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When she’d broached the idea to Cheryl last year, Cheryl had re-applied her lipstick and nodded. Looked out over the pool and taken a photo. Mind whirring.
“I like it. Going back to theatre, pretending the stage has always been your first love. It’s down to earth. Very credible. Authentic. That plays well.” Double tap. Pink heart. Scrolling.
Betty had blinked at her over the rim of her sunglasses: amused. “Theatre wasn’t my first love, Cheryl. This is a new challenge. I want a change. Don’t get me wrong, being in Joker with Jug has been amazing-”
“-Harley of the century.”
Betty blushes, pinked by the sun. “Films, tv, I think I need a break from the cameras. Just for a while.” It’s been a rush of red carpets, of Jughead at her side. Fantastic, exhausting. Jughead feels the same way, if the way he’s crawled back into the safety of writing, a cave of books, shielding from the world.
“It’s a different route. I don’t hate it. Go back to your husband, Mrs Jones, I’ll have a look around.”
“Okay,” Betty had sighed, “You know, The Sound of Music has always been a dream of mine.”
Cheryl sips her lemonade, and Betty wonders if she’s even listening.
And now here they are. Her phone in one hand, safari open to: how accurate are pregnancy tests, said test in the other.
And then a text:
You got the part! They’ve solved the problem of Maria! - Cheryl xoxo
___
She’s pacing. Long strides up and down the enormous sun strewn living room. Bare feet sinking into plush carpet, lip caught between her teeth.
False positives. That happens. She’s sure of it.
She has more texts from Cheryl, a missed call from the director and as usual, more notifications across social media than she can count.
When the front door swings open, she stops her pacing and realises it’s almost evening now. Where did the afternoon go? Into a whirl of panic?
She stares at the entrance to the living room; waiting. Heart in her throat, breath gone.
In the distance:
“Betts? You home?”
She wants to say yes. But she can’t find her voice. She stands, in her cream sweater and floral shorts, hair soft against her cheeks, she stands and doesn’t speak.
She hears the thud of Jughead’s bag, no doubt full of books, the clattering of kitchen cabinets raided for snacks. Hotdog’s pleased bark. Silence. She hears dust settle on the counter. She hears bread on a plate. The rustle of chips. The panting of a dog. She hears the way Jughead swipes his hands through his hair, shaking off the city into the air. More silence.
Then he’s there and she can breathe again. The tension bleeds away.
There he is. Her husband. Gone is the green Joker hair and the grills, in it’s place, familiar brown, deep, warm eyes, a smile, clothes a little frumpled, disheveled, a little tired, a little perfect.
“Oh, hey, you’re home,” Jughead grins at her, fond and pleased and content, setting down his hoard of snacks onto the couch and reaching for her as naturally as a flower craning to the sun. He kisses her temple, long arms around her waist. “There’s a new doorman. I think he might be a fan of yours.”
Betty manages a smile, but she hides her face in the hollow of his throat.
Jughead holds her a little tighter. Voice lowered with worry. “Betty? Are you okay?”
She shakes her head.
“Can you look at me? Please.”
She can’t.
“I need those blue eyes, Betty. I need ‘em.”
She peaks up at him. He’s there, he’s smiling, he’s hers. His fingers curl under her chin, and he kisses her nose.
“What’s happened?”
Her chest feels tight. The words slip out:
“I got the part.”
He’s blank for a second, before he beams. “Maria Von Trapp! Well done,” he twirls her, dips her, mimes a roaring crowd of applause.
She laughs, but she still feels heavy. It’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s-
“I’m pregnant.”
He stares at her. Eyes blown wide, frozen in a half-bow, winded. “You’re pregnant.” He repeats.
She nods, chest tighter, licks her lips so dry, so dry. “I um- just took- I mean, this afternoon. I was- it said. Yes. Pregnant. Two lines, so.” She laughs nervously, a weak thing.
“Well,” he mutters, throat thick, “...this has got to be the best day of my life.”
She stares at him, almost giddy at the delight on his face. “Really?” She whispers.
“How can you even ask me that? Having a child, a little baby, with the most wonderful woman who ever lived? And she happens to be my wife.” She’s scooped into his arms, kissed thoroughly, wrapped in his glee and the warmth of his flannel and love.
__
Jughead makes dinner. He’s too excited, burns the steak and overmashes the potatoes, but it tastes like joy. And butter.
“We’ll need everything. I’ll talk to Sabrina. Any one of the guest bedrooms can be a nursery- probably the one closest to our bedroom, right? And research. I need to do research, lots of research.” One hand on his fork, heaped with food, the other moving like a spider across his keys; clacking away, eyes a blur.
Betty smiles, shaking her head. “Juggie, I’m glad you’re happy-”
His eyes snap to hers suddenly. “You’re happy too, aren’t you, Betty? You- I mean- if you’re not, we can- there’s-”
“I’m happy,” she reassures honestly, their feet tangled together beneath the table. She couldn’t imagine being happier. “But I am sad, too. About Maria.”
Jughead looks confused. “What? Why?”
“Well, I can’t take the part.”
He blanches. “Why not?”
“It’s a 6 month run, Jug.”
“Okay, it’ll be tough towards the end, but if we get Veronica to go over the contract, put you on one show a week nearer the end, you can do it Betty, you’re the strongest person I know-”
For the smartest man she knows, he can be very dense sometimes. “Jug.” She giggles, shaking her head. “I’d be pregnant. How many pregnant nuns do you know?”
“I- oh.” His brows furrow together, and she can only laugh at the look on his face. He colours, embarrassed. He’s still tan from their press tour in Japan, hair a little shaggy from his freedom. She wonders when he’ll be pale again. Her parchment paper husband. “Alright, okay, ha ha.” He pokes her shoulder. “You’re a meanie. This pregnancy has changed you.”
She smacks him lightly, still musing. “It’s a dream role. I wonder who they’ll give it to.” Jughead nudges some potato onto her plate.
“ You. You’re perfect for it-”
“I’m pregnant-”
“ Perfect.” But his voice gentles, eyes full of understanding, he abandons his laptop and takes her hands. “Betty, I know you’re happy about the baby, but I know a chance like this doesn’t come around very often. This production was made for you-”
“Role of a lifetime.” She agrees, then moves their hands onto her stomach. “The gift of a lifetime.”
_
Ambrose, with his twelve scarves and tailored suit, looks at her for a longtime. His office is a flurry of theatre kid apprentices, hunched over writers and elegant directors, a ballet of movement beyond the glass windows of his office. Framed photos of actresses on the wall. Julie Andrews stares down at them from one wall. Betty wants to sit beside her.
Ambrose keeps looking at Betty.
Cheryl clearly finds it unnerving, because she shifts in her seat and clears her throat.
Ambrose keeps his eyes on Betty: doesn’t flinch. His smile is kind. He’s taken it all in. “Betty Cooper, my production waits for you.” He announces finally.
“ What?” Betty and Cheryl blanche in unison.
Ambrose waves them away. “The production waits for Betty. Postponed by a year. Year and a half. It’ll give us time to redo the script. I have big plans.”
Then he’s gone, chair still spending, his cologne still hanging in the air.
“Well,” Cheryl grins, turning to face Betty, “now that’s sorted out, let’s talk press release.”
_
“Your writings a little soft at the end of Chapter 6.” Midge says, reviewing her notes.
Jughead nods opposite her. That’s unusual. He likes to argue with her, bicker, defend himself. Now, he’s all quiet, pondering, fingers thrumming on his knee. “Did you know that a baby’s stomach is only the size of a walnut? That’s this big.” He pinches his fingers together.
Midge pinches the bridge of her nose, lets the pages flutter onto her knees. “Why do I get the feeling that this novel about murder just isn’t in your wheelhouse at the moment?”
Jughead meets her eyes, and for a moment she thinks she’s got through to him. Then he smiles at her, crooked and charming, and says, like a moron: “Do you like the name Ulysses?”
_
She’s still glowing. Jughead isn’t sure she’ll ever stop. When she makes dresses out of curtains and dances on the mountains and sings, she glows and Jughead can’t take his eyes off her.
He claps until his palms sting.
Then she’s there, smelling of the flowers tossed onto the stage, and she takes Zora into her arms, wriggly, squirming.
“Was she good the whole show?” Betty beams, electrified, as Zora babbles happily.
Jughead kisses Betty, catches a taste of her sunlight. “Not nearly as good as you.”
“Well hey,” his wife laughs, “she’s only little. She’ll get there.”
“With you to guide her? I don’t doubt it. Now, Maria, I believe there’s a standing ovation.”
Zora’s back in his arms, Betty kisses them both. “I’ll see you after the show, Captain.”
_
The audience applause is like a lion’s roar, powerful, empowering.
Betty can hear Jughead and Zora, murmuring her name.