“And losing your job two months ago? Are you over that, too?” Terry pressed.
Callie frowned. It probably said a lot about her priorities that that blow had been even harder to take. She’d never depended on a man, even her husband, for her sense of self-worth, but her self-esteem and her ambition were inextricably tied together. Still, she said determinedly, “I will be.”
“Right,” Terry said with a familiar disbelieving note in his voice. “The bottom line here is, you have to pull yourself together.”
“For what?” she demanded, sniffling and patting ineffectually at her eyes with a damp cloth in an attempt to reduce the puffiness. She flatly refused to smooth on the hemorrhoid cream that Terry had assured her in a recent makeup tip session would work wonders. “I have no job. I have no love life. What’s left?”
“Living, for one thing,” Terry said. “Being forced to move back to Iowa and raise corn, for another. It could come to that, you know.”
That dire reminder was almost enough to shake her out of her lethargy. Going home to the Iowa farm she’d always despised was a fate not to be endured.
Born Calliope Jane Gunderson almost thirty years ago, she had been named for a musical instrument in what must have been the last bit of whimsy in which her stern, rigid, Iowa-bred mother had ever indulged. Callie had always suspected she’d been conceived in the back of her father’s pickup during the Iowa State Fair as a calliope played in the background. She’d never dared to ask either of her parents if some momentary lapse in judgment explained why two such wildly different and totally incompatible people had married.
Growing up in that strained household hadn’t exactly been a picnic for her or her younger sister, Eunice. They had led a cold, harsh, sometimes desperate life, made more difficult by the lack of joy or affection between her parents. Eunice had married a dry, humorless man just like their father and was currently withering away on a farm of her own.
Callie had fled at the first opportunity. She had gravitated to New York the way a thirsty man might crawl toward an oasis in the middle of the desert. She loved the neon, the frenzied energy, the vibrant culture, the ethnic diversity, the quaint boutiques. She hadn’t even minded the dirt and grime so much. After all, she had grown up on unrelenting acres of the stuff.
Now, it appeared, she was facing a return to more of the same unless she could haul herself out of this depression and pull her life together. If she hadn’t known that already deep in her gut, Terry’s constant reminders would have drilled it into her. She scowled at his reflection in the mirror.
“If this is your idea of cheering me up, it’s a good thing you didn’t choose comedy as a career,” she said.
“I didn’t choose comedy because I am a certifiable hunk,” he retorted immodestly, grinning back at her and preening outrageously.
It was true. He had been blessed with the kind of interesting, rough-hewn features and muscular body that made women want to throw themselves at his feet and beg for just one of his endearing, crooked smiles. Ever since he’d become the leading actor on Within Our Reach, they had been doing just that with such regularity that Callie was embarrassed on behalf of the entire female half of the population.
Didn’t they have lives? Didn’t they realize that the character Terry played was make-believe? Apparently not, if the mail he periodically carted home was any indication. They really, really wanted his well-developed and carefully maintained thirty-three-year-old body.
“Stop bragging,” she muttered, giving up on salvaging her face for the moment and turning away from the mirror. “One word to the soap opera magazines about your true sexual preferences and you’ll be back trying to find work in some pitiful chorus line off Broadway.”
“Discovering that I’m gay might force the writers to adjust the story line the teensiest little bit,” he admitted without taking offense at the threat of blackmail. “But I could draw a whole new audience.”
That was Terry, ever the optimist. No wonder he was wearing on her nerves. She wanted to sulk. In fact, she had been sulking off and on for most of the past six months. Just as Terry had diagnosed, it had begun with the departure of her husband and showed no signs of letting up. It was starting to put a strain on their friendship, if not her bank account, which was large enough to weather a few more months of self-pity if she stayed out of Bloomingdale’s.
She scowled at him again. “Funny, I’ve never heard that the networks were battling for that particular demographic.”
“I don’t see why. We’re young. We’re upwardly mobile. We buy cars and clothes and beer.”
Callie patted his sexily stubbled cheek. “Give it up. This is daytime TV we’re talking about. The culture of Middle America. They’ll never let you kiss on-screen again.”
As she headed into the kitchen to see if there was anything in the refrigerator that could still be considered edible, Terry trailed after her.
“Speaking of kissing on-screen,” he said, automatically leaning against the counter and striking a camera-ready pose that would have set most female hearts tripping. “Rumor has it that the network boss man himself has taken an interest in the show. He’s out to spice up the ratings with some new femme fatale. When the word came down today, all the actresses on the set were in an absolute tizzy. I’ve never seen so many cell phones in use at one place at one time. Every agent in town must have been getting a blistering earful. I can’t imagine why. At the rate soap time moves, it’ll be months before the character does more than say hello.”
Terry loved industry gossip. Since his long-time lover was bored to tears by what he considered to be the shallowness of television, Callie heard more than she’d ever wanted to know about
