“But there is,” he said softly. “Please . . . can we go inside?”
I wanted to tell him to go to hell, but curiosity got the better of me. I needed to know why he did it, how he thought he could get away with it, and what was going on with his family now. “Fine,” I muttered, and dug the door key out of my jeans.
We were silent through the lobby and up the elevator until we were finally in my quiet apartment. As soon as I closed the door behind us, he reached for me. “Oh, Beth,” he said, his voice heavy with sadness.
I backed away. “Are you kidding me? You can’t touch me after everything you’ve done!”
He put his hand to his brow and massaged his temples. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve been such a shit.”
“Ha!” I gave a humourless laugh. “That’s a gross understatement.”
“Look, I know what I did was wrong, and trust me, I’m being punished for it. But you need to understand . . . I never wanted to hurt anyone.”
“Right,” I spat, “these situations where a man cheats on his wife with an unassuming mistress usually turn out really well.”
“I just—I thought . . .”
“What did you think?” I growled. “I’d be really interested to know.”
Jim tried to reach for my hand but again I snatched it away. He gave a defeated sigh, but launched into his explanation. “After the wedding, I was going to tell you everything. When we went on our holiday... I thought by then we’d be close enough that you’d understand. I was going to end my marriage when we got back. I really did want to be with you, Beth, but I just couldn’t . . . I—I couldn’t ruin the most important day of my daughter’s life.”
I asked quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”
“I didn’t want you to think of me as . . . old. With you, I felt so young, so alive! I thought if you knew I had a twenty-eight-year-old daughter you’d realize . . .” He trailed off.
“You’re not forty-eight, are you?”
“Fifty-three,” he admitted ruefully. “But my doctor says I have the blood pressure of a thirty-year-old.”
“Well, good for you,” I retorted. “You’re going to need it. You’ve got a stressful time ahead.”
There was a long silence, finally broken by Jim. “I know you’re angry and you have every right to be, but... if, after a cooling-off period, you’d like to continue this relationship . . .”
“Oh my god!” I said, completely flabbergasted. “You’re serious!”
“Well, everything’s out in the open now. Eileen and I . . . well, I’m sure it’s over. She won’t even talk to me. And Nicola... she’s very upset and angry, of course, but I think with a little time, she’ll come round.”
“You just don’t get it, do you?” I cried, angrily. “I’ve been devastated by this. I thought we had a future together. I thought we wanted the same things in life—children, a family . . . I broke up with a sweet, wonderful boyfriend because he didn’t want to get married, and when he promised to change, I turned him down. I thought you were my future.”
“I still could be . . .” Jim pleaded.
“No,” I said. My voice had gone soft. “You did more than just break my heart. I had a really great group of friends. We were there for each other, you know? When times were tough, we knew we had a support system we could rely on. I needed them . . . I really did. And you’ve blown us all apart.” My volume increased. “Your daughter meant the world to me. And she cared enough about me to ask me to read that stupid poem at her wedding! And now, because of your lies and deception, she hates me!”
“She’ll get over it,” he said. “She’s always held me up on a pedestal. She needs to realize that I’m a fallible human being... that I can make mistakes too.”
“What did you tell her about me?” I asked. “Did you tell her I didn’t know you were married?”
“We haven’t spoken since the rehearsal dinner. She’s refusing to see me, but as soon as she does, I’ll tell her. I promise.”
“Like your promises mean anything,” I said, tears suddenly stinging my eyes. No, I would not cry. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I took a deep, calming breath. “This must be really hard on you,” I said, “especially given the timing.” In answer to his questioning look I elaborated, “You know . . . with your mom’s stroke and everything.”
“Uh . . . yes,” he answered nervously. “It is . . . really hard.”
My eyes narrowed. “Did your mom even have a stroke, Jim?”
“She did . . .” There was a long pause. “. . . in 1998.”
I gave a sardonic laugh. “So, the page you got that night when we . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. It made me sick to think about it. “You lied about that, too.”
“I had to. I couldn’t very well tell you that the daughter you didn’t know existed was falling apart because her wedding photographer had been in a car accident.”
I nodded mutely. “So . . . What’s going on with the wedding?”
“It’s been postponed,” Jim said. “We’ll lose our deposit on the room, obviously, but I’m trying to work something out where we can put the money toward a rescheduled date.”
“Oh . . .” I said, with mock sympathy, “that’s really too bad that you’re going to lose your deposit.” Then I shrieked, “How can you even care about your stupid deposit?!”
“I don’t!” he cried back. “I’m just saying that I’m still hopeful that the wedding will happen. Once Eileen and I talk things out...” He trailed off. “What I mean is . . .” He cleared his throat nervously. “We have a daughter together so it’s important that we discuss the situation and try to build some sort of a relationship. But it doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”
“Jim . . .” I said, exhaustion suddenly taking hold of me, “if you can salvage your family, do it. If Eileen will take you back, you’re a very lucky man.”
“Beth . . .” he tried, but I wanted no more of it.
I pushed past him and opened the apartment door. “Goodbye, Jim.”
Thirty-one
NOW THERE WAS nothing to do but hope... and cry... and listen to sad music while drinking beer in the middle of the day with my hairy legs. I couldn’t believe that in the span of six months, I’d had to go through the grieving process twice! But the first time, I had only been mourning the loss of my relationship with Colin. This time, I had lost so much more.
It surprised me a bit how little I missed Jim. Obviously, it was easier getting over a lying, cheating scumbag than a sweet, loving guy with commitment issues. But it was unnerving to think that I had so recently hoped for a future with a man whose disappearance from my life felt so unremarkable. Of course, I shed a few tears for what might have been, but even then, I wasn’t really crying over Jim. More often than not, when I thought about my bleak, lonely, childless future, it was Colin I really missed. At least with Colin, I had been able to be myself. But I could almost accept my impending spinsterhood. The loss of the stitch ’n bitch club I could not.
I was still in touch with Angie, of course. Our friendship preceded the knitting circle by several years. But her weekends with Thad in Vancouver and LA usurped most of her free time. Martin and I had maintained our relationship through our professional connection, meeting for coffee every so often. But my friendship with Sophie was a little more tenuous. There was still some contact, usually in the form of a forwarded email joke she’d sent to a number of recipients—usually something about women being much smarter and more capable than men. While I always responded with an: OMG! LOL! So true! So true! That was the extent of our relationship. Angie said Sophie and Nicola were spending quite a bit of time together.
My knitting sat untouched in its Safeway bag in the corner of my bedroom. While it would have been a productive use of my ample downtime, I simply couldn’t bear to resume my scarf project. Picking up the cream-coloured yarn would have been too painful a reminder of the precious times I’d once shared with my friend
s. I hadn’t realized it then, but our Thursday meetings had become the epicentre of my social life. With my solitary career and the deterioration of past relationships with Newlywed, Engaged, and Pregnant, the stitch ’n bitch club members were practically my only friends. Well, I had Mel and Toby, of course, but the fact that I counted a golden retriever as one of my friends was more than a little sad. It was just that he was always so upbeat and friendly that I was sort of starting to enjoy his company. I had to face it. I was thirty-three and a half, and my life was a mess.
Since I’d already lost several months of the year to wallowing in self-pity, I decided to cut it short this time. All the hours I’d been spending alone in the apartment were having a negative impact on my personality. I was even a little concerned I might be picking up some of Kendra’s traits. I’d been talking to my mom on the phone a lot, and was even starting to appreciate the simple comic appeal of Maid in Manhattan. I needed to make a change in my life, something major. I discussed it with my good friends Mel and Toby at the dog park on a sunny May morning.
“I’m thinking of getting a real job,” I said.
Mel gave me look. “Don’t degrade your craft like that,” she said. “Freelance writing is a real, viable career.”
“I mean a full-time job where I have to put on nice clothes and go to an office.”
“Oh . . . Why?”
“Because,” I said, sounding disturbingly like a whiny adolescent, “I need more social contact. I need to meet some new people.” Who aren’t afraid to let me near their older male relatives, I added to myself. I had told Mel about my breakup with Jim, but I couldn’t bear to tell her why. With Mel, there was no need for an explanation. “Rebound guy,” she’d said, with an I told you so expression.
Mel whistled loudly with two fingers, beckoning Toby. “I couldn’t deal with all the office politics again.”
“I know what you mean, but you and I are different. You thrive on being alone and I just... feel lonely.”
“But I’m not alone, am I?” Mel said in a syrupy voice. Toby, tongue lolling happily, had just joined us. She played with the scruff of his neck. “Oh no, I’m not alone! Oh no, I’m not! I have my precious Toby-Woby-Woo!”
She was going to suggest I get a dog to keep me company, I just knew it. But surprisingly, she clipped Toby’s leash to his collar and said, “What kind of job did you have in mind?”
I shrugged. “Some kind of editorial position at a magazine, I guess. I mean, that’s my background...and I still enjoy the work.”
We began walking back toward Mel’s station wagon. “Well, if you think it will make you happy, then great. I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear of any openings.”
“I appreciate that.”
Mel opened the hatchback and Toby obediently jumped inside. “Do you want a lift home?” she asked.
“I’ll walk,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful day.” My friend stared at me for several seconds. “What?” I squirmed under the intensity of her gaze.
“I’m proud of you,” Mel answered with a maternal smile. “You’ve had a tough year, but you haven’t let it get you down.”
A tough year? She didn’t know the half of it! But her words of encouragement were just the boost I needed to forge ahead. “Thanks,” I said, and then spontaneously gave her a hug. Mel was not really the “huggie” type. She seemed to get all the physical contact she needed from her pet, but the moment seemed to call for some show of affection.
“Okay then...” she said awkwardly, prompting me to release her. “We’d better be going. I’ll talk to you soon.” She got into her car, and turned the key in the ignition.
“Bye Mel! Bye Toby!” I called as she pulled out of the parking lot.
From that moment on, I decided to throw myself into my career. I began my job search immediately, sending emails to colleagues, setting up coffee dates, and updating my résumé. I also researched all the magazines based in Seattle and ranked them from best fit to worst. The arts and culture mags topped my list, followed by city and lifestyle, home and decor, and then sailing and gardening, with fishing a distant sixth. There were a number of environmental monthlies in town, but I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t going to take any chances that my path might cross with Jim Davidson’s again.
When my résumés and cover letters had been sent, I focused on my freelance gigs. I was still writing reviews for “Caffeine Culture” and I hoped to continue even after I was employed full time. It was enjoyable, got me out of the apartment, and over the course of a year, probably saved me about three thousand dollars in lattes and muffins. I’d also picked up a feature on the slow food movement and a movie review. It was enough to pay the rent and to keep me from obsessing about everything I’d lost . . . well, almost enough.
On an overcast Monday afternoon, the phone rang. As always, the sound filled me with a mixture of hope and dread. Could it be Sophie, asking for the resumption of the stitch ’n bitch club? Or Eileen Davidson’s lawyer informing me I had been charged with causing his client undue emotional distress? Or could it be Northwest Home and Garden offering me a position? Or Pacific Fisherman ? Nervously, I picked up the receiver.
“B-Beth?” Angie stammered. Her voice was hoarse, barely recognizable. Oh god. Something was wrong.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
“It’s—it’s . . .” Her words dissolved into sobs. “Oh shit,” she finally managed, “can you come over?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I practically ran up Queen Anne Hill to Angie’s apartment. When I arrived, I was sweating under my light spring jacket and my breath was laboured. God, I really needed to sign up for an exercise class or join a soccer team or something. I leaned against the wall, exhausted, as I rang the buzzer.
“Come in,” Angie’s voice crackled through the intercom.
Instead of darting up the stairs as I had planned, I took the elevator. I didn’t want to pass out or throw up as soon as I reached Angie’s apartment. When I stepped off the lift, I heard her door swing open at the end of the hall. As fast as my weary legs could carry me, I went to her.
“Thanks for coming,” Angie said, ushering me inside. My impeccable friend was wearing a ratty pair of yoga pants and a rather matronly looking cardigan. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose shiny. Even the lush mane of hair she took such pride in was scraggly and unkempt. Her appearance indicated only two possibilities: Either one or both of her parents had been killed in a car accident, or Thad had dumped her.
“What happened?” I asked, taking her hands in mine.
“He—he b-broke up with me!” she wailed.
At least her parents were still alive. But I knew she’d find little consolation in this fact, given her current state of mind. “Let’s go sit down,” I said, gently. “You can tell me all about it.”
When we were seated side by side on her plush charcoal sofa, Angie spoke. “He s-said that we were in two different places in our lives.”
“That’s ridiculous! He knew when he started dating you that you lived in Seattle,”
“Not geographically,” she said, with a slight roll of her eyes. “Spiritually . . . existentially . . .”
“Oh.”
“H-he said that he needed someone more in tune with h-his being. He said, right now, he just wants to focus on his career.”
“Oh, hon,” I said, sympathetically. “Obviously it’s hard to hear, but if that’s the way he feels, then it’s better that he told you now. You don’t want to waste years of your life with someone who thinks you’re not...” I scrambled for the words, “. . . existentially in tune with him.”
She looked at me, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “He—he texted me!! He broke up with me on his BlackBerry!”
“Oh my god!”
“He’s so heartless!”
“He’s so Hollywood,” I corrected. “Seriously, Ange—I know I never met the guy, but it doesn’t sound like he is
living in our reality. These movie people get together and break up at the drop of a hat! Consider yourself lucky that he didn’t marry you first.”
“I guess,” she mumbled.
A sudden, frightening thought struck me. “Please tell me you didn’t tattoo his name on your ass!”
“No,” Angie said, relieved. “I was still picking out the font from the sample book.”
“Phew!”
“I know.” There was a long pause as Angie blew her nose loudly. “It’s just that... I hadn’t cared for anyone that much since Trent Hanson in eleventh grade.”
I squeezed her hand. Trent Hanson was the high school sweetheart whose painful betrayal prompted her move to Seattle and subsequent reinvention.
“It took me so long to let myself fall for someone again,” Angie continued. “I just feel so used.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly, “I know what you mean.”
“Oh, Beth,” Angie cried. “I know you do. How are we ever going to let ourselves love again?”
“Well,” I said with a sigh, “we just have to remember that there are still good guys out there.”
“Really?” Angie said, skeptically. “Name two.”
“Well . . . My dad . . . your dad . . .”
“Please tell me you’re not planning to date someone that old again?”
“Not without a thorough background check, anyway. Okay... there have to be some quality guys our age, like . . . Martin!” I said, almost jubilantly.
“That’s one . . .”
I thought for a long moment and then added softly, “Like Colin.”
Angie didn’t think she could eat, but I convinced her to let me order us some Japanese food. We sat cross-legged at her coffee table, eating our bento boxes, drinking an Australian Merlot, and discussing our broken hearts. Of course, I let Angie do most of the talking. Her betrayal was the freshest and still the most painful. But as she vented about the stupid things she’d done for love—“That sweat lodge smelled like stinky feet!”—my mind drifted to my earlier revelation. Colin really was one of the good guys. He wasn’t without his issues, obviously, but he was a caring, trustworthy human being. And I had let him go, turned him away, told him to get over me ...
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