True Love (and Other Lies)
Page 10
“Is it still raining?”
“No, was it earlier? I wouldn’t know, it’s not like my cubicle has any windows,” I said, pulling a face. This was not an uncommon pattern for us. We’d have a glass of wine together, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with Daphne, during which I’d complain about my job, and Max would entertain me with funny stories about how bitchy the fashion models are. I never tire of hearing that the genetically blessed human clothes hangers are drug addicts or kleptomaniacs or that they can’t talk without using the word “like” as a noun, verb, and adjective in every sentence: “Yeah, like his new collection, like, is like totally, like you know, like hot.”
“So, I’m intrigued. How was your trip complicated? Did you meet a tall, dark Brit who wanted you to dress up in a riding habit and hit him with a crop?” Max asked, leering comically.
Max has a rather blunt sense of humor that a lot of people take offense at, but which I find hilarious. He’s very fond of saying “What? I just say what everyone else is thinking.”
“No, not even close. Well, you’re close on the man part, but not the riding paraphernalia,” I admitted.
I told him about meeting Jack and our incredible dates and then finding out he was Maddy’s ex-boyfriend. I didn’t go into the details of our lovemaking—I don’t believe in kissing and telling, particularly to Max, who would immediately start making vulgar jokes at my expense.
Max whistled. “Sounds like a good time was had by all. So why the long face?”
“What do you mean? What I did was horrible! Maddy’s my friend, and I went out with the guy who had just broken her heart,” I protested.
Max made a face. He hadn’t liked Maddy the one time he’d met her, at the birthday party Maddy had organized for me at Calle Ocho. Max can be a bit of a prima donna, and he was put off by what he saw as Maddy swanning in and taking over. Maddy was perplexed by Max—she didn’t really get his sense of humor, and thought he was laughing at her, which he was, just not in a mean way. It was actually his attempt to be friendly. And Maddy didn’t help matters by constantly referring to Max as “your gay friend who isn’t really gay.”
“So, no harm done. She’ll never know. And it’s not like she wouldn’t do it to you if it was the other way around,” Max said.
“No, she wouldn’t,” I protested, but he just rolled his eyes.
“You’re prejudiced, you’ve never liked Maddy,” I said.
“You’re right. At your birthday party, she insisted on being the center of attention. As soon as the conversation stopped being about her, she’d pout. And I can’t stand that Daddy’s Little Girl routine. I get enough of that at work,” he said.
“You’re completely exaggerating. Maddy just likes to be in the middle of things, she always has. I don’t know why the two of you can’t get along—you’re worse than my parents,” I said, but Max just snorted.
“Okay, so she’s a peach, but I still don’t see what you’re worried about. It’s not like she’s going to find out what you were up to, unless Mr. Sexy Brit Man tells her,” Max said.
“He’s not British, he’s American. And I don’t think he would tell her,” I said, and then bit my lip. Because the only other way Maddy would ever find out was if Jack and I continued to see each other. This was implausible at best. And yet . . . there was a tiny flower of hope blooming in my cynical heart. Jack had asked for my phone number, as well as my work number, fax number, and my e-mail address, and he’d carefully written all of his contact numbers down for me. He promised up and down that he’d call me—and not in a disingenuous way, but with real enthusiasm. It was . . . convincing. Max saw through me immediately.
“Oh, I can’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head with disgust. “No wonder you can’t find a boyfriend. You have a thousand little nitpicky rules about who you will and will not date, and end up disqualifying 99.9 percent of all men everywhere, and then you go and fall for some guy that you’re never going to see again. It’s pathological.”
“I didn’t fall for him,” I protested weakly.
“Yeah, right. You went and found yourself the world’s Most Unavailable Man—he lives in a foreign country and used to date your best friend, and so there’s no chance that the relationship will ever go anywhere, and that’s who you fall in love with,” he ranted. He drained the rest of his wine, refilled his glass, and then offered the bottle to me. I waved him off—one glass of wine was my limit on weeknights.
“God, who said anything about love? And I know I’m not going to see him again, I’m not an idiot,” I said, but then completely undermined my credibility by blushing bright red.
Max grabbed my hand and squeezed it affectionately. He was very physical, the kind of person who was forever rubbing your shoulder or hugging you.
“I never said you were an idiot,” he said. “Quite the opposite. I just wish you wouldn’t set yourself up to be unhappy. You hungry? How ’bout Chinese? Grab the phone and call it in. I think the delivery man has a crush on you, because he always gives us extra crispy noodles whenever you place the order.”
After we ate, I begged off of watching Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring on DVD for the twentieth time. It was Max’s favorite movie, after The Empire Strikes Back, and he has an annoying habit of reciting the dialogue along with the actors. The very fact that Daphne loves that stupid movie as much as he does should be reason enough for him to marry her. Instead, I hauled my bag and coat back to my apartment. Once in, I dropped my things on the middle of the floor (something you can do when you live alone) and drew in a deep breath. It was a relief to be home.
My apartment has none of the sleek style of Maddy’s or Max’s, and I hauled most of the furniture home from the wallet-friendly IKEA, but it’s comfortable and suits me. The furniture is all of the overstuffed, cozy variety, the kind that you can sink into for hours while you cuddle up with a good book. A few select pieces were ordered from my much beloved Pottery Barn catalogue (which Max, a self-proclaimed expert on midcentury design, sneeringly refers to as “yuppie porn”).
I’ve always been an addict of those high-end home-interior magazines, even if it hasn’t exactly rubbed off on my own decorating skills. Really, it’s more of an escapist fantasy. I spend hours paging through them, devouring the profiles of homeowners. It’s not just that I want their homes . . . I want their lives. I want to be one of those women, the kind who rinse baby arugula leaves in the sink of a gourmet kitchen with slate green walls, stainless steel appliances, and marble countertops while wearing high heels with pointy toes. The kind who furnish their houses with a casual mix of priceless antiques and little gems they’ve picked up while shopping at French flea markets. The type who have exquisite paintings given to them by their artist friends hanging on their walls. Women like that don’t work for a pittance at a fourth-rate magazine that goes unread in the waiting room of a doctor’s office while everyone fights over the three-month-old, tattered issue of People.
I settled onto my tan slip-covered couch, putting my feet up on the coffee table, and felt the overwhelming relief to be home that I always had at the end of a hard workday. I’d spent the rest of my afternoon reworking the San Antonio piece, grudgingly taking out all of my favorite bits, making it as colorless and dull as the Holiday Inn guest room I’d stayed in while there. It was demoralizing watching all of the spark being bleached from it. Was I ever going to reach a point in my career when I could write what I wanted to write, without it being edited and reedited, without all of the personality being wrung from it? There was always the choice of freelancing, I knew, but there was a lot of competition and no guarantee that I’d be given any artistic license, plus I’d lose the perks of steady pay and health insurance. No, the only real choice was jumping to yet another magazine . . . but who would take me? Robert wasn’t about to give me a good recommendation (unless, of course, he saw it as a good opportunity to get rid of me), and it wasn’t as if any of my best writing made it into print, so I knew no
one would come knocking on my door, ready to lure me away with a lucrative signing bonus.
So I was stuck, which was a depressing reality to be faced with. When you’re young and full of pie-in-the-sky ideas about adulthood—No parents telling you what to do! Your own place! Your own money! No more school!—it never occurs to you that you might end up in a soul-sucking job. Okay, maybe my job wasn’t exactly soul-sucking, but it also wasn’t a barrel of laughs.
I slumped against the back of the sofa and debated whether I should check out whatever ridiculous reality show was on television or take another stab at editing my column. Before I could decide, the phone rang. I reached over to pick up the receiver, assuming it was Max, intent on reciting the opening dialogue of LOTR to me. Why he continued to watch that movie over and over and over, when he’d clearly memorized it, was beyond me. Personally, I think he had a thing for Liv Tyler wearing her elf ears.
“Hey, you. I guess this means you got home all right,” a familiar, slow drawl said. My heart did a cartwheel . . . it wasn’t Max after all. Instead, the now-familiar, slow-cadenced voice speaking in my ear, his words pinging on the slight delay of the international line, belonged to Jack Harrison.
Chapter 8
“Hi,” I said excitedly, and then without thinking, blurted out, “I didn’t think you’d call.”
“Why not? I said I would. I would have called you last night, but I figured you’d be too tired after your flight,” Jack said.
Yeah, right, I thought incredulously. Like it or not, I had a monster crush on this guy. I’d have welcomed his call even if it had come at three a.m. But, deciding to play it cool, I instead said, “What are you doing?”
“Well, it’s midnight here, so I’m in bed,” Jack said. There was no missing the flirtatious tone in his voice. “I stayed up late so I could get a chance to talk to you. I didn’t know if it was okay for me to call you earlier at work,” he continued.
I felt a warm rush go through me. All of my lingering stress drained away, and I felt wide-awake, sparked with fresh energy.
“No, you could. But I work in a cubicle, so everyone around me would be listening to our conversation,” I said. “I’m glad you waited up.”
“Me too.” He paused. “It’s too bad you were here for such a short time.”
“I know. We still had loads of sightseeing to do,” I sighed. “I didn’t get to the National Portrait Gallery, or the V & A, or even Hyde Park.”
“Well, I guess that just means that you’ll have to come back,” Jack said. His tone was light but sincere.
“I guess so,” I agreed.
“When do you think you could?” Jack asked.
“Oh God, I don’t know. I mean, I have to work, and I couldn’t really afford it,” I said, my voice trailing off.
“I’ll arrange for your ticket,” Jack immediately offered.
Which was embarrassing—I didn’t want him to think I was asking for money, of course—but nice. Nice. I’d never really gone for nice guys in the past. Not that I was ever into girlfriend-beating or leather-mask-wearing sadists, but I think I’ve always been too swayed by charm and magnetism, thinking that men like that are somehow more attractive, even though experience has borne out the opposite. Usually the more charming a man is, the more he’s just trying to overcompensate for his shallowness and insecurity. But nice was something different, something new. Maybe something I could get used to.
“Um. Wow. I mean, that’s an incredible offer,” I hedged. “But I couldn’t accept.”
“Of course you could. I have an entirely selfish motive . . . I want to see you again,” Jack said, as if it were the most simple thing in the world.
The idea of seeing him again was tempting. But then again, it raised all kinds of problems. As Max had said, if I never saw him again, I could (eventually) forget about him, and forget that our brief affair was a complete betrayal of my best friend. And if I continued to see him, I’d have to do it behind Maddy’s back. Could I do that? Could I really go to London to see Jack and not tell Maddy? And what if I did and ended up running into her? I knew it wasn’t likely, but it was possible, particularly if Jack took me anywhere that he and Maddy used to frequent, somewhere that she might continue to go to also. But then, on the other hand, I really did want to see Jack again, in fact I wanted it with such an intensity it surprised me. God, this was entirely too complicated, and I knew I should just stop it now. I just wish I didn’t like him so damn much. But therein lay the problem.
“I’ll think about it,” I hedged.
“Good,” Jack said. “Now tell me all about your day. Anything interesting happen?”
From: Jack Harrison
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: testing . . .
Date: Tuesday, November 12
You asked last night if there’s anything I miss about home, so I set aside some time during a crushingly boring meeting today to map out my response.
Top Five Things I Miss About the U.S.:
5. One-dollar bills
4. Ice cold drinks
3. Baseball
2. Not being constantly referred to as a “Yank”
(they never say it in a nice way, either)
1. Peanut butter
Do I have the right e-mail address for you? If not, and this is going into some general, Sassy Seniors in-box, then I want you to know that I’m seventy-eight, an avid reader, and desperately seeking more information on which assisted-living centers have the hottest chicks.
From: Claire Spencer
To: Jack Harrison
Subject: Re: testing . . .
Date: Tuesday, November 12
Yes, it’s me, and I’m glad to see your work hours are well spent. Don’t forget, there is a downside to living here. On my way to work this morning, a man on the subway actually started stroking my hair . . . and I don’t even want to know where his fingers have been. I just sprayed myself with Lysol, but I don’t think I’m going to feel clean again until I have the chance to submerge myself into a vat of boiling hot water and scrub with antibacterial soap.
From: Jack Harrison
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: Re: testing . . .
Date: Tuesday, November 12
Are you going to be around tonight, or do you have plans with your hair-stroking freak?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Jack Harrison
Subject: Re: Re: Re: testing . . .
Date: Tuesday, November 12
Don’t talk about my fiancé that way.
But, yes, I should be around. Why?
From: Jack Harrison
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: testing . . .
Date: Tuesday, November 12
I thought we could pick up our conversation where it left off last night. As I remember, the last thing you were saying was something about how you’re pining away for me, can’t live without me . . . something like that, right?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Jack Harrison
Subject: dreams
Date: Tuesday, November 12
Since I said nothing of the kind, I can only surmise that you must have been dreaming about me.
From: Jack Harrison
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: dreams
Date: Tuesday, November 12
Mmmm . . . yes, I believe I was.
Okay, I’d better get back to work. I have empires to topple, people to fire, lives to ruin . . . I’ll talk to you tonight.
From: Madeline Reilly
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: life sucks
Date: Wednesday, November 13
Hey, sweetie. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to spend more time with you while you were here, and thanks for coming by and holding my hand when H came over. I still can’t believe that it’s really over. I knew he was angry at me, but I thought it would all blow over. Maybe it still will . . . I
just can’t accept that I was the only one falling in love, know what I mean? Do you think I should call him, and see if he wants to talk again, or wait and see if he comes to me?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Madeline Reilly
Subject: Re: life sucks
Date: Wednesday, November 13
Why was he angry with you?
From: Madeline Reilly
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: Re: life sucks
Date: Wednesday, November 13
Didn’t I tell you? Well, I don’t want to go into it now via e-mail. I’ll tell you the next time we talk.
So do you think I should call him? He seemed so final about everything on Saturday, but I just have to think that he’ll come around. What do you think? You know what, never mind . . . I’m going to call him. I know if we can just talk it out, he’ll see there,s no reason to be upset, and that this entire thing has been just a big blowup about nothing. I’ll let you know how it goes.
From: Claire Spencer
To: Madeline Reilly
Subject: Re: Re: Re: life sucks
Date: Wednesday, November 13
Do you really think that’s a good idea?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Madeline Reilly
Subject: Re: Re: Re: life sucks
Date: Wednesday, November 13
Are you still there, or have you gone home for the day? You didn’t reply to my last e-mail.
From: Norfolk, Peggy
To: All staff list
Subject: Birthday Celebrations