And I had been a fool. Probably for a long time.
Here’s the thing about being in denial: When you stop, it’s like you’ve been living in a kind of half darkness and suddenly someone turns on every light in the house. All those little nooks and crannies you couldn’t quite see but knew were there are all of a sudden brightly, glaringly visible. And you start to think. You realize you have no way of knowing if your husband and his dear pal—and yours—spent one day together in Mexico or two weeks. You don’t know if he booked a hotel room for one or for two when they were traveling together, rounding up funding for their new partnership. You don’t really know where he stayed all those times when he was in Los Angeles—where she has that roomy old house in Los Feliz. And you sure as hell don’t know what he was doing when she was in New York and they were having business meetings that lasted until two in the morning.
That’s when you hack into his private email account and read the last message he received before he took off for the day. The one he didn’t bother to delete because he never knew you had his password. The message is from his pal. His new business partner. Who is suggesting doing things to him when they’re alone in her hotel room that you’ve never even imagined. And you pride yourself on your creativity.
I changed into my gown, skipped the makeup and hair drill, grabbed my purse, and headed out.
THE HOTEL BALLROOM was decorated in black, red, and silver. Red-and-silver trellises had been attached to the walls and live black roses—I guess they were dyed—were threaded through them. The room was jammed with small round tables that were covered with red tablecloths, black china, and silver-rimmed glasses. The centerpieces featured black roses floating in big bowls of water tinted red with silver flecks drifting around. Very festive—if you could get past the feeling that there was something creepy about roses that were black. Personally, I couldn’t. But then no one had asked me.
There was a long table on a dais at the end of the room. I scanned it, looking for Jake. I knew he’d be sitting on the dais because he was giving the introduction. I spotted him right away, seated in the center of the table in front of the microphone. He was properly attired in black tie. So there was an Alternate Plan Tux. Like the woman who was seated next to him, the fun, successful pal who had been offering him an alternative to his not-fun, not-successful wife. His partner, who was glowing like a teenager—probably because she’d spent the last couple of hours with him doing all those things she’d outlined in her email. Andy. My friend.
The first course had already been served by the time I arrived. I’d been to enough awards dinners to know that they wouldn’t be starting the speeches while people were still munching on their salads, so I moved up to the dais, planning to—well, at that point, I didn’t have a plan. I was winging it. Jake was chatting with someone on his right. On his left, Andy was staring at a bowl of ugly black roses. She looked pensive. Was she having second thoughts about breaking up my marriage? No, that was too much to ask. She turned to Jake with her glowing smile and joined his conversation. I was a little less than a foot away from her. It only took a second to step in and dump the red water over her perfectly coiffed head. Black rose petals stuck to her face and shoulders, looking like polka dots—or a really gross rash. She was drenched in water the shade of cherry Kool-Aid. Did I mention that the silk gown she was wearing was beige? Talk about your sweet moments.
Andy shrieked, and Jake looked up. He saw me, jumped to his feet, and hunched over Andy, trying to shield her from me. I thought about pointing out that I was the one he’d promised to protect and cherish, but there was still some water left in the bowl so I dumped it on him instead. I watched the red liquid run down his beautiful face and over the place on the back of his neck that I loved to kiss, and I tried to be as mad at him as I was at her. But he was Jake, so I couldn’t. And that made me even madder.
I started to leave. That was when I noticed that five hundred people were staring at the three of us. Clearly they’d finished their salads—and they were waiting for someone to say something. But Jake was trying to get the silver flecks out of his hair and Andy was still wailing. I clamped my free hand over her mouth and leaned in to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said to the room. “My soon-to-be ex, Jake Morris, was supposed to introduce your honoree tonight, but he’s otherwise engaged, so I’m helping out. I give you Andrea Grace, the postmenopausal slut, who has been screwing my husband.” Then I strode out.
As I left the ballroom, I tried to feel vindicated. Or satisfied. Or triumphant. But all I could think of was Jake holding me in his arms in a darkened photography studio and whispering into my hair, “Smart, foxy, and unhinged.” I thought I was going to start crying then, but I didn’t seem to have any tears.
There was a little debate going on when I reached the entrance of the hotel. Several of the hotel’s security people wanted to call for a police car and send me to central booking. The dissenters—from the hotel’s public-relations department—argued that the publicity would be bad for business, and they wanted to put me in a cab and send me home. I was on their side, but I was too wiped out to join the fight. Because all of a sudden I was tired in a way that I’d never been before in my life. We’re talking running-marathons-and-climbing-mountains tired. Not that I’ve ever done either of those things, but you get the point. Finally, someone summoned the slut and Jake. She didn’t want to press charges, and Jake explained to everyone that I’d been having emotional problems. So Team Taxicab won and I got to go home.
But that wasn’t the end of the evening’s events. Three people with cell phones caught my act and recorded it. I understand that the resulting footage went viral on YouTube, and for a couple of days Andy, Jake, and I were getting almost as many hits as some guy who had trained his dog to use the john. Many, many people got to watch Andy’s big night being shot to hell.
The next day, before Jake could come back to the apartment to pack up his clothes, I changed the locks. There were only two things I was sure of: I wasn’t going to have a happy divorce, and we weren’t going to have the Talk. Okay, there were three things: I was going to miss Jake like hell.
But after I thought about it for a day or two, I realized that it wasn’t just Jake I’d lost, it was a vision of myself. Being married to him had also been my shot at being Sheryl, complete with a signature shade of pink. But when my work was at stake, I had morphed into my mother. Alexandra was who I was, whether I wanted to be or not. Alexandra, who hadn’t been able to hang on to her man—my daddy. I went into my closet and threw out all my size fours.
“I’m through,” I told Annie. “I am never going on another date, and I am never, ever again, going to fall in love. A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. I’m having that embroidered on a hat.”
Then I finally started to cry. And I didn’t stop for a very long time.
CHAPTER 7
Here’s one of the many great things about New York City: If you don’t want to leave the house, you don’t have to. You can pay someone to walk your dog. You can pay to have hot meals and your newspaper delivered right to your door. You can also pay people to shop for your shampoo, pick up your dry cleaning, and run other errands. Hell, you don’t have to get out of bed. I know this because I didn’t, for two months.
My divorce had turned out to be depressingly un-bloody. I had wanted to go for the jugular, but I have the wrong DNA for battle. So does Jake. We did have the Talk, however. Or at least we had a talk.
“I’m giving up on the Svengali thing,” he told me.
“Sorry I was such a disappointment.”
“I could say the same thing.”
“But I’m not the one who wants out.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know it yet, Francesca.”
If I’d been hoping for an apology—and let’s face it, you always are, in a situation like that—that was as good as I was going to get from Jake.
The divorce took two months fro
m the time he moved out until we signed the final papers. We didn’t fight for the co-op; since almost all of the money we’d put into it was mine, I bought him out of his small share. I didn’t hold him up for half of his camera equipment or any of the assets he’d acquired while we were married, and he gave me all our awful furniture. Neither of us asked for alimony.
When Jake and Andy got married minutes after our divorce was final and he took off for California to live with her, I told myself not to think about my dad taking off to be with Sheryl and history repeating itself. After all, this time I got to keep the dog. But then I went to bed and stayed there for eight weeks.
I might still be in bed if I hadn’t been hit with a nasty shock—I was running out of money. I know you’re asking how come my financial situation came as a surprise to me. I wasn’t a kid; I should have done the math and figured out that it had been a long time since I’d earned anything more substantial than the occasional tiny royalty. And by then I had a hefty payroll with all those home deliveries. But I’ve always had a major math phobia, so when I was married Jake handled our finances. Before him, my parents had taken care of that stuff—and I can’t remember ever having a conversation with either one of them about anything as crude as cash. Alexandra’s brand of feminism was about marching and self-fulfillment, not the size of her paychecks. And Dad never wanted me to trouble my sweet little head about mundane things like paying the bills. But now I had to. Quickly.
“I’m scared,” I wept to Sheryl on the phone. “Thank God, the advance for the Swedish edition of Love, Max just came in, but after that’s gone I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
If I’d expected sympathy—and to be honest I’d been begging for it—it wasn’t going to happen. “Get a job,” Sheryl said, going into problem-solving mode.
“Doing what?” I wailed. “The Well of Loneliness Theater is out of business.”
“I saw Nancy and Lan Ying Marigold last week—and I don’t care what Sissy says, that name is going to be a problem for that little girl someday—and Nancy told me she knows writers who find freelance work online.”
It took me a second to realize that the answer had come back awfully fast. “You saw this coming,” I said. “You never liked Jake.”
“There are several ways of looking for private work—ghostwriting, I think they call it. That means—”
“Some wannabe hires a professional author to write the novel or whatever they’ve tried to write and can’t,” I broke in.
“I can get a list of websites from Nancy and send it to you,” said Sheryl.
I wanted to snicker in a really snide way. No way, I thought. I’ve been on the New York Times bestseller list. I had one of the hottest agents in publishing. You think I’m going to try to hire myself out to write vanity projects? Please.
Sheryl broke into my thoughts. “According to Nancy, you should announce that you’re looking for work on your own website and your blog.” That idea was even worse than trolling for gigs on other people’s websites. My blog and my website had been set up for me by Gramercy’s public-relations department when Love, Max turned out to be such a success. The idea was to stay in touch with my readers, who would be eager to hear about all my comings and goings, and I’d increase my fan base for the next book—which, as we all know, never materialized. So I’d abandoned the blogging and the staying in touch. To be honest, I’d been too embarrassed to keep it up—I mean, what was I going to say? I’m now the poster child for writer’s block? But in my golden era, I’d been proud of the website and the blog, and the idea of using them to solicit gigs felt like a huge defeat. On the other hand, there was the maintenance on the co-op to be paid. And I really wasn’t ready to do without amenities like food and my phone.
“Great suggestion,” I said to Sheryl. “I’ll start on the blog entry right away. And if you could send me that list of ghostwriter’s websites, that would be very nice.”
“I’ll email it tonight.”
“Thank you.”
“And Francesca? Jake isn’t a horrible person. He’s just all wrong for you.”
SO I WROTE a blog entry advertising my availability as a writer, and I posted a notice on my website saying I was now a writer for hire. I tried to sound charming and funny and prayed I hadn’t come off as pathetic. Then I joined the horde of freelance writers trying to land a job. Basically, that meant I spent my days sending emails to strangers hoping to convince them that I alone could edit/write/ghostwrite their blog/brochure/Great American Novel. I wrote emails that were breezy and light. Nada. I tried to make my pitch more businesslike. Zilch. I pimped myself shamelessly, sending out copies of my best reviews. Nothing. No one responded to my emails. I didn’t get a nibble.
Unfortunately, I understood why. Even I didn’t think I was equipped to write an online magazine article about the advantages of eating algae or a daily post about the sexiest hot spots in Brooklyn. I was wondering how much longer I could pay my cable bill when the phone rang.
“Hi,” said a masculine voice. “Are you the Francesca Sewell who wrote that book about the dog? Because I’d like to talk to you about a job.”
After I scraped myself off the ceiling, I learned that his name was Brandon Bourne. But he wasn’t going to be my new boss. Her name was Eleanor Masters. She was in her eighties, and Brandon was an orderly in the assisted-living facility where she resided. “But don’t worry,” he reassured me. “Ms. Masters is as sharp as a tack. And she’s very motivated about this biography she’s hiring you to write.”
“Terrific,” I said, while I racked my brain for the name Masters and drew a blank. “That is so … absolutely … terrific.” Not only was Ms. Masters herself not ringing any bells, this biography had blended into the mass of jobs I’d tried to snag. But now, clearly, I had to identify it. Quickly.
“Um … remind me again. Which website did Ms. Masters advertise on?” I ventured. “Was it Ghosts Are Us dot-com?”
“Actually, we responded to the post on your website.” The voice on the other end was starting to sound a little perturbed.
“Right, right!” I said enthusiastically, even more in the dark than before. I could have sworn that there weren’t any responses. “Of course! And I’m so glad you did. Because I’m sure Ms.—um—Masters and I will have a … very productive … fun … experience, working together.”
There was a pause. “I have to tell you, Ms. Masters decided to hire you for this memoir because, when you answered her emails, she felt you had already made a strong emotional investment in the story,” Brandon said—a bit severely, I thought.
I struggled to recall whatever College Bullshit 101 I’d slung. “Well, she sounds like a charmer,” I said. Then I could have kicked myself—with my luck, the woman was half gaga.
To my relief, Brandon laughed heartily. “I don’t know about that, but she sure is a character,” he said.
“Absolutely. That’s what I meant,” I said, with a hearty laugh of my own. “So remind me, Brandon, how much is she paying again? In all the … excitement about her project, I’m afraid I forgot to write down the fee.”
“It’s fifteen thousand.”
It wasn’t anywhere near my advance for Love, Max, but I’d been trolling for jobs long enough to know that it was generous for a freelance gig. Still, I had to swallow hard. Then I remembered how much I wanted to keep my cable. I’d gotten addicted to the CSI shows.
“When do I start?” I asked.
CHAPTER 8
Yorkville House for Senior Living was on the Upper East Side. From the street it looked like one of those inexpensive small hotels that Europeans used to book themselves into when they visited the city—before the global economy did its kamikaze dive.
The Yorkville House lobby was furnished with cushy chairs upholstered in shades of blue and gold; there were brass sconces on the walls and a matching chandelier hanging overhead; and full-length gold drapes hung in the bay windows. You could imagine you really were in an old-world hotel
until you saw the wheelchair ramp and the rubber runners laid out on the carpet.
There was a huge desk in the front of the lobby, where a young woman was answering phones, sorting mail, and chatting with an elderly lady with a cane. Somewhere in the background someone was pounding heavily on a piano. It sounded to me like the tune was that ancient standard “Shine On, Harvest Moon.” I explained to the multitasker behind the desk that I was looking for Brandon Bourne.
“He’s in the crafts room with the Swinging Grandmas,” she said. “It’s right through there.” She pointed me in the direction of the music.
I followed the sound and found myself in a good-sized room with shelves full of art supplies lining the walls. There was a message board near the door announcing a list of classes, speeches, exercise sessions, and field trips to museums and theaters that were available to residents. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t sad that adults who had once been contributing members of society were now being entertained like kindergarten children. I also tried to tell myself it wasn’t sad that I’d failed so badly that I was here to ghostwrite a biography I couldn’t remember discussing for one of those aged kindergarteners.
In the far corner of the room was an upright piano; this was where the music was coming from. Half a dozen women, all of them well over sixty, were clustered around it. One of them was in a purple leotard that proved that for some women the legs really are the last thing to go, while the rest had on sweats or jeans, and they were all wearing those shoes with the strap over the arch that you see on dancers. The back of the piano was facing me, and the woman playing it was too short for me to see over the top, but there was a guy turning the pages of the music. His head was shaved, his ears had multiple piercings, and his clingy tank top and stretch pants revealed that he was into serious exercise and body art. He was wearing dancer shoes too.
Looking for a Love Story Page 6