“Probably not. But does anybody actually have those conversations?”
“Well, what about the One Cell birth plan? Are you allowed to give birth in a hospital or does it happen at the Studio, on a bed of sand?” I was beginning to regret how much I’d told Aurora about the Practice.
“Oh, please. Even if that were a thing, which it isn’t, I am a free person! Will you stop worrying and just be happy for me?”
“Fine.” Aurora relented, and we tried to brainstorm ways I could break the news to Rob.
“I could cook him a dinner of just baby things: baby corn, baby carrots . . . ?”
“Veal?” Aurora suggested.
“Put a bun in the oven and have him check on it?”
“Don’t you have a chef?”
Finally we decided that I’d put together a movie night for us. In the screening room I’d play a slide show of us together, and at the end would be a picture of the positive pregnancy test. It would require some help from a couple of trusted production friends, and it meant the news would have to wait until Rob came home from shooting a commercial in London, but he would love it.
A good enough plan, except that’s not how it went down.
I guess I should have gone into hiding—it wouldn’t have been a big stretch from my new normal. But Skye London was scheduled to start shooting in the summer—soon after the baby was born—and I was still operating under the delusion that I would have a post-baby career, so I thought it was important to stay visible.
Meg was my date for the premiere of Hunter Dix’s new movie, Lady Luck, since Rob was in London. I wore a dress from Siri Jones’s For Thieves Only line. I wasn’t showing yet, and I was working out like a demon to counter the irrepressible midnight snacking. But I was a little bloated, so the flowy bohemian silk felt like the right call.
It started the minute I climbed out of the car. The photographers yelled, “Lizzie! Lizzie! Show us the bump! When are you due? Is it Rob’s or Johnny’s?” I was absolutely floored. I was only thirteen weeks along! How could they possibly know? Someone had to have leaked it, but who? Besides Dr. Masler’s office, Meg and Aurora were the only people who knew. I ignored the shouted questions, but I knew it was hopeless. I would top Rounder’s “bump alert” list. So much for my plan to surprise Rob. The press had beaten me to even this incredibly personal news. If I hadn’t been so disappointed, I would have been impressed.
As soon as we were safely seated in the theater, I turned to Meg and whispered, “What was that?”
“I have no idea,” she said, and texted furiously throughout the screening.
By the time the movie let out, the mystery was solved, at least partly. The dress I was wearing was straight from the press release wherein Siri Jones had announced her maternity line. This very dress had been featured in Glam as a stylish option for women trying to hide that they were expecting. Wearing it was the equivalent to hanging a sign around my neck that read: “I’m pregnant.”
But Siri had known to send me the dress, which meant someone had earned a pretty penny giving her the tip. So there was still a leak. Someone was making money off the most personal details of my life. Meg? Impossible. A nurse at the obstetrician’s office? But we had a nondisclosure. Aurora? I couldn’t help but remember all the questions Aurora had asked me. This wasn’t the first time the question of discretion had come up between us. And she always needed money—not so much for herself as for her nonprofit. Would my best friend sell me out? It was an awful thought and so, for now, I chose to blame the nurse.
I called Rob that night, waking him up at the crack of dawn in London. “You’re not going to believe the latest gossip.”
“What is it now?”
“Rounder is saying I’m pregnant.”
“Figures,” he said. “At least they didn’t find the wedding location.”
“I am pregnant.”
There was a silence. Then a joyful whoop. “Yes! I love you, baby.” I couldn’t see him, but I was pretty sure there was a fist pump happening on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry I had to tell you like this. I had a plan—”
“This is the best news I’ve ever had in my entire life. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re making my dreams come true.” He paused, knowing exactly what was coming.
“My dream is for you to stop saying I’m making your dreams come true.”
“And if I make that dream come true?”
“Then I’ll never admit it.” I looked out the window. The moon glowed, and the landscape lights made the gardens look like a fairyland. I cradled the phone, listening to Rob’s soothing voice. We were thousands of miles apart, but we were forever joined, and inside me a tiny, inaudible heart beat as fast and determined as a hummingbird.
5
My first Christmas with Rob was at Grace Island, an off-the-grid private island in the British Virgin Islands that belonged to his friend Roger, a Formula One driver. We had already spent a long weekend in Mustique at a villa owned by his friends the Spencers. It was the type of getaway that was starting to feel normal.
“It’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” my mother said when I told her why we wouldn’t be coming to Chicago for the holidays.
“I know. But it’s the easiest way for Rob—and now me—to have some privacy.”
“How will you ever go back, though? How can you go on a normal vacation after borrowing a private island?”
“Mom, I am marrying Rob Mars. I won’t ever go back to normal.”
That gave her pause. Then she kind of snorted and said, “I’m trying, but I can’t find anything wrong with that.” We laughed.
private island: overrated, I texted Aurora, lounging poolside.
omg diva of the century
i know, but someone had to say it.
Here’s the thing: I’ve heard it said that once one’s basic needs are met—food, clothing, shelter—one’s happiness or satisfaction with life finds a default level and stays there. Anyway, so it seemed to me. My struggles and anxieties and challenges and pleasures had all shifted when Rob and I got engaged, but I was no happier or sadder than I’d ever been. A private island sounds heavenly, and it is—in the same way that any fine beach in winter is a treat. But in our cases the privacy, which is what makes it sound so damn fancy, wasn’t a sought-out luxury. It had become an expensive necessity. Rob seemed to love the utter seclusion, but what I truly longed for was a vacation from our everyday isolation, an impulsive stroll down a beachy strip, poking into souvenir shops and buying fudge. It was a freedom I hadn’t felt for a single moment since that day in Cannes when Rob and I first went out in public together. I know, poor Lizzie.
Again: I fully recognize that Grace Island was paradise. But I reserve the right to say, without self-pity or any expectation of sympathy, that it was not for me.
One moment stands out in my memory of that Christmas. It was nothing, really. A gesture, a glance, a strange expression—these tiny moments happen all the time, catching our attention like a bird overhead, then flying past, nearly forgotten.
It began with Rob’s brother, Scotty. His wife and baby were back in New York, where he was leading the effort to establish the Studio’s new outpost, but his honey-haired assistant, Samantha, had come with him on this trip. Scotty immediately started disappearing with her every morning on a motorboat. There was clearly something going on between them, but nobody spoke of it and nobody seemed to mind.
“Did Scotty and his wife break up?” I asked Rob.
He shrugged. “I don’t think so.”
“What about this Samantha?”
Rob rubbed my head. “You and I know better than anyone the evils of gossip.” If it had been anyone else, I would have said, “Give me a break.” But Scotty was my fiancé’s brother and a Core Leader at the Studio. The whole thing made me completely uncomfortable.
Scotty a
nd Samantha’s unexpected coupling, and our group’s general indifference to it, sparked a brand-new worry in my mind. I lounged at the pool, feeling bloated and not quite sure of the bikini that showed off my growing belly, trying to concentrate on my book. I’d brought along a memoir called Papillon, which had been the basis for a Steve McQueen movie in the seventies. The book had been sent to Rob for a possible remake, but he passed it to me, knowing how much I love an adventure tale. This one was the true story of an infinitely resourceful Frenchman, nicknamed Papillon, who was convicted of murder in the 1930s (falsely, he claims). After multiple failed attempts, he finally escapes what was meant to be a lifelong prison sentence in the islands of then French Guiana. The dramatic saga of his numerous ingenious escape plans—he ultimately is the first person to ever escape a bleak place called Devil’s Island by floating away on a bag of coconuts—lent a little drama to our otherwise relentlessly tranquil setting.
I was reading about the grotesque seven-inch biting centipedes that regularly dropped into one of Papillon’s cells, when I looked up to see Meg and Rob down below on the beach. They’d been paddleboarding, and Rob was reapplying sunblock to the hard-to-reach part of Meg’s back, just above her bikini strap. It occurred to me that—other than in his movies, of course—I had never actually seen Rob touch another woman. What I saw was nothing but chaste—a quick, clinical circling of fingertips and he was done—but a flash of doubt and dread crept along the back of my neck.
Were Meg and Rob lovers? Or had they once been? They’d practiced at the Studio together. She was woven into every part of our lives. And, as Aurora had pointed out, she was hot.
Rob and I had talked about our sexual pasts, but we’d never listed out our past lovers. What was the point? Either he’d had as many lovers as one might imagine, which I didn’t need to hear, or he hadn’t, which would raise the question: Why not? But Rob had certainly inventoried his sexual history during his 100. Most likely in Meg’s presence. So she knew his past, where I didn’t. Was she part of it? Rob, like his brother, was used to getting whatever he wanted. Why shouldn’t he get tired of me one day? I was already turning into a pregnant cow. Anxiety churned in my gut.
In my Intro to the Whole Body Practice at the Studio, this feeling of panic was exactly what we had learned to address. Emotions are chemical reactions, I told myself, closed my eyes, and burrowed my toes into the sand beneath my chaise. I was trained for this. Fear wasn’t truth. The present was what mattered. The facts of the present. Rob and I loved each other. We were engaged. I was pregnant with his baby. He had never been anything but loving to me. This fear came from inside me, from my past, from self-doubt, from weakness. I am not my emotional self. I control my experience. Then Rob and Meg climbed the sandy path toward me, open smiles on their faces, and the feeling fluttered off into the cloudless blue sky.
Christmas Day. For Rob I’d made a photo book in which I’d painstakingly paired our first texts with phone photos of our first year together. For me, there was a Tiffany-blue box, but instead of harboring the expected piece of jewelry, inside was nested a car key. He’d leased a white Ferrari, it turned out, which was waiting for me in Malibu, and which I would promptly exchange for a more practical black Range Rover.
“We miss you, honey,” my mother said over the phone that morning. “Your father put up a beautiful tree. I did it in all gold and white this year. And your stocking is hung next to ours.”
“Save me some pecan pie, okay?” I said.
I remembered the Christmas mornings of my childhood: coming downstairs in new holiday pajamas to a fire in the hearth of our toasty living room; the pine scent of the Christmas tree; a ham out on the kitchen counter for us to pick at all day (in flagrant violation of health codes); and, in lucky years, a fresh frosting of snow on the windows. We always had neighbors over, the Guineys and the Pattersons, because otherwise it was just the three of us. Until we were too cool for it in high school, Ellie Patterson and I joined carolers in the neighborhood every Christmas afternoon. The “now bring us some figgy pudding” chorus of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” was our unspoken cue to break off caroling and sprint back to my house for my mother’s famous-for-this pecan pie. For me, Christmas would always be the traditions of my childhood. Even last year I had gone back to the mall to see the same animatronic reindeer moving their tired, balding heads back and forth, up and down. I loved my new life, but I couldn’t help feeling nostalgic for holidays past.
Late Christmas morning, lounging by the pool in a post–carb fest stupor, I turned to Rob and said, “I love it here, I really do. But our baby has to have some snowy Christmases, okay?”
“And sit on Santa’s lap at the mall while I stand by to make sure he doesn’t do anything pervy?”
He got it. He understood what I needed for our child. “Exactly,” I said.
We both knew that it wasn’t going to happen. Not like that anyway. The mall would have to open after hours for us, and Rob would have to hire extras or something to make sure the place wasn’t deserted and spooky. But we both wanted it, and for now that was all I needed.
6
I celebrated the new year by plowing through books and lists, determined to school myself on every aspect of pregnancy, childbirth, and after. But that sunny, secluded Christmas had stirred an extra concern: How would this innocent creature grow up in our rarified world? The luxury and isolation that was such an adventure for me—how did that work for a child? Back in Chicago, I had grown up playing with the neighborhood kids on our tree-lined street. Unsupervised, we made mud pies in the empty lot and roller-skated on the sidewalks until dinnertime. Baby Mars would enter a world of camera lenses and voices shouting our names.
My fears may have seemed like a new mother-to-be’s paranoia, but when we finally officially announced my pregnancy, the world went truly mad. Just as they loved it when Rob and I got engaged, they were seemingly over the moon to hear that I was expecting. I couldn’t get the tiniest bit of traction on my career, but the public gave a standing ovation to my casting as Rob’s romantic interest. Unfortunately, our observers didn’t know how to be a passive audience. The story wasn’t locked; their actions had consequences, and Rob and I weren’t protected by the safety screen of fiction.
Everyone knows this part of the story: In the beginning of February I had my first meeting for Skye London. I was twenty weeks pregnant, finally feeling like myself again. Lewis, the driver, was taking me and Meg to the lot in Burbank. We were aware that a car or two was following us, but when Lewis pulled up in the parking lot behind the producer’s office it looked like the coast was clear. I stepped out of the car—Meg right behind me—and suddenly men with big cameras ran toward me from every direction. The door to the building, and safety, could only have been twenty feet from the car. I didn’t have time to think. I lifted my Chloe satchel to hide my face and started to run. Then I’m not sure what happened. Paparazzi were right in front of me. Maybe I crashed into them. Or maybe in my mad dash I tripped over someone’s foot. All I really know is that I went down. Hard.
I didn’t catch my fall. Both my hands were up holding my bag in front of my face. I landed on the left side of my belly. I screamed, and there was a collective gasp as everyone realized what had happened and what it might mean. But the bulbs never stopped flashing.
Then Lewis was scooping me up and carrying me in.
In the lobby, cramps wracked my body. It wasn’t a horrible pain, but the terror that accompanied it made my whole body shake. Was this what a miscarriage felt like? I took deep breaths, trying to calm myself, muttering expletives under my breath.
I’d run out of my introductory meeting with the director of Skye London to throw up in the bathroom. Now I was missing my first meeting with the producer to go to the hospital. In a minute the industry would forever label me high maintenance. I couldn’t have cared less.
I was put on bed rest and anti-contraction meds for a w
eek, during which Rob and I watched rumors of our baby’s death circulate alongside horrible photos of the fall. The headlines were “Did Lizzie Lose the Baby?” and, for the shots of me in the arms of Lewis, who happens to be African American: “Lizzie’s Baby—White?” Spare me.
After a week in bed Rob took me to the new doctor for a follow-up appointment. The doctor, Henri, didn’t just give me an all-clear. He also surprised us with the report of two heartbeats, and two penises. We were having twin boys!
We came home to Brentwood relieved and happy. I just wanted to put the scare behind us. But then I saw our handyman and his crew leaving our suite. The smell of paint filled the room. I looked at Rob questioningly. He smiled and winked. “A little present for you.”
Entering the bedroom, my eye was instantly drawn to the open door of Rob’s dressing room, out of which came an unfamiliar light. I soon saw why. His shirts and suits were no longer hung from dark to light along the walls. The closet bars and hooks and shelves were gone, and the room had a fresh coat of white paint. Then, through the doorway, I saw the stirrups. At first I didn’t realize what they were—so familiar, but so out of place in a home—an odd metal armature I thought might have been a sculpture. I had to step into the doorway to understand. Rob’s closet had been converted to an examination room. Its centerpiece was one of those ob/gyn chairs with its undignified stirrups jutting out. It was lit from above by a ghastly fluorescent spotlight. Various monitors and medical supplies were neatly shelved on the far wall. It looked like a torture chamber.
“I can’t give you a normal life, Elizabeth,” Rob said. “And our children will have some of the same challenges. But they will be so loved—”
I interrupted his pronouncement by bursting into tears.
Rob’s face went white. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m such an idiot! I shouldn’t have surprised you.” I’d never seen him so flustered. He put his arms around me. “We can dismantle it. Meg and I just thought it would help you feel safer to be examined here, whenever you want.”
Movie Star By Lizzie Pepper Page 13
