Emily Briggs.” Michael Schoeffling/a.k.a. Sixteen Candles’ Jake Ryan, George Clooney, Jude Law, Johnny Depp.
Madly scribbling, ink bleeding through the page, I loved this exercise. Found it more arousing than a night cloaked in steamy air, moving to the effects of drinks with tequila, dressed in something Cavalli. There’s sultry music played by a rock star who can pull off wearing leather pants. I dance with hands stretched to the air, chin lobbing shoulder to shoulder and Henry looking like a Bad Boy who wants Emily Briggs. I bolted upright. Looked to Henry’s side of the bed and discovered he wasn’t home. I leaned back into my pillow, deflated for not having my wanton lusts realized with a blink of an eye, wiggle of my nose—sketch to my pad.
Feeling a tickly sensation to the side of my cheek, I began rubbing my face furiously, afraid that the effects of turning into a Bridezilla were returning. Awakened from another bout of sleep, I found Henry shielding himself from my pattering hands.
“Whoa there, Emily!”
I really have turned into a monster.
“Oh, Henry!” I cried.
“You’re always thinking of chocolate,” he said, giving a wicked glance to the empty plate. His hair was a relief of undulated peaks, like the top of a baked Alaska. I wondered if he went for the deliberate disheveled look where product is needed, like distressed designer jeans or, considering it was Henry, that he had no time to use a hairbrush.
“I can see you’ve enjoyed your Godivas?”
“Right. Sorry about that—eating both the chocolates, hitting you and all.”
He smiled and I pretended not to notice, returning my focus to Henry who appeared to be the end result of the Fab Five, dressed in Seven jeans, a suede blazer, and the long striped scarf I’d bought for him for Christmas, given to him with hopes he’d wear it to impress me, though I’d anticipated it would become a nesting ground for dust mites, curled up in a ball in the corner of our closet.
Giving him the once-over, I said, “You don’t look anything like that guy who opposes offshore drilling in Alaska.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, leaning toward me to kiss my cheek, smelling like George Hamilton. He wore cologne, which struck me as odd. I never was one for cologne.
“You smell,” I said, wiggling my nose like a distraught bunny. “You just smell,” was all that I could say.
“I actually have some news.” Henry said, avoiding the issue of his smelliness.
“Me too!” I yelled, Henry wiping his cheek from my speck of spit. “But you first. I need to brush my teeth while I listen. Okay?”
He nodded uncertainly, probably because he really knew I needed to brush my teeth, which I found somewhat embarrassing. So I raced into the bathroom, squeezed a strip of toothpaste onto my electric toothbrush, and ran back into the room cleaning quietly so the buzzing noise wouldn’t interfere with what Henry had to say, as I always had been extremely courteous and respectful.
I turned off my electric toothbrush, because Henry waited to talk the way you waited for traffic to pass when speaking on your mobile.
“Well, it’s official,” he announced.
I tilted my head confused, mildly panicked, dropping my arm holding the toothbrush. I knew I’ve been in a bit of a sleepwalk, but never remembered us getting married.
“So I’ve gotten the go. Duncantics will be a regular series on FOX. Sunday nights. Pencil it in.”
Sunday nights weren’t good for me. Always viewed them as a weekly New Year’s Eve, how you spent your New Year’s being the same as how you spend your Sundays. Thus I tried to do something intelligent and healthy—read, avoided sugary cereal, and chilled, or did something really crazy like honor the request of my imaginary publicist so I could be seen at a fabulous party, picking shrunken Bernadin entrées from a teepee of pebbled ice. Generally, I ordered sushi, finished reading the Times Style section and the captions in the magazine.
“Aren’t you excited? And I’d love it if you could contribute. Have Lily make a few appearances perhaps?”
Combining Art Forms had been the first time that our strip characters were ever featured together. Henry wanted a more regular venue for Duncan—his character’s alter ego who was a politician turned rock star—while FOX waited to see if they could still hire the same people along with getting the assured backing before giving Henry any commitment.
“Of course! Not everything has to be about the wedding.”
Now Henry looked confused.
“I mean. Just excellent.”
“And it looks like George Clooney will sign on again to do Duncan’s voiceover. He loves going to the office unshaven, lunching on burgers and shakes. But for some reason I can’t imagine George Clooney eating a burger.”
George Clooney!
“George Clooney! George Clooney!”
“Whoa there, Emily—when I say ‘George Clooney’ you have the same reaction as when you’re told ‘Private Chanel Sample Sale.’”
“But I never got to meet him when he worked on Combining Art Forms.”
As a matter of fact, the producers were rather evasive when making the film, noticeably vague whenever I asked about George and how it should be essential that he meet the creator behind his leading lady, albeit a cartoon one. It actually seemed rather suspect, how I’d make a few inquiries as to when I would be able to have that promised chat, but always got the runaround.
I also became agitated at their choice of Kate Hudson to be the voice behind Lily, my character. I saw myself as more of the Christy Turlington type. Even though she couldn’t act, it was only a matter of reading a script, being a cartoon and all. First I thought that Kate Hudson was a bit young for George—despite their being cartoon characters—but then I found myself strangely jealous of her, even though she and George rarely read their lines together.
“Hey?” I asked, pulling closer to him. “Does this mean there will be a Duncan/Henry doll/action figure in the works?”
“I don’t know about a doll, but they do intend on marketing this thing—videos, T-shirts, cards. And why do you ask?” he said, smoothing the wrinkles of the bedsheet.
“Well, it would be great to hammer its face in every time we have a tiff, a healthy way to take out the aggression. Don’t you think?”
Henry shook his head in that way of his.
“What’s even better,” he said excitedly, diverting the topic, “the Reade Street loft, though still a bit of a pinch to the funds…well, let’s just say we don’t have to entertain the idea of living with a Tasmanian Devil.”
“Oh,” I whimpered.
“You want to live with the Tasmanian Devil?” Henry then clenched my chin so tight he unlocked my jaw.
“No, of course not,” I said, getting up from the bed to return to the bathroom. Filling a glass with water, I rinsed my teeth. After spitting into the sink, I looked into the mirror, where
