Free Til the Real Thing Comes Along by Iris Rainer Dart Page A

R.J. smiled and said, “While you’re at it, could you find one of those for me?”
    They all laughed.
    Jeffie galloped down the steps ahead of R.J. and through the lobby, pushed the door open, and in a gesture she’d never seen
     from him before, held it open for her. The rain outside had slowed to a fine mist, and Jeffie walked ahead,deliberately and happily sloshing through puddles like Gene Kelly in
Singin’ in the Rain.
In fact, as he reached the Mustang he extended his arms and did a happy twirl.
    Thank God, R.J. thought. This is the happiest I’ve seen him in years. Thank God I thought to do this for him. Why did it take
     me so long?
    Jeffie pulled the passenger door open and slid into the seat. R.J. opened her door, shuffled through her purse for her keys,
     found them, and was about to get into the car when something caught her eye in the sky above Westwood. It was a rainbow.

Have Patsy say: It seems to me there are two kinds of single men in the world. There’s the kind that can’t make a commitment
     to a woman. Who fears gettin’ married like it was the plague, and… (SHE THINKS ABOUT IT)
    Actually, now that I think about it, there’s only
one
kind of single man in the world.
    You think I’m suspicious of men? The other day I was in the doctor’s office and when the doctor told me to take all my clothes
     off, I said, “I’m not that kinda girl,” and stormed outta there. Now how could I do that to kindly old Doc Milgrom? He’s a
     fine man and a wonderful podiatrist.
    I told my girlfriend Sally that I wanted a man who could make me hear bells ring, so she fixed me up with a guy who looked
     like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
    I wanted to meet a man who was safe and stable. So far the ones I meet are only safe
in
a stable.
    I met a man at a party who was like fine French food. Heavy on the sauce. (You need a vacation, girl. You’re losing your grip.)
    Hobart Fineburg was a voice-over actor. That meant he did radio commercials and the voices of Mattel toys that talked. He
     starred in two Saturday morning cartoon series at Hanna-Barbera studios. In one he played a dog, and in the other he portrayed
     a villain of a thousand disguises.Despite Hobart’s alleged brilliance, however, R.J. thought they all had the same voice. And she’d been in show business long
     enough to know going out with an actor was a big mistake.
    “Hey, it’s just dinner. You don’t have to marry the guy,” Eddie Levy said. Hobart was Eddie Levy’s friend. He came to have
     lunch one day with Eddie and spotted R.J. He had dark curly hair that needed a haircut and nervous eyes, and even though he
     wore a coat and tie and some reasonably nice gray pants, with them, probably for effect, he wore dirty sneakers. One of the
     laces on the sneakers looked precariously loose. As soon as R.J. noticed it, she began to worry that it would come untied
     any minute. She could tell right away that Hobart liked her when he and Eddie stopped by her office to ask if she wanted to
     join them at Canter’s for lunch, because Hobart, whom Eddie called Hobie, laughed at everything she said, and none of it was
     funny.
    “C’mon, R.J., it’ll do you good,” Eddie said.
    “No thanks, Eddie. I’m on a huge diet. If I went to Canter’s, I’d just order a number eight, and then be sorry later.”
    Hobie laughed.
    “So you’ll just have a salad,” Eddie said.
    “What’s the point of going to a deli and having a salad?” R.J. asked as she rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter. She
     had work to do. Hobie laughed at that too.
    “You’ll keep us company,” Eddie urged.
    “Nope. Anyway, I have to finish Patsy At Home.”
    Hobie only giggled at that.
    “Nice meeting you,” R.J. added, hoping that would give them the hint and they would leave her office.
    “Want me to bring you back a number eight?” Hobie asked, grinning. He was sort of cute in a stupid way.
    “It’s just dinner. Hey, you don’t have to marry the