never enough profits to make the planned renovations, and he was tired of working in a dump.

  He needed to put all his energy into boosting circulation, winning this contract with the High Desert Mega-mall and promoting his publication. What he didn’t need was a baby or a wife.

  Wife. There was another headache-inspiring word, especially w
hen it came attached to the person of Belle Martens.

  Darryl was willing to admit he found the woman attractive. Even during their hottest arguments, sometimes she got a light in her eyes that made him want to stop battling and kiss her.

  But marriage? It would be like that debacle with Celia, only ten times worse. Belle was feistier and bossier than his former girlfriend. They would quarrel over every de- tail of Darryl’s life-style, and the only way to get peace would be to surrender.

  He couldn’t live that way. The very thought of having a woman run his life made his chest feel heavy and his throat clamp shut.

  Darryl forced himself to take a deep breath. He was being irrational.

  After all, Belle had insisted she’d gotten pregnant through the miracle of modern science. If that’s what she wanted to claim, who was he to interfere?

  Trying to ignore the doubts nagging at his gut, he picked up his phone to return the free-lancer’s call.

  He spent most of the afternoon editing copy and going over the countdown, a one-page list of stories for the February issue. “In Spring, a Man’s Fancy Turns to Sports” was the theme.

  Elva Ching wandered in to discuss her ideas for illustrating the issue. As she talked, Darryl mused that she was a lot like him. Fiftyish and divorced, Elva seemed to enjoy living alone. A talented painter, she liked the freedom to work at any hour and make as big a mess as she pleased.

  After approving her ideas, he said, “Do you ever have any regrets? I realize this is getting personal, but I mean about being divorced with no kids?”

  “It’s better than being divorced with kids,” she zinged back. “Are you serious?”

  “Just doing a little thinking.” Seeing her dubious expression, it occurred to Darryl that he ought to provide some excuse, so he added, “It must be because of Thanksgiving coming up in three weeks.”

  “Just ignore it,” said Elva.

  “I do kind of miss not having a family for the holidays.” Darryl’s father had died a few years ago. His mother, Susan, had remarried and lived in France, where her husband worked for a multinational corporation.

  “Families weigh you down with expectations’, advised his art director.

  “You’re really into this single business, aren’t you?” he said.

  “No more than you are.” She regarded him askance. “Greg told me what happened at lunch. The kid’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Did Greg say that?”

  Elva’s straight black hair swung as she shook her head. “No. He buys the business about artificial insemination. I think it’s one heck of a coincidence, in view of the timing.”

  “Well,” Darryl said, “as a hardheaded, career-minded woman, what do you think I should do?”

  “The woman wants you out of her life,” Elva said. “So stay out.”

  “What about the baby?” Darryl couldn’t help asking. “Won’t he miss having a father?”

  ‘‘She will probably be born with a bush of red hair and a mouth full of smart remarks,” Elva remarked. “Besides, if Belle Martens needed help, she’d ask for it.”

  He doubted that Belle would ask him for help, under any circumstances. But Elva was right. Belle knew her own mind and besides, she was the mother. She came equipped with the right physical and mental instincts for parenthood, whereas he…

  …whereas he was just like that judge who had assumed Jim’s ex-wife must be the better parent, Darryl realized.

  “You’ve got the strangest expression on your face,” Elva said.

  “I was thinking about Jim,” he admitted. “His son needs him.”

  “That’s different,” she said. “They were married and they lived together. Nick got used to having his daddy around.”

  “So you think mothers are biologically better suited to be parents?” Darryl challenged.

  The art director gave him a wry grin. “You’re not dragging me into an argument. But most people would see it that way, I suppose.”

  “What if most people are wrong?” Darryl pictured a wistful little boy with a catcher’s mitt in one hand and a baseball in the other, glumly staring out the window while his mother tried to persuade him to take dancing lessons.

  A boy needed a father. If it was a boy, of course.

  He remembered something from the conversation at the restaurant. Mira had asked Belle about the sex of the baby and she’d mentioned having an ultrasound scheduled for today or tomorrow.

  It seemed important to him to learn the child’s gender. If he asked Belle about the ultrasound, though, she would tell him it was none of his business.

  “By the way,” he said as Elva got up to leave. “Are there any good obstetricians around here?”

  “Obstetricians?” she asked.

  “Someone with an office close by, or else a celebrity doctor, you know, the kind movie stars go to.” He was willing to bet that Belle had either chosen someone near her building for pure convenience, or else a big shot in Beverly Hills.

  “I’ll do some research and let you know.” Elva went out shaking her head.

  He felt a moment’s doubt as she vanished. What had he set in motion?

  An image of Jim and Nick came into his mind, the last time he’d seen the two of them together. They’d been building a sand castle on the beach, faces puckered in identical expressions of concentration.

  Darryl had never given much thought to children, but now he found himself fascinated by the idea of having a son. Maybe men, too, had a biological clock. If he ever got around to writing an article about Jim, he’d have to work that subject in, too.

  His digital watch had just clicked to 1635 hours when the art director returned and dropped a short list on his desk.

  “There’s a Dr. Marsteller in Beverly Hills, very big with the celebs. A Dr. Cohen downstairs in Belle’s building. And a Dr. Friedberg in the Palms area. If I’m not mistaken, that’s where she lives. But I doubt they’ll tell you anything over the phone.”

  “We’ll see,” said Darryl. “Thanks a million. This is great.”

  He picked up the handset and waited until Elva left before he dialed. A twinge of guilt reminded him that he was prying into Belle’s affairs, but he brushed it aside. He just wanted to know the results of the ultrasound, that was all.

  When Dr. Marsteller’s receptionist answered the phone, Darryl said, “My wife was scheduled for an ultrasound. I can’t seem to get hold of her and I was wondering if I could check on the results.”

  “Your wife’s name?” said the woman.

  “Belle Martens.”

  He heard the click of a computer and then she said, “We don’t have a patient by that name.”

  “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong doctor.” Darryl hung up quickly.

  What if Belle was using a pseudonym? But she couldn’t do that because the insurance would be in her name, he reminded himself.

  Dr. Cohen’s line was busy. Dr. Friedberg didn’t have a patient named Martens, either.

  Finally Darryl got through to Dr. Cohen’s office, the one in Belle’s office building. He listened to the same clicking noises, then the receptionist said, “We don’t have a Belle, but we do have a B. Felicia Martens.”

  Darryl decided to take a chance. “Yes, that’s her.”

  “She isn’t scheduled until two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” the receptionist said. “Would you like to attend? We welcome fathers.”

  Certainly they welcomed fathers. This was the end of the twentieth century, an enlightened time when dads were just as important as moms, Darryl told himself. Or they ought to be, if it weren’t for small-minded judges.

  Besides, Belle would turn five shades of purple if he showed up. Just thinking about it made him chuckle.

  “Of course I’ll be there,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  5

  IN THE LADIES’ ROOM one floor below the Just Us offices, Belle finished putting on her disguise and examined herself in the mirror.

  One Pucci
scarf—check.

  One pair of sunglasses—check.

  One application of pale pink lipstick, the kind she wouldn’t be caught dead in—check.

  No one would recognize her now. Or at least, they couldn’t be sure it was her.

  If only she didn’t look so lumpy. Day by day, she grew more puffy and uncomfortable. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to glow?

  Belle had never witnessed the stages of pregnancy in anyone. None of her friends had children. Her sister, Bari, had a little girl, but they lived in Maryland.

  She had expected a few moments of nausea in the morning, following by days filled with sunshine and roses. No one had prepared her for vitamins that resembled horse pills, doctor’s visits where she was prodded and poked, and the fact that the smell of coffee made her feel like Jabba the Hurt on a bad day.

  At least she had been given to believe that ultrasounds didn’t hurt, Belle reflected as she started toward the elevator, then changed her mind and took the stairs. She needed the exercise. Besides, she was less likely to encounter anyone she knew there.

  It was certainly convenient having an obstetrician in the building. She had been able to duck in there and pass it off as a long lunch break, although that was no longer necessary now that her co-workers knew of her condition.

  Emerging on the lower floor, Belle stifled a moment of anxiety. The doctor had been concerned about her rapid weight gain. Could there be something wrong?

  She hadn’t felt the baby move yet. In fact, she’d been trying not to think about the fact that she was carrying an actual small future human being, the kind that repays years of loving sacrifice by borrowing the car without permission and taking his friends joyriding through the Mojave Desert.

  Maybe, she reflected as she pushed open the office door, she should consider giving it up for adoption. The trouble was, what kind of woman would go through artificial insemination and then put the baby up for adoption?

  If she’d been thinking clearly, she could have claimed she was a surrogate mother. That would have made for a terrific series of first-person articles in Just Us. Belle had always wanted to write fiction.