Work keeps me busy, of course. Work, work, work, work, work. That’s what I tell myself, what I’ve done since I was barely old enough to be employed. I have been working for almost thirty years, and I will work through this too. Work can’t be everything, though. Luann thinks it’s important that I start dating again or at least that I give the appearance that I’ve started dating again, even though the divorce isn’t final, even though neither of us has been able to sign the papers.
“He’sdating again,” she said a couple of months ago, even before I saw him on the beach with Amanda. “A friend saw him leave a bar the other night with someone who was way too young for him.”
“It’s sex,” I said. “It’s fine.” Now, I wonder when he had time for casual sex if he is back with Amanda. If their relationship is something casual, or if theirs is now something that has morphed into more. I can’t bring myself to ask; I can’t even bring myself to say her name to him.
“Well, you need to be having some sex too,” she replied. “Or at least make peoplethinkthat you are. If he gets the upper hand here with the media, poof, there goes your sex appeal.”
“He’s not trying to get the upper hand, Luann. He’s a head writer onCode Emergency. I really don’t think he gives two shits about whatUs Weeklyis reporting about him.”
“WellIgive two shits,” she said, ending the discussion. “That’s why you hired me.”
So I shot the December cover forEllewearing little more than a turtleneck sweater that had LED lights sewn into the cashmere and thus lit me up like a Christmas tree. The headline screamsTate Expectations!and the ebullience on my face nearly completely disguises the evidence of my broken heart.
In my high-ceilinged, open, gargantuan kitchen, I thumb through the magazine now, lingering on the glossy pages, the blown-up images of me in ridiculously expensive evening gowns, in tiny skirts with too high heels, in makeup that morphs me into someone I am not. It’s all part of the fantasy of my celebrity, of course, but it has nothing to do with real life.
The security bell buzzes, and I flip the magazine closed.
I’ve agreed to a setup tonight. Lily Marple, of all people, had a guy in mind, and when she mentioned it at a “Women and Hollywood” luncheon last week, Luann was practically apoplectic with joy. Lily and I have formed a tentative friendship over the past year, mostly out of respect for each other’s craft and probably born out of the adage of keeping one’s enemies close, but it’s not as if I have so many friends these days, and besides, sometimes she makes me laugh with her utter contempt for the world at large. So I agreed to the date.
“He’s gorgeous,” Lily had promised me. “Certainly at least worth a one-nighter.”
“I don’t do one-nighters,” I’d said.
“You didn’t before, but you haven’t met Damon.” She winked and sipped her chardonnay, her liquid lunch, because she was off solids until awards season was over.
Luann has assured me that it doesn’t have to mean anything, but it’s important to at least pretend, because the pull quotes from theEllearticle sing about how ready I am to dive back into life! And how much I’d like to find a partner to share that life with because I am so! dang! full of zeal! That my breakup didn’t gut me, that men all over the world should still want to fuck me, that their wives and sisters and moms should still want to be my best friend.
I’ve halfheartedly tried dating over the summer when I took a break from work to decompress with Joey and just be, you know, a “mom.” But it was impossible to grab a casual coffee without being gawked at, impossible to make small talk with someone who already knew the entirety of my life with a simple Google search. Google didn’t tell them who I was, only what I’d done, but assumptions were made long before I even shook a hand, kissed a cheek. Not that the line of suitors was all that long. A cinematographer friend of Mariana’s; a lawyer whom Susan McMahon thought I’d like. He was fine, decent enough, but I was the one who was on edge, jumpy, wondering what he knew, what he thought of me, how exhausting the notion was of overcoming someone’s preconceptions over a martini.
Instead, I retreated to Joey. We spent the summer lingering in the pool until our hands pruned, riding bikes through Italy because I’d never really been to Europe just for fun. He was almost old enough now to start to get sick of me, and I’d spent so many of his recent months and years working—working, working, working—that I didn’t want to squander these last precious moments before he realized he could start to live outside our bubble. Like Ben had with Amanda.Stay in this bubble with me forever,I wanted to say to Joey.Stay eight years old forever.
The doorbell buzzes again, and Constance calls from upstairs, where she is playing an Xbox game with Joey. “Miss Tatum, do you want me to get that?”
“No,” I call back. “I have it. I won’t be out late. Have fun.”
I swing the door open, flap my hands to my sides, and say, “Hi, I’m Tatum,” in more of a sigh than a statement.
Damon laughs and kisses my cheeks. “Your enthusiasm is infectious.” He laughs again, and his bellow echoes through my giant foyer, loudly enough to penetrate, just slightly, my protective armor.
I smile. “OK. Let me try again. Hi, I’m Tatum Connelly. Let’s go have a normal date and pretend this isn’t really awkward.”
That laugh again. It’s deep, baritone, and his smile, of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, illuminates his already handsome face, his smooth cocoa skin, his eyes that glint like he is game for anything.
Lily has given me his résumé: grew up in Harlem, put himself through Georgetown and his first year at Fordham Law, only to discover that he didn’t want to be a lawyer after all. He worked at the Gap while saving up to start a furniture company; at first, working nights and crafting all the wood by hand, welding the iron in a garage near his apartment—something Lily told me he learned from his grandfather. Then he assembled a team, a few people at first, that is now a small empire. He relocated to LA last year for more space (his warehouse takes up half a block downtown) and for the weather too. Lily had filled her living room with his pieces, which is how he landed in my foyer for a blind date. I like that he was a little lost in his younger years; I like that he had to take some time to figure out who he was, is. This makes him feel safer, like he won’t disappoint me like Ben had. I also like that he had to earn his keep, just like I did.
“So where are we going?” I ask, when he has escorted me to the driveway, slipping a hand on the small of my back, then opening the car door.
“Surprise,” he says. He grins again, and I feel another piece of my armor chip away.
“You realize that there is very little in my life that can be spontaneous.”
He waves a hand. “Everyone can be spontaneous.”
“You don’t live inside my bubble.”
“I don’t,” he says, then points a finger at the air and jabs it forward. “Pop.”
He takes me to a hole-in-the-wall place in Koreatown where I get a few double takes, but no one stops me for an autograph or asks for a photo.
