Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  I finally found the dress in Lord & Taylor, just across the street from the mall, on Boylston Street. Lord & Taylor is a gem of a store, with sales ladies who’ve devoted twenty, thirty, and yes, sometimes even forty years to its service. I love these ladies, love chatting with them, soliciting their advice on hats and handbags, hearing about their dead husbands and fifty-year-old kids.

  What I finally chose came very close to the outfit worn by the Julia Roberts character, Tess, in the remake of Ocean’s 11, the night of the big fight. The night her eyes were opened to the fact that her current boyfriend was scum and her thieving ex-husband the real worthy man.

  The dress was gold and glittery, slim-fitting, with a slim halter neck and open back. It came to the knees. Over the dress I would wear a slightly longer evening coat, of a gentler gold, and with a slight swing. The outfit struck me as dignified yet ultrafeminine.

  I figured I’d need the dignity in a big way.

  I called Doug at the office the next day. He wasn’t at his desk. He did not return my call.

  That night I went straight home after work and crawled into bed with Fuzzer. Doug and I hadn’t had sex in almost two weeks. Something deep inside me knew we’d never have sex again.

  I curled up on my side, pulled the covers over my head, and mourned.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Damion met me at seven and we took a cab to the Park Plaza hotel.

  “Thanks again for doing this,” I said when we were settled in the cab’s backseat.

  “You should thank Frederick for lending me out on a Saturday night,” Damion teased

  “I will thank him,” I promised.

  Damion wore a tux of his own, a Filene’s Basement, single-breasted Hugo Boss special. He looked very handsome. Frederick was a lucky man in many, many ways.

  At the hotel we checked our coats and headed for the ballroom in which the ball was to be held.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Damion said softly as we approached the fancy double doors.

  “Yeah,” I said shakily. “Maybe.”

  Once inside we got glasses of champagne and I introduced Damion to a few people I knew from the industry. I restrained myself from glancing around for Doug, not an easy thing as glancing around is a natural response to a room full of gowns, tuxedos, and glittering jewelry.

  But the inevitable finally happened. I spotted Doug across the room, with a woman in black I recognized as Carol. As casually as I could, I described him and his placement to Damion.

  “I’ve got him in my sights,” he said. And then, under his breath, “I don’t believe it.” He turned to me and said, “Erin, hold on, okay? The asshole is headed this way. He’s dragging the poor wife with him.”

  The champagne glass shook in my hand. Damion took it from me and put it down on the serving table behind us.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “I can’t face them!”

  “It’s too late. Just—hold on. Smile pretty, honey. Make him squirm.”

  I turned fully to face the Spears as they approached and felt myself quail.

  It was unmistakable, the gleam of—mischief? cruelty?—in Doug’s eye. He didn’t have to be doing this, introducing his wife to his girlfriend, but he was, and it was giving him a kick. He was enjoying humiliating me. I couldn’t imagine what he thought he was doing to Carol.

  Since when had Doug become cruel?

  Maybe he’d always been and I just hadn’t wanted to see it.

  And then they were in front of us and Doug was saying hello to me, eyeing Damion almost warily, and introducing his wife.

  Subtly, Damion put his hand on the small of my back. It was a comforting gesture, if any gesture at that moment could be.

  In her party clothes, wearing makeup and with her hair recently “done,” Carol was far more attractive than she had been in Super Stop ’n Shop back in August. She wasn’t a beautiful woman but she’d put herself together with a sure hand. The dress was simple, black, and elegant, calling attention to no particular body feature but flattering overall. Her roots were no longer grayish. A diamond pendant on a yellow gold chain shone against the black dress. Her wedding set, not the simple band she’d worn grocery shopping, also diamond and yellow gold, was large yet tasteful.

  Good job, Carol, I thought. I wanted to cry.

  Clearly, the conversation had been going on without my being aware. Suddenly, I became aware of Carol’s voice.

  “Oh, Doug’s such a workaholic,” she was saying, with a fond laugh. “He just loves what he does and he’s so good at it. Well, so I’m told! I hate how he has to work late all the time but I know it’s really what makes him happy so ...” Carol shrugged in a coquettish way that seemed entirely natural to her.

  I smiled stupidly, at a loss for even one word.

  “You must be very proud of your husband,” Damion said brightly. His ironic intent was not lost on Doug. Doug looked suddenly furious. If I wasn’t up to playing this sick game, Damion was totally willing to play in my place. With deadly intent.

  “Oh, I am!”

  “Carol,” Doug said abruptly, “I want to introduce you to someone from the Society.” Without a farewell, he took his wife’s elbow and forcefully turned her from us.

  “Nice to meet you both,” she said over her shoulder and for a second I thought I saw a look of embarrassment flicker across her face. I wondered if Doug had her trained to think it was a social faux pas that had made him drag her across a room.

  “I need to ...” I murmured.

  Damion took my arm and gracefully escorted me from the ballroom and toward the ladies’ room.

  “I’ll wait right here,” he said as I stumbled on.

  Inside, I avoided the eyes of the other overdressed women and darted for an empty stall where I threw up. Thankfully, I hadn’t eaten since late morning. As undignified an act as vomiting is, it does on occasion ease the intensity of pain.

  I waited until the room sounded empty and emerged. I patted my face with a paper towel soaked in cold water, rinsed my mouth and reapplied my makeup. It didn’t completely cover the blotchiness, or stop the slow trickle of tears that insisted on staining my cheeks.

  Finally, I rejoined Damion. He steered us to a settee in the hall.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “For what? For not having taken all this more seriously before? I could kick myself when I think ...”

  “It’s not your fault, Damion.”

  “In some ways, it is. Friends have responsibilities to each other. Anyway, it’s not too late for me to say this: End it, Erin. Now. This is no good for you. It’s no good for anyone.”

  Damion was right. Of course he was. I’d known the end was near since I’d refused the position at Trident. Maybe since before. And I’d been holding on to the shreds of my feelings, reluctant to end things with Doug for good, still scared of being without him, even though being with him was making me increasingly ill.

  “I don’t understand him,” I said. “I don’t understand how he can be so nice and supportive one day and so awful the next.”

  “You don’t have to understand him. You just have to walk away.”

  “Okay,” I whispered through tears and the congestion that always accompanies them. “I look ... I look horrible. Maybe I should wait until Monday ...”

  “No, Erin,” Damion insisted. “Let him see what he’s done to you. Let him see you, Erin—for once let him see you and not his tricked up, super career woman slutty version of you. Be yourself for the first time since you met this creep.”

  Well, Romance whispered waterily, you do look the part of the tragic heroine.

  I nodded.

  “Good.” Damion stood and patted my shoulder. “I’ll wait for you in the bar. Don’t leave without me. I want to be sure you get home safe.”

  “You’re good to me,” I whispered.

  Damion smiled. “Feels nice, doesn’t it? Now promise to find a straight guy to be good to you. It’s not rocket science, Erin. Now, go.”


  I spotted him by the coat check. The hall was empty but for the two of us.

  “Doug.” I sounded harsh even to my own ears.

  He stopped and slowly, slowly turned around. He was not pleased.

  “What is it, Erin? Carol’s waiting for me.”

  He was so handsome in his beautiful tux, so compelling, in spite of the coldness in his eyes. I wanted to be with him even then. How our bodies betray us ...

  “It’s over, Doug.”

  He glanced around and seeing no one started toward me. “Erin, come on ...”

  I put up my hand and if I looked like a traffic cop, so be it. “Don’t,” I said and the old fury rose within me. Hopefully, for the last time. “Right now I want to kill you.”

  He stopped. He looked disgusted. “Don’t make a scene, Erin.”

  “Go fuck youself,” I spat.

  And it was over.

  Chapter Sixty-two

  The first time he called was Sunday evening, less than twenty-four hours since our scene in the lobby of the Park Plaza. I was vastly surprised. I’d expected never to hear from Doug Spears again.

  The conversation was not pleasant.

  “What the hell was that about last night?” he snapped.

  I was in no mood for his crap.

  “Where are you calling from? A street corner? Don’t want to risk Carol finding your corporate cell phone bill lying around the kitchen.”

  “That’s enough, Erin,” he replied in a voice that made me wonder how he spoke to his kids when they acted up. Poor kids. “When can I see you? We have to talk.”

  “No,” I said. “We don’t.”

  I disconnected the call, slammed down the receiver and burst out crying. God, why had he called! Suddenly, the room felt dirty somehow, tainted, like a filthy creature had slithered its way through my pristine home, leaving slime and ruin in its wake.

  You might consider changing your phone number, Erin, if you’re so upset, Reason suggested, not unkindly. Get an unlisted number.

  Traitorous Romance leaned in close and whispered. But what if he really does love you and really does need to talk to you. Maybe he needed you to shock him into leaving his wife. Maybe ...

  “No!” I said aloud. “Just let me ... leave me alone.”

  I wanted to sit down and think. Because Romance had given me something to think about. The truth was, a tiny part of me was hoping that what it had said was true. That Doug had been panicked into taking action, into filing for a divorce, into ...

  Unplug the phone, Erin, Reason said firmly. And, no. I will not leave you alone. He’s an ass. And it’s my job to help you keep that in mind.

  Doug called again Monday morning. I was on another line; Heather gave me the message that I was to call back on “an urgent matter.” I didn’t. Briefly, I considered asking Heather to hold my calls for the rest of the day but a nagging sense of responsibility to my clients stopped me.

  Monday afternoon, Doug called again. I had the misfortune to answer the phone.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” His voice was low. I’m sure his office door was closed.

  “Because there’s nothing to say,” I answered. That wasn’t quite true but if I opened my mouth I’d be lost—either in a torrent of rage or in a flood of left-over feeling. Neither would lead to appropriate office behavior.

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  Okay. He had me there.

  “Erin?”

  “What?”

  “I want to see you.”

  Oh, and how a part of me wanted to see him! For one delirous moment I wavered, thought: What could one fifteen-minute meeting hurt, thought: Your hard-won self-esteem, thought: I’m strong enough to resist his power over me, thought: Am I?

  Answered myself: No. I’m not.

  Finally, I said, “That’s not a good idea. Look, I have to go. I have a meeting.”

  He’d used that excuse often enough to get me off the phone. I hung up, took a deep breath, and laughed. Disaster averted. Narrowly, but averted.

  I wasn’t much in the mood for socializing but my friends insisted I get out and join them for drinks at the bar at Tremont 647. Its location—very close to home—and its atmosphere of warmth and conviviality swayed me.

  Still, I know I was not good company.

  Abby, once again proving her native kindness and generosity, didn’t mention her own recent loss once but was all sympathy, even offering to stay with me for a while if I needed the company. She made me cry.

  JoAnne seemed to enjoy the chance to curse loud and long. She called Doug names I swear I’d never heard before, and some I’d heard but had never had the nerve to say myself. She made me smile.

  Maggie brought Jan along and I was glad for that. They brought a bouquet of flowers from Lotus Designs, my favorite florist, and not an inexpensive one. Jimmy’s work is brilliant and always inspiring. Maggie and Jan’s concern was genuine and fell somewhere between Abby’s gentle care and JoAnne’s kick-ass name-calling.

  When I got home that night, I forgot to check the answering machine and went straight to bed.

  Wednesday night, around ten o’clock. The phone rang.

  I knew it was Doug.

  Why couldn’t he just stop calling? Why didn’t he just give up?

  I didn’t see Doug’s calls as proof of his love for me or as a sincere effort at apology. I saw them for what they were—halfhearted attempts to bring me back under his control. And probably not for long. By then I wouldn’t have put it past Doug to win me back only to fling me off a short time later, like a cat finally flings away the dead mouse that no longer amuses it. Doug would see it as justifiable payback, all being fair in love and war.

  The phone continued to ring. I hesitated, considered letting the call go to the answering machine. Instead, I lowered the volume on the stereo and answered.

  “It’s me.”

  I didn’t respond. There seemed no appropriate greeting.

  “Erin?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are you?” he asked.

  Oh, why didn’t I just disconnect the call?

  “Fine. Okay.”

  When Doug spoke again I heard a thin, familiar note of impatience.

  “Have you thought about us? About our getting back together?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “And?” Doug laughed “Christ, Erin, this is like playing twenty questions.”

  Okay, now I was impatient, too. And annoyed.

  “And I still think it’s a bad idea,” I said.

  Doug sighed and tried another tack.

  “Erin,” he said, voice softer, “think about all we mean to each other.”

  “What about it? What should I think?”

  “Think about losing it all.”

  “I already have. If I ever had anything to lose in the first place.”

  “Oh, come on, stop being foolish. You ...”

  I replaced the receiver in its cradle. The phone rang again almost immediately. I turned down the sound on the answering machine, turned off the stereo, and went to bed.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  It was time to make Christmas commitments. Maggie and Jan were planning on hosting a dinner for Jan’s extended family. Unlike Maggie, Jan was close to her parents and siblings. It was a bit uncomfortable for Maggie at first, being social with relatives, but after a meeting or two she began to relax and enjoy herself. Especially when Paul and Colette applauded their daughter’s announcement that she and Maggie were tying the knot in a few weeks. Mr. and Mrs. Ward were everything the Branleys had not been. They were warm and intelligent and funny. Finally, after more than thirty years, Maggie had gotten the family she deserved.

  JoAnne surprised me—only a bit—by accepting Abby’s invitation to join the Walkers in Nantucket for an “old-fashioned” Christmas—which, I imagined, probably had a lot to do not only with old-fashioneds but with brandy Alexanders. “I’m thinking the country club’s Christmas ball might
prove interesting,” she told me. Seems Abby had enticed JoAnne with tales of well-heeled eligible men in well-fitting tuxedos.

  Abby asked me to join her, too, but I declined—with only minor regret. Dad was cooking Christmas dinner for Marilyn and her son, Kip. I boldly invited myself to the party. Dad was genuinely pleased and assigned me the role of pie bringer.

  There was another reason I wanted to stay in Boston for the holidays, one I hadn’t yet told Maggie, JoAnne, or Abby. The reason was my mother. Marie.

  Erin—Will be in town for Xmas. Will you? I have a surprise ... Marie P.S. Miss you.

  This latest caused me some trepidation, which in and of itself was nothing new. My first thought: Oh, crap, she’s pregnant. That’s what she means by the surprise. My second thought: Oh, crap, she’s bringing some greasy-haired stud muffin with her. Third thought: Oh, crap, she’s moving back to Boston. My fourth thought: Mom misses me?

  My fifth, and most startling, thought: I miss her, too.

  I called my father later that night and told him the news. He was silent for a moment.

  “Dad? Are you okay?”

  He laughed. It sounded confused. “I don’t know, Erin. I ... I guess I didn’t expect her to just—show up again.”

  “I know. Neither did I. But Mom hasn’t been predictable for a long time now, has she?”

  “True. Well—are you going to see her?”

  The question startled me. “Of course. I mean, if she even calls. She is my mother, you know.”

  Although truth be told, if Mom had shown up only a few months earlier, I’m not sure I would have had the maturity to see her.

  “Good.”

  “Dad?” I hesitated but had to know. “Will you see her? If she asks to get together.”

  More silence.