by Robyn Sisman
The first cupboard stank of mothballs. Suze investigated the zipped hanging bags of women’s clothes, just in case there was something fabulous she might have to borrow if anyone ever invited her out. But the floaty dresses and classic jackets did not speak to her. There was always something more appealing about men’s clothes, and at the second cupboard Suze paused to breathe in the clean, male smell of laundered shirts and shoe leather. She had never seen such long, narrow shoes, all of the same classic, elegant cut. Maybe he wasn’t such a fat businessman, after all. Out of idle curiosity she opened one of the shoe boxes on the floor and saw that it contained photographs—perhaps a secret porn stash! A quick riffle showed her that they were just boring old snapshots of boring people she didn’t know. She replaced the lid.
Next she examined the books in the hall, detecting a his n’ hers cataloging system. On the left were poems by Walt Whitman and Ogden Nash, biographies of Kennedy and Roosevelt, books on film and design, modern novels in hardback. On the right she found slim volumes by Joan Didion and Anaïs Nin, fat works of literary criticism, The Joy of Cooking, something called Miss Manners’ Guide to Etiquette inscribed “To my darling daughter with love from Mother,” and a lot of those books Suze had never got around to reading about how marvelous yet tragically oppressed women were. One title caught her eye: Women Who Love Too Much. That’s me, Suze thought. Maybe it was just as well that she had blown her chances with Nick.
No brooding. She’d put on some music. In the living room, Suze craned her neck sideways to read the labels of the Rockwell sound collection. Bach, Chopin, Mozart, Scarlatti . . . She frowned. Classical music always made her feel as if it were Sunday afternoon and raining, and maybe she’d better just hang herself. Fortunately, there was a jazz section as well. Suze picked out a Sarah Vaughan CD, slid it into the stereo, then did what she had been longing to do ever since she arrived, which was to rearrange the living room furniture. Not only were the chairs oddly grouped—one here, another way over there, as if no one ever talked to each other—but if she moved the sofa she would be able to stand on it to see her reflection in the only large mirror in the house. She had just cleared the rugs out of the way and was discovering that the sofa was surprisingly heavy when the doorbell rang.
With a grunt of impatience, Suze stomped across the floor in her bare feet, undid the heavy metal lock and pulled the door open. Hooray, a man.
“Oh, good,” she said, “you can help me move the sofa. It’s in a completely daft place and I can’t lift it.” She led the way into the living room. “The thing is,” she explained over her shoulder, “this isn’t my apartment and I don’t want to massacre the floor. Well, go on,” she added, seeing the stranger still lurking in the doorway, “take the other end.”
The man gave an amused shrug and did as she instructed. Within minutes all had been arranged to her satisfaction and the rugs replaced on the unscarred parquet.
“Thanks. That’s brilliant.” Suze pushed the hair from her eyes. “Who are you, by the way? I’m Suze.”
“I know.”
The man looked thirtysomething: medium height, stocky, with peroxide hair like David Hockney, dressed in white jeans and a striped seersucker jacket. Not bad, if you liked that kind of thing. He was smiling at her, a slow charming smile that seemed to suggest that he had seen it all but was still prepared to laugh.
“Jay Veritas,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m a friend of Lloyd’s. He asked me to drop by and say hello. He didn’t say anything about furniture-moving though.” Jay put a hand to the small of his back and winced theatrically. “I think I might have pulled something.”
“Rubbish.” Suze laughed. “But you definitely deserve a drink. What shall we have?”
It seemed that Jay knew her kitchen better than she did. He got out a gleaming chrome liquidizer, assembled ice, orange juice and various bottles, and produced a frothy apricot-colored concoction that speared her throat like an icicle. “Totally divine,” she pronounced, sinking back on the newly positioned sofa. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Montana, New Mexico, Maine . . . I used to be a barman.”
“Seriously?”
“Not very.” Jay explained how he and Lloyd had worked their way from California to New York when they were nineteen, taking whatever jobs they could find. “We made a great team. We’d go into some bar in Nowheresville: first he’d show them what he could do on the piano, then, when they were hooked, he said he wouldn’t work unless they gave me a job too.”
“Lloyd?” Suze was surprised.
“He always got the better pay—and the girls. But let me warn you, never let him make you a cocktail.”
“Not much danger of that.” Suze got up and started poking around the room, looking for her cigarettes. When she found them, she held up the packet. “Do you mind?”
“Hallelujah!” Jay drew his own packet from the top pocket of his jacket. “I knew I was going to like you the moment I saw you. We can be social pariahs together.”
They talked companionably, sipping their drinks and testing each other’s brand of cigarette, while the light ebbed from the sky. Prompted by Jay, Suze burbled happily about her reactions to New York—its overwhelming physical beauty, its heady atmosphere of unlimited possibility and the liberation of being in a place where she could not be pigeonholed by her accent or her address or the school she had attended a decade and a half ago. “And I love being a tourist. Having scoffed at Americans taking photographs of London, I find myself doing the same thing here and I’m not even embarrassed.”
Jay nodded. “Let’s face it, it’s tiring being cool all of the time—and we should know, right?”
Suze giggled. Jay wasn’t camp at all, but there was a watchful quality about him that, added to his special brand of charm, made a connection in Suze’s brain. He’s gay, she realized.
“You’re right about the furniture,” Jay said, looking around. “It is better like this. In fact, now that I think of it, you’ve moved the couch back where it used to be, before Lloyd sold his piano.”
“Why did he do that?”
“No room when Betsy moved in.”
There was a small silence. Then Jay said, “Listen, are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Let’s go find some dinner. What do you feel like? American, French, Italian, Chinese? Japanese, Caribbean, Cajun? Vietnamese, Greek?”
“Golly.”
“Cal-Ital, Tex-Mex, Bengali-Slav, Chino-Latino, Kosher-Italian?”
“Stop!” Suze was laughing. “And I don’t believe Bengali-Slav.”
“Believe it. This is New York.”
“Well, actually,” Suze admitted, “what I secretly fancy is somewhere really New Yorky—tinkling piano, fabulous view, killer drinks with lots of ice and fancy straws. Humphrey Bogart, if you can manage it.”
Jay made a horrified face. “You’re just a crypto B-and-T.”
“What’s B-and-T?”
“Bridge and Tunnel people—the poor saps who have to commute from the ’burbs for some nightlife.”
“We’d split the bill, of course.” Suze gave him a coaxing look.
“In that case, I know just the place. You’ll have to lose the shorts, though.”
When Suze was ready they took a cab downtown. The rush of warm air through the open window made her feel as if she were on holiday. Her spirits rose and impulsively she turned to Jay. “It’s lovely of you to ask me out. I’ve been dreaming of doing something like this ever since I arrived.”
“Good. Although . . .” Jay hesitated, choosing his words. “This isn’t exactly a date, you know.”
“I know.” Suze looked him in the eye, to show that she understood perfectly. “Don’t worry, I’ve already found Mr. Heartthrob.” She gave Jay a run-down of the afternoon’s events, making him laugh at Sheri’s lofty exit and a lurid description of her own appearance.
“I bet you looked adorable wearing a pencil,” said Jay. “He’s probably trying
to track down your telephone number at this very moment.”
“As if.” But she couldn’t help smiling.
When it seemed that any minute they would drive right off the edge of Manhattan into the East River, the cab climbed up on to a bridge. On the other side it turned sharply, swooped downward and deposited them in an uninspiring car-park. Jay led the way toward a low building and down a short flight of steps that seemed to rock under her feet. She was on a boat! In front of her was a bar, dim lights gleaming on bottles and cocktail shakers. Beyond that, across the river, rose the Manhattan skyline, sparkling with all the freshness and arrogance of a brand-new universe.
Jay scanned her face appreciatively. “Welcome to the River Café.”
They sat at high stools at the bar and Jay ordered her something called a Perfect Manhattan, requesting that it be festooned with every paper umbrella and plastic swizzle stick in the place.
“How come somebody as fun as you is a friend of Lloyd’s?” asked Suze. “I thought he was old and respectable.”
“We’re exactly the same age, thirty-five. It’s just that Lloyd has a somewhat overdeveloped sense of responsibility. He dresses better than me too.”
“What’s his wife like?”
“They’re not married.”
“Girlfriend, partner, whatever.”
“Very pretty. Dark hair, nice skin, the fragile type.”
Automatically Suze sucked in her cheeks and tried to wilt a little. Various men in her past had claimed to find her pretty, sexy, even beautiful; no one had ever called her fragile.
“And is she nice? Do you like her?”
Jay looked thoughtful. “I don’t think she cares too much for me. She thinks I distract Lloyd from Real Life. Last year, he helped me write the script for a movie I’m trying to make. Eventually Betsy called me up and told me ‘in confidence’ that it was affecting Lloyd’s work. She was very nice about it—but she was telling me to back off.”
“What did Lloyd say?”
“I never told him. Lloyd is different. He has interesting ideas. He makes me laugh. We talk about writing and movies and why the world is the way it is. Whenever Betsy’s there we seem to be on some kind of schedule.”
“Perhaps she’d like to tie him up in a nice neat parcel labeled ‘husband’?” Suze suggested.
Jay did not rise to the bait. They moved to their table in the restaurant, and on principle Suze ordered dishes she’d never heard of—littleneck clams and seared yellowfin tuna with wild greens.
“And what about you?” Jay asked, refilling her wineglass. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“What boyfriend?”
“Women like you always have a man.”
“Had,” Suze corrected. Her mouth twisted. “Or so I thought.” She picked up her fork and scored a line of crosses on the tablecloth, as if she could scratch out the memories. “Anyway, there are no women ‘like me.’ ” She gave Jay a defiant look. “I am unique.”
“Indubitably.” Jay reached for his packet of cigarettes, shook out a couple and handed one to her. “Tell me.”
And to her surprise, Suze did.
It was five years ago that she had gotten a job as a senior designer on the magazine section of one of the major Sunday newspapers. She was the new young talent, eager to make a mark; Lawrence Self was art director, a bachelor of forty-two with a shock of dark hair beginning to gray, snapping brown eyes under black brows and a reputation for being a difficult genius. He wore jeans to work, drove an Alfa Spider, smoked dope, mixed with actresses and artists and kept his money in a great wad of notes in his back pocket. Suze thought he was wonderful.
For the first time in her life she had worked as hard as she knew how, stayed late, cracked jokes, volunteered for every loony assignment—anything to keep her in the energy circle of this extraordinary man. She found that she loved the momentum of working on a weekly: first the casual, coffee-drinking dawdling, then the gathering panic as the deadline loomed and finally the adrenaline rush of putting the magazine to bed and tottering out to the pub to celebrate. Within three months they were lovers.
Lawrence—never, ever Larry—had grown up during the sixties and seventies. He had a laissez-faire attitude toward life that Suze found excitingly refreshing after the City clones, with their fixations on BMWs and bonuses. One day soon, he told her, he was going to give up this job bullshit, move somewhere warm and become a full-time artist. Marriage was one of the things he despised, along with mortgages, suburbs, Ford Escorts, overhead lighting and a typeface called Palatino, and Suze had quickly learned to despise them too.
“He taught me to see things, to look properly. At the weekend we used to go on what we called ‘urban strolls,’ looking at old churches, new office blocks, even the detailing on shop fronts or the design of iron railings. Lawrence was brilliant at pointing out where the architect had lost his nerve or had been overruled by the client. Or we’d go down to Bermondsey market, hunting for old wooden type, and experiment with new designs in Lawrence’s studio.” She sighed. “I did learn a lot. He made me take my work seriously, to stretch myself to produce the very best I could.”
“Did you love him?” asked Jay bluntly.
“I adored him.” Suze frowned. “Mostly.”
Lawrence could be tetchy and moody. If he didn’t like what she had done at work, he would take it out on her at home—though they had never actually lived together: Lawrence had explained how important solitude and privacy were to him. But they spent most nights and weekends together, unless Lawrence was feeling frayed.
“I took him up to meet my parents once, thinking they would get on because they’re practically the same age, and they’re all ‘creative’ in one way or another. Disaster!” Suze described how he had picked at her mother’s cooking, lectured her father about the role of art in the life of the common man and made them all drive miles to look at some “marvelous” church, which turned out to be locked, then complained that the mud had ruined his shoes. Afterward he had apologized to Suze. “I’m like a fine wine, I’m afraid: I don’t travel well.”
Nevertheless, they might have gone on for years, had it not been for Araminta Smedley, known as “Minty,” age twenty-four, possessor of an extremely rich father and a jobette in the newspaper’s advertising department.
One day, driving back to his place from work, Lawrence had confessed that he’d been “seeing” Araminta. Suze was furious, remembering all the recent times she had “respected his space,” as he liked to put it, but in her heart she had been prepared to forgive him eventually. Then Lawrence had dropped his bombshell. Minty was pregnant. And she did not want to get rid of the baby.
What had hurt Suze most was that Lawrence had seemed barely regretful. He had looked at her winsomely, like a naughty child, as if to say, “With a sperm count like mine, what can one do?”
“Lawrence would never use condoms,” she told Jay. “He said they didn’t feel ‘nice’—as if pills and coils and the anxiety of a late period were fun. I thought of all the contraceptive measures I’d taken, how careful I had been not to entrap him in any way. Then, bingo! In waltzes Minty and just grabs what she wants. It’s so banal. Anyway, then I was in the ridiculous position of having to persuade him to take responsibility for the baby. But I still didn’t get it. I thought he loved me, was in the same state of torment I was.” Suze shook her head at her own stupidity, remembering how she had lost fifteen pounds in a week and spent her nights chain-smoking in a huddle on the sofa.
“The next thing I know, they’re getting married. Isn’t that sweet? And not just any old wedding. Oh, no, it’s the full monty—church, bridesmaids, speeches. He even sent me an invitation—engraved, natch—and said I was childish when I wouldn’t go.
“She isn’t even that pretty,” Suze told Jay indignantly, “just one of those drippy, flat-chested girls who’s always photographed hugging a Labrador. So there you go.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Not very original, I’m afraid.”
&nb
sp; “Poor Suze.”
“The worst thing is feeling stupid. I really believed it all. I’d pontificated to all my friends about marriage being in the mind—a matter of trust, not of legal ties.” Suze clasped her chest in a mock-heroic pose. “Afterward I just wanted to hide.”
“And now?”
“Now I ’m going to make the rules.” She stabbed her chest with a forefinger. “I’m going to grab what I want when I want it, like everybody else.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Suze let out her breath. “No,” she agreed. “That’s the trouble. I don’t really want to screw around. I want to make love.”
Jay nodded slowly. He began to tell her about the love of his life, an actor, whom he had lived with for three years—had hoped to live with forever.
“So what happened?” said Suze. A terrible thought occurred to her. “He didn’t . . .? I mean—”
Jay gave an unexpected laugh. “You’ve been watching too many TV dramas. No, he did not die of AIDS. He’s alive and well and living uptown with someone else. He just didn’t love me, simple as that.” Jay stubbed out his cigarette. “The problem is, I still love him—probably always will.”
“Oh, Jay, I’m sorry.” His simple words touched her. Had she ever loved Lawrence as much as that?
They stared sadly at one another.
Then Jay broke the mood. “Listen to us. Tragedy queens or what? Did I hear you say something about killer drinks, or were you just luring me on?”
They drank bourbon on the rocks and giggled at the piano player, who had exhausted his stock of Gershwin and was nearing rock bottom with “Send in the Clowns” and “My Way.”
“Let’s have a bad-lyrics competition,” suggested Suze. “Hey, what did I say?”
For Jay was giving her a funny look. “Nothing. It’s just that’s one of Lloyd’s favorite games.”
I have a friend in New York, Suze thought happily, as she leaned against the wall of the elevator, feeling woozy. Jay had escorted her home, given her a hug and promised to invite her over to his place soon. There was a lurch as the elevator stopped at her floor, then the doors opened and Suze stumbled out, keys in hand. The first thing she saw when she entered the apartment door was the red light on the answering machine. She strode across the room and hit the button.