Let’s Call Her Barbie

Someone Else’s Toothbrush

Someone Else’s Toothbrush

It’s another late night. Charlotte is back in Japan, and Stevie and Jack are in a crunch, putting the finishing touches on a new outfit for Ken’s 700 series. For Terry Togs they’ve already worked out the monograms on the blue terry cloth robe and bath towel. They’ve added slippers and even a pair of tighty-whities, but Jack wants more accessories.

“What if we give him, I don’t know”—he shrugs—“a bar of soap. A shaver. Yeah, a shaver. And a comb. Now, that would make this perfect.”

“Haven’t you ever heard the expression ‘Perfect is the enemy of the good’?”

“Who was it who said that? Shakespeare?”

“Voltaire.”

“I thought it was Shakespeare.”

“He may have said it, too. The point is,” she says, “there’s no such thing as perfect, but there is such a thing as ruining a great concept because you can’t leave well enough alone in your quest for perfection.”

“Very true,” he admits, but still, the engineer in him will never be satisfied. “Let’s take a break. We need food. What time is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” She checks her watch, stunned when she sees it’s almost nine o’clock.

“How’d it get to be so late? We definitely need food. And a break.” He goes over to the couch and collects all the blueprints resting on the cushions. “Let me just get rid of this stuff.”

“What is all that?” she asks, taking a seat, stretching her arms overhead. “Are you building something? I thought you recently bought a new place.”

“I did. And now I’m turning it into a castle.” He flashes an arresting smile her way.

She looks at him and doesn’t blink. Instead, her eyes open wider, and wider still. Something in his smile has captivated her. “You’re turning your home into a castle ?” she asks. “What kind of castle?”

“A castle castle.” Jack grins boastfully. “Picture a magnificent castle—I’m talking with a moat, turrets, a drawbridge, the whole bit— that’s what I’m building.” He sits down beside her. It’s a small couch and they’re practically on top of each other.

Coming from anyone else, building a castle would be preposterous—but Jack’s enthusiasm is infectious, and Stevie is unexpectedly pulled in, enchanted by the very thought of it. She wants more details. She’s ready to ask if he’s going to have a tower, too, but is brought up short by the way he’s looking at her. The energy starts to shift, the boundaries start to blur. She’s suddenly aware of the heat of his leg pressed to her thigh. It’s growing hotter, reaching a fever pitch.

He feels it too, because that’s when he leans over, the back of his hand brushing her cheek as he pushes a strand of hair from her face.

“You’ve always been building castles, haven’t you?” she says, a little breathy.

“Have I?” His mouth is closer to hers now.

“The day I met you at the diner, you built a castle out of sugar cubes.”

“Ah, yeah.” He smiles. “You didn’t like me then.”

She laughs. “No, I really didn’t.”

“And now? Do you like me? Even just a little?”

“What do you think?” She looks first into his blue eyes and then lets her gaze drop to his mouth, and before she can say another word, Jack closes that space between them and kisses her with his soft full lips, even softer than she’s imagined.

She’s lost in that kiss and so it happens. It just does. Right there in his office, on his bearskin rug. Jack Ryan, the world’s greatest kisser and office Casanova, delivers one doozy of an orgasm Stevie’s way. And then another one.

—

Stevie is still lying on the bearskin rug next to him, both of them quiet as the sun begins to rise, shifting the shadows and changing the light inside his office. She didn’t plan for any of this and can’t remember if she even shaved her legs that morning—now officially yesterday morning. What have we done? What have I done? I couldn’t possibly get pregnant again, could I? Good God, how are we supposed to go on working together after this? We’ve seen each other naked. But then she reminds herself that Jack still works with Patsy, and with Wendy in personnel, whom she’s heard he had an affair with.

She gets up, a little lightheaded and starving, because they never did end up eating dinner last night. As she begins collecting her clothes off the floor, she thinks about last night and has to suppress the urge to giggle, and she’s not a giggly girl.

“This was just a fling, you know,” she says, clasping her bra.

“A fun fling,” he says, stepping into his trousers.

“Yeah, but it was just a onetime thing. It’s never gonna happen again.”

“Whatever you say.” He grins. “You’re the boss here.”

Two days later, it does happen again. There they are that night, on his tiny office couch, with their limbs wrapped around each other. So much for a onetime fling. Stevie hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him, and the heat between them could melt glass.

“I could get used to this,” he says, stroking her face.

And the thing is, so could she.

“What do you think about letting me take you out on a real date?”

She smiles, and when he starts kissing her again, she pulls away.

“What’s wrong?”

Scooting out from underneath him, she smooths her hair and says, “Before we take this any further, I have two stipulations.”

“Only two?” He gives her a disarming smile.

“I’m serious. First, I have to be the only one.”

“The only one?” He looks at her like she’s speaking a foreign language.

“You have to stop seeing other women. I don’t want to feel like I’m using someone else’s toothbrush.”

He laughs, rolls his eyes. “Done.”

“You mean it?”

“Of course.” His jaw goes tight, but his lips still look so soft. “Okay, so what’s the second stipulation?”

“The second is”—she reaches for his face and makes him look her in the eye—“you have to wear a rubber. Every time.”

Jack bursts into laughter. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m dead serious. You don’t get in without one,” she says. The only thing men hate more than wearing a rubber is finding out they’ve gotten a woman knocked up. Russell was proof of that.

“Silly girl,” says Jack. “You don’t have to worry about babies with me. I’ve been snipped.” He makes a scissorlike gesture with his fingers. “I have two children. I don’t need any more.”

“You don’t have, like, syphilis or anything, do you?”

He doubles over, howling. “Oh, this is all so very sexy. And no.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m clean as a whistle.”

“And you’re positive that you and Barbara have an understanding ?”

“Cross my heart.”

—

Stevie wakes two weeks later to find Jack propped up on a pillow, staring down at her, smiling. Still blinking awake, she’s not sure if she’s in her bed or his. They alternate staying one night at her place, the next at the Castle. She’s also not sure what time or day it is. She flings off the heavy quilt, thinking she might be late for work, but he stops her.

“Hey, where you going?”

Before she can speak, Jack is kissing and stroking her, and she remembers last night, which means today is Saturday and they are in his bed and who cares what time it is. They are in the best stage of something new. There’s so much to discover about each other. Intimate things like the strawberry birthmark above her navel, the ticklish spot behind his knees, the way she sometimes talks in her sleep and how he can recall every single detail of his dreams. They can linger in bed for hours swapping childhood stories, sharing kisses and sharing their bodies.

She remembers the first time he took her to the Castle. She was worried about running into his wife, but he assured her that wouldn’t happen because Barbara and the girls have a separate wing. He wanted to show her around and led her through the 16,000-square-foot interior, filled with archways and tunnels and a maze of rooms that lead to more rooms. Parts of it were, and still are, under construction, and just like the home he grew up in, there is scaffolding, paint-splattered tarps and ladders everywhere.

“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

“That depends.”

“This wall”—he knocked against the stone, creating a hollow reverberation—“it’s not real.”

She tried it for herself, surprised.

“I’m working with a Hollywood set designer. All the archways and turrets, even the drawbridge, are made out of prop materials. They look real but they’re not, and they’re saving me a ton of dough.”

“Well, they look authentic, so don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Walking her through the first floor, he said, “By the time this place is finished, I’m going to put a telephone in every room.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He bit his bottom lip and winked. “And get a load of this—” He escorted her into a dark room and threw a switch, illuminating an antique throne fit for a king.

“Where did that come from?”

“It belonged to the prince of Parma. I got it for a steal at an auction.”

“How much?”

“Only $575 and—”

“Oh, only $575,” she mocked.

“They wanted $1,800. I was gonna put it in the master bathroom. Over the toilet. Get it? A royal bathroom throne . But it won’t fit.”

Stevie sat down and wrapped her hands along the curved, gilded armrests on the throne. “What does your wife think of all this?”

“Oh God, Barbara hates it. Thinks the whole place looks like a dungeon.”

Stevie agreed, taking in the heavy dark paneling on the walls, the candelabras in the corners, the cold wooden floors, and the stained-glass windows in the shadowy alcoves.

Later that night, after they’d thrilled each other in his four-poster bed, Jack went to the kitchen and came back with a pint of ice cream, and when he fed her a spoonful, she squealed with surprise. “Black licorice? I love black licorice ice cream.”

“We must be the only two people on the planet who do. They’re discontinuing it.” He leaned over to feed her another spoonful. “I think you’re my soulmate,” he said.

“Oh my God.” She looked at him with wonderment. “I was just thinking that. I swear to God I was.”

But the minute after they said this, they had both cracked up, laughing so hard that Stevie snorted. Jack has had dozens of so-called soulmates. And Stevie, who’s not even sure she believes in such a thing as soulmates, has yet to meet hers. They both see this affair of theirs for what it is, but that doesn’t stop them from delighting in each other’s company.

Jack gives great thought to planning their dates and thinking of where he’ll take her, which flowers he’ll send her. He feels like a 1950s suitor, and it reminds him of his younger years when he started seeing Barbara. Stevie feels like they’re a couple of movie stars when they walk into a restaurant like Perino’s and are seated at the best table. Jack’s teaching her about wine and showed her how to eat her first lobster. One night as they sit side by side in a fancy banquette at the Arsenal, Stevie tries not to gasp when Jack slips his fingers inside her panties. As soon as the valet brings Jack’s car around, she practically ravishes him.

In private, they spend a lot of time beneath the covers talking about work. They bounce ideas off each other, and when Stevie needs help with Ken’s wardrobe, she goes through Jack’s closets seeking inspiration. He in turn keeps a sketchpad on the bedside floor. She loves watching him work, loves getting this private glimpse inside the genius that is Jack Ryan.

—

Each time Jack thinks about Stevie he can’t stop smiling. The woman’s legs could hold him in a vise, squeeze the life out of him, and he’d die a happy man. Driving down Sepulveda on his way from the Castle to Mattel, he’s on top of the world. Nothing escapes his awe and wonder. The sky has never been so blue, the flowers never more fragrant. He listens to the purr of his car’s engine sounding so powerful, the leather on his steering wheel supple beneath his fingers. It’s like a drug has kicked in, or that much-needed second drink. Right now, everything—every single thing—in his world is simply glorious.

As soon as he gets to the office, he feels the urge to go see Stevie. Trying to exercise some restraint, he reaches into his pocket for his tape recorder and turns it on, hoping the gesture will spark an idea. The tape hisses, the little red light blinks and he says nothing. All he can think about is Stevie.

He turns off the tape recorder, stuffs it back in his pocket, picks up his phone and buzzes her workstation. “Meet me in my office. Now.”

“Am I in trouble?” she teases.

“You might be if you don’t get your gorgeous ass down here.”

Stevie hangs up and starts walking down the hallway, passing rows of cubicles. Some have plastic squirt guns, loaded and ready for action; others have found creative, suggestive ways to display Barbie and the Ken prototypes. Twist has them screwing, and Loomis has Barbie in a garter and fishnets, engaged in a sixty-nine position with Ken. Lately it’s become a competition to see who can come up with the most shocking poses for plastic orgies and such.

When Stevie gets to Jack’s office, he locks his door.

“C’mon, not here, Short Stuff.”

He laughs at the use of her nickname for him, inspired by their first meeting at the diner on Pico Boulevard. Other times, in reference to his being so well-endowed, she refers to him as My Little Jumbo Shrimp.

“We can’t,” she says as he kisses her neck.

“Why not?” He keeps kissing her as he undoes the top button on her blouse, and the next one, and by then she can’t think of a reason to stop him.