“Should we rehearse?” I ask Kirk anxiously.
“Nah, let’s keep it fresh,” he says, grinning. “You know the recipe and I’ll play along. Always works if you just relax and be yourself.”
“But I’m nervous,” I whisper to him.
Kirk takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Take this. Actor’s trick to calm you down.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a tiny tablet the shape of a Tic Tac. Without asking any questions, I swallow it whole.
“Two minutes and you’ll feel better,” he promises.
I take a deep breath, but my heart is still beating so hard I don’t know how I’ll be able to talk.
“It’s not working,” I mutter.
Kirk casually pulls out another magic pill. “What the heck. Your debut. Take two.”
He reaches over to straighten out my earring, then steps back to check me out. “Perfect!” he declares.
And amazingly, holding his hand, I start to feel a lot better. Calmer and even excited about this whole thing. Heartthrob heart surgeon Kirk somehow has my heart under control. Either that or the double dose of drugs has kicked in.
I pull out a compact mirror to make sure that the makeup Kate carefully applied before we came over to the studio is still intact. What a friend. She spent an hour putting on four layers of foundation, concealer, bronzer and blush so my skin could look natural. Now Kate bustles over with a powder puff. “To get rid of the shine,” she says, efficiently patting down my nose.
Kirk watches, then taps her on the shoulder. “Mind doing me?” he asks.
Kate goes over with her powder, then steps back and takes an appraising look. “Has anyone ever told you that you have perfect skin? And you’re gorgeous?”
“Yes, many people,” Kirk admits, and somehow, coming from him, it doesn’t sound like bragging. In his case it’s like saying the Sears Tower is tall. Or the Mona Lisa is smiling. Or four out of five dentists prefer sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum. It’s just true. Though what were the dentists going to say? Chew Bazooka?
A stage manager comes over and reels off instructions about time cues and hand signals and tosses around various other technical terms that I don’t understand. I look in panic at Kirk.
“All you have to know is the camera with the light is the one that’s on,” he tells me, patting my arm.
An audio tech comes over with a clip-on microphone. “I have to snake the wire under your top,” he says eagerly.
“I’ll do it for you,” says Kirk, stepping forward. He takes the wire and does the job with gentlemanly discretion.
“I shouldn’t have let you do that,” grumbles the audio guy, walking away. “Union rules.”
I can just imagine the Teamsters negotiating that contract. They were willing to cut their pensions but demanded exclusive rights to under-the-blouse wiring.
The stage manager calls for quiet on the set and blindingly bright stage lights immediately shine into my eyes.
“Rolling!” the stage manager cries out. “We have speed.”
“We have speed?” I ask, looking up. “What’s that mean? Where are we going?”
“Cut!” says the stage manager, disgruntled. He stomps over to me. “What’s the matter? You’re acting like this is your first time on TV.”
“It is my first time,” I say in a small voice.
“Christ,” he says, shaking his head. “Well then just make your damn pudding and I’ll worry about everything else. They let anybody on TV these days.”
He’s right. Between the Bachelors, the Apprentices and the Survivors, so many people are on the air, it’s amazing anyone’s left in the audience to watch. Still, this is my big chance. The least I can do is crack an egg properly.
I pull myself up straighter, and this time when the red light goes on, I do successfully crack an egg. And a joke. In fact, several. And when Kirk pretends to take a swig from the Amaretto bottle, I grin and grab it from him.
“Dr. Lovett, no drinking,” I say with a laugh. “Aren’t you doing heart surgery this afternoon?”
“I’ll bypass the bypass,” he quips, in his deep doctor’s voice.
I groan and he grins, but we’re really cooking. The on-air chemistry is working. While I’m blending and beating, Kirk and I banter so easily we actually do sound like TV hosts. With Kirk by my side, I feel as comfortable as in my own kitchen. Or maybe it’s those pills. Might want to take one before I see James.
But it’s a mistake to let any thoughts about James cross my mind, because just as everything’s going so smoothly, I start beating a little too furiously with my wooden spoon. My other hand slips off the edge of the bowl and lands smack in the middle of the sticky batter. Well that should make a quick end to my TV cooking career.
But no, I won’t let it. Without missing a beat, I turn and raise my chocolate-covered hand and wiggle it in front of the camera.
“A few fingers in the bowl just add to the taste,” I say, laughing into the lens.
“In fact, it’s the best part,” says Kirk, coming behind. He grabs my hand and starts licking the chocolate off my index finger. “Mmm, yummy!”
I giggle. “I promise it’s even better when it’s done,” I tease, taking back my chocolate fingers. On the other side of the set I see the formerly surly stage manager laughing and Berni giving me a thumbs up.
We finish the segment effortlessly, and surprisingly the gumdrop-studded dessert looks good enough to eat. As the cameraman counts down the last ten seconds of the segment, Kirk and I say our good-byes, then dig in and feed each other spoonfuls.
“That’s a wrap!” calls the director. “Nice job, you two.”
“In fact, terrific!” says an exuberant Ken Chablis, coming over. “I want you both back as soon as possible.”
The whole staff crowds around to offer their congratulations—and I proffer spoons so everyone can taste the Chocolate Surprise. Amazing that I’ve become a star on a liqueur-infused sunken soufflé, though I have to admit that my revised recipe isn’t bad.
“What do you think, Ken?” asks Berni, striding over. “Weekly show for my duo?”
Pondering the idea, Ken cups his hand and strokes his smooth chin. Someone should tell him that gesture’s more meaningful once you’re old enough to have a beard. “I can see it,” he says. “We’ll call it . . .” He pauses for a moment and snaps his fingers to herald a brainstorm. “Afternoon Delights!”
Kirk and I look at each other.
“Great, isn’t it?” says Ken, pleased with himself. “All those double entendres. The show’ll be on in the afternoon. Kirk’s already an afternoon soap star. And you’ll be making delightful desserts.”
“How disappointing,” Kirk whispers to me. “I thought an ‘afternoon delight’ was a romp in the hay.”
“Please, it took me a solid week just to get ready to cook on TV,” I say, laughing. But I’m flushed, and caught up in the excitement. Am I really going to be a TV star? Will strangers on the street ask for my autograph? Will Stila name a lipstick after me?
I’m still fantasizing about my acceptance speech at the Golden Globes—do I thank Kirk first or Bradford?—when Berni moves into action. “We’ll go for it,” she says to Ken, as usual speaking on all our behalfs. “When do you want to hammer out the deal?”
“No time like the present,” he says. “Come on over to my office.”
But Berni suddenly realizes that the present is not a good time at all. She’s been away from the twins too long and her breasts must be leaking. She glances down and we both notice that a small stain on her blouse is quickly getting bigger and bigger.
“Excuse me, but I’m going to run,” Berni says. She picks up her jacket to mask the mess, but it’s already too late. Her shirt looks like it could be used for target practice. Double bull’s-eyes. Berni throws air kisses all around.
“Sara, you were great,” she says, rushing toward the studio door. “You too, Kirk. Ken, I love you, but we’ll negotiate later. Right n
ow a couple of really important clients need my attention.”
In a flurry of clacking heels and flying hair, Berni’s gone—and Ken Chablis looks miffed. “More important clients,” he grumbles, misunderstanding her quick departure. “She’s wrong. You two are going to be her biggest stars.”
That won’t take much, given that the only other stars in Berni’s life at this moment are under ten pounds. But Ken doesn’t know that. And I’m flattered that he sees celebrity potential in my pudding.
Kirk, Kate and I pack up and say our good-byes. Out on the street, Kirk hails a cab and just before he ducks in, he grabs my hand and kisses the top of my finger. “Tasty, even without the chocolate on it,” he says, flashing me a big grin. I laugh and kiss him on the cheek.
“By the way,” I say. “I was incredibly calm throughout that whole show. Amazing pills you gave me. Bring them next time because I think I’m hooked.”
“They’re pretty potent,” he says, nodding gravely. “You’ve got to be careful.”
Now I’m worried. One day on a TV set and I may have taken my first step toward rehab.
“What were they?” I ask, concerned. “What’s in them?”
Kirk gravely pulls a small box out of his pocket and shakes it. He tosses a handful of the pills into his palm and pitches them into his mouth.
“Tic Tacs,” he says, smiling and tossing me the rest of the box. “I’ve taken them for years. The orange work best.”
Kirk’s cab pulls away and Kate laughs as we wait for the light to change.
“Now I’m embarrassed,” I say as we cross the street. “It just takes a breath mint to calm me down. An Altoid would probably put me in a coma.”
“Don’t feel bad, the placebo effect is real,” Kate says, still laughing. “Anyway, I’m glad to hear your friend Kirk isn’t dispensing dangerous drugs without a prescription. You two were terrific on that show together. And by the way, he’s awfully cute.”
I brighten. “He is, and he’s funny. And smart. And single. And he majored in philosophy. You should go out with him.”
“I’m taken,” she says.
“Not this afternoon,” I point out. “And not tonight, I’m guessing.”
“My heart belongs to Owen,” she says, sounding like a bad country-and-western song. Or maybe a good one. “Anyway, you’re the one Kirk likes, in case you didn’t notice.”
“He’s a pal,” I say. “He thinks of me as a sister. An older sister.”
“Good thing, since you have eyes only for Bradford,” says Kate.
“But does Bradford have eyes only for me?”
Kate pauses and looks at me to see if I’m being serious. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?” she asks. “Bradford would never fool around.”
“I don’t know if you’d call it fooling around.” I take a deep breath. “But Dylan tells me that Skylar told him that Mimi told her that she and Bradford were getting back together.”
Kate looks relieved, but she refrains from telling me I’m a complete idiot. “You’re not exactly hearing it from the horse’s mouth,” she says dismissively.
“But what if it’s true? Everyone seems to know about it.”
“Right. And ‘everybody’ knows a lot of things that are wrong.”
I sigh as we approach Sixth Avenue. I guess Kate didn’t believe last week’s cover story in the National Enquirer about the crop circle made by the two-headed alien. I bang the button on the pole to get the light to change. Then hit it again.
“Don’t bother,” Kate says. “Those buttons were all disconnected years ago. The city just leaves them there to make you feel like you’re doing something. Traffic placebo.”
“Well, I do need to do something,” I say, slamming my finger into the button one more time. We stand there for another minute, and the walk sign finally flashes. “Any advice for me about Bradford and Mimi?”
“Talk to Bradford,” says Kate. “He’s going to say you’re a nutcase, but that’s okay. Make it a romantic evening. Bring it up in bed.”
I can do that. Skylar’s at Mimi’s tonight and Dylan has a sleepover. And if I do say so myself, I did pretty well at sexercise class.
Bradford promised me he’d be home early, and sure enough at eight o’clock—early for him—I hear the front door swing open. Upstairs in our bedroom, I give a secret smile and adjust the thin strap on my pale silk nightgown—an upgrade from the Yankees T-shirt I usually sleep in. Only downside to this plan is I don’t get to see the thrilled look on his face when he takes a look around and realizes what’s in store.
I’ve pulled out every romantic trick I could think of—turned off all the lights in the house and filled the foyer with dozens of flickering candles that lead up the staircase and directly to our bedroom. I’ve tossed rose petals everywhere and filled the air with the scent of my own Annick Goutal fragrance. Nora Jones is softly crooning her siren songs from the CD player, and there’s a bottle of white wine chilling in a silver bucket by the side of our bed. A little old-fashioned compared to mood cream, but reliable.
I flutter around the room, trying to decide where I should be posed when Bradford comes in. Too bad nobody smokes anymore—holding a cigarette seductively between my fingers would give just the right decadent touch. Instead, I grab one of the fluted wineglasses—there’s no time to open the bottle, so I just hold the empty glass and sprawl languidly on the satin settee. I’m so filled with anticipation that my heart’s pounding harder than it did on the set of the TV show. I wish I had one of those Tic Tacs to calm me down.
I cross and uncross my legs at least a dozen times and lean my head sexily against the palm of my cupped hand. But it’s taking Bradford so long to get upstairs that my hand falls asleep and I sit up abruptly to shake out the pins and needles. Okay, I’ll lean against the pillows.
But what’s keeping Bradford? Maybe he’s slowly stripping on the way upstairs. Very slowly stripping. Finally, I see under the door that the hallway light’s snapped on—didn’t I leave enough candles there?—and Bradford bursts in.
“What’s going on, honey?” he asks, slightly put out. “I came in and there were no lights anywhere. I figured something was wrong so I went to the basement to check the fuse box. Banged my shin. Then I came upstairs and saw all the candles. Somebody trying to burn the house down?”
“I thought it might be pretty,” I say mildly, my previously pounding heart now sinking.
“They were a little close to the curtains,” he says, tossing aside his Canali suit jacket and pulling off his tie. “And I cleaned up all that stuff on the stairs so nobody slips and falls. Oh, and by the way, somebody left the CD player on. Did the remote get lost again?”
My plan has definitely made an impression on Bradford. But not the one I intended. I’m looking for romance and Bradford’s figuring we need a new housekeeper.
“Have a hard day, sweetie?” I ask, trying to get things back on track.
“You bet,” Bradford says. He turns around and finally notices me in my nightie. “You’re ready for bed,” he says in surprise. He glances at the clock on the side table and then looks at me with concern. “It’s early. I figured we’d have a nice dinner, but are you feeling sick or something?”
Sick is exactly what I’m feeling. And kind of stupid. I pulled out all the stops to make a perfect night, and instead I’ve made a perfect mess.
“I wanted tonight to be special,” I say. “Candles. Music. And the stuff on the stairs was rose petals. I picked them myself.” I flop down on the bed. Right now I feel so ridiculous I just want Bradford to go away. But instead, he comes over and puts his arms around me, holding me tightly and massaging my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, obviously feeling equally ridiculous. “This is wonderful of you. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess my head was still at the office.”
Bradford’s strong, comforting hands on my back are definitely doing their job.
“I’m liking the sexy nightie,” he says,
running his fingers over the strap. “Maybe I’m dense, but I finally get it.”
“A little late,” I say, teasingly tossing the pillow at him.
“But never too late,” he says, tucking the pillow behind me and unbuttoning his shirt. “What if I make myself so irresistible that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“And how would you do that?” I ask.
“Maybe with something like this,” he says leaning over and letting his tongue play softly on the edge of my lips. Then he nibbles the corners of my mouth and only slowly, slowly, moves in for a long kiss that—he’s right—is irresistible.
I start to reach for him but he says, “Not yet, still my turn. You set the stage. Now I get to play.” He gently pushes me back on the bed and kisses my neck, and starts moving slowly down my body. “As much as I like this pretty nightgown,” he says, “I think it’s time to take it off.” I slip the straps off my shoulders and he helps me slither the silk down my body. But when it gets to my hips the slithering turns to tugging. And pulling. I sit up, the soft fabric scrunched uncomfortably around my midsection.
“Maybe we should pull in the other direction,” I say, immediately breaking the mood that I worked so hard to create. “My butt’s too big.”
“Your body’s perfect,” he says, kissing my now bare breasts.
“You’re at the good part,” I admit.
“They’re all good parts,” Bradford says, grasping the nightie in his hands and lifting it smoothly over my head.
Mine Are Spectacular! Page 14
