Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

“The curse words?” I ventured.

Violet laughed. “No, no,” she said. “I loved that your lead character had such faith in herself. So many romantic comedies, it seems, the female lead has to be rescued somehow… by love, or by money, or a fairy godmother. I loved that Josie just rescued herself, and believed in herself the whole time.”

Wow. I’d never thought about it quite that way. To me, Josie’s story was wish fulfillment, pure and simple – the story of what could happen if one of the stars I interviewed in New York ever looked at me and saw more than a potential puff piece in plus-size female form.

“Women are going to fucking love this movie,” Violet predicted.

“I’m so glad you think so,” I said.

Violet nodded, yanked the scrunchy out of her hair, ran her fingers through it, and gathered her curls into a marginally neater version of the same bun. “We’ll talk more later,” she said, gathering a legal pad, a fistful of pens, a copy of my screenplay, and what looked like a copy of a contract. “For now, let’s make you some money.”

In the end it turned out that little Violet was an ace negotiator. Maybe it was just that the sound of that brassy voice and nonstop stream of obscenities coming out of her adorable little person was so jarring that the trio of young guys in sharp suits wound up staring more than they did contesting her assertion that my script was worth it. In the end the amount of money they gave me – one chunk to be delivered within five days of signing, the other to be handed over the day filming began, a third chunk for “first look” at whatever I wrote next – was pretty unbelievable. Maxi hugged me, and Violet hugged both of us. “Now go out there and make me proud,” she said, before traipsing back to her office, looking for all the world like a fourth-grader coming in from afternoon recess.

By five o’clock that afternoon I was sitting back on Maxi’s deck with a bowl of chilled grapes in my lap and a flute of nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice in my hand, feeling the most incredibly sweet relief. Now I could buy whatever house I wanted, or hire a nanny, even take a whole year off of work when the baby came. And whatever rewriting I had to do, it wouldn’t be as bad as facing Gabby, and her nonstop stream criticism, both of the to-the-face and behind-the-back variety. It couldn’t be as bad as straining over the seventh draft of my letter to Bruce. Those things were work. This would just be play.

I talked for hours that afternoon, screaming out the joyous news to my mother, to Lucy and Josh, to Andy and Samantha, to assorted relatives and colleagues, to anyone I could think of who’d share in my happiness. Then I called Dr. K. at his office.

“It’s Cannie,” I said. “I just want you to know that everything’s fine.”

“Your friend’s feeling better?”

“Much better,” I said, and explained it – how Adrian had recovered, how I’d decided to stay at Maxi’s, how tiny little Violet had gotten me all of this money.

“It’s going to be a great movie,” Dr. K. said.

“I can’t even believe it,” I said, for perhaps the thirtieth time that afternoon. “It doesn’t even feel real.”

“Well, just enjoy it,” he said. “It sounds like you’re off to a wonderful start.”

Maxi watched the whole thing bemusedly, and threw a tennis ball for Nifkin until he collapsed, panting, next to a pile of seaweed.

“Who’s that one?” she asked, and I explained.

“He’s… well, he was my doctor, when I was trying to lose weight, before I got pregnant. Now he’s a friend, I guess. I called him last night to ask him about Adrian.”

“It sounds like you like him,” she said, waggling her eyebrows, Groucho Marx style. “Does he make house calls?”

I have no idea,” I said. “He’s very nice. Very tall.” “Tall’s good,” said Maxi. “So what now?” “Dinner?” I suggested.

“Oh, that’s right,” said Maxi. “I forgot that you’re multitalented. You can write, and cook, too!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “Let me see what else is in the fridge.”

Maxi smiled. “I’ve got a better idea of something we should do first,” she said.

The guard at the front of the jewelry store nodded at me and Maxi, and swung the heavy glass door open wide.

“What are we doing here?” I whispered.

“Buying you a treat,” said Maxi. “And you don’t have to whisper.”

“What are you, my sugar daddy?” I scoffed.

“Oh, no,” Maxi said very seriously. “You’re going to buy something for yourself.”

I gaped at her. “What? Why? Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to save? I’ve got a baby on the way”

“Of course you’re going to save,” said Maxi, sounding eminently sensible. “But my mother always told me that every woman should have one beautiful, perfect thing that she bought for herself… and you, my dear, are now in a position to do just that.”

I took a deep breath, like I was about to dive into deep water, rather than just walk through a jewelry store. The room was full of glass cases, at the level of what used to be my waist, and each case was full of a treasure trove of ornaments, all arranged artfully on pads of black and dove-gray velvet. There were emerald rings, sapphire rings, slender bands of platinum set with diamonds. There were dangling amber earrings and topaz brooches, bracelets of silver mesh so fine I could barely make out the links, and cuffs of hammered gold. There were glittering charm bracelets bearing tiny ballet slippers and miniature car keys… sterling silver earrings in the shape of plump Valentine hearts… interlocked bands of pink and yellow gold… glittering pins shaped like ladybugs and sea horses… diamond tennis bracelets of the kind that Bruce’s mother had worn I stopped walking and leaned against a counter, feeling more than a little bit overwhelmed.

A saleswoman in a neat navy suit appeared behind it as quickly as if she’d been teleported over. “What can I show you?” she asked warmly. I pointed tentatively at smallest pair of diamond earrings that I saw. “Those, please,” I asked.

Maxi peered over my shoulder. “Not those,” she scoffed. “Cannie, they’re tiny!”

“Shouldn’t something on my body be tiny?” I asked.

Maxi looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because…” I said. My voice trailed off.

Maxi grabbed my hand. “You know what?” she said. “I think you look fine. I think you look wonderful. You look happy… and healthy… and, and pregnant…”

“Don’t forget that,” I said, laughing.

The saleswoman, meanwhile, was unfolding a piece of black velvet and laying earrings out on top of the case – the itsy-bitsy pair I’d requested first, then another pair about twice as large. The diamonds were each about the size of a SunMaid raisin, I thought, and cupped them in my hand, watching them sparkle, flashing blue and violet.

“They’re gorgeous,” I said softly, and lifted them up to my ears.

“They suit you,” said the saleswoman.

“We’ll take them,” Maxi said, sounding very certain. “And don’t bother wrapping them. She’ll wear them home.”

Later, in the car, with my new earrings sending spangled rainbows against the roof whenever the sunlight flashed through them, I tried to thank her – for taking me in, for buying my screenplay, for making me believe in a future where I deserved such things. But Maxi just brushed it off. “You deserve nice things,” she said kindly. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise, Cannie.”

I took a deep breath. Friend, I whispered to the baby. To Maxi, I said, “I’m going to make you the best dinner you’ve ever had.”

“I don’t understand this,” said my mother, who was checking in with her daily afternoon phone call/interrogation session. “And I’ve got five minutes to figure it out.”