Chapter 16 Beck #3
“I don’t know, really,” she said honestly.
“I barely met my father, and my mother wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about motherhood.
She kept me safe and fed, but we didn’t .
. . We aren’t the closest. I think being a mother held her back career-wise.
” As ever, the thought of motherhood made her think of Dr. Kate, which in turn made her heart ache.
“Then your ambivalence is completely understandable,” he said.
Honestly, he was so . . . agreeable. Intelligent, dryly funny, generous.
He worked a ton, as did she, and their time together always felt like a treat.
They lacked the kind of you complete me love she’d had with Stephen. Maybe that was a good thing.
One night, Oscar took her uptown for dinner. “We’re going to Restaurant Daniel,” he said. At her blank look, he said, “The Michelin-starred restaurant?”
“So . . . tiny portions?” she guessed. “Will I need a burger on the way home?”
He laughed and held the door for her. “Good evening, Mr. Hahn,” the ma?tre d’ said.
“Wonderful to see you again.” They were led to a lovely table (all the tables were lovely) and handed menus.
Hers didn’t have prices. They both ordered filthy martinis, as had become their tradition, and toasted each other.
And then Oscar took out a navy-blue box tied with a ribbon.
“A gift,” he said, smiling.
“Oh! That’s so thoughtful, Oscar.” Her birthday was next week, though she hadn’t realized he knew that. She untied the ribbon and opened the box, expecting earrings or a necklace.
Inside was an emerald-cut engagement ring, a huge diamond sparkling so brilliantly even she, a tomboy to the core, was dazzled by its beauty.
It was flanked by two narrower, tapering diamonds.
The words Harry Winston were embossed in gold on the blue velvet.
Sometimes her clients borrowed Harry Winston jewelry for the Oscars. The Oscars.
Well, then.
“Wow,” she said after a beat.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Uh, yes! Of course! But . . . is this an engagement ring, Oscar?”
Another smile. “Yes.” When she didn’t say anything else, he said, “Listen, Beck. I know we don’t have what one might call a wild romance going on here. But I enjoy your company immensely, and I think you feel the same way.”
“Yes, I also enjoy my company immensely,” she said, a nervous prickle starting in her feet.
Oscar smiled. “I think we’d be content together. A good team. I trust you, and I think you trust me. We’re both career-oriented and want the same things. We like each other. Those things last a lot longer than all the high drama, if you know what I mean.”
“Um, yeah, I guess I do.” She remembered the nearly unbearable joy of waking up next to Stephen, how thoughts of him could blot out the sun.
Look how that had ended.
“I do love you,” Oscar said, leaning forward and covering her hand. “But it’s a sensible love. A mature and lasting love, if you will. We have common goals. We understand and appreciate each other, and I truly enjoy your company.”
Beck bit her lip. She wanted to laugh, or cry. It was not a romantic proposal, but it did make a certain sense. There hadn’t been a cross word between them to date.
“Let me think about it,” she said. “This is very unexpected, but I hear what you’re saying, and I don’t exactly disagree. Contentment and maturity are underrated.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Here.” He took the ring out of the box. “Wear it while you decide.”
“Oh. Well, okay, sure.” He was already slipping it on her finger. The other patrons either didn’t notice or were too sophisticated to applaud.
The ring transformed her hand, hypnotically beautiful. “It’s stunning, Oscar. No matter what, I’m honored. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m so pleased you like it. Since your hands are on the bigger side, I wanted a big diamond.”
“It’s almost as big as our olives,” she said, holding up her martini, and he laughed again. He appreciated her sense of humor. That was a plus in marriage.
When the server came, he asked, “Is champagne in order, then?” and Oscar said yes, if the sommelier would pick out something very special, that would be lovely.
For the next few days, Beck pictured life with Oscar.
Calm, she imagined. They wouldn’t see each other all that much, not with their careers, which might make the times they did spend together more meaningful.
There’d be a lot of comfort; he was obviously loaded, and she was doing well, too, though not nearly on the same level.
They’d probably end up with a lovely house in Connecticut or along the Hudson River.
First-class vacations and healthy retirement accounts, all that good stuff.
Oscar was proud of her successes, comfortable with the glamorous people who were part of her work. If she were to make a list of the pros and cons of marrying him, she wasn’t sure what would be on the con side, other than might not love each other.
Eight days after he proposed, Beck asked Oscar to come with her to the Paper Mill Playhouse in New Jersey to scope out the lead in a drama there, a tip from one of her actors. Alas, the play was awful, the performances overblown and silly, and Oscar had checked his phone all through the second act.
“This is my world,” she apologized as they got into his car. “Most of the time, I don’t find the next Anne Hathaway. But she did perform here, so you never know.”
He gave her an amused look. “Keep trying, then.”
They talked about an upcoming film she’d be working on, tasked with finding “a young Glenn Close, not too pretty, serious acting skills, tall, athletic, fresh faced, decent singing voice,” and a “sinister but sexy man, muscular but not overdone, can handle dialects and accents.” Oscar didn’t tell her a lot about his own work—“too dull”—but he liked hearing her stories.
“I’m sure you’ll find the perfect candidate,” he said, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel. He’d brought out his Aston Martin for the evening and feared New Jersey drivers (as he should).
“Hey, did I tell you about Cadence? The actor who got stuck on the subway the night we met?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She got the part in the Christopher Nolan movie. It’s a pretty big part, too.”
“Mm. Well. That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very good.” She’d hoped for a little more enthusiasm. It was a huge leap to go from tampon commercial to Chris Nolan, after all.
He put on his blinker and changed lanes as they approached the city. “If we do have a child, you’ll stay home to raise it, won’t you?” he asked. “Of course, we’d have help with housekeeping and cooking and childcare, but you’d want to be at home, right?”
The abrupt change of subject startled her. There was a starkly clear implication—her own work was something she could slide to the rear burner, and the child-rearing would be up to her. Also . . . it. You’ll stay home to raise it.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still not sure about kids.” She paused. “I love my work. What about you? Would you want to be the stay-at-home parent?”
“Please. I make infinitely more than you.”
“Enough to retire, I’m sure.”
He cut his eyes toward her, clearly not amused, and said nothing. She looked at the ring on her finger, then looked away, waiting for Oscar to say more. He remained silent, and God, Beck hated a man who sulked.
When they got to his street in Tribeca, he said, “I’m starving. Let’s grab something, okay?” His tone was neutral.
“Sure,” she said. She stretched her leg before she got out of the car.
All that sitting had made her femur ache and her knee lock.
Oscar waited, well aware of her old injury.
Couldn’t miss the scar, after all. She’d given him the briefest explanation possible—I was in a bad car accident when I was eighteen.
He hadn’t asked for more, perhaps sensing it was off-limits. Or maybe just not interested in more.
They headed for an Indian restaurant on Reade Street, Oscar’s neighborhood go-to when he was home in the evenings. He didn’t cook, and she wasn’t much good at it, either. They were seated and ordered—chicken Shahi Korma for her, Masaledar chops for him, garlic-and-onion naan to share.
“So,” he said. “About kids. I would want you to stay home with them. I think anything else is tacky, frankly, for a man who makes what I do. Maybe it would be different if you were a producer or something more necessary.”
She felt her face turn to stone. “Okay, for one, Oscar, I love my job. For two, in this world, with all the shit that’s going on, entertainment is necessary.
How many people watch TV or movies to relax or distract themselves or bring up topics that need to be discussed?
Millions, that’s how many. And for three, I find your supposition to be extremely sexist.” She took a calming breath.
“Why wouldn’t you want to retire and be the stay-at-home parent if you want kids so much?
You must have millions socked away by now. ”
“Me? That won’t happen. I’d be their father.”
“So? Maybe you’d be the better parent. It shouldn’t be gender based.”
Just then, the door opened. Beck glanced over, and in walked a woman who looked like she’d come straight from work—black skirt, white shirt, a pale-gray blazer draped over her arm. High heels.
It was Jasmine. Jasmine Malinowski. Jasmine.
Beck’s mind went white. Was it really her?
“Pickup for Jasmine Tate,” Jasmine said.
She must have gotten married. Beck realized her mouth was open, closed it, cleared her throat and said, “Jasmine?”
Jasmine glanced her way and did a double take. “Oh my God. Beck.”