Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  I put my hand reassuringly over his. “You’re worth waiting for, honey,” I say.

  “I’m not sure Owen is,” Kate says, delicately squeezing a wedge of lime into her drink. And then tossing the rind into her hors d’oeuvre plate so vigorously that it bounces across the table.

  I was never a great fan of Owen’s, but ever since Kate told me about his needing occasional flings, I’ve been trusting him less and less.

  “Owen still thinking about wandering into other pastures?” I ask Kate.

  “Not that I know of,” she says tightly. “It’s just hard to be at his beck and call every minute. And now he wants me to cut down on my office hours so I can be even more available to him.”

  “Not exactly why you went to Harvard Medical School,” I say.

  “He loves it that I went to Harvard,” Kate says, correcting me. “That’s part of my appeal. It gives him some cachet since he went to C.W. Post.”

  “So this is always about him, not you?” I ask.

  “It’s starting to feel that way,” Kate admits. “I didn’t mind before because it was so new and romantic that I wasn’t seeing straight. But now I’m thinking long-term, and I’m realizing there’s a difference between a fling guy and a forever guy.”

  I turn to Bradford. “You’re the forever kind of guy,” I tell him, in case he’s stymied trying to decode girl talk—or wondering where he stands.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, even though I prefer to think of myself as a sex god,” Bradford teases.

  “Did I hear someone say sex god?” calls out Owen loudly, strutting toward the table, Blackberry in hand. “Because Mr. Sex God himself has arrived.”

  Despite herself, Kate laughs and stands up to give him a kiss. She introduces him to Bradford, and when they shake hands, I notice Bradford carefully taking Owen’s measure. Women check each other out when they meet to see who’s prettier, thinner and has the better shoes. How do men judge each other? Owen’s got the bigger wallet, but Bradford’s got the better body. My man wins.

  “What are we doing in Bemelmans?” Owen asks. “Who picked this place?”

  “It’s pretty,” Kate says. “Nice music. Great drinks.”

  “Don’t be cheap,” Owen says. “Woody Allen’s playing in the other Carlyle bar across the lobby. What’s the matter, you guys can’t afford the cover charge?”

  Kate looks humiliated, Bradford looks amused, and I’m pretty sure I can get the same Diet Coke in either place. Though it probably costs more a hundred feet away.

  Owen’s made an executive decision and he’s not waiting for a vote. He officiously tells the waiter to move everyone’s drinks to the Café Carlyle.

  “I don’t think there are any tables available, sir,” says the waiter.

  “They’ll find one for me. Tell the maître d’ it’s Owen Hardy. And give him this.”

  I’m not sure whether Owen hands him a hundred-dollar bill or the phone number for the madam who arranges threesomes. But a few minutes later, we’re sitting inches from the stage, waiting for Woody and his group to start their next set. I’m glad he’s got this gig. His clarinet playing’s got to be better than his last few movies.

  Woody comes back from his break and everyone in the room immediately falls silent. Except for Owen, who chooses that moment to make a call on his cell phone.

  “Don’t tell me you couldn’t make the deal!” he barks. “When I say to buy it, you buy it! Get it?”

  The problem with a cell phone is that he can’t slam it down. Best he can do is jab his thumb at the little disconnect button. And then pound out another number.

  “Hello. Are you listening to me?” he demands loudly to his next call.

  “Keep it down,” Bradford says evenly. “People want to listen to the music.”

  Owen, not used to being questioned, glares at him and leaves the table, presumedly to make a few more calls outside. Kate looks disconsolate and I pat her hand comfortingly.

  “Something big must be up,” I say consolingly.

  “Something big’s always up. Screaming into the phone is just part of his usual routine,” Kate admits, shaking her head. “He’s all about conquest. No matter what he’s doing, there’s something more important. The next building he can buy, the next business he can swallow up. Once he gets what he’s after, it’s just not interesting to him anymore.”

  I nod and don’t ask the obvious—whether now that he’s captured Kate, Owen is out looking for another challenge. All the traits that make him a successful billionaire add up to his being a lousy boyfriend. Kate knows it and she probably even gets the irony. She’s not laughing, but she’s not crying either.

  “I’m getting so fed up with him,” she whispers to me.

  “I can see why,” I admit. “This was supposed to be fun. The first time the four of us are getting together.”

  Kate makes a face, and then turning to Bradford, she says, “I’m sorry about Owen. Don’t be offended. I can’t even make an excuse for him.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Bradford says. “At the moment, I’m more worried about you.”

  Kate sits up a little straighter and adjusts the diamond stud at her ear. “I’m going to be okay,” she says. “I’m glad you guys came tonight. It helps to look at someone through your friends’ eyes. I can only imagine what you’re sitting there thinking.”

  No she can’t. Because I’ve already moved on from what an ass Owen is and I’m thinking about how to get Kate to break up with him. And whether I should really be concerned that she’s drinking cranberry juice.

  Kate keeps glancing back, looking for Owen to finish his deal outside and turn his attention back to the table. But when he doesn’t reappear, Kate starts to get annoyed.

  “I’m going to the ladies’ room,” Kate says, grabbing her Fendi clutch and standing up.

  “I’ll come, too,” I tell her, half suspecting that she’s really heading off in search of Owen. I give Bradford a little kiss. “We’ll be right back.”

  Sure enough, out in the lobby, Kate immediately spots Owen still yammering on his cell. She walks over decisively and taps him on the shoulder—but when Owen turns around, he waves her away without missing a syllable. She stands in front of him for a long minute. And boy, can a minute be a long time when you’re being ignored.

  “Are you coming back inside?” she finally asks.

  He pulls the phone away from his mouth. “No,” he says. “Sorry, babe. This is going to take a while. And I’ve got something big going on tonight. Not going to make it home.”

  Kate spins around and comes back over to me.

  “Listen, I’m going to leave,” Kate says. “You and Bradford just stay and have fun.”

  Before I have a chance to argue with her, Kate’s striding out of the lobby and smiling graciously at the doorman who pushes the revolving door for her. I run outside to try to talk to her, but she’s already getting in a cab. I walk slowly back inside and notice that Owen has been watching the whole scene—but hasn’t bothered to do anything about it. I sigh and decide to make the most of what’s left of the evening. Bradford’s waiting for me at the table, and there’s nothing I can do about Owen. He’s a jerk, but unfortunately, at the moment, he’s Kate’s jerk.

  The invitation to the Daytime Emmys comes bright and early the next morning. Regis Philbin himself calls—and I don’t believe it’s really him until I ask him to say “Is that your final answer?” Yup, the voice is unmistakably the one I’ve heard on morning TV and making millionaires at night.

  Regis, charming and ingratiating, tells me that he’s the host of the show and has great news. Afternoon Delights had premiered too late in the season to qualify for a nomination, but Kirk and I have been chosen to be presenters at the live awards telecast.

  “We can’t possibly do the show without you,” he says ingratiatingly. “How can you have the Daytime Emmys without daytime’s two biggest stars?”

  I go blank for a moment. Does h
e really mean us? “Kirk and I are daytime’s two biggest stars?” I ask, practically squealing in delight.

  “Not really, that’s me and Kelly. But we had a last minute dropout and our producers have called everyone else on the list. Show’s two days away. Can you do it? Can you save us?”

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” I say.

  “Yes, you do,” says Regis. “Our stylist has a whole rack of size fours sitting right here.”

  “Great. Maybe I can wear two of them.”

  Regis laughs. “We’ll take care of you. Just say yes.”

  “Yes! Yes!” I say, a little too enthusiastically. Maybe I should audition for an Herbal Essence commercial.

  “Terrific. Rehearsal tomorrow at two o’clock. Come to the stage door at Radio City Music Hall.”

  Right after we hang up, I call Kirk to tell him the news. A moment later, Kirk’s other line rings and he puts me on hold, then quickly comes back.

  “Can’t talk,” he says excitedly. “Regis Philbin’s on the other line. Did you know he can’t do the Daytime Emmys without daytime’s two biggest stars?”

  I’ll let him find out for himself that Regis doesn’t mean us.

  The next day when I arrive for rehearsal, I’m immediately ushered inside by a young intern and introduced to the eternally impish Regis himself. The man looks awfully good for someone older than the Constitution. If he’s on TV at this age, he must have had plastic surgery. Kate told me to look for scars behind the ears, and I crane my neck oddly as we shake hands, trying to get a good view. All I get is a crick in my neck.

  Another producer, a cute guy named Bill, whisks me away and the next few hours are a whirl of fittings, script readings and flubbed lines. When I get onto the cavernous stage, I just can’t seem to say, “Our next nominees are the wittiest, wiliest women around.” I keep saying “awound,” imitating Barbara Walters without meaning to. Sure Barbara built a whole career on that little speech tic, but what are the odds of lightning striking twice?

  Bill breaks up laughing every time I mess up the word, but he won’t change the line. “That’s the funniest thing in the whole show,” he tells me.

  Kirk, my copresenter for the evening, has just rushed over from his soap set and has a solution. “Want me to take that intro?” he asks.

  “Absolutely not,” says Bill. “Get your own comedy material.”

  From the stage, I look out at the audience, currently consisting of large photographs of the stars, propped against the chairs where they’ll be sitting. Seems to make sense. Other than Kirk, most soap stars I’ve met really are two-dimensional. Right now, the pictures are set so the cameramen know where to locate the stars tomorrow night when their names are called. Too bad it can’t stay this way. The photos are a lot less likely than the real people to pitch a diva fit if they don’t win.

  The next night, I’m in the dressing room before the show, wishing there was a cardboard photograph of me that I could send out. I’m worried that I’ll be uncomfortable on stage and I know that I’m uncomfortable in my getup. I had only one requirement for the stylist—he had to find me a dress I could wear with my South Sea pearls. But I wish I’d made some other demands. It never occurred to me that a dress could weigh more than I do. I’m thrilled to know that every bead was hand-sewn, but the dress is so skin-tight stiff, I can’t possibly sit down. And then there’s the whole matter of my hair, which isn’t just in an updo—it’s been wrapped around a wire cage. I protested mildly to the hairdresser, but he assured me I’d look like a star. He didn’t mention that the star was Marge Simpson.

  Kate appears backstage, effortlessly glamorous in a lighter-than-air pale chiffon Armani with her hair casually pulled back in a ballerina knot.

  “You look fabulous,” she says.

  “I do?”

  “Glamorous. Dramatic. The dress is gorgeous. Just one little thing about your hair.” Without any fuss, she takes two minutes pulling out all the bobby pins and wires that the hairdresser spent two hours putting in. She tosses my hair so it cascades freely around my face and arranges some tendrils softly across my forehead. “Better?”

  I look in the mirror. “Your patients are right. Whatever you charge, you’re worth it.”

  “You bet I am,” she says with a big smile.

  Kirk wanders in then and takes in both of us with one sweeping glance.

  “The two most gorgeous women in town,” Kirk says admiringly.

  “You look pretty good yourself,” says Kate, eyeing his buff, tuxedoed bod and going over to adjust his tie. Not a bow tie of course, but a long one that to the untrained eye appears to be exactly the same shade of black as his shirt. But Kate’s eye is anything but untrained.

  “I love that you’ve mixed the pitch-black and midnight,” Kate says. “Very chic.”

  No wonder I couldn’t tell the difference. I always thought it was pitch black at midnight.

  Kirk offers an arm to each of us. “Ladies, may I escort you toward the stage?” he asks.

  Kate adjusts her backstage pass, which says berni davis, agent. The laminated card had apparently been sitting on Berni’s desk for weeks, and when Kate mentioned that she’d never been to the Emmys before and would love to accompany me, Berni quickly handed it over.

  “I’ve been to way too many award shows,” Berni had said. “And I’d rather be home with Babies A and B than sitting in the audience at ABC.”

  I’m glad to have Kate with me but I’m a little surprised when we make our way to the wings and I find Owen standing there with a pass around his neck that says vip proctor & gamble. Did nobody come as himself tonight?

  “Change jobs?” I ask him.

  “I won the pass off my tennis partner this afternoon,” says Owen, patting the fake ID. “I didn’t really care about coming but he did, so it made the game interesting. Good incentive to clobber him.”

  “And you knew your beautiful Kate would be here, so that was an even better incentive,” Kirk prompts gallantly.

  “Ah, so nicely put,” says Kate.

  Owen, in old-fashioned bow tie and white shirt, glares at the cool Kirk.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “You haven’t met?” asks Kate. “This is Sara’s partner. The Afternoon Delights guy.”

  Owen blinks. “I’ve always liked an afternoon delight myself,” he says. I don’t know if Owen’s being funny or honest, and it would certainly never occur to him that Kirk’s just my partner on a cooking show.

  With the Emmys about to begin, backstage is suddenly abuzz with a bevy of beautiful soap stars rushing to take their places for the opening number. Several send air-kisses Kirk’s way and wish him luck.

  “Quiet please!” says the stage manager. Then, pointing at Owen, he says, “I need that space clear. Move away from there. Whoever you are.”

  Instead of stepping backward as requested, Owen looks like he’s going to move forward and deck the guy. Despite what his backstage pass might say, he is, after all, Owen Hardy. And everyone should know that.

  One woman apparently does.

  “Owen, darling!” calls out a leggy brunette who’s walking by. She’s obviously decided that the more formal the occasion, the shorter the dress—and tonight’s about as formal as she gets. “Whatever are you doing here? I thought I wouldn’t see you until tomorrow night!”

  She comes over to join our little group, giving Kirk a peck on the cheek and then planting a long kiss smack on Owen’s lips. What could she be thinking? She’s smearing her lipstick right before she goes out on stage.

  Owen pulls back uncomfortably. “Hi, Vanessa,” he says noncommittally.

  The actress looks familiar—and then I place her. Vanessa Vixen, Kirk’s much-publicized costar. Her long dark hair is stick straight and I can’t tell if she’s had Botox because her forehead is covered with a fringe of thick bangs. But I will say her eyebrows are very highly arched.

  Vanessa tucks her arm into Owen’s. “Isn’t this cute?” she says. “I’
m here with the two men in my life. Kirky, dear, you may be my pretend lover on-screen. But Owen’s my real lover off-screen.”

  “QUIET PLEASE!” repeats the stage manager.

  He doesn’t have to worry, because none of us could say a word right now.

  Producer Bill rushes over to say that Kirk and I should get ready—we’re the next presenters.

  “Wait a minute,” I tell him, much more concerned suddenly about Kate than my career. “We’ve got a little problem here that we need to fix.”

  “We’re on live,” Bill reminds me.

  But nothing can match the drama playing out back here. Kate goes over to Owen and plants her hands on the arm that Vanessa hasn’t hijacked.

  “Darling Owen,” Kate says, shaking her head and speaking in calm, measured tones. “You’re an absolute fool. I’ve been thinking that for a while now. And I just keep getting more confirmation.”

  “Vanessa was just making a little joke,” Owen says feebly.

  “I don’t care about Vanessa,” Kate says, not deigning even to glance at the actress. “I care about you. Or I cared about you. And that’s why you’re a fool. You’re so used to chasing after things that you don’t realize when you have something precious right in front of you.”

  Vanessa tosses her head, hoping she’s the precious commodity but figuring out pretty quickly that she’s not.

  “I gave you a great gift, Owen,” Kate continues, her voice quiet but laced with steel. “Myself. I don’t give that easily. If you’re too blind to realize what that means, you don’t deserve me anymore.”

  Owen, figuring he deserves everything he can get, disentangles himself from Vanessa. A good businessman, he realizes when the deal of a lifetime is slipping through his fingers.

  “Honey, you’re misinterpreting. I love you. You know that.”

  “That’s the sad part. I think you really do love me. But only in that limited way you know. When we were having an affair, my friends tried to warn me about you,” Kate says, nodding toward me, “but none of us realized then that the affair was the best part. You don’t know how to stay with anything and appreciate what you have. I’ve learned a lot in our time together. Mostly that I should have someone a lot better than you.”