Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Fran Drescher, Peter Marc Jacobson, CBS, and High School Sweethearts.
by
Aimee
(aimeed@earthlink.net)
"Maxwell, darling," I said as lightly as possible, as casually as though I were going to offer him some tea. I didn't feel bad about bothering him, because I knew damn well he wasn't working. I sure couldn't, and he was the one getting married the next day.
"Yes, CC?" There was honest concern in his eyes. He looked at me like that often, lately, as though he wanted to ask me what was wrong and was just too British to do it.
"You're planning on taking the summer off for the most part, aren't you?"
"Yes, of course, Fran and I will be on honeymoon a whole month and then we'll want a couple of months just to be together. Why?"
"Would you mind terribly if I took a vacation?"
"Of course not, CC! How long do you want? Two, three weeks? A month?"
"Three months or so."
He whipped off his wire-rimmed glasses. "CC!"
"Well, you're taking it," I said defensively.
"True, but CC, I can't do without you for three months. You're like my right arm!"
"I just need some time alone. I'll be available via phone and fax, and I can fly back if there are any emergencies. I just want to go away."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It's just something I want to do. And if you're going to ditch Sheffield Productions for three months to have a love-in with Nanny Fine, you're not leaving all this on my shoulders. I'll still be around, I'll just be in another state."
"All right, CC, I suppose you're right. I can't expect you to carry all the weight for me all summer."
At that point, I was carrying enough weight for me, Maxwell, Nanny Fine, and all their future children.
"So where are you going?"
"Just away," I said. "Someplace where I can relax. I've never done that, you know. Just kick back and do nothing, for no special reason." At this point, I bit my lip before I spilled everything.
"Well, leave me your fax number and phone number, CC, and make sure you take care of yourself. When are you planning to leave?"
"In about a week," I said. "It will take me that long to get everything in order."
"CC," he said seriously, and my heart twisted inside me at the gentleness in his tone. Why couldn't it be love? "I know we've never spoken of it, but if you're not feeling well, I'd like to know. Are you going to a place like that one you went to a few weeks ago?"
"No!" I said forcefully, startling him. "That was a complete waste of time, money, and Prozac. I'm back in control. I just want to relax. Why is that such a foreign concept?"
"It's not," he said. "Or it wouldn't be, if this were anyone but you. Just be careful, CC. Don't do anything rash." Maxwell came to sit before me and hold my hands. "I meant what I said when I told you you're my right arm. I know I haven't been able to offer you everything you wanted from me, and I won't embarrass you by speaking further of it. But please remember, I need you. I can't do this alone."
I couldn't bear this. My control was near the breaking point already. "For God's sake, Maxwell, get a grip!" I said impatiently. "I'll always be here. Now here's the fax number and the 800 line. When you want to talk to me in person, call the front desk and they'll give you the direct line for my suite."
"You're just going to a hotel?" he asked hopefully.
"A spa," I said. "I'm in desperate need of pampering."
If that conversation had gotten any more intense and personal, I would have been in desperate need of Pampers.
The next day was the wedding. I don't know what possessed me, probably a combination of jealousy and sheer love of mischief, but I acted up the entire day and loved every minute of it, despite my deep inner misery. You should have seen the look on Niles' face when I stuck a bow on my head and tried to march down the aisle with Maxwell! I think he was secretly amused, but I also think he was sorely tempted to call Dr. Bort again, so I toned it down after that.
The wedding was so beautiful it would have hurt no matter whose it was. I don't think I'll ever marry. I deeply suspect I've used up my quota of love and romance for one lifetime, most of it waiting for Maxwell. After all, I was blessed with great wealth, and for the first thirty-odd years of my life, beauty (until I swelled up into three of me, that is). I'd also forged a terrific career through my own effort. One person doesn't get everything, even a Babcock, so maybe love was where fate had drawn the line. The one thing I can't have.
It's in such maudlin moods that trouble always finds you, because deep down, you're looking for it. I was surprised when Niles asked me to dance at the reception. I'd planned on drinking, schmoozing some backers, and leaving to go home and finish getting ready for my trip. But then Niles asked me to dance. He claimed he'd already hit on basically every other woman in the room and no luck, but he was wearing such a wicked grin that I was sure he was making that part up. He was, after all, handsome and witty, so he was a great catch by the standards of Nanny Fine's family, butler or not. If he'd really been trying, he'd have been off at a cheap hotel room with one of them, no contest there.
I love the way he gets my dander up. You know the saying "I'm a lover, not a fighter?" Well, not CC Babcock. And if I was depressed before Niles came to make his outrageous propositions, I was damned good and mad after a few minutes of bantering with him, and I had the biggest grin on my face. I must have looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in drag.
Unfortunately the alcohol was flowing a bit freely, and my memory of that night is iffy at best. After a certain point, the one where we ended up in a taxi going back to the Park Avenue townhouse, I have only the slightest memory. One hot kiss, and then a blur of heat and bodies and unconsciousness for us both. And yes, despite what I told Niles the morning after, I knew we'd done it. I was just glad I couldn't remember. Deep in my heart, I couldn't regret having slept with Niles. I just wish I'd been beautiful and sexy when it happened, and that he hadn't had the recent memory of me at "The Place" to taint it. Bad enough he must have believed I wanted to be the one with Maxwell that night. I just hope he has no memory of what I looked like naked, because I know for sure that it wasn't pretty.
I had, after all, examined myself with a harsh and critical eye just two nights before when I made the decision to end my self-pitying, self-destructive binge.
I'm very hard on other people, but the curse of it is, I'm much harder on myself. So the night before my talk with Maxwell, when I took a good hard look at myself for the first time in quite a while, it was quite a revelation. I imagine Rosemary must have felt about the same when she realized she was about to have Satan's baby.
I stripped down and stood naked before my full-length mirror. I examined my long hair. It didn't look bad, but it wasn't as sleek and sophisticated as I liked to look. So it would have to go. I looked at the face. The only trace of myself I could see was in my eyes, which were still a clear sky-blue. Strangely, my heavier face made me look positively innocent, hiding the hardness that had always been a part of me.
I barely had a neck anymore, my breasts were almost as big as my head, and my stomach was so huge that a small adult could have taken up residence.
I tried to think positive. I look like a Venus of Willendorf. I'm big, and I'm beautiful.
I'm so full of bullshit.
I called the Spa that night and made my reservations. The next day was the day I talked to Maxwell.
So, to wrap up the time before I went to the health spa:
I woke up alone in Niles' bed with his scent all around me. A woman's robe lay across the foot of the bed. I recognized it as belonging to my old friend Sarah, the first Mrs. Sheffield. She'd worn it when she was pregnant, and thereafter when she was doing anything messy. It really was a hideous garment, but going downstairs in my bathrobe with my head held high as though I belonged there was more dignified than going down in my dress from the evening before with a look of embarrassment and shame on my face.
I told Niles off good and proper, and received a few choice comments in return. Our relationship was thus put safely back on its old terms and we both knew nothing had changed.
We didn't have long to be self-conscious. Soon, we learned that the Sheffields had been lost at sea. Niles and I sprang into action at once. I took over the reins of Sheffield Productions while he kept the home fires burning. On the rare occasions when we had time to talk we barely even bothered to insult each other, we were so busy.
A week passed, and the strain was telling on everyone. I'd delayed my trip to the spa, but I'd already started dieting. I didn't want to admit it, so I just said I was too upset to eat much and no one bothered to notice otherwise, for which I was grateful.
Finally, I snapped. Unable to take the inactivity and the tortured, helpless looks of those around me, I chartered a helicopter and went searching for them myself. Sylvia Fine came with me, probably to make sure I didn't save Maxwell and abandon her daughter to the elements.
After the first excitement, nobody even bothered to congratulate or thank me for finding them, but it was a wonderful adventure nonetheless. As soon as the Sheffields were safely home, I left for California.
My first day at the spa, they just let me rest. After that it was the start of my torture.
Breakfast was evidently the best meal of the day. I refused to get out of bed before ten, so a bowl of fresh mango, bright yellow and dripping sweet juice, was brought to me. I scarfed it down like a starving woman, and then rose.
I met that morning with my trainer and nutritionist. My trainer set me two aerobic workouts a day and a session of light weights to tone and build muscle three times a week. My nutritionist decreed a breakfast of fruit and commanded that lunch and dinner would both start with a salad and I could have all the vegetables I wanted with a light protein once a day. Every few days I'd get a sweet, like sherbet or tofu ice cream to keep me from feeling deprived. Oops, too late.
That afternoon, I did my first workout. I chose an aerobics class with a Latin rhythm. I was glad to see I wasn't the heaviest person there. It was tiring but fun, and I felt so energized and optimistic I voluntarily went swimming before my daily massage with aromatherapy oils designed to melt away cellulite.
By the end of the first week, I hated it with a fiery passion and wanted to go home. I'd do anything to get out. Niles could insult my body all he wanted for the rest of my life, tell the whole world we'd had sex. Hell, Maxwell and Nanny Fine could have sex right in front of me. I didn't care as long as I got the hell out of there. And I wanted a starchy carb so bad I'd have given Niles a blow job in exchange for a breadstick.
Then, I made my weekly doctor visit, a spa requirement that made me feel like a damned hypochondriac. He read my charts, listened to my complaints, and told me, "Congratulations, Miss Babcock, you've already lost six pounds. Keep it up."
Six pounds the first week was pretty good. Even assuming I lost five pounds a week for the whole time I was here, I'd be in pretty decent shape by the time I returned to New York.
Well, as soon as I'd accepted that I was staying and stopped fighting it got easier. There were horses to ride in my spare time, and a library full of books and CDs. I had a choice of exercise, although most days I did Kickboxing and some form of dance. Kickboxing helped me work out my anger and frustration, and dancing was wonderfully expressive, though I felt embarrassed at first. I've worked with some of the greatest choreographers and dancers in the world, so I wasn't sanguine about my own abilities.
Nights were my favorite time because I sat out on my terrace either talking on the telephone with Maxwell or working on my laptop. There was more to do than I'd expected, but that was wonderful because it kept me in touch with the world. A few times, Fran even put Chester on the phone. He was at a kennel, but they had orders to let the Sheffields take him once in a while so he wouldn't get lonely.
Meals continued to be not worth living for. At one point, I had to fax a contract to Maxwell, and I added a note on the cover sheet: The food here sucks. Tell Niles to fax me some lasagna now.
When I received the package of lasagna, I laughed and threw it away. I was already thirty pounds down and not ready to quit. But I kept the card with a picture of a cow labeled "Moos Babcock" in Niles' distinctive, angular hand. He really knew my weak points. Did he suspect what I was here for?
Two months into my stay, I got an urgent call from Maxwell. "CC, you've got to come home immediately. I can't find any backers for our new play. They all seem interested, but nobody's signing. How do you make them do it?"
"Give me a list of names," I said.
The next morning, I skipped my morning workout to harass backers into investing. I felt so guilty about it that I pushed my protein away at lunch, but by dinnertime, I could call Maxwell back and say, "Relax, I took care of everything. I always take care of everything. Now go have some fun with Nanny Fine. I'm going to an Al Pacino film festival tonight."
"When are you coming home?" he asked irritably. When I didn't answer right away, he asked unhappily, "CC, you are coming home, right?"
"Don't be paranoid, Maxwell. I'll be home soon. I'm shooting for August 20th."
"Thank God! The end is in sight! You'll be a sight for sore eyes, let me tell you."
You don't know the half of it, I thought proudly, hanging up. I strode over to the mirror and inspected myself. I was skimpily dressed for the first time since, oh, probably college. In New York City I always dressed like the consummate professional even when I was alone, to say nothing of thin. Now, only fifteen pounds from my target goal, I didn't look too bad in the swimsuit top and sarong I'd been wearing since I got back from a water aerobics workout a couple of hours ago.
Three weeks later, I'd reached my target goal. I was every bit as slim as I'd been years ago when Nanny Fine arrived and taught me the womanly art of bingeing to forget. I began to make plans for my return.
I let Maxwell know first. He offered to send the limo for me at the airport, but I declined, wanting to surprise them all the next morning. I made my plane reservations and announced my intention of leaving in a week.
The next morning, I met with the trainer, nutritionist, and doctor for one last consultation. I declined all the lip implants, sucking, tucking, and other myriad forms of plastic surgery they offered me. To find verification for my conviction that I didn't need it, I had only to look over their heads to the mirror on the wall. When I smiled, the old, devilish CC smiled back at me. I was damn gorgeous and I knew it.
For my last week, my regimen was changed to reorient me to the outside world and how to maintain myself in it. Not a problem, considering there were only about a hundred decent salons in Manhattan. But I did start learning to eat more intelligently. I was no longer twenty, able to keep thin on metabolism alone. I also relearned the importance of pampering yourself, to remind yourself you're worth it and make you feel like a million bucks, or in my case, twenty million.
I cut back my workouts to once a day since I wouldn't have the time for two at home. My meals weren't much larger, but I was able to eat a much greater variety of foods. I even got a teeny bit of bread and pasta occasionally. Good, I thought, No need to molest Niles after all. I grinned.
My last week was pretty much occupied with the shameless hedonism I'd originally signed up for. Massages, moonlight swimming, herbal wraps, mud masks, manicures, pedicures, everything.
My final day, I went to the hair salon and pulled the rubber band from my hair. It tumbled down over my shoulders. "Do it like that," I said, handing the stylist an old publicity photo of myself with smooth, chin-length hair parted on one side.
The stylist talked so constantly that six inches of hair lay on the floor before I realized what was happening. Then, she styled and blow-dried it.
I lost several years off my face just by doing that. My eyes and bone structure showed off, and I really looked and felt like the old, joyfully wicked CC.
Before I left, things got a little more wicked. At a pool party that last night, to my shock, my trainer Troy came up and touched my bare shoulder and murmured in my ear how lovely I looked. We went for a swim and before I knew what I was doing, we were back in my room.
The sex itself was mediocre. He took a more or less sports-oriented approach to it, seeming to see it more as a good workout than a union of two people. That was fine. I wouldn't have dated him long-term anyway. It just felt so good to be sexy again, to know that with a toss of my golden hair and a sultry look from my blue eyes, I had a twenty-something with a Fabio body wanting to test the quality of my sheets.
Funny thing is, I spent a lot of time that night lying awake thinking of all the things Niles would say to me if he knew. Caca did a naughty in the bedroom, I thought with a grin.
My body felt a slight, pleasant ache the next morning as I climbed the steps into the plane.
Late summer in Manhattan. NYC was so steaming hot I could barely breathe, construction workers hollered lewd comments as I walked Chester in Central Park, and everywhere there was the light, color, and noise I'd forgotten so easily back in California. But now that I'd returned, I felt such a swelling of love for my city that I never wanted to take another breath that didn't smell of exhaust.
I walked down Broadway. At the theaters where Sheffield Productions plays were running, I traced my fingers over my name on the posters. Co-producers CC Babcock and Maxwell Sheffield. No Nanny Fine. No Niles. Just me and Maxwell, doing what we did best. This was where I belonged. Maybe Nanny Fine had him, but he still needed me, he'd even said so. She couldn't change fifteen years of teamwork no matter what she did. Maybe I could forget about love and just get back to what I'd started out to do when thoughts of Maxwell distracted me.
Back at home my first night, I basked in the air-conditioned comfort of my penthouse, loving the soft whir of the ceiling fans, the slick leather furniture, Chester sleeping on my foot.
The phone rang. It was Maxwell. "CC! You're back! Can you come over for dinner tonight? Niles is making lasagna."
"I'll be over as soon as I change," I told him. Fortunately, I'd taken the time to do a little shopping in Cally. All my clothes from before I got fat were hopelessly out of fashion by now.
I chose a sleeveless black chiffon dress with a surplice top and a hem that hit just above my knees. Simple diamond solitaire earrings completed the outfit. I slipped black sandals on my feet to make it more casual and summery and phoned downstairs to have my car ready.
I was almost bouncing up and down in my eagerness as I pressed the bell. I couldn't fight back the smile that lit my face as I heard Niles approach. Surprisingly, he was the one I'd missed the most, probably because I talked to Maxwell several times a week.
He opened the door. He opened his mouth quite a bit further.
Did I mention that the dress was a trifle low-cut?
"Hello, hello!" I said brightly. "Wow, Niles, you look so good in Maxwell's suit!"
"I knew it!" he crowed triumphantly. "Miss Babcock went to the fat farm," he roared.
Nanny Fine hugged me briefly before Maxwell came forward. I could see in his eyes that I looked gorgeous. There wasn't the slightest spark of attraction (big surprise), but he was still my friend, and he was pleased to see me looking and feeling good.
"So, ready to get back to the old grind?" Maxwell asked hopefully as we sat down to dinner. "I'd like to see you some time within the next couple of days to go over a few things."
"I'll be here at eight tomorrow morning," I promised. "Ready for action." I slid a sidelong glance at Niles.
He didn't disappoint me. "Don't you wish," he said, slopping a huge portion of lasagna on my plate with some garlic bread. I knew there was tiramisu for dessert, so I only took a few blissful bites of everything else. Niles may be an arrogant, uppity pain in the ass, but he's the only straight man in New York who knows what to do with an Italian pastry.
I found that I could eat little of the rich dessert, whereas before I would have inhaled it. But it was absolutely sinful how good it was. Almost as good as you were, I thought at the butler. I was surprised at my thought and wondered how I could possibly remember that he was that good. Probably just my imagination.
Still, now that I'm thin, gorgeous, and ready for battle once more, it might be interesting to see what it takes to get him out of that stuffy suit again.
If he's lucky. After all, I am CC Babcock.
The End
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