Vanessa gave me a look that seemed to say, “Don’t be coy, it’s annoying” and said: “Look, John, everyone knows you’re in the market for a wife, it’s all over town.”
“It is?” I asked, though, of course, I already knew as much.
“Yes,” Vanessa replied briskly. “And everyone knows there’s no way you’re going to settle down with some subpar woman with a poor education, a dead-end job, and a cheap haircut.”
“Oh.”
“So,” she went on efficiently, “as the kind of woman everyone knows you’re going to pick to be your wife, I’m asking: Kids aren’t part of the deal, are they? Because I’ve never been interested in doing the mommy thing and I’m not about to change my mind at thirty-five.”
Love? Wasn’t love supposed to have something to do with marriage? Clearly, not for Vanessa. I was being interviewed for the job of husband; she assumed she was being interviewed for the job of wife. I was an unwilling participant in a very strange sort of corporate merger.
I cleared my throat. I didn’t need to but I did. Vanessa was looking at me in expectation, hands folded on the table.
“Well, Vanessa,” I said. “I’m sorry. I guess this meeting—I mean, this date—is over because you see, I do want kids. Lots of them, four or maybe five. And I’ve been considering the benefits of homeschooling. Of course, the mother would be in charge of that. And of getting dinner on the table for the kids by six.”
Vanessa’s face registered nothing, not even minor disappointment. “Negotiable?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid this issue is one hundred percent nonnegotiable.”
Vanessa absorbed this for a moment, then unfolded her hands and sat back. “Well,” she said. “Okay. It’s too bad, really. I could see us being married. We look good together, don’t you think?”
Yikes, I thought. This woman brings shallow to a whole new level.
“That’s irrelevant at this point, Vanessa.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Vanessa picked up her menu. “Let’s order anyway. I’ve been dying to come here for ages. I hear the food is fabulous.”
“You want to stay and have dinner together?”
Vanessa shrugged. “Sure. Why not? No hard feelings, right? It’s just business.”
I looked at her Botoxed face, at her lifted eyes and thought: No feelings whatsoever. But, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Sure,” I said, “no hard feelings.”
And if this really is just business, I thought, maybe there’s a way I can expense this dinner.
18
Dear Answer Lady:
My son will soon be applying for admission at several private, prestigious high schools. His grades are decent but not what they should be to ensure he gets into one of these illustrious institutions. My husband and I have tried every method of coercion we can imagine to make our son achieve more academically but nothing has worked including intensive tutoring and physical punishment.
Recently, however, I began to volunteer at my son’s school and discovered—never mind how—that I have access to tests before they are administered. Making copies of the documents is easy, as is sneaking them out of the school. Security, I am sorry to say, is appalling.
But for some reason I find myself hesitating when it comes to giving the tests to my son. It has occurred to me that giving him this advantage over his rivals for admission to the exclusive schools in our area, could, in fact, be considered cheating.
Please, assure me that I am within my rights as a parent to do whatever it takes to protect my child’s future.
Dear Despicable:
You know how they say that some people should not have children? Well, you—and quite possibly your husband—are one of them. Shred the tests thoroughly. Fire the tutors. Oh, and get ready for a visit from Child Services. Don’t bother to try to cover your son’s bruises, either. These people have seen it all.
JOHN
I stared up at the white ceiling. I put my hands over my face. I pulled my hair. I stared up at the white ceiling.
I felt as if I’d gotten involved in something almost sordid. I felt slightly disgusted with myself.
Listen to me. Almost sordid. Slightly disgusted. Why couldn’t I come right out and damn my mindless behavior?
Here’s the truth: By going home with this stranger named Cat—this woman next to me in bed—I’d proven that I wasn’t in any way master of my domain. And if I couldn’t do something as basic to maturity as control my appetites, sexual or otherwise—not my needs, but my desires—then how the hell did I expect to find and sustain a marriage, that ultimate commitment to something larger than the self: the union?
I snuck a peek at the body lying next to me. The sheets were in a tangle around her. Her mouth was open. Her hair was a mess. The small tattoo of a rose on her shoulder looked muddy in the weak, early-morning light.
Her name was Cat. I didn’t know her full name. “My friends call me Cat,” she’d said. As if I was a friend, or about to be one. As if friends were a dime a dozen.
Catherine. Kathleen. Something more exotic, like Catalina. I suppose I owed it to her to know her full name; I had, after all, had sex with her. But I just couldn’t bring myself to wake her and ask.
Instead, I slipped out of bed and into my clothes, and left.
By lunch I’d made up my mind. After the disaster that was dinner with Vanessa (something I easily could have avoided) and my stupid one-night stand (ditto), I no longer felt confident in my ability to date wisely. It was clear I needed help. And—with some trepidation—I knew just where to turn.
19
Think of it this way: If lying was such a bad thing, why are there so many colorful ways to describe the act? Have fun with your lies—and enjoy “bearing false witness”!
—Sailing Under False Colors: The Creative Art of Lying
JOHN
“Do you know how many years I’ve been waiting for you to ask me to fix you up?” Teri asked.
“A lot?” I guessed.
“Since you were thirty. Mom’s been dying to see you married. She’s going to flip when she hears—”
“She’s not going to hear anything,” I said firmly. “Not until there’s a ring on someone’s finger and that might never happen.”
Teri considered. “I suppose she could get all worked up for nothing. But knowing that you’re finally considering marriage might really give her something to live for.”
“She has Dad to live for,” I pointed out. “And her grandchildren. Come on, Teri, don’t make this tougher on me than it has to be.”
Teri sighed magnificently. “Oh, all right. I won’t say anything. But I can tell Chrissy, can’t I? She might know someone, too.”
“Okay,” I agreed with some hesitation, “but make sure she knows what kind of woman I’m attracted to. I mean, she should be intelligent and well educated and, you know, pretty.” Just like the woman Vanessa and her ilk are sure I’ll be choosing. Assuming I can find someone who will have me.
“What are we, stupid? Do you think I’d set you up with a moron?”
“No, but . . .” Maybe, I thought, this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “Look, don’t go out of your way,” I said. “It’s really no big deal. Just, if you happen to meet someone you think I might like, you might mention me to her. Don’t push it.”
“Don’t worry,” Teri said wryly. “I do have a life, you know. I can’t afford to spend all my time finding a girlfriend for my brother.”
“Thanks, Teri. I appreciate your help. And I appreciate the fact that you haven’t ribbed me about how pathetic I am, forty-two years old and asking his little sister to fix him up.”
Teri laughed. “Oh, inside I’m ribbing away. Look, I’ve got to go. But I’ll talk to you soon. We’ll have you walking down that aisle in no time.”
“Okay,” I squeaked, imagining a groom’s stiff white collar strained around my neck. “Okay.”
20
Dear Answer Lady:
> I’m feeling kind of bad about something that happened recently. My wife and our neighbor, who is a single mother, wanted to spend an afternoon together without the kids so I volunteered to watch our son, two, and her son, eighteen months. Everything was just fine until Brooklyn, my son, pushed Bradley, the neighbor kid, down the basement stairs. See, the stairs are concrete and, well, Bradley got beat up pretty bad and has been in a coma for almost a week. Now, I know I shouldn’t have lied but Brooklyn was really upset and I kept thinking that our neighbor would sue us for not having a safety gate, so I told everyone that Bradley disobeyed my order not to go near the stairs and fell down all on his own. His mother believed me because Bradley often doesn’t pay attention and can be kind of clumsy. But just this morning I found out that our neighbor’s health insurance won’t cover the kind of rehab the doctors say Bradley is going to need. I feel bad. Should I offer her some money? But if I do, won’t she wonder why I’m doing it?
Dear Morally Bankrupt Coward:
I’ve taken the liberty of notifying your wife of your perfidy and suggesting to her a counselor who will address your son’s problem with aggression. This counselor will also attempt to eradicate the negative lessons you have imparted to your son by covering up his and your responsibility in this tragic situation. I have also contacted your neighbor with the name of a fiercely powerful lawyer with an unbroken record of success and he will be in touch with you shortly. Expect to be both divorced and destitute within the year. In the meantime, it might behoove you to childproof your home and to seek psychiatric counseling.
EVA
About a week after the baseball game and the dinner with Sophie and John, I stepped off the elevator and into the lobby of the building that houses the office of Caldwell and Company—to find Sophie’s son leaning against a marble wall, legs crossed at the ankle, hands in the front pockets of his slouchy jeans.
I’m rarely caught off guard—sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost the ability to be surprised—but the sudden appearance of my friend’s sexy son disarmed me. I continued to walk toward the big glass doors but felt a slight hesitation in my step.
“Hi,” he said when I came within earshot. “Remember me?”
I stopped. “Oh,” I said, as if just recalling our first meeting, “that’s right, you’re Sophie’s son.”
Of course, Jake didn’t believe for a moment that he’d slipped my mind. “Uh-huh. Jake.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, innocently. “On your way to a job interview?”
Jake pushed off the wall and took his hands from his pockets. “In a way,” he said. “I’m here to see you.”
Oh, boy. This kid was good.
“You’re cheeky,” I pointed out.
Jake grinned. “It’s one of my best qualities. Want to go for a drink?”
“Yes,” I said, and then, “No.”
“Is that a maybe?”
I looked again at his clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, and a relaxed, cotton blazerlike jacket. On his feet he wore a pair of Vans. Other than the shoes, the entire outfit probably came from Old Navy. “Where?” I asked.
“Wherever you’d like.”
“You’re a bit underdressed for the Oak Room,” I said.
“My money,” he said easily, “is as good as the stuff a guy in a suit carries.”
“Money is the great equalizer,” I agreed. Still, I thought, someone might see us at the Oak Room, someone I know, and then what? What would he, or she, think?
“How about J. P. Moran’s?” I suggested.
Jake looked me up and down. Slowly. Damn. “I’d say you’re a bit too well dressed for a pub,” he said finally.
“I’m always the best-dressed woman in the room. I’m used to the attention.”
“I’m sure you are.”
There was nothing else to say. Together we left the building and mostly in silence—with an occasional glance and enigmatic smile—we made our way to J. P. Moran’s.
“The bar okay?” Jake asked when we stepped into the cozy dimness of the traditional-style Irish pub.
“Yes,” I said. “Down at the end.” I led us to stools at the farthest, darkest end of the bar. Better, I thought, to play it safe. As far as I knew this place wasn’t a hangout for any of the Caldwell staff, but habits have been known to change.
The bartender was a burly guy with Victorian muttonchops. “Got some ID?” he rumbled to Jake, after taking my order of a martini.
“Sure.” Jake reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
I cringed. I’m sure the bartender assumed Jake was out with his mother or his aunt or maybe even his boss. Certainly not—what was I? Not a friend. Not a lover. Not yet.
“I’m thinking of growing a beard. I think it will make me look my age.”
When was the last time anyone had mistaken me for being underage? My parents and teachers used to say that I looked “mature” for my age. For a long time, I took that as a compliment.
“So, what do you think?”
“About what?” I asked.
“About my growing a beard.”
“Oh, that.” Had he mentioned growing a beard? “I’m not partial to facial hair. Of course,” I said, with a nervous, flapping gesture of my hand, “it’s your face. You can do what you want with it. Why should I care?”
When the bartender had placed our drinks before us, Jake looked at me intently and asked: “Are you uncomfortable? Being here with me?”
I took a bracing sip of the martini before replying. “I hate to admit this,” I said, “in fact, I loathe myself for confessing—but, yes, I am a bit uncomfortable. Why are you here, Jake? Why are we here?”
“You chose to join me for a drink,” Jake said matter-of-factly.
“And you chose to show up uninvited in the lobby of my office building. That’s the burning question. Why? Why did you hunt me down?”
Jake turned to face me more completely. His knee touched mine. My body quivered. “I’d prefer to say that I sought you out. Hunting isn’t a sport I can get into.”
Oh, boy. “So,” I said carefully, “you sought me out like a prize. Is that it?”
Jake nodded. His knee was still touching mine. “Well put,” he said.
That’s when I realized I was going to have to employ every ounce of my energy in order to resist getting involved with this sexy, impertinent, man/boy. I might not have been skilled at the game of friendship, but I wasn’t ignorant of its general rules and regulations. My renewed friendship with Sophie was at risk should I get involved with Jake. Of course, if we kept our affair a deep, dark, secret, all might still be well. But if Sophie should ever find out what we’d been up to, I knew I could wave good-bye to the friendship.
The friendship I still wasn’t sure I wanted.
“You’re a man of considerable charms, Jake Holmes,” I said. I wondered if my voice betrayed the dizzying effect his touch was having on my body.
Jake ran a finger down the length of my thigh. “I know,” he said.
21
If you want to suffer killing pangs of remorse, unceasing paranoia, and deep feelings of self-loathing, go ahead and lie, cheat, and steal. You’ll deserve what you get.
—A Guilty Conscience Needs No Accuser, or The Dire Consequences of Deception
EVA
He called the next morning. I’d given him my business card but he could have gotten the number from information. I was pretty sure that Jake didn’t let little things stand in the way of getting what he wanted. He was, after all, an only child and I’d witnessed his mother’s near-worship of her offspring.
He asked me to meet him for lunch. I told him that I had a meeting. He suggested I cancel the meeting.
“You don’t know me very well,” I replied. “Nothing comes before work.”
“All work and no play dulls a woman’s senses.”
“Who said anything about no play? Really, Jake, you shouldn’t make assumptions.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I
shouldn’t. But I’m human so I’ll probably continue to assume and make an ass out of you and me.”
“Cute. Anything else? Because I’m very busy.”
“Not too busy to take my call,” he pointed out. “I’m going to assume that’s a good sign. I’m going to assume that you want to see me again.”
I let him wait for my reply. I counted out a full sixty seconds, an eternity.
“Meet me at Hantman’s at six-thirty,” I said into the silence. “And don’t be late.”
“I won’t be late,” he said.
But he was, ten minutes late. I was just about to pay the bill and leave when I caught sight of him in the mirror over the bar. God, did he look good.
We had a drink and said little. When the bartender asked if we wanted another, Jake said, “No.”
We went back to his apartment and had sex, immediately, without awkward preliminaries. It was fantastic.
Afterward, stretched out in Jake’s rather comfortable bed (I later learned that Sophie had bought the expensive mattress for him “just because.”), I felt a twinge of guilt about what I’d done; I did. But I defy anyone to resist the kind of sexual attraction that clamors to be fulfilled. Besides, Jake was of legal age, even if certain bartenders in this city didn’t believe it without proof.
“Mom doesn’t need to know,” Jake said abruptly. “It’s really none of her business, is it? What’s happening here will be our little secret.”
“There’s one condition,” I said. “Besides the secrecy thing.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe we can not talk about your—about Sophie, okay? At least, if you have to mention her, try to call her Sophie and not Mom.”
The Friends We Keep Page 8