INT. HUGO’S RESTAURANT

MORNING

1991

I ordered my usual pasta scramble. Peter had asked for Eggs Benedict, a serious departure from his usual egg white omelet. He was normally fastidious about his weight.

“Wow, what’s the occasion?” I asked after the waiter left.

“I just feel like it, okay?” He picked up his script. He had been very moody in the last couple of weeks. The night before, he’d been exceptionally passionate in bed, and then this morning, he’d snapped at me for leaving the cap off the toothpaste.

We were sitting at our regular window table, both of us wearing dark glasses. We’d managed to lose the paparazzi coming out of Laurel Canyon. But it was only a matter of time before they caught up with us. They followed us everywhere now. And the fans! We couldn’t go anywhere without someone wanting an autograph or a handshake or a hug.

“Let’s run lines before our food comes,” Peter said, opening his script.

“No, let’s wait ‘til we get home,” I pleaded.

“I have a shitload tomorrow.”

“So, use cue cards,” I teased.

Peter shook his head and ran his fingers back through his hair. He was so beautiful. Pretty almost. I loved the color of his eyes, like shoots of spring leaves. And his physique; natural, not overly muscled but sinewy and strong. At night after lovemaking, I would lie in the crook of his arm, basking in the glow and caressing his chest, his ribs, his belly, following the contours of his arms, and then later as he slept, I’d run a finger along the scar over his lip and trace the arc of his eyebrows.

In my tote bag, I had several designers’ books filled with sketches and swatches. I’d been waiting for the right moment to reveal them. After a year and a half in Peter’s house, I was yearning to nest. With its 1970s’ wood paneling and his parents’ hand-me-down living room set, the house cried out for a woman’s touch, just not mine, specifically. I had consulted several decorators on the probability that Merilee and Marva’s design gene had been passed down and was lying dormant inside me.

Peter leaned back in his chair concentrating hard on his script, mouthing his lines.

“Peter,” I said. I repeated his name several times, but he didn’t acknowledge me. “Honey?” I reached my foot under the table and gave his chair a little shove.

“Hey! Jackie. What?”

“C’mere, I have something to show you.” I put one of the books on the table and opened it.

“What is it?” he asked, leaning forward.

“Our living room.”

He took the book and turned it around to face him. He moved it back and forth, seemingly studying it from all angles. “Wow. I love it,” he said. “It’s fantastic.”

“Moira recommended the designer. She can start right away.”

Peter handed me back the book.