by Sarah Lassez
It didn’t stop there. Wilhelm continued to toss about little hints of marriage like colorful sparkling confetti. “I need to have a conversation with your father,” he’d say, or “Have you found your dress yet?” To that last question I laughed and shook my head, because no, of course I hadn’t found my dress yet! Geez. Who did he think I was? I was utterly confused about my dress! Completely torn over ivory silk charmeuse, or white satin organza; a ball gown or an A-line silhouette. Had I found my dress yet? Please.
To keep myself assured that all was true and I should be as happy as I was, I periodically checked in with psychics. Since I’d first called Erlin, I’d also ventured out and called others, and began keeping a log of their names and readings in an effort to find one who was cheaper than Erlin and yet just as accurate. As much as I loved Erlin, each call escalated the balance on my credit cards in a rather alarming manner, and the way I saw it, if one psychic insisted we’d be engaged in August, I was tempted to believe, but if a dozen all agreed, it must be true. And amazingly, most did agree. Of course there were a few psychics who insisted on a different outcome, who’d say horrible things such as “I see a breakup, and it’s going to be a bad one.” Upon hearing those bitter and cruel words, I’d simply hang up the phone and make a note in my log to never ever call that “psychic” again. And then I’d leave really negative, scathing feedback. There. Problem solved. Bad psychic. Bad.
Each day, we fell deeper for each other, though he—with the innocence of one who’d never before had a broken heart—tended to express his feelings, while I stubbornly fought to reign mine in. With tears in his eyes he’d profess he’d never been this happy before, and I’d smile and nod and make a note of the exact words so I could later mentally replay them over and over, savoring a private elation that would keep me awake and planning our honeymoon or naming our future children till the sun sliced through the curtains.
Everything was just about ideal. He talked of us moving in together, we walked hand in hand, he called me “darling.” And, being the true metrosexual he was, fashion was a prime concern and hobby of his. Now this was an interest I could share. Proving to be the supportive girlfriend by accompanying my boyfriend in his lengthy shopping excursions was definitely something I could handle, and my role was one I took on with vigor.
What I quickly learned, however, was that though he shopped for hours, he never actually bought anything. Instead, on just about each and every one of his precious days off, he went window-shopping…at discount stores. For an entire afternoon he’d wander through the crowded and chaotic aisles of Ross and Big Lots, then cap off the day with a tour of T.J. Maxx. Loehmann’s, a discount store in Beverly Hills, was reserved for special occasions. Loehmann’s was his treat.
This never ceased to confuse me. I mean, if you’re going to window-shop, why not meander through the clean and tasteful floors of Barneys, Saks, or Neiman’s? Window-shopping at Ross was simply some strange form of self-deprivation, not an act of fantasy. Still, who was I to judge? I was Miss Live Beyond My Means, an unemployed actress with tens of thousands of dollars of debt (a number that was growing exponentially), and still I could justify charging a very pricey pair of pink Chanel sunglasses. But you know, I had to have those sunglasses. It’s L.A. It’s sunny.
So in truth I respected his thrifty approach. I figured we’d balance each other as a married couple. He’d keep us from dangling into the jaws of bankruptcy while I’d bestow upon him the joy of throwing caution to the wind, and the unbridled bliss of designer accessories.
Soon our custom was to end a long day of discount-store window-shopping by unwinding in Wilhelm’s apartment building’s hot tub. This involved Wilhelm in his spot—across from me, on the top step, water only halfway up his calves, an ashtray by his side, a cigarette perched in his lips, and a beer in his hand—and me practically lost in bubbles as I stared at him in frustration. At first his little routine, his position from which he would not budge, amused me. He’d take his spot and I’d laugh at how predictable he was, how settled into his habit. But then…then I’d start to look at other couples with longing, couples who sat in the hot tub side by side as, you know, a couple. I’d try to comfort myself by making up excuses, like he must not like hot water (though, him being the one to suggest we go to the hot tub, a place pretty much known for hot water, tended to challenge that theory), or that maybe he just didn’t like getting wet. Maybe he was worried about his hair?
Ultimately, the excuses proved little comfort. With jealousy I’d watch other couples, like the flighty big-chested redhead and her sexy surfer boyfriend who lived in the corner unit, both constantly in the hot tub and practically sitting on top of each other—until, that is, with almost ritualistic certainty he’d start tickling her, and she’d squeal and pretend to get away, and they’d grab their towels and run off, giggling. My heart would clench and I’d look away, consoling myself with the knowledge that she wasn’t about to go upstairs and be served a homemade gourmet three-course meal with the appropriate accompanying wine. No, that was me! I was getting the three-course meal! I was about to go upstairs and start the evening with a sweet chenin wine and foie gras!
Of course what I didn’t like to dwell on was that while Wilhelm arranged garnishes on a plate or decanted a bottle of wine, that redhead and her hot surfer boyfriend were most likely getting it on. They weren’t consumed with food, or the meticulous presentation of food; they were consumed with each other. This was something that had begun to concern me about Wilhelm. I was coming to terms with the idea that perhaps it wasn’t just the long hours and stress he was under that rendered him too tired…. It was that he had very little interest in sex.
I’d never encountered this problem before. After some lengthy debates with Gina—who herself had gone through a bout of dating gay men—we decided he wasn’t gay; he simply had a low sex drive. I did hours of research on the Internet and learned that many men had low sex drives, though the discovery was little comfort. Being with someone who has a low sex drive is like continually heating an empty teakettle, as no matter what you do, you ain’t gettin’ tea, and after a while you get tired of standing at the stove.
Naturally the psychological fun and games kicked in. As I was essentially being told he was off limits, I thought about him constantly, always trying to conjure new ways to seduce him or at least get his attention. The one time he actually truly noticed me, and initiated things, was when I decided to cook him a three-course meal…topless. Of course, I’d interpreted “three-course” in a slightly different way, and what I prepared was actually one main dish and two sides, but I figured that equaled three, and I was quite impressed with myself. Though even then, standing at the counter, his lips light on my neck, I had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t so much a sexual drive that had brought him to me, but rather a commanding need to get a close-up view of my culinary effort. If I had to wager, I’d say that as we kissed, his eyes were open and he was studying, with alarm, my overzealous attempt at mincing mint—practically a green puree—on the chopping board.
And then, one evening in the hot tub, I was studying him for any signs of amorous intent, when he said something that killed any and all of my ardent thoughts: One of their partner hotels in Johannesburg was looking for a chef.
“As in South Africa?” I sputtered, then recovered. I had to be cool. No panicking. I sat up straight so my ears were above water. I had to pay attention.
“Yes, that Johannesburg.”
“You’re not thinking of moving, are you?”
And to this, to my masked plea of, “Don’t go! I’ll die if you go!” he simply shrugged. As casually as I possibly could, I asked what would happen to us if he took that job, and to my horror he looked surprised, as if he’d just now been told I was his girlfriend and not merely an accessory that came with the hot tub.
“If I took the job?” he said, still looking confused. “Well, you’d come with me, of course.”
Of course. I would go with him.
Despite everything, despite Erlin and all the psychics’ promises, and despite anything Wilhelm had said in the past, that moment was the cannonball to the walls I’d built around me. Whereas before I’d indulged in happy optimistic thoughts and designed rings and shopped for dresses, it was all different now. Suddenly the knowledge I had came from deep within; it was a feeling of conviction, of certainty, of confidence. Just like that, I believed. And just like that, I let myself go.
Our future life together. Fiery sunsets in South Africa; hills of fig and almond trees in Portugal; the crisp, whitewashed, mythic beauty of Greece. We would go everywhere. Sand in our shoes, the sun on our shoulders, our passports filled and worn. And of course we’d stay in all the luxury hotels, places with mini sewing kits and fluffy white robes. Granted, Wilhelm would be working in these hotels, but whatever. I wasn’t about to let his employment mar my fantasies.
Then arose the issue of what I would do. I never wanted to give up acting, but without knowing, let’s say, Thai, I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to strike up a career as a starlet in Phuket. And although I don’t know where the idea came from, I started picturing myself as a lounge singer…and I dug it. I’d be a dark-haired version of Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys, wearing a sexy red dress and slithering about on a piano, my sultry voice stopping busboys in their tracks, my glamour making wives eye their husbands. And then later, after my show, once he was off work, Wilhelm and I would meet in our dark room atop an impossibly high building, below us a light-streaked ruby-and-sapphire city.
The best part of my new plan was that as a lounge singer I’d still be an entertainer, yet I’d be mercifully removed from the twisted pressures of the A-, B-, C-, or F-list life. It was simple. I didn’t need Hollywood; I just needed a bar, a piano, and a killer dress. That was it. It was the answer. I had a new identity: I’d be Wilhelm’s wife and the best damn luxury-hotel lobby/lounge singer ever.
A few days later I remembered a reading Aurelia had done for me, back when I was still with Jonas. She’d said she’d seen me with my own business—and she’d said it had something to do with hotels and entertainment. At the time I’d had the fleeting worry I’d end up an independent call girl, but now it all made sense! Wilhelm works in hotels, and I’m a lounge singer!
Everything was wonderful. My gleaming future was about to unfold, and August was the month when it would happen. As I went off to the bank to cash my unemployment check, I was in absolute heaven.
6
The End of Round One
THE PROGRESSION FROM GIRLFRIEND TO FIANCÉE to wife can be documented in the magazines found on a woman’s coffee table. As a girlfriend, I poured through the pages of Marie Claire and Glamour and Vogue. As a fiancée, I should have been compiling stacks of Modern Bride and Elegant Bride and The Knot, but since I couldn’t let Wilhelm know I was on to him and his plans to propose, the only logical thing to do was to prepare for the role of Sarah the Wife. So as August approached, I started up subscriptions to Martha Stewart Living, O, and Real Simple. I even considered making a doctor’s appointment so I could hijack a few issues of Redbook or Better Homes and Gardens, though ultimately I decided that those magazines were really for mothers, or at least wives in a later stage.
I hurled myself into my new role as Sarah the Wife, and at the end of each day had practically memorized entire articles on making curtains or the best ways to organize a closet. In the evenings Sarah the Wife cut out recipes from magazines with surgical precision, carefully adding them to a cookbook she was making, one tailored to the tastes of Wilhelm the Husband, a very discriminating creature who couldn’t be satisfied with basic dishes such as macaroni and cheese. And though difficult, Sarah the Wife completely ignored her Neiman Marcus catalog to instead focus on the Williams-Sonoma catalog, coveting with a scary passion the Le Creuset pots shaped like hearts and the KitchenAid Tilt-Head Stand Mixer in the exclusive pink satin pearl finish. Eventually, I decided, Sarah the Wife would even take up knitting (just as soon as she’d managed to give up buying bath products rather than buying yarn) and would be perfect in every way, like an ad for how the job should be done: young (fine, “not old”) and sexy, combining with flair the worlds of pot roasts and stilettos, teddies and All-Clad copper pots.
The one thing I, as Sarah the Wife, had issues with was décor. Perhaps as a result of his metrosexuality, Wilhelm had a very clear sense of style and a very firm choice in interior design—and that was stark and modern, clean lines and no frills, Lucite and Le Corbusier. In contrast, I favored antiques and toile fabrics, messy bouquets of flowers, and velvet curtains. My room had ornately carved French walnut nightstands, a floral bedspread, oriental rugs, and a sense that someone had been living there for approximately two hundred years.
I quickly came to terms with the fact that everything I owned would have to go. It was okay, I told myself, I loved him enough that his tastes would become my tastes, his interests my interests. Though I’d always considered myself something of a feminist, touting women’s rights and the importance of independence, it was becoming evident that perhaps that wasn’t really the case. I guess deep down I was a 1950s housewife, a 1950s housewife who doubled as a lounge singer.
After brimming with shame over my unevolved state, I got over it. I saw things logically: After ten years of struggles and pain and rejection, would being taken care of be so bad? No. What was so wrong about being a housewife, anyway? Nothing. I mean, sure I’d have to get rid of all those pesky hopes and dreams I’d always had, but it’s not like my efforts had been panning out. Might as well focus on Wilhelm, the one thing in my life that was on the right track.
Still, I needed to maintain some of my identity and not completely fold myself into him. Thus I decided to absolutely put my foot down and insist on being allotted at least one little room in our future house, where I could sequester all my belongings. There. Identity secured.
Yes, Sarah the Wife was the answer. In the face of stark unemployment, dwindling funds, and a life with no career, I simply counted the days till August, and debated over china patterns.
Suddenly August was two weeks away, just fourteen days off, which meant Wilhelm had only about 336 hours to come up with a romantic and wonderful proposal. Not that I really thought he was going to propose on August first—I’m not that crazy. But I figured I should be prepared and looking memorable starting on the first of August. No more figuring my hair was fine unwashed as long as it was in a ponytail, no more deciding my chipped nail polish would go unnoticed if I wore big distracting rings. No. When he told the story of the proposal to our future children, Max and Madeleine, he’d tell them their mother’s hair was shining, her nails were gleaming, and her eyes were sparkling between perfectly applied eyeliner. “She looked radiant,” he’d say, and beside him I’d smile from my lounge chair, the reflection of our infinity pool wavering in my tearing eyes.
Strangely, I was so caught in the momentum of our approaching proposal that I barely had time for readings. It was, in a sense, time to sit back and let the predictions I’d been waiting for happen, to enjoy the life I was about to have. Besides, one of my last calls had been to a psychic named Evangeline, a woman who’d cheerfully said in a Southern drawl, “M’dear, your relationship is an impendin’ train wreck.” Immediately I recognized her as the evil person she was and decided her accent was brash and disagreeable, and then I noted that her ratings weren’t nearly as stellar as Erlin’s. I had nothing to worry about, but I decided to take a break from readings just so I didn’t upset myself with people who undoubtedly had miserable existences and enjoyed hurting younger women whose entire amazing lives were about to unfold. They were bitter, I knew, and nothing’s worse than a bitter psychic.
July thirty-first arrived, and something horrible occurred to me. He didn’t know my ring size. How could he buy a ring? Obviously I couldn’t just tell him, so I went to my jewelry box and lifted from its depths all the rings I’d ever owned. Carefully I cleaned each o
ne so they’d catch as much light as possible, then slyly planted them around the house, leaving a couple on the coffee table, a few on the end tables, one on the bathroom sink, and a dozen on the kitchen counter. I knew it was just a matter of time till Wilhelm seized his chance, pocketed one, and took it to a jeweler. Then again, I reassured myself, there was the chance he’d somehow already figured it out, and I realized that as a metrosexual he might possess the ability to determine ring size visually. Of course! I was almost certain that was it, and tried to remember all the times I’d seen him looking at my hands, my heart racing as I realized he looked at my hands a lot.
Content that he’d already found a way to ascertain my ring size, I watched him like a hawk for any signs of debating about my ring, ordering my ring, or receiving news that my ring had arrived. Then one evening, a few days into August, I saw such a sign. We’d just returned from a long, strenuous day of discount shopping at an outlet mall and were relaxing at my house, when he requested to use my computer to check his e-mails. Of course I let him, and pretended to watch TV in the next room as I pictured him grinning at an e-mail that, oh, I don’t know, maybe said something like, “Your 1920s platinum 1.79 carat Old European–cut diamond ring is ready for pickup, and we’ve made sure that all six French-cut sapphires on the sides are secured and certified.”
After a while I got hungry and wandered to the kitchen, a trek that involved passing through the dining room, the location of the computer. Sensing my presence, he quickly minimized something, something that looked like an e-mail, and pretended to study an eBay listing for a Giorgio Armani shirt. Hmmm. My ring suspicions pretty much confirmed, I continued into the kitchen, found a bag of potato chips, and was about to pop a chip into my mouth, when an absolutely horrible, wretched thought swept over me: I might not like the ring. What with our vastly different tastes in décor, there was a huge chance we wouldn’t agree on jewelry. I liked antique rings that people consider heirlooms, and he’d like contemporary rings people consider art pieces. This, despite my detailed mulling on the subject, had never occurred to me, and with horror I saw him on bended knee, presenting me with a modern ring made of titanium, a stark ring consisting of only one single stone—clean lines and no frills. I lost my appetite. I put the chip back. I had to see the ring.