Seeing Me Naked

  Rascal and I walk through the revolving door and into the large lobby of the W Hotel in Times Square. The weather is crisp and beautiful. Not snowing yet but definitely thinking about it. Rascal wears his sunglasses inside. We head toward the registration desk.

  “Welcome to the W Hotel. What can I help you with?” asks the impeccably attired woman behind the counter.

  Paul and Donna have each left a message on my BlackBerry, telling me a car will pick me up at the hotel tomorrow at eight A.M. for our pitch meeting at nine. Donna’s message is very specific about what to wear (something wholesome yet current) and how I should do my hair (down but out of my face). Paul tells me to relax, that the pilot looks fabulous and everything is looking really good for us.

  “We have a reservation. Elisabeth Page and Rascal Page,” I say. Rascal holds his messenger bag across his chest and yawns.

  “Oh, yes. Here you are. You’re on the same floor but separate rooms? I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Page, I’ll remedy this oversight right away.”

  “We’re brother and sister, ma’am,” Rascal corrects.

  “Oh, pardon me.” The woman fusses with her collar and then taps incessantly on the computer’s keyboard.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the key card she hands me.

  Rascal takes his and looks at the room number. “Do we have any messages?” he asks. The woman taps a few more keys on her computer and tells me I have four messages. She’ll print them out for me. She has two for Rascal.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking the paper. The bellman whisks our luggage away, and Rascal and I walk to the elevators.

  “Mom’s already called,” Rascal says, reading his messages.

  “Yeah, she called me, too,” I say.

  “And Dad,” Rascal adds.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I answer.

  One of my messages is from Paul Lingeman. He must have left messages both at the hotel and on my BlackBerry. A tad much, I think. The final message is from Daniel. I already left a message for him when I landed. I smile. After last night and Mom’s words of warning, every last shred of love—that kind of love—I had for Will feels as if it’s been exorcised. My chest tightens nonetheless. I try to blame it on the peculiar holiday air. But it dawns on me that this feeling isn’t about the melancholia of the holidays, or even Daniel, for that matter. It’s about Will. Or rather—the absence of Will.

  “Dinner tonight?” Rascal says, pressing the button for the elevator. It comes immediately.

  “Sounds good,” I say, stepping into the elevator.

  “Meet you out front at eight. Where do you want to go?” Rascal says as we climb to our floor.

  “I’ve already called in a favor. Just meet me downstairs at eight,” I say. The elevator doors open at our floor, and we walk to our separate rooms in silence, both of us lost in thought. Uncharted territories of thought.

  Rascal and I eat at wd-50 on the Lower East Side. Our last-minute reservation is thanks to a few well-placed phone calls to old friends. We are joined by Rascal’s literary team: agents, editors, and their adoring assistants, who no doubt pulled strings to be invited to dinner with Rascal. He’s been vague all night about how he got that black eye, alluding to barroom brawls, foiling a bank robbery, and being caught in flagrante delicto by a jealous boyfriend. He’s trying to make light of it, but he hasn’t quite been able to spin one of his famous yarns.

  After dinner, Rascal retreats to his hotel room minus the buxom assistant who’s been throwing herself at him. It’s more than a little unnerving: Rascal climbing into bed alone? I stop off at the hotel gift shop for a magazine, and while I’m waiting in line, I decide to call Daniel. Once I’m done paying, I move into the lobby and dial.

  “Hello?” he answers. The time change means he’s just getting home from practice.

  “Hey,” I say, melting.

  “Hey yourself.” Daniel’s voice softens.

  “I just got in from dinner with Rascal.” I haven’t told Daniel about the fistfight. I don’t know how a conversation like that even starts.

  “Elisabeth?”

  I spin around. It’s Will, and he’s standing a mere five feet in front of me. His leather overnight bag is slung over one shoulder; you can see the brush of yellow hair and the icy blue eyes from a mile away. He’s still carrying a coffee from the airport terminal.

  “You have all your big meetings tomorrow?” Daniel asks me.

  I’m staring at Will. He stands there. Listening. “First one is at nine sharp,” I answer.

  “I’ll cross my fingers at six,” Daniel says.

  “Okay, well, I’ll let you get some sleep,” I say distractedly.

  “It’s eight o’clock here, Elisabeth,” Daniel says.

  “Oh, right. Right. Then I guess I’d better get to sleep,” I say. Will takes a sip of his coffee. I focus on Daniel.

  “Okay. Sleep tight and good luck tomorrow,” Daniel says.

  “You, too.” We’re both quiet. I breathe deeply. “I love you,” I say, looking away from Will.

  “I love you,” Daniel says back. We sign off as Will fidgets with his messenger bag.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Aspen.” I don’t want to cause a scene in the lobby, so I walk out onto the sidewalk. Times Square is lit up around me, a landscape of flickering advertisements. Tiny flakes of snow have started falling.

  “I had to come,” Will says.

  “I don’t even know what to do with that,” I say. I can see my breath.

  “Yeah, well, if you don’t know what to do with that, this is going to be even worse.” Will digs through his messenger bag and pulls out two plane tickets.

  “What . . . what are those?” I ask, feeling the chill on my face.

  “Two tickets to Vegas. You, me, and the Little White Wedding Chapel. I had it all planned—” He sees that the expression on my face isn’t one of happiness. After dreaming of this moment for as long as I can remember, now all I can think is that I wish it were Daniel asking me those words, not Will. I don’t want a life with Will. I’ve already lived that life, being afraid of Dad. I don’t need to repeat it. “But . . .” Will trails off. The tickets ruffle in the wind.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m never going to remember that you have some meeting at nine sharp.”

  “I know,” I say. Will and I stand there, silent, our bodies squared off. He watches me, almost studying my face. I take him in, too.

  “I’m never going to tell you I love you without . . . well, without some excuse about why I never seem to act like it.”

  “I know,” I say.

  Will breathes in deeply. “I’m going to go back to Aspen. Maybe stay with Mom for a while.” His hand is tight around the tickets, crumpling them.

  “That sounds good,” I say. I can’t stop this wave of sadness. Loss.

  “I do love you,” Will says at last.

  “I know. I love you, too,” I say, meaning it.

  Will hooks his hand on his messenger bag, letting out a little “hm” noise as he begins to turn. “He’s a good guy?” he asks, almost as an afterthought.

  I smile. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” he almost whispers. I watch him walk away alone in the falling snow. It’s over. Or it’s just begun. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The meeting at the Food Network passes in a fog of shaking hands, rushing through long corridors, watching the pilot, and listening as Paul and Donna pitch the show. My show. The executives seem receptive; as far as I can see, the meeting is going well. My fingers and toes are numb again. One of the execs asks me the inevitable Dad question. I joke that he and Rascal have promised to give me the official Page varsity jacket and teach me the secret handshake when I publish my first cookbook. I don’t tell them that the varsity jacket comes with its very own black eye. Everyone laughs heartily. Paul and Donna breathe a sigh of relief.

  The three of us wait in the greenroom for the execs to co
me out. Apparently, we have to meet with another set of executives. This is a good sign. We made it past the first gatekeepers. I sit and watch The View, thankful that the sound is turned down. Paul and Donna speak in hushed tones in the corner. I sip my bottle of water and check my e-mail. I got the confirmation that the Christmas present I ordered online for Daniel has been sent out: a poster from the 1952 Summer Olympics in Helsinki, Finland. The Olympics where the American basketball team was led to victory by the beloved University of Kansas Jayhawk Forrest “Phog” Allen. Finding the poster was a huge coup.

  The next morning I’m in Rascal’s suite, waiting for him to get ready, when my BlackBerry rings from on top of the small desk. My heart races. I’m waiting on the call from Paul. The call. This little ringing BlackBerry holds the answer to my future.

  Rascal comes out of the bathroom in his towel. “Are you going to fucking get that, you drama queen?”

  “Hello?” I say breathlessly, getting to the phone just in time.

  “We’ve been picked up!” Paul announces. I give Rascal the thumbs-up with a giant smile. Rascal looks genuinely thrilled. He digs through his suitcase and finds a pair of boxers and the same jeans he’s been wearing for three days.

  “What? That’s incredible!” I squeal. Rascal’s cell phone rings from his jeans pocket. He looks at it, mouths that it’s Dad again, and sends it to voice mail. He tosses the cell phone on the bed and walks back into the bathroom.

  “The executives went nuts over the pilot. They said that with a little work in post, they’re going to air it and get a feel for the numbers and demographic. I’m sure Donna told you that we were behind the eight ball on this one. That pilot being as good as it was really saves our asses. Great news, Elisabeth. Congratulations!”

  I can’t stop smiling. I can’t stop smiling. “What happens now?” I ask.

  “Depending on how well the pilot does, we’ll film anywhere from thirteen to twenty-six episodes. The network is pushing for a set here in New York for the cooking pieces. We’ll probably have to shoot all of the field pieces back in L.A. during one week. It would mean spending a lot of time in New York, but we’ve gotta do what we’ve gotta do. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for you.” Paul is speaking quickly. My mind is swimming. I remember Daniel talking about how he finally figured out what was important. Telling him I’m going to have to start dividing my time between New York and Los Angeles would be like a sucker punch to the life I was just starting to get excited about. Have I gone from the frying pan into the fire? I can’t let this happen. I won’t let this happen. I am more than comfortable pointing the finger of blame at Will’s obsessive travel as the proof of love, or lack thereof. What I need to come clean with is that I was in no hurry to stop my own compulsive climb up the ladder of success.

  “What’s the hang-up on the kitchen?” I ask.

  “It’s just too hard to find a house we can use long-term. It’s easier to build a set.” Paul is talking distractedly. What’s important? Rascal’s moving to Montana. Mom and Dad are staying more and more in Montecito—that is, if they stay together at all. If I stay in Los Angeles, it means investing in a life with Daniel. It means putting something besides my career first. It means I’m willing to alter my life and change the very DNA of my future.

  It means I get to love and be loved in return.

  “What if we—or rather, I—bought a set . . . I mean, a piece of property that we could make into a permanent set. Ina Garten—I mean, the Barefoot Contessa—does that, right? Paula Deen does, too?” I babble. I can’t even say the word “house.” Rascal rounds the corner into the suite. He walks over to his suitcase and pulls on a white T-shirt.

  “What exactly do you mean, Elisabeth?” Paul asks.

  “I mean, I put a down payment on a house with whatever advance money you can wrangle, and we build a permanent set for the show in it,” I say. Rascal stops dead in his tracks.

  “That might work.” Paul allows.

  I breathe deeply. “Okay, so, tell that to the network people. When do I need to have this set ready?” I ask, getting a sheet of paper from the desk. Rascal throws me a pen.

  “Shooting starts the last week in December,” Paul says. That’s under three weeks. I almost throw up.

  “Okay, then. Get me all of the specs for what I’m going to need for this kitchen, as far as all the technical stuff goes, and I’ll go ahead and . . . find a set . . . I mean . . . I’ll find a house.” I sign off with Paul, sink onto the bed, and hold my BlackBerry loosely in my hands. I wonder if Samuel and Margot still have that Realtor’s phone number. I wonder if I can speak to her without hyperventilating and excusing myself so I can breathe into a paper sack for five minutes. What the fuck have I just done?

  “What the hell was that about?” Rascal asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, wishing I had a paper sack right now.

  “What did you just do?” Rascal presses.

  “I think I just . . . I’ve got to stay in L.A. He was saying that I would have to spend half my time in New York, and I just can’t. I took this job so I could slow down. That kind of setup—I might as well stay at Beverly,” I say.

  Rascal is toweling his hair dry. He stops and slowly pulls the towel off his head. He looks at me and raises a single eyebrow. His hair is out of control. “Why don’t I just transfer my house in Santa Monica over to you? You can take over the mortgage. We can work out the rest of the details later. I mean, even if I come back from Montana, I’m going to want something different, so . . .” Rascal runs his hands through his hair. This is his definition of “brushing it.”

  “No, I—” I stand, pacing, still unable to abide the handout from Mom and Dad, even secondhand.

  “It’s got that great ocean view. The kitchen isn’t big, but you could bust out a couple of walls. No big deal. All of my furniture is already out of there. I’m sleeping on an air mattress until the house in Montana is ready. Mom has every designer in the Los Angeles basin in her Rolodex. You give me the specs, I’ll call her, and she’ll get someone on it.” Rascal is calm.

  “I don’t know—I just . . .”

  “Look, you’re picking up the mortgage—it’s not like the Foster Foundation is handing you a house along with the silver spoon in your mouth,” Rascal reasons.

  “It is kind of . . . I mean, it’s . . .” I stutter.

  “It’s going to keep you in L.A.,” Rascal says.

  “Yeah, but at what cost?” I bite back.

  “Look, you can make this about that if you want, but the way I see it, you’re simply investing in your future, both professionally and personally.”

  “Personally, huh?” I question.

  “I don’t think Columbia or NYU has quite the basketball program that UCLA does, but what do I know?”

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “I’m moving to Montana, Bink. I’m getting out.” Rascal pauses just long enough for me to notice the black eye once more. He continues, “I was just going to put it up for sale; we might as well keep it in the family.” We stare at each other. What’s important? It is that simple, isn’t it? Love is altering your life to be around that person. It doesn’t really make a lot of concessions for ego and fear of permanent residences.

  I nod before I even know I’m doing it. “Yes, let’s do it,” I say, picking up my phone and redialing Paul to tell him the news.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I pull in to the UCLA campus, skipping a song on my iPod so I can avoid thinking about any of the things that are distracting me right now. As Rascal and I sat in the airport, waiting on our delayed flight, I hired movers, canceled my phone service, called all my credit cards with the address change, and made several lists of all that this move would entail. I’m not sure you can check some box next to “overcome fear of buying a home due to the lack of consistency in one’s love life,” but I’ll give it a shot nonetheless. On top of everything, I’ve decided I’m going to walk into Beverly tomorrow and quit.

/>   I know this is all exciting. I know it’s as if I’ve been presented with the keys to a brand-new mansion and told that it was mine to keep. But it seems like I’m standing in the oversize foyer, not knowing where anything is, not knowing where the light switches are, and not knowing the sounds of the house settling. The velvet cage I was so used to—however claustrophobic it was—I knew every nook and cranny of that life. In all of its fucked-up glory, it was mine. This—I don’t know who I am in this new place. Maybe all of those outside definitions of me—Ben Page’s kid, Rascal Page’s sister, Five-Star Pastry Chef, Will Houghton’s childhood sweetheart—maybe I defined myself with them as well.

  I park my car, get out, and pull my purse up on my shoulder. I proceed through the UCLA campus toward Pauley Pavilion. I just want to see Daniel. I want to tell him everything, but I’m petrified of telling him anything. I feel raw and exposed. I can’t get the weight of that house off my shoulders. I feel bound to its permanence already. I get to the front of the will-call line and am handed an envelope with Daniel Sullivan +1 written in Sharpie pen on the front. I pull my purse strap tight around my shoulder and walk my little +1 self right through those giant stadium doors.

  The stadium is bustling and alive. A ten-piece band of kids on the far wall plays what seems like one long song with pauses and drum solos. I dig in my purse and find two Excedrin. I pop them into my mouth and swallow them dry. The game is already in full swing, and the players rush up and down the court. They look more like boys than young men. I walk up into the stands and find my seat number on one of the long benches. Because this is an exhibition game, the stands aren’t filled to capacity, so I set my purse down beside me. I’m behind a group of women talking to the referees. They seem to know someone who plays for the team.

  I look down the sidelines for Daniel. He’s sitting three seats away from the head coach, who’s pacing up and down the sidelines in shirtsleeves and a tie. The coach’s coat hangs on the back of his chair. Daniel holds a dry-erase board and is focused on the game. He’s wearing his suit and a baby-blue-and-yellow tie tied tight. I allow myself to envision, for the quickest of moments, Daniel putting up a basketball hoop in the driveway of the new house. Maybe we could set up a barbecue in the backyard. I have a backyard, for the love of God. We could even invite people over for a barbecue—pipe in one of those mix CDs with a martini glass on the cover.