Twenty-one.
Wyatt was already asleep when Sara came home from work, still in makeup and looking gorgeous. Iris was wearing an old-lady flannel nightgown, lying in bed reading the New Yorker and eating ice cream. She was happy to see Sara, of course, but inwardly cursed that she hadn’t gotten more ice cream in the first place because now getting seconds would look greedy. Bad planning.
Sara threw herself down on the bed next to Iris, kissed her hello, then sat back up again. Such energy, thought Iris, closing her magazine and smiling.
“I like your nightie,” Sara said, half smiling. The granny nighties were a running joke between them because Iris shopped for them compulsively on eBay, hunting for genuinely old, worn flannel gowns that genuinely old, worn ladies had possibly died in. She liked how soft they were, found the patterns and cuts comforting. Sara thought it was funny, and secretly adorable.
“Thanks. How was work?”
Sara shrugged and leapt up to go wash her face. Her voice drifted from the bathroom. “It was fine. I kind of rushed out of there, but I think it went well. David Rapelli turns out to be a nice guy.”
Her costar. He was a hunky handsome guy, the dude next door, the fuckable-husband type. He and Sara were married in this movie, but that was about as much as Iris knew about it.
“Oh yeah?” Iris reached for the magazine again, but was thwarted by Sara suddenly reappearing, her face bare. She had the common actor’s ability to put on and take off makeup in about three seconds. Ten thousand hours of anything makes you an expert, presumably. Iris patted Rosco instead, as if that had been her intent the whole time.
“Yeah. He’s married, two kids, not the brightest bulb on the tree and knows it, mostly grateful for the lucky break he had genetically, followed by the lucky break he had temperamentally, followed by the lucky break he had professionally.”
“So, grateful then?”
Sara nodded. “Largely. He started to be a dick about craft services, but he picked the wrong day for it, so that didn’t last long.”
“How do you mean?”
“Lynsey was first AD.”
Lynsey was a woman they both knew socially, after Sara had become friends with her through work. A dedicated and gifted multitasker who could have been directing enormous movies or captaining some industry or other, she was instead a first assistant director on made-for-TV movies so she could earn enough money and have enough working flexibility to care for her younger sister who was slowly but surely dying of cystic fibrosis. Lynsey had incredible empathy, maybe as a result of watching someone you love fight to stay alive despite a life filled with pain, which made her a pleasure to work with unless you were rude, at which point she would flay you alive and you’d never be hired again.
Sara pulled off her clothes and clambered under the covers, snuggling up to Iris. “Ooh, you’re so toasty.” She wrapped her long legs around her wife, who shrieked and pulled away.
“Your feet are like ice cubes. What were you shooting, a scene on an iceberg?”
Sara laughed. “Yeah, because in this story the young married couple are going on vacation to the Grand Canyon and an iceberg comes floating down the Colorado.”
“Global warming. It could happen.”
“Well, this isn’t the dystopian vacation rom-com you seem to be imagining. I just have cold feet. You married me for better or worse, let me tuck my cold feet under your warm legs.” She did so, and continued. “Anyway, Lynsey pulled him briefly aside and said something and after that he behaved himself impeccably. I think you’d like him.”
“Is he incredibly short?”
“No, he looks like he does on-screen, pretty tall.” Most actors were shorter than you’d think, Iris had discovered, with big heads and large features and an overwhelming tendency to look at themselves in mirrors, windows, other people’s sunglasses. She had never been very comfortable with “industry” people, and largely kept away. But they did have some friends from Sara’s work, like Lynsey.
“How was your day?” Sara’s feet were warming up, and her arms stole around Iris’s waist and tugged her closer, rubbing her face into her neck, smelling the clothes soap they used, feeling secure and loved. She could give David Rapelli’s gratitude a run for its money.
Iris shrugged. “It was good.” Then she suddenly gasped and sat up. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this as soon as you walked through the door! Anne Porter has been having an affair and Charlie found out today and threw her out. They had a huge fight in the street, I saw the whole thing, it was awful.”
Sara rolled away from her wife and sat up. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Seriously? She was cheating? How long had that been going on?” Sara looked genuinely shocked and surprised.
Iris shook her head. “No idea. Frances said she thought several months.”
“How did Frances know that?”
“She talked to Anne about it.”
“She knew about it before Charlie did?”
“Yeah, but only for a few days.” Iris told Sara the craft supplies/infidelity story.
Sara sat there and gazed at her. “Holy Fucking Shit. Those poor kids. What a disaster. Do you want more ice cream?”
Iris nodded. Sara grabbed her bowl and headed downstairs. The dog followed her, and Iris sat in bed and listened to the two of them having a conversation. Or at least, Sara had a conversation, but Rosco was apparently jotting his answers down on a pad because Iris couldn’t catch his responses at all. When Sara came back she had two bowls with her. One contained her own ice cream, which was vanilla and about the size of a walnut, and the other was for Iris, which had two flavors of ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
“We’re out of maraschino cherries,” Sara said, as she helped Rosco get up on the bed again. “We weren’t, but I gave Rosco the last one.”
“That explains his pink nose. Are maraschino cherries good for dogs?”
“No idea. I give him them all the time, and he’s never complained.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, that’s why we’re out. Anyway, tell me more about Anne and Charlie. What’s going to happen?” She sat down, still naked, put the bowl in her lap, screamed at the cold, got up, put on a T-shirt, and tried again.
While watching this pantomime, Iris half-heartedly picked up her magazine, then put it down. “I don’t know. It’s just happened. I doubt they even know themselves.” She looked at Sara. “Would you divorce me if I cheated on you?”
Sara nodded. “Of course. If I knew. If I didn’t know I’d be fine about it.” She frowned. “You’re not cheating, are you?”
“Of course not. Not that I’d tell you.”
“Right.” Sara tipped her head on one side as she thought about it, a habit she had that impersonators often mocked. It was natural, though, she’d always done it. “I guess it would also depend on what kind of cheating.”
Iris turned onto her side, facing her wife. “How do you mean? Isn’t there one basic kind, the kind where you sleep with someone you’re not married to?”
“Yeah, but there are so many variations on the theme.”
“Please explain, Professor.”
Sara sat up in bed and curled her legs under her, counting off on her fingers. “One, the wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am school of cheating, where you hook up with strangers in bars, hotels, nightclubs, and simply have sex. No information is exchanged, no follow-up is expected or desired.”
Iris nodded. “I’ve heard of this, continue.”
“Second, the kind that comes up on sets or on vacation or on temporary assignments of one kind or another. This kind is mostly about sex, but it’s also about re-creating the first few days or weeks of a new relationship. You’re both slightly nauseous, you lose ten pounds in as many days, you start wearing nicer underwear . . .”
“Or NO underwear . . .”
“If you’re that way inclined, and you flirt in front of other people and generally toy with the secrecy and excitement of illicit romance. However, it is always understood that this is a fling, nothing more, and although it can be passionate and personal and intimate, it is not intended to develop into anything.”
“OK, check.” Iris was suddenly enjoying this conversation less. Sara had clearly thought this through.
“Third—and this is where it starts to get sticky—is the kind that starts as one of the above, usually the latter, and then gets out of hand. This can happen anytime, to anyone, which is why infidelity is such a dumb idea if you love your spouse. One minute you’re having a giggle with the wardrobe girl, and the next she’s boiling your rabbit, if you get my reference.”
“To Fatal Attraction, yes, I get the reference. We don’t have a rabbit, thankfully.”
“True. And finally, you have the worst—or best—kind of infidelity, the one where you fall in love with someone else and your marriage ends.”
“Is that always what happens? Your marriage ends?”
“No. Sometimes you fall in love with someone else and are grown-up about it and change jobs, or do something else so you don’t see that person anymore, and never take it beyond the confines of your own head. Other times you both know you’re in trouble before you get into it, and you have a very sad conversation where you agree that if you lived in a different world you’d be together, but you don’t, see earlier reference to changing jobs. And other times you acknowledge the attraction, have one very steamy make-out session, and end it there.” Sara suddenly sighed. “But that choice is a very dangerous one, in my experience, because once that physical bridge has been crossed, it tends to fall down behind you like a chase sequence in an action movie and there’s no going back.”
Iris looked at her wife, who wasn’t even seeing her anymore. She cleared her throat. “In your experience?”
Sara looked up and correctly read Iris’s expression. “Not in MY experience, but in my experience of other people’s experiences, my knowledge of the world, and my extensive watching of movies and reading of books.”
Iris frowned. “Are you sure?” Her heart was curling at the edges, her palms suddenly sweaty.
Sara smiled at her. “Yes, idiot. Besides, this is why I like it best when you and Wyatt come on location with me, then I don’t need to worry that you’re screwing around with some other hot mom. Or delicious coed babysitter who wants to be taken in hand by a gorgeous older woman and shown the ropes.”
“You watch too many movies.”
“It’s my job.”
Iris shook her head. “Wyatt’s going to be in middle school soon, and then it won’t be so easy to take him out of school, you know. What then? What if you’re on location for months and the starlet is irresistible?”
“We’ll get a tutor. This is L.A., schools are used to it. This is because of Anne Porter, isn’t it?”
Iris thought about the second baby she wanted so much. What would that do to her marriage?
Sara suddenly put both bowls of ice cream aside and straddled her wife. She pinned Iris’s arms down as she kissed her. “Why.” kiss “Would I.” kiss “Ever risk.” kiss kiss “Losing one second of your happiness for hours of anything else?” kiss kiss kiss “Anytime I’m not actively doing something, anytime I’m not doing my work or driving a car or making a sandwich or anything, in fact, at all, I am thinking of you, of your face, your hands, your waist, your sweet, sweet smile.” Sara leaned closer and gently licked the end of Iris’s nose. “And your delicious, incredible nose.” She let go of one of Iris’s hands, and slid her own down under the covers and started gathering the hem of Iris’s nightie. “My biggest problem with these ridiculous nightgowns is how long it takes to get them off . . .”
Later, as Sara was drifting off to sleep she muttered, “Plus, what if Anne had gotten pregnant . . . It could have been even more awful and complicated.” She yawned, squeezing Iris’s hand where it lay beside her on the quilt. “At least we can cheat secure in the knowledge that that particular outcome isn’t going to catch us out.” Her breathing slowed, her grasp loosened.
Iris lay there in the dark, gazing up at the ceiling, her heart suddenly constricted again. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Lucky us.”