Eva shook her head. “Not interested. I’ll stick to sex without commitment to anything other than pleasure. My pleasure, to be precise.”
The bartender removed Eva’s appetizer plate. I was sure by the tiny grin on her face that she’d heard Eva’s last statement.
“Do you like your . . . friend?” I asked in a whisper. “The one you sleep with?”
“Sure,” Eva said, “he’s nice enough. He’s a bit younger than I am, a bit naive in some ways, but he’s good at providing what I need from him.”
I was trying, really, but I just couldn’t get my head around this idea. “But what do you talk about when you’re together?” I asked. “I mean, there has to be some conversation.”
“Why? I’m not interested in his life outside the room we’re occupying at the moment. And he’s not interested in mine. Well, not entirely. He does tend to ask me questions like how’s work going and have I seen any good movies lately, that sort of thing.”
Friendly chitchat I could understand. That . . . humanized things a bit for me. “So, you answer his questions?”
“Of course. I say ‘fine’ to the first question and ‘no’ to the second.”
“Eva,” I said with a shake of my head, “you’re unbelievable. Seriously, I don’t know if you’re pulling my leg or what!”
“Why would I do that? Look, if my life shocks you—”
“No, no,” I lied. “I’m just unused to hearing about—that sort of relationship. That’s all. I certainly don’t condemn you for it.”
“Well,” Eva said with a drawl, “that’s big of you.”
I reached out to give her arm a little squeeze but quickly withdrew my hand. “Oh, Eva,” I said, “you know what I mean. There’s nothing wrong with having sex without a relationship. In fact, I don’t know, maybe it’s something I should consider, at least before starting to date seriously.”
“It’s not you, Sophie,” Eva said with conviction. “It wasn’t you back in college and it’s not you now.”
I felt almost insulted by Eva’s pronouncement. A moment earlier, I’d been judgmental of her behavior. And now I wanted to be considered capable of it myself. Eva, I realized, was unsettling to be around.
“How can you be sure it’s not me now?” I asked. “It wasn’t you, either, back in college. You were so serious and sincere, but you changed. Maybe I have, too. In fact, I know I have.”
“Are you saying I’m not sincere now?” Eva gave me a grim little smile.
“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “What I mean is that you were very earnest back then, very into finding causes to support, very conscious of doing the right thing. You seemed to have no time for people you saw as—I don’t know—casual or uncommitted.” I smiled. “I remember how you used to berate John for wanting to make lots of money, for being so involved with campus politics—really, for just about everything he did!”
Eva shrugged. “He could be a jerk.”
“I never saw him as a jerk,” I said. “I always felt you were being a bit unfair about him.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion. Anyway, I don’t really remember much about college. That was a long time ago and so much has happened to me since then.”
“To us all.”
“Of course,” she said. “And, as I already mentioned, I can’t stand to dwell on the past or on what might have been. I only think about how what I do today is going to affect tomorrow and the day after that. I stay very focused and keep my eyes straight ahead. No nostalgia for me.”
“Not even a little?” And then I dared to say: “I’m curious to know why you agreed to get together after all this time.”
Eva didn’t answer my question.
Instead, she asked for the check and I left our first meeting doubting the wisdom of trying to resurrect an old friendship. But my natural optimism had been dampened, not entirely drowned. By the next morning I was looking forward to seeing Eva again. The question remained: Was Eva looking forward to seeing me?
11
Contrary to popular belief, lying will not result in your pants catching fire or in your nose growing to outrageously long proportions. These are myths meant to frighten children away from the largely adult pleasures of telling falsehoods. This writer’s advice? Enjoy yourself and lie away.
—Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire, and Other Harmful Nonsense
EVA
I’d never told anyone about Ben. Who was there to tell? At the age of forty-two I had no close friends, maybe no friends of any description—until the reemergence of Sophie. And I wasn’t sure that I could call her a friend and mean it.
And yet, I’d blabbed to her about my failed relationship with Ben. Worse, I hadn’t presented an entirely accurate picture of what had happened between Ben and me, or about how upset I was when he left. The truth was that I hadn’t been half as devastated as I’d let on. So, why the exaggeration?
See, this is what I was discovering: When you’re self-sufficient for a length of time, you fall out of the habit of trading personal information. So, when you find yourself in a rare position to talk, you either say too little or say too much and one way or the other, the other person is left with an erroneous impression of you.
Someone with an active social network, someone with friends and confidantes, doesn’t have this problem of balance. Someone like me, with no friends or confidantes, does.
How does an adult go about making friends, anyway? I don’t consider colleagues candidates for friendship. I’m convinced it’s impossible to be friends with someone in a subordinate position and I’m uncomfortable with the notion of office chatter, even if it’s among people at the same professional level. I don’t want to waste my time standing around the coffee machine sharing anecdotes about my dog or my kid; well, I can’t, really, can I? I’m not interested in the domestic details of people with whom I have a professional relationship. And I refuse to show anyone the cracks in my armor; rivals can arise from anywhere.
Some people, of course, consider family members friends. But I hadn’t called my sister, Maura, in months. Neither had she called me, but her neglect was to be expected. I’d set the tone of our adult relationship years ago, after Maura moved to the Midwest, married, and started having kids.
Even growing up we weren’t close. There are ten years between Maura and me, too large a gap to bridge in the early years. How could I tell a five-year-old about my first French kiss? Maura could come to me with her little-girl troubles—after all, I’d been there, I knew the terrain. I didn’t mind being the big sister back then. It gave me another way to identify myself: big sister, first child, good student.
No, it wasn’t until college that I knew what it was like to have a confidante—and to be one. But then . . .
I wondered what Sophie must think of me, a pitiful wreck of a woman, washed up on the rocky shores of love.
I realized I would have to erase that erroneous impression. The truth was I’d almost forgotten about the pain that the breakup with Ben had caused me. What buried memories of hurt feelings still existed had been coaxed into emergence by the unexpected presence of a sympathetic ear. But those memories could easily be stuffed back into forgetfulness. And the next time I was with Sophie—because I did want to see her again—I would watch my words more carefully.
12
Dear Answer Lady:
My conscience is killing me. I just got engaged to this wonderful man. But with every day that goes by since he gave me his grandmother’s engagement ring (!) the guilt gets worse. Sometimes I think I’m going to crack up. Sometimes I just want to blurt out the truth about my past. Sometimes I try to convince myself that it’s better to keep my first marriage a deep, dark secret. I’m divorced and there were no children. I don’t even know if the guy is alive or dead; his drug habit ended things in a very ugly way. No one else knows about this early disaster (I was nineteen) except my sister and she would never break the family silence. Still, I hate keeping a secret from my future husband. Please, h
elp me!
Dear Woman Seeped in Guilt:
First, let me congratulate you on your desire to be honest with your soon-to-be spouse. Second, let me say that given the circumstances of your first marriage, I believe that you are under no moral obligation to dredge up this old and painful information and share it with your fiancé. However, if the secret is indeed weighing on you so unbearably, speak up. If this fiancé is as wonderful as you say he is he’ll understand your reluctance to divulge an embarrassing past and appreciate your desire to open up to the man with whom you are pledging to spend the rest of your life. Keep in mind, however, that many people have a tendency to react badly to the news of prior lovers, let alone to prior spouses. Think carefully before you act. Forget about yourself and consider the feelings of your fiancé. You are in a tough situation and only you, knowing this man, can make the right decision. (I’ll expect a full report and, if things go well, an invitation to the wedding.)
SOPHIE
What was there for me in California after Jake came East for graduate school? Certainly not Brad. If anything, the proximity of my ex-husband, especially once he began to date women young enough to be his daughters, was a big negative.
And as for friends, well, there were no friends to leave. I had acquaintances but I knew that within a few weeks of my leaving I’d be almost entirely forgotten. Acquaintanceships rely on frequent face-to-face interaction. Friendships, I believed, could survive even great distances.
I suppose it was only postdivorce that I realized that in all the years I’d lived in California, I hadn’t made one close friend. Sure, I’d socialized with women I met through Jake’s involvement in school activities. The strongest thing we had in common was our children; conversation was about soccer teams and yoga classes; bake sales and SUVs; what movies were kid-friendly and what movies were not. Once our children graduated into different middle schools and then high schools, once our children needed us less and less, we mothers drifted apart. At the time I didn’t much miss their presence in my life. Girls’ night once a month gave some structure to my social life, but none of the “girls” ever meant anything to me.
Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I just didn’t try to get to know anyone well. Maybe I was just too lazy. Like with my weak attempt at a career in real estate, maybe I’d failed to find an incentive. Why did I need friends when I had my husband and my son?
Anyway, after that first, somewhat disappointing evening with Eva, I began to worry that I’d set myself up for a major disappointment by coming back East.
In reality, I knew I wouldn’t see my parents all that often. For several months each year they took off for the condo in New Smyrna Beach, and when they were here, at their home in Freeham, they enjoyed a busy social life. The last thing I wanted to do was tag along with my parents, the newly single third wheel, to be pitied by the smug married women and ogled by the regretful married men.
My parents didn’t need me in any tangible way; they were healthy and had pensions and health insurance. I was glad for that, of course. Someday, when the end approached, I might be of actual service to them, but not now, not yet.
And Jake. Well, of course, Jake still needed me, even if he protested that he didn’t. I know my own child. He had already made it a habit to stop by for dinner once a week, and that said something.
Yes, I would still have Jake for a few more years, at least until he finished his graduate program. And I consoled myself with the thought that Jake might not marry until thirty, maybe even later. That he would someday “settle down” and have a family I had no doubt. But for my own, selfish sake, I hoped that day was far in the future.
Although, it would be nice to have grandchildren. I could be of great help to Jake and his wife; I could be there whenever they needed me.
Because if no one needs you, who are you? And what’s the point of your life?
I realized with some alarm that I would have to shake off my complacency. I would have to make myself needed. At the very least, I would have to make a friend. Maybe, that friend would be Eva.
13
Say, for example, that you lifted a couple of twenties from your friend’s bag when she went to the ladies’ room. Act horrified when she tells you that she was robbed. Vow to hunt down the culprit and demand restitution. Before long you’ll completely forget that you are to blame.
—Just Forget It Ever Happened: How to Repress an Unpleasant Truth
EVA
“Want to grab something to eat? I’m starved.”
I turned from the mirror and looked hard at Sam. Why did he have to do this again? He really was good in bed. Why did he have to ruin things out of bed?
“What?” he asked, and his voice squeaked just a bit. “What’s with the look?”
“You are unbelievable. You know our deal: sex and no other involvement.”
Sam sighed and continued to button his shirt. “Eva, I’m not talking about a marriage. I’m talking about a sandwich.”
I turned back to the mirror. “Still involvement.”
“You have to eat lunch.”
“I’ll grab something on the way back to the office,” I said. And I will eat my lunch in peace.
“Why not grab it with me? There’s a good coffee place just down the block. They have great paninis.”
“Sam, no!” I swung around to face him again. He was entirely dressed now, all buttoned into his beautiful suit. “What do I have to do to make myself heard? No lunch, no dinner, no coffee, and definitely no drinks. Ever. Look, if you have a problem with this arrangement—”
Sam looked away. “No, no, I’m fine with it. Don’t go crazy, I’m fine. So, same time next week?”
“Can we do it on Tuesday, instead? I’ve got a meeting Wednesday and timing might be a little tight.”
We each reached for our Blackberry.
“Tuesday’s no good,” Sam said after a moment. “How about Thursday?”
“No. It’s Friday or we skip the week. No big deal.”
“Man. I’ve got a lunch on Friday . . . Look, I’ll cancel it.” Sam slipped his Blackberry into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and looked back at me with an expression that hovered between resignation and bemusement. “I’m not stupid. I know what a good deal I’ve got with you. Sex with no strings? It’s every man’s dream.”
“Let me tell you,” I said as I grabbed my bag, “it’s a working woman’s dream, too. I’m off. See you next Friday. Your turn to pay for the room.”
My hand was on the doorknob when Sam spoke again.
“I don’t know why we can’t just go to your apartment. It’s so close to both of our offices. Why does one of us have to lay out all this money every week?”
I sighed. Really, I wondered, was the sex worth this misery?
“You know, Sam,” I said, still facing the door, “I think you’re getting early-onset Alzheimer’s. I told you why I don’t want you in my apartment. It’s my territory, it’s my refuge, and I don’t want you getting the wrong idea. If I take you to my apartment, the next thing I know you’ll be asking for a key and popping in whenever you feel like it.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d respect your privacy, I swear. Could you face me when we talk?”
I looked at Sam over my shoulder. “Anyway, it’s a hotel or nothing and if you can’t afford the hotel, then—”
Sam waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, I can afford it. Sex with you is well worth the money, you know that.”
“I do know that,” I said carefully. “Now, don’t you forget it.”
And I left. As was our deal, Sam waited five minutes before following.
14
Dear Answer Lady:
A few weeks ago I saw one of my son’s classmates smoking pot in the parking lot of the mall. (He’s my son’s age, twelve.) I know the “social code” says that I should tell his mother (his father skipped out years ago) what I saw so that she can intervene and try to save him from a life of dissipation. But here’s the thing. I hate
this woman. She’s got her eye on every husband in town, including mine, and insists on wearing skintight clothes and wearing her hair like, I don’t know, a movie star. Did I mention that she owns her own business, a private gym? I would just love to see her perfect life go up in flames when her son gets caught doing something much worse than smoking pot (I’ve read that pot leads to all sorts of bad things, like heroin and serial killing). Legally speaking, I’m under no obligation to tell her what I saw, right? I mean, I suppose I could go to the police now and rat on her kid but I don’t think he’d get much time for such a small offense, what with him being a minor and all. Right?
Dear Deeply Disturbed Individual:
You don’t really expect me to condone your jealous, small-minded, and downright irresponsible behaviors, do you? Here’s my advice: See a therapist for your tendency toward cruelty; get your son into counseling (Clearly, with a mother like you he lacks all sense of ethics.) ; lose weight and get a haircut so that your poor husband doesn’t flinch every time he walks in the door; and, finally, get a hobby or, better yet, a job so that you don’t have time to waste on plotting revenge for imagined offenses. One more note: I’ve contacted the owner of the private gym regarding her son and she was very thankful for my concern. In fact, she offered me a full year’s membership for free! See you around!
EVA
I sat next to Sophie in her latest-model Saab as we winged our way to the suburbs to watch her son’s baseball game before driving back into Boston to meet John for dinner. “Winged” is the exact word I want here. Interestingly, given her mild nature, Sophie drove with a lead foot. All those years sitting in backed-up LA traffic must have been terribly frustrating.
The Friends We Keep Page 5