Back In the Game

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Of course it doesn’t,” Laura said gloomily. “But young women are arrogant. What young women forget is that someday their breasts will be as saggy as ours.”

  “Speak for yourself!” I laughed. “There’s some benefit to being small.”

  Nell sighed. “I suppose I really don’t mind getting older. The alternative isn’t too cheery. But I refuse to wear a purple dress with a red hat. If that’s the way to get attention, forget it. I’ll take invisibility. It’s far more sophisticated.”

  “Oh, I agree. But I don’t want to go gently, anonymously into death, either. I don’t want to look at the world someday and feel nothing sexual.” Jess shook her head. “I don’t want to be content with only a cup of sugared tea and a plain cracker. I want to drink martinis and eat Mexican food until the day I die. I might get old, but I dread having to feel old.”

  “Would you rather die now, before you’re even forty?” Laura asked with real concern.

  “Well, I would leave a prettier corpse. I don’t want old-woman skin. It’s horrifying.”

  “Jess!”

  “Relax, Laura,” Jess said with a laugh. “I’m not planning on departing this world any time soon.”

  “What you need,” Laura told her, “is a man. It’ll take your mind off gross things like age spots and liver spots, whatever they are. Go ahead, look around. There are lots of men right here in this restaurant. Well, there are some. Maybe you’ll see a man you like and he’ll like you and then you won’t feel like you’re getting old.”

  Nell shook her head. “Ah, if only life were as simple as Laura seems to think it is.”

  “I am getting old whether I feel it or not,” Jess pointed out. “Besides, a restaurant isn’t a good place to meet a man. I just want to enjoy my meal, not worry about how wobbly my chin looks when I chew.”

  “That’s one of the good things about marriage,” I said. “You can stop worrying obsessively over your appearance. Your husband knows you have a double chin, and you know he has a spare tire, so big deal. No more surprises, nasty or pleasant. There’s some appeal in the usual.”

  Though with Simon, I thought, even the usual, the everyday, was never dull. Exhausting, but never dull.

  Nell sighed. “I don’t think I have the energy to get married again. I don’t know if I have what it takes anymore to get to know a person so thoroughly. It’s an awful lot of work and for what?”

  For living with the man you adore.

  “Wait until you fall in love again,” I said, hating the words as I spoke them. “Love makes everything seem doable. Love gives you energy.”

  “Love gets you into trouble,” Nell replied speedily.

  Yes, I thought. It most certainly does.

  “Don’t you mean lust gets you into trouble?” Jess said.

  Nell smirked. “Aren’t love and lust really the same thing?”

  Yes, I thought. In many ways they are.

  Chapter 21

  Jess

  Perception #12: The grass is always greener. Remind your married man that, unlike his bitch of a wife, you like it when he farts at the dinner table.

  —Dating the Married Man: How to Get the Man You Love to Divorce His Wife

  I picked up the phone out of habit. In retrospect it was a stupid thing to do. I’ve since ordered caller ID. One’s home is one’s castle, at least it should be, and I’m all for the installation of the modern equivalent of a moat and drawbridge.

  It was Matt’s older brother, Mike. I’d never liked Mike much. Then again, neither had Matt.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. Of course he had to have called because something was wrong with Matt. Or maybe one of Matt’s parents was ill. Or maybe Mike was calling to curse me for having broken his baby brother’s heart.

  “Yeah, everything’s cool, you know.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “So, how you been?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Cool. I was, you know, just wondering. You wanna go out sometime?”

  This, I thought, has got to be a joke, a cruel joke.

  I laughed, nervously. “Okay, Mike, very funny. I’ve got to go now.”

  But Mike was serious. “No, wait, Jess. I mean it. I always liked you; you’re kind of hot, you know. So, whaddya think?”

  What did I think? Good question.

  “I think,” I said carefully, “that going out with you is a very bad idea.”

  Mike chortled. “How come? We’re both single.”

  It seemed I really was going to have to explain to Mike why his suggestion was in seriously poor taste.

  I explained and was careful not to make him angry. Mike had a temper and even over a phone line it could be nasty.

  “But Matt and I aren’t even close or anything,” he replied.

  “Still.”

  “And you cheated on him. It’s not like you’re a saint or something.”

  Mike’s voice was steady, his tone, almost conversational. He wasn’t attacking me; he was just pointing out a sorry fact.

  “Look,” I said, feeling all buzzy and sick, “I really have to go. Sorry.” And I hung up.

  Mike had hurt me but I’d done worse. I’d committed an enormously hurtful act. A good person who’d done a bad thing? Right then I wasn’t so sure.

  I called Nell. Poor Nell. She had enough to handle without my crying on her shoulder.

  Of course, she was furious on my behalf.

  “Mike’s a jackass, Jess. Didn’t he get arrested once for drunk and disorderly conduct?”

  “Yes.” I’d forgotten about that. It was just after I’d met Matt; he’d put together the bail and not spoken to his brother for a month afterward.

  “Jess,” Nell went on, “I remember that on more than one occasion you told me you felt lonely in your own home. You didn’t recklessly destroy something that was perfect to begin with. You dismantled a faulty structure. Maybe that wasn’t your conscious intention when you met Seth, but that’s what resulted.”

  My unconscious, it seemed, had a lot to answer for. “Yes,” I said, “that’s what resulted. A marriage in ruins.”

  “Anyway,” Nell went on, ignoring my self-pitying comment, “who are these people to think they can just call you up or send you a letter and tell you what they think you’re doing wrong with your life! It’s incredible, really.”

  It was incredible. It was hard to believe. But it was real.

  “I don’t think Mike meant to insult me,” I said. “He was just stating a fact. I did cheat on his brother.”

  “But what gives him the right to bring up the past to you?” Nell argued. “You were never his friend. He was entirely wrong in calling you at all.”

  “Yes,” I said. “He was wrong to call, but he was right about my cheating on his brother.”

  Nell groaned. “Maybe if his brother had laughed a bit more or hadn’t spent endless hours in front of the boob tube, you wouldn’t have had the time or the inclination to stray. Stop taking all the blame for what happened.”

  Who else was there to blame? Was Matt guilty because he wasn’t “there” enough? Was he guilty of what the Catholics call a “sin of omission”?

  I don’t think so.

  “It’s very generous of you to help me deal with this,” I said, “particularly given what you went through with Richard.”

  “What, because I was the person cheated on? Every relationship is different, Jess. If I equated you with Richard just because you both had an affair, I’d be pretty simpleminded. Besides, Matt and I couldn’t be more different. I’m far prettier than he is.”

  “And a far better friend,” I said. Tears threatened. I don’t like to cry. “Thanks, Nell. I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing when I interrupted.”

  “Ah, yes, my exciting life. I was ironing if you must know. I love linen, but it’s hell to maintain.”

  Call it what you will: poking the wound, wallowing in self-pity, slogging through shame . . . Later that night I t
ook out a box of photos of Matt and me. For some reason—lack of interest, probably—I’d never gotten around to putting the pictures in albums. In fact, aside from our official wedding album, every photo I had of Matt was in that box. I’d never even framed one for my desk.

  Well, if that isn’t telling, what is?

  The photos were bound to cause pain and discomfort. I dug right in and came up with a few shots taken on our honeymoon.

  Getting Matt to agree to Paris as our destination was a real coup. He’d wanted to go to a tropical island and do the whole sweet fuzzy drinks and cabana thing. But I’d made my case for the most romantic city in the world and convinced him.

  In one photo Matt stood in front of the Arc de Triumph. He wore a baseball cap backward. I remembered being embarrassed by the hat, but I hadn’t asked him to take it off. A good wife, I’d thought, supports her husband in all ways, even his poor sartorial choices.

  I looked hard at Matt’s boyish face and thought about how I’d dragged him from museum to museum and how he’d followed along gamely, good-naturedly. Maybe he knew the trip was the only one he’d have to make to Paris; probably he was thinking about all the football that awaited him stateside.

  I wondered: Had I ever really loved Matt? Maybe I had, in the very beginning. Why, why else would I have married him?

  But then something must have gone wrong because if I’d continued to love him, I would never have cheated on him with Seth.

  Right?

  I grabbed another handful of photos and spread them out like a deck of cards. Matt at a New Year’s Eve party given by one of his colleagues. Matt on a ski weekend in Vermont. Matt and his buddies at a football game, the Patriots’ symbol painted on their faces.

  In all of the photos Matt was smiling.

  I gathered the photos and crammed them back into the box. At ten o’clock I went out to Bar Loup. I ordered a martini and then another. I chatted with a guy in a navy blazer and khakis. Chatting led to flirting and another martini.

  I took him home. We had sex but I don’t remember much of what actually went on. He left me his number, which I immediately tore up.

  One more night to regret.

  Chapter 22

  Nell

  People make mistakes. Get over it. You thought he was Mr. Right but you were wrong. He thought you were his angel but he was wrong. Dwelling on the past will get you nowhere.

  —Oops! My Mistake! What To Do When You Marry the Wrong Person

  “Mrs. Allard?” The voice on the other end of the line was downright chirpy.

  “It’s Ms. Keats now,” I corrected.

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Keats. You are Colin and Clara Allard’s mother, right?”

  “Are my children all right?” I demanded. “Who is this?”

  The chirpy voice giggled. “Oh, I’m so sorry. This is Ms. York from Colin and Clara’s former middle school. Melinda York. Of course you’re wondering why I’m calling.”

  I glanced at the clock above the hall table. I had an appointment for a facial in twenty minutes.

  “I assume it has something to do with the school’s scholarship fund. The board wants my help?”

  “Oh, no,” Ms. York said, “nothing like that. You know Mrs. Sheridan?”

  Nineteen minutes. “Barbara Sheridan?”

  “Yes. Well, she still has a son here, little Justin. I was chatting with her the other day when she happened to mention that you and your husband . . . Well, that you’re divorced.”

  Barbara Sheridan had nothing better to talk about than my divorce. Not surprising. Her own life was sadly distorted; everyone knew her husband had a mistress; he even vacationed with her, back in her native Argentina.

  “Yes,” I said, with some annoyance. “I’m divorced.” What did the school want me to do? Give a talk on the evils of homosexuality? No, thanks. The sanctity of marriage? Absolutely no, thanks. How to find a good divorce attorney? That I could do.

  “Great!” Ms. York yipped. “Oh, I mean, well, what I mean is that I know an absolutely wonderful man for you. He’s an old friend of my husband and gosh, I’ve known him now for almost eight years. He’s just wonderful.”

  Fifteen minutes and counting. There was no way I was going to jeopardize my appointment at the spa.

  I picked up my purse. “Thank you, Ms. York, but I really don’t think I—”

  The chirpy voice interrupted. “Oh, just give it a chance. I really do think you and Roger are perfect for each other.”

  “Really, I appreciate the thought but—”

  “Now, Mrs. Allard—”

  “Ms. Keats,” I corrected. Damn good breeding. I should have slammed down the phone right then.

  “Yes, of course, Ms. Keats. Certainly. Now, Ms. Keats, I really won’t take no for an answer. May I give Roger your number?”

  “Yes, yes, fine,” I snapped. “I’m sorry but I have to go.”

  Ridiculous, what I had to do to get this annoying woman off the phone. This Roger person had to be easier to put off than the twittering Ms. York.

  I made my appointment with only a minute to spare.

  Roger called that evening and in spite of my firm intentions to disappoint him, I found myself succumbing to a voice that was deep and rich and slow. How awful could the man that belonged to such a sensual voice be? Even when he suggested we meet at a popular restaurant in Waltham, a good hour from downtown Boston, I agreed.

  Oh, the stupid things good breeding and hormones make us do.

  I handed the valet parking attendant my keys and stepped inside the noisy, cavernous restaurant. Roger had said he’d meet me at the bar; he told me he’d be wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and no tie.

  He wasn’t hard to miss. He was very handsome in a sort of slick, Cary Grant way, tall and well built with thick hair expertly cut. And the suit was beautiful.

  Richard would love to know his tailor, I thought.

  Richard! No more thoughts of Richard, especially not on a date with a handsome man.

  Roger smiled and stood as I approached.

  “Nell?”

  “Yes.”

  He extended his hand. “You’re even more lovely than Melinda said you were.”

  Well, I thought, he certainly knows how to greet a gal.

  We were led to our table and an officious waiter took our drink order. A glass of Prosecco for me, a neat bourbon for Roger.

  A manly drink, I noted.

  “So, Nell,” Roger said, “tell me a bit about yourself.”

  I did. And then he told me a bit about himself. And immediately it was clear that we had virtually nothing in common beyond being residents of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  I enjoy watching tennis; Roger thought it was a boring sport. I read a novel a week; Roger reads only nonfiction. I am a Democrat; Roger is a Republican.

  Why had the chirpy Ms. York thought Roger and I would click? What was this obsession with matchmaking some women couldn’t shake?

  Roger put his empty glass on the table with some force. “So,” he said, “what do you think?”

  I had no idea what Roger had been saying. “I’m sorry,” I said. “My mind must have wandered. What do I think about what?”

  “About coming home with me tonight. My house is only about fifteen minutes from here.”

  How convenient for you, I thought. I smiled falsely but politely. “Oh, I’m—”

  “You look like the kind of woman who likes it doggie style.” Roger winked, grinned.

  “What?” I blurted.

  And then he barked. Loud enough for the man at the next table to snicker. Loud enough for me to feel utterly humiliated. And angry.

  I stood. “Go to hell,” I said, with a large and lovely smile on my face. And I left Roger there, no doubt already eyeing the bar for another woman who looked like the type who liked to do it while suspended from a bridge.

  I was starving. I had been looking forward to the swordfish special posted on a chalkboard over the bar.

 
I took off my dress and heels, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and decided to become a recluse.

  Why not? It was becoming increasingly clear that I was not cut out for dating and all its many ugly aspects.

  Like sex with someone you hardly know.

  Suddenly, I remembered something Laura had said not long before. I’d cut her off but her meaning had been clear enough. Maybe, she’d suggested, if I had been more interested in sex, Richard wouldn’t have—left me.

  Ridiculous.

  I know the facts.

  I know you can’t make someone gay. I know people are born gay or not gay.

  Still, right after finding that note in Richard’s pocket, I had wondered if Richard’s interest in men was somehow my fault. Not that his interest in men is in any way wrong. But I had wondered about my own role in his emerging life.

  What woman in my position wouldn’t have wondered?

  I finished the sandwich and opened a pint of mint Oreo ice cream. It’s my biggest vice, that ice cream.

  I dug right in. And I wondered what doggie style would be like.

  Chapter 23

  Laura

  Don’t kid yourself. The process of extricating your life from his will take years and might never be totally completed. Like a bad smell, the ex-husband lingers. Practice holding your nose.

  —Unraveling the Ties That Bind

  I swore I wouldn’t do it.

  Five hundred dollars is an awful lot of money.

  But I was getting nowhere fast dating men I met in produce and men my colleagues thought were so perfect. Really, what were they thinking?

  So I wrote the check and signed up with a dating service called Happy Couples. Their office was really bare and plain. Nothing about the place said romance. There were no flowers in glass vases or photos of couples strolling the beach at sunset.