Sophie refolded the linen napkin on her lap. “Oh, no one special,” she said in a voice that said, “I’m evading your question.”
Fine. So we each had our little secrets.
I left after a second glass of wine. Sophie didn’t press me to stay for dinner.
52
Dear Answer Lady:
My new boyfriend started using a brand of cologne my old boyfriend used. Now all I can think about is how much I miss my old boyfriend. Should I tell my new boyfriend what I’m feeling or just say nothing?
Dear Hung Up on the Past:
Tell the new b.f. you’re allergic to his cologne and ask if he would mind not using it. Say nothing about it reminding you of the old b.f.—unless the new b.f. refuses to switch fragrances. In this case, tell the new b.f. he’s hung a lot smaller than the old b.f. and be prepared to move out.
JOHN
I just couldn’t face another bad date, not without some time to lick my wounds.
But Eva? Was asking my prickly, insult-wielding old friend to join me for a night out really a wise thing to do, especially in my battle-weary state?
Maybe not. Probably not. But I had two free tickets to the new David Mamet play. And, I’ll admit to a typical male stubbornness. It drove me crazy that I couldn’t break through Eva’s misconceptions about me as a person. Since college she’d persisted in seeing me as an unethical cad, and though almost everything else about her seemed to have changed, this one notion had remained fixed.
I wanted to change Eva’s mind about me. I wanted her to see me as I really was: flawed, yes, but also good. At least, I wanted her to see me as someone who tried to be good.
Which brings us to the next million-dollar question. Why was Eva’s good opinion of me so important? I’m not the type of guy who needs to be liked by everyone. I’m not the type who needs everyone’s good opinion. Too many people are simply not worth my efforts to impress . . . the wife-beaters, the murderers, the people who don’t pick up after their dogs. If that makes me a snob or an elitist, then, fine, maybe Eva was right in that regard.
Still, Eva was one of the people I wanted—needed?—to like and respect me. Maybe, I thought, just maybe, if she spent more time with me she might come to see that she’d misjudged me.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Sometimes, I’ve learned, hope should be blindfolded, gagged, and chained to a chair.
I made the call, pretty much assuming that Eva would say no, and unceremoniously at that. But she surprised me.
“Sure,” she said immediately, “I’d love to go. Reviews of the show are great. Thanks.”
“Great,” I said, taken aback. “How about we have dinner first? Maybe at Donna Q’s?”
“Sure,” she said again. “I was there last week. The service is still working out its kinks but the food was fabulous.”
We made plans to meet at the restaurant and hung up after a pleasant good-bye.
Well, I thought, sitting back in my chair with a grin and congratulating myself on my persistence, this could be the new beginning of a beautiful friendship.
53
Not every cheating partner is thorough in his or her attempt to hide the affair. Some cheaters want to get caught (for a variety of reasons, see Chapter Five), so discovering their infidelity is almost too easy. Don’t give such a person what he wants, which is often a rapid divorce. Let him stew in anxiety while you collect the clues with which you will hang him.
—Is That Lipstick on Your Collar? How to Tell If Your Partner Is Cheating
EVA
I was thrilled about the opportunity to see the new Mamet. The run was entirely sold out and so far, none of my clients had been of any use in digging up even one lousy, partial-view seat.
True, this did mean I’d have to spend the evening with John, and that prospect didn’t excite me at all. I fully expected to be criticized, mocked, and subjected to tales illustrating how selfless and talented he was. But third-row seats! For third-row seats I could deal with an egomaniac for a few hours. And, as I’d told John, the food at Donna Q’s really was amazing. The striped bass with roasted minivegetables in a butter sauce would help ease the pain of listening to stories about John’s precious little nieces and nephews.
Really, I thought, it was a pretty good deal in the end. But sometimes, even I can be wrong.
He started in on me at dinner. I like to check my watch every once in a while. Big deal. But to John, it was.
“You’ve got somewhere better to be?” he asked, with a nod at my wrist.
“I just like to keep track of the time.”
“You’ve checked your watch every ten minutes since we sat down.”
I eyed him. “You’ve been timing my time checks?”
“Time flies when you’re having fun. I sense you’re not having fun.”
“Maybe I would be having fun,” I shot back, “if you stopped being so annoying.”
John took a sip of his wine, then said: “Don’t worry. We won’t miss the curtain. I’m never late to anything important.”
“How mature of you,” I mocked, though didn’t I share the same habit of punctuality, and wasn’t I proud of it?
John frowned disapprovingly, something he’s quite good at. “You’ve changed, Eva,” he said.
“And you haven’t changed one bit,” I snapped.
But he did look good, even better than he’d looked in college. A woman would have to be dead not to find him attractive. This pissed me off.
“You used to be a lot less nasty.”
“And you’re still the same holier-than-thou, know-it-all you always were.”
“Ah, yes, the one thing that hasn’t changed is your lack of correct perception.”
And then, the words came flying out of my mouth like bullets flying out of a gun. “I’m seeing someone, you know, and he’s quite a bit younger, only half my age.”
I couldn’t quite read the look on John’s face as he processed this information. It was a mix of anger, disapproval, and maybe even disappointment.
And then, suddenly, his expression returned to its usual calm and he said: “Why are you wasting your time?”
“Wasting my time? Have you got a better way for me to be spending the nights?”
It was a challenge that I didn’t really mean to issue.
John’s expression remained neutral. “Of course not,” he said evenly. “Why would I?”
“Are you implying,” I asked, pressing him for a fight (but why!), “that I should be out looking for a suitable husband? Are you saying that my time is running out, that I’m getting too old to be single?”
“Of course not,” John said again.
But I know a lie when I hear one. I’m sure he was thinking that my time would be better spent attempting a relationship with a man who was classified as suitable husband material. Someone, for example, like him?
“Are you saying that my lover is only having sex with me out of pity?” I persisted. There, I’d expressed the slight but nagging fear that Jake was, indeed, having sex with me out of a general sense of pity for single women over forty.
“No,” John said with exaggerated patience. “That’s not at all what I’m saying. But if the shoe fits . . .”
I didn’t reply to John’s nasty comment. Instead I gripped my fork and wondered what, exactly, Jake wanted from me, really. Just sex—or did he hope to get something more tangible and lasting from me, like a good job after graduation? Money? Was my twenty-one-year-old lover using me for material gain?
“Look,” I blurted, “don’t tell Sophie I’m seeing someone.”
“Someone,” John countered, “or someone her son’s age?”
I felt sick. Had John guessed the truth? No. He was just being his usual superior self.
“Just do me a favor and don’t tell her I’m seeing anyone,” I repeated.
“Don’t worry,” John said, with an annoying little wink. “It will be our little secret.”
“So,” I said
with a bright and phony smile, “how’s the wife search working out for you?”
“Just fine,” he said, but I wasn’t going to allow him to dismiss the subject so easily with that obvious lie.
I laughed. “Sure. That’s why you’re sitting here tonight with me. Face it, John,” I pronounced, “you’re not the marrying kind. You’re far too self-absorbed.”
Again, John’s usually placid expression darkened into a mix of black emotions. Well, I’d wanted a fight, hadn’t I?
“That’s entirely unfair,” he said with barely restrained fury. “How can you call me self-absorbed when I’m trying to add meaning to my life by making a commitment to someone? What about you? Indulging in a strictly sexual affair is displaying an enormous amount of self-concern.”
“What makes you think my affair is all about sex?” I demanded.
“Please, Eva. What could you possibly have in common with someone twenty years your junior? Unless, of course, you both share an avid interest in some arcane topic like, I don’t know, the mating rituals of Tyrannosaurus rex. Then, well, I can see the mutual attraction.”
It was useless to argue this particular point so I replied to another implicit charge against my character.
“Well, I’m not hurting anyone, am I?”
“I don’t know,” John said promptly, “are you? How’s your boy toy going to feel when you toss him aside for the next new attraction?”
Another unanswerable question. I knew I would be the one ending the affair. And I knew Jake would be hurt. I knew these things like I knew my name was Eve. Eva.
God, John was a pain in the ass. I made a big show of looking at my watch again and announced, “We should get the check if we’re going to be in our seats before curtain call.”
54
Dear Answer Lady:
I’m getting married next month to a really great guy. The thing is, I don’t really love him. I guess I got really excited when he gave me a big ring and then there were the parties and the gifts and all. I don’t want to hurt his feelings—he really is great—so should I just go ahead and marry him?
Dear Nasty Bitch:
Do the poor guy a favor and end it. Now.
JOHN
What had I been thinking when I asked Eva to spend the evening with me? Well, I know what I had been thinking, but why hadn’t I had enough sense to back away from such an insurmountable challenge?
Because you’re an idiot, John. That’s why you didn’t have the sense. Idiots don’t have sense. They’re idiots.
Every conversation with Eva degenerated into a squabble. Back in college our repartee had been fun and good-natured, if sometimes a bit stinging. Underneath the elaborate insults had been laughter and a sense that, somehow, we were actually pretty much the same person, Eve and I. Or so I’d thought. Maybe I’d been wrong back then. Maybe Eve had never really liked me. Maybe I’d been under a delusion those four years, knowing for sure that she didn’t want to date me but falsely believing she appreciated my friendship.
Well, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that at this point in time, Eva hated me.
We sat moodily through the show. I tried to pay attention to the supposedly stirring dialogue but all I could think about was the furious woman sitting next to me in the darkened theater. At one point my arm accidentally, I assure you, touched hers on the armrest. She yanked her arm away as if my touch was poisonous. At another point I snuck a quick peek at her, in an effort to determine if she was at all enjoying the show she’d been so eager to see. Her posture was rigid; her profile betrayed a frown.
We parted that night with barely a nod and not one word. Eva hailed a cab and was off before I could raise my hand to hail a cab of my own. But then I decided to walk. Exercise can help work off frustration. So can alcohol. On the way back to my apartment I stopped for a nightcap at the Oak Room. But even a shot of smooth, one-hundred-year-old whiskey did little to budge the dark mood that sat heavily on my shoulders.
55
You’re thirty-five and you’re still debating whether it’s wrong to filch coins from the tip bowl at the diner. Snap out of it! Did you sleep through Sunday School? Miss the day the teacher taught the Golden Rule?
—It’s About Time You Learned Right from Wrong
EVA
God, I can be an idiot. No theater experience could ever be worth the agony of spending time with that man.
56
Dear Answer Lady:
I think my husband is cheating. One night a week he works late, or says he is, and when he comes home he jumps right in the shower, before even kissing me hello. Should I confront him? Help!
Dear Hopelessly Naive:
Of course he’s cheating. Unless he’s out playing basketball at the gym with his buddies, there’s no need for a late-night shower. Serve the bum divorce papers pronto.
SOPHIE
“It’s official. I’m a licensed real estate agent in the state of Massachusetts. So, can I interest you in a ranch in the lovely town of Winchester?”
Ben laughed. “No, but thanks, anyway. And congratulations, Sophie.”
We raised our glasses of Prosecco (Ben had brought a bottle for our celebration.) in a toast. I felt happier than I’d felt in ages. Okay, a bit nervous, too, starting out on this new venture, but also very excited.
“So,” Ben said, “tell me all about your first day.”
I did, every little detail. Ben was a good listener. And he asked questions. He wasn’t dismissive; he didn’t talk down to me the way Brad used to, as if he was an all-knowing father and I was his unknowing child. Ben’s attention and respect meant a lot to me. That and the fact that his kisses made me weak in the knees.
“I really feel committed this time,” I said finally. “There’s nothing to stop me, is there? I can make this career as big as I want to.”
Ben squeezed my hand. “I’m glad for you, Sophie. It’s always good to set yourself a goal.”
Yes, I thought, I guess it is. Moving back to the East Coast had made me realize that I needed to matter to someone other than my family and my friends. I needed to matter to me. I needed to have expectations of myself.
“Where do you want to have dinner?” Ben asked. “We have to continue the celebration.”
Yes, I thought, we did. “How about we order in?” I suggested, sliding closer to Ben. “Let’s celebrate, just us two.”
Ben stayed over that night. He didn’t have class until eleven so we spent most of the morning together as well. I learned that Ben had a banana and black coffee for breakfast every morning except Sunday, when he liked to go to a diner for a big, greasy egg feast. We made a date for the following Sunday at the diner of my choice. (I made a mental note to ask one of my new colleagues about local diners.) Before he finally left we shared another long and passionate kiss.
My life, I thought, is wonderful. Everything is falling into place. I have a lovely man (and getting him had been pretty easy!), a new career, a loving son, and two dear friends. The future, I thought, looks very, very bright.
57
Repeat five times, three times a day: Say one thing, believe another.
—Hypocrisy for Beginners
EVA
Really, the entire thing was my fault. Or, if fault is the wrong word, then let’s say the entire thing was a result of my poor choice.
What made me say yes to Jake’s suggestion that we go out to a club on a Saturday night? Where there was loud music and overpriced fluorescent drinks. Where there was bound to be a big, smelly splash of puke on the sidewalk outside. Where there was sure to be backed-up toilets in the ladies’ room.
What, indeed? Maybe I was trying to prove that I could still stay up past eleven o’clock. Maybe I wanted to throw the kid a bone; after all, he wasn’t allowed in my apartment and I wouldn’t be seen in public with him during normal business hours or in places where I might run into people I knew. And, okay, I did feel a tiny bit bad about having “cheated on him” with Sam that time he w
as so hurt about my not taking him to my company’s boring charity auction.
Whatever the exact motivations behind my agreeing to go to this club, they were wrong and stupid.
I didn’t even go to clubs when I was of club-going age. Sophie would beg that I accompany her but I never relented. I just couldn’t imagine a worse way to spend several precious hours of my life than being butted around by a drunken mob, most of whom—and here, I was English-major prejudiced—had probably never even heard of Thomas Carlyle.
“What are people wearing to clubs these days?” I asked Jake, ever so casually.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Jake might have his sensitive side but it didn’t include a knowledge of women’s fashions.
In the end I wore slim black pants, a white fitted T-shirt, and a black leather blazer. I don’t believe a forty-two-year-old should dress in styles meant for women half her age. I don’t believe in setting myself up for derision. If I turned out to be the only female not baring her stomach or her butt crack, fine. At least I would have my dignity.
The dignity of the middle-aged woman.
The evening was a disaster from the moment Jake and I, hand in hand (He took my hand; I tried to pull away; he wouldn’t let go.) squeezed into the jammed, gyrating club. We made our way to the main bar and after being jostled and elbowed by guys who reeked of testosterone and girls who reeked of cheap perfume, we finally got our drinks. It was the worst martini I’d ever had.
The Friends We Keep Page 19