After the Reunion

by Rona Jaffe

  “Go to bed,” he said, dismissing her. He put on his swim trunks.

  “What are you doing?” she asked stupidly.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going for a swim.”

  “Ken, please talk to me. If something’s upsetting you I want to help you. Do you feel all right? You look sick … I don’t really mean sick, I mean … not well.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Would you tell me if you didn’t feel right?”

  His face flushed with rage, actual rage. What had she done now? “Shut up,” he said. He left the room.

  Emily stood there with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Her teeth were almost chattering. Why did Ken act as if he suddenly hated her? Maybe there was another woman again, but maybe this time he was in love. It was possible. He was forty-seven, at the vulnerable age when men started to feel their own mortality. There were all those beautiful younger women everywhere he went, and who wouldn’t want Ken? This time it might not be just cheating, not just a fling; it could be serious, and he’d want to get rid of her, the old, boring wife …

  Maybe he was dying and didn’t want her to know. But their family doctor would have told her; the wife had to be told, even the old boring wife he wanted to be rid of.… No, she knew Ken well enough to realize that if he loved her so much that he wanted to protect her then he wouldn’t treat her the way he was now.

  Their bedroom terrace overlooked the swimming pool. Ken had turned on the lights all around the pool and in the water. She went out on the terrace and looked down at him, a dark little figure in the water, tossing up glittering spray, plowing through the rocking waves he was creating, frantically doing laps. Back and forth, back and forth, seemingly tirelessly, as if he had to exorcise a demon. It was cold out here in the night; Southern California was desert country. Emily began to shiver in earnest.

  He apparently had never noticed Kate’s bruise, and she and Ken had become such strangers to each other that she hadn’t even mentioned it to him after Kate left. What was happening to them?

  Her husband was exorcising an unknown demon, and she was in the desert. She was all alone.

  Chapter Two

  Annabel had always been blessed with beauty, intelligence, good health, and an almost euphoric joy in the anticipation of the possibilities of life. She loved people, parties, adventures, champagne, sentimental little objects, sex, and romance. All her life strangers had turned around to look at her, especially men; partly because of her striking auburn-haired looks, and partly because it was unusual and pleasurable to see someone who looked so happy.

  So when she started her own business she knew that because it was going to be an enormous amount of work and take up nearly all her time, she determined to do it only if it was fun too. She had been earning enough for her needs working as a buyer at Bloomingdale’s, but she had become bored. Walking to and from her job she would look at the little boutiques, particularly the ones on Madison Avenue, and think idly how she would have done that window differently, or carried more interesting merchandise; and eventually the idea took hold that she really wanted to have a boutique of her own.

  There was one she’d particularly had her eye on, in the Seventies, which carried very expensive, very tacky evening dresses, the kind worn by old ladies who also wore henna-colored mink coats. When she saw a sign in the window that it was going out of business she wasn’t a bit surprised, because she figured their clientele had probably all died off. She went immediately to the real estate person and embarked on the first business deal of her life.

  Her father had left her a significant amount of money. She used it as collateral against a loan, named the new boutique after herself, and began demolition and renovation. She wanted it to be comfortable—the sort of place customers would stay in for hours. There were nice dressing rooms with good chairs to sit on, and plenty of hangers, and best of all, room to move around. Everything was done in white and no-color beiges, with slightly tilted mirrors to make you look tall and thin, but not so distorted that people would get home and decide the dress that had looked so chic in the store was really a mistake.

  She remembered when she was a little girl her mother had taken her to stores where models actually came out and modeled clothes for you. At the time that had seemed very glamorous. Now it was an artifact of the past, but she intended to recreate it. And there would be tea served in the afternoons, with little sandwiches and pastries, and in the mornings of course there would be coffee and croissants. Never mind that the maid who brought these refreshments into the dressing rooms was the same kid who unpacked and hung up the stock, or that the model doubled as the salesgirl, or that Annabel hovered around giving all that nice personalized attention to the clients because she couldn’t afford two salesgirls … when her boutique finally opened it was a success.

  None of this would have worked if it hadn’t been for the clothes, or Annabel’s sense of style. The talent to put together a marvelous-looking outfit from a bit of this and a piece of that, which had started her on her career so long ago, was still Annabel’s strong point. She could tie a scarf just so, add a belt, take something away, put an Anne Klein jacket with a Perry Ellis skirt and prove that the colors and patterns blended perfectly. Her stock was not large, but it was eclectic, from Chloe to unknowns from SoHo. She might show up at work in an Adolfo suit with a T-shirt under it. “Why not?” she’d say. “Fashion is to be enjoyed.” And because she did enjoy it, and wore her clothes with such flair, people came out of her boutique having bought much more than they’d intended to but happy about it.

  She had been right about the hard work. Annabel’s was open six days a week, from ten to six, so she had to be there at nine in the morning to open the store and often couldn’t leave until nine at night. At the beginning she did everything herself, from doing orders, reordering, bookkeeping, and even cleaning up. She did the window displays, and changed them every other day. She designed her own logo, the paper, the bags, the boxes; simple raised white on white. She’d discovered that—given a choice—people didn’t particularly like carrying shopping bags with ads on them in the street, but if you gave them a neutral, good-looking shopping bag they’d reuse it over and over until it fell apart. So, in fact, her Plain Wrap was her own ad.

  She was using an accounting firm now, and her two helpers looked as if they were going to stay around for a while. Maria spoke six languages, which was good because they often had foreign customers. Pamela didn’t mind dressing up as the maid because she planned to open her own boutique some day and this was good experience. Since Pamela was only twenty-two and didn’t have much money, Annabel didn’t think she’d have to worry about replacing her too soon. The three of them saw so much of each other that they had become a sort of family. And Sweet Pea sat docilely in her basket, or took a nap in the window if the sun fell to her liking, adding a nice domestic touch.

  Chris came by once in a while to say hello, even though she and Annabel spoke to each other on the phone almost every day. Annabel’s daughter Emma, if she was in New York and between jobs, came by too, just to hang around. Chris bought clothes (Annabel gave her a discount), and sometimes Annabel managed to force a free outfit on Emma, but Emma’s idea of high style still remained in the area of army surplus clothing.

  It occurred to Annabel, as she was packing for her trip to Europe to look at the ready-to-wear collections, that the only thing that was missing from her life at the moment was a nice young man. It had been over two months, and surprisingly she hadn’t even noticed! She wondered if that was a sign her taste was improving. She hoped it didn’t improve too much. Maybe she’d meet someone in Europe, or better yet, on the plane coming home. That could be her little present to herself for all the hard work.…

  When Annabel got to Paris after two days at the showings in Milan she was already over her jet lag. She checked in at her hotel, where the tickets for the collections were waiting for her. Rich buyers stayed at the Plaza Athénée, a
nd a lot of others at the Meurice; Annabel was staying down the street from the Meurice at the St. James et Albany, where the year before she had discovered her favorite room at a price she could afford. It was actually a duplex suite, with a two story high ceiling, tall French windows looking out on a quiet courtyard garden, a small kitchen, and a dining table she could use for her paperwork. She unpacked quickly and went outside to the street.

  It was late afternoon, chilly but beautiful. She loved Paris, even now when it was in chaos because of all the people who had come for the collections. She was too excited to be tired, and she began to walk through the city, her breath catching in her throat with joy. Two years ago all of this had been a dream. Now it was her work. She wondered if she should go to the Ritz for tea, and look at all the chic people, or right down the street to Angelina’s, a tearoom that was enormously popular with the fashion buyers and where she might find someone she knew who would invite her to a party. Or maybe she should just have a quiet dinner and go to bed. Tomorrow she would be running around from early morning to late at night, going from one show to another, taking notes, trying to remember what she wanted to buy. She still had a limited budget and had to be careful what she spent for the boutique, and she couldn’t afford to make even one mistake.

  Who would have dreamed she would turn into such a serious person! The Annabel who never missed a party and a chance to get dressed up and flirt was now a woman preoccupied with lists and figures: dressing other people to go to their own parties. To tell the truth, she hadn’t seen much around to flirt with anyway. There were a lot of attractive young men, but they were looking for men, not for her.

  Finally she settled for window shopping, wandering, and a sandwich and glass of wine in a little café. She felt peaceful and content. Not that she’d given up the idea of a fling in Paris, but first she had business to do.

  The next four days were as crazy as she had anticipated. Being a newcomer, she always had the worst seats, in the back row. Five thousand people, packed in a tent like sardines, trying to see over each other’s heads. She could tell two of the models were on cocaine—they kept taking a reinforcement backstage between changes, until finally at the end of the day they were so glassy-eyed one of them nearly fell off the runway. Annabel went to almost every show; some to buy, others, like St. Laurent, just to drool. And she went to some just to get ideas of what was going to be happening. She would grab a bite to eat in stand-up bars between shows and appointments, fighting the mob of people and thinking how, for all of them at least, Paris was far from a gastronomic adventure.

  Her last afternoon a woman she knew slightly from New York invited her to go to a disco that night with a group of people, but she said no. The next day she would have to get up early to go to London to see what the kids were wearing on the streets. Her head was spinning and she was tired. She just wanted to do something passive and relaxing, like go to a movie, so after the last showing she took a taxi to the Champs-Elysées, where there were a lot of movie theaters, and saw to her delight that Gone With the Wind was playing, in English with French titles. It was her favorite movie, since she had always thought of herself as Scarlett O’Hara anyway.

  Waiting in line to buy her ticket, an attractive young man with touseled black hair and interesting topaz eyes smiled at her. She smiled back. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket and looked as if he might be a university student.

  “This is supposed to be a very good movie,” he said to her in French. He had a merry voice which she liked.

  “Oui,” she said.

  “You’re American,” he said in English. He had a French accent.

  “Oh, God,” Annabel said. “I said only one word and you knew.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I have an ear. I go to a lot of movies. It’s what I’m studying. It’s my dream.”

  “Well, this is an extraordinary movie,” Annabel said.

  “You’ve seen it before.”

  She thought. “Eight times.”

  “It must be fantastic. You come to Paris to see Gone With the Wind.”

  “Not exactly. I came for the Prêt-à-Porter. This is my relaxation.”

  He sat next to her in the theater. He didn’t speak to her at all during the movie, which she appreciated, and when it was over he turned to her and smiled. “May I invite you for a coffee?” he asked.

  Annabel smiled back at him. “Only if you liked the film.”

  “I loved it.”

  “I hope you’re not lying to get on my good side.”

  “But if I am, that’s a compliment, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Annabel said, and took his arm.

  They went to a café on the corner and took a table inside because the night was chilly. His name was Mathieu and he was twenty-three. She wondered if he was going to be her Paris fling. Frenchmen were supposedly very attracted by the sophistication of an older woman.

  They talked for two hours about their lives and their work, and had three coffees, and Annabel decided he was definitely sexy. It grew on you. The line of his cheekbones above where he had stopped shaving was covered with pale down, almost baby fuzz, which she found touching. He seemed tender, but there was nothing childish about him; he was a charming, sweet young man, and he seemed eager to make a good impression on her.

  She thought how truly inane the progress of a conversation with a stranger was; you revealed things that were interesting but not too personal, just enough so that he thought he knew you, and he did the same. You couldn’t share too much or you’d scare each other off. And that was a date.

  She told him where she’d gone to college; and she admitted she’d hated it, because that was amusing. She didn’t tell him why she’d hated it, that she’d been an outcast; that was all so long ago anyway. She told him, when he asked, that she was divorced, that she’d married the wrong man. She omitted the details of just how awful it had been to be married to a fool, because after all these years that seemed self-evident, and besides it was boring. She didn’t tell him that she’d married the wrong man because before that she’d been engaged to the right man, but he’d jilted her. That could be made to sound dramatic, but what was the point? If she’d married Bill he might have turned out to be even worse than Rusty … you never knew!

  She mentioned her daughter Emma, who was such an important part of her life, and told him how Emma was working in films as a glorified gofer, with dreams of becoming a producer and director, the same dreams he had. She commiserated with him about how hard it was.

  She did not mention Max. You didn’t say that there had been only one man in your life who had always been there for you, but that unfortunately he was murdered by a psychopath he’d picked up in a gay bar. No, that was definitely too bizarre. You did not discuss tragedies when you were talking to a potential one-night stand.

  She was in Paris, at night, with a beautiful, affectionate-looking young man, and who could ask for more at this moment? She liked his voice, and his cat’s eyes, and his mouth. She looked at his mouth and imagined kissing him. Yes, he was what she wanted. She glanced at her watch.

  “It’s late,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

  “Would you like to come back with me and have a drink?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, delighted.

  Making love with him was even better than she had anticipated, and Annabel wondered for an instant why she had gone so long without this; the delight that was so great it always surprised her. He was hers: the hard, smooth muscles under the silky skin of his lean young body, all the energy and the tenderness of him, hers to touch, to share, to enjoy. She read him with her fingertips. The downy cheekbone that had been forbidden across from her at the tiny table in the café was hers, as was everything: nothing forbidden in that bed, everything giving more pleasure and excitement. They devoured each other with all the greed and yearning they had been hiding during their civilized mating dance.

  Afterward he lay with his hea
d on her shoulder and she stroked his thick hair. The sex had been terrific, and usually she felt marvelously relaxed and happy. But not this time. Annabel watched the sky go pale with morning through the double-height French windows and wondered why. For just a few moments, for no reason that had to do with him, she felt a little bit sad.

  He was happy as a puppy in the morning, and that made her feel guilty and almost melancholy. She used to feel that way, not a care in the world, so pleased with herself. She shared her morning coffee and rolls with him, and then he watched her finish packing.

  “I hope the next time you come to Paris I can see you again,” Mathieu said.

  “Of course,” Annabel said.

  “If I ever get to New York I’ll call you.” He smiled. “Maybe by the time I get to New York I’ll be famous.”

  She smiled back; Annabel the Southern Belle, the flirt, the charmer. “I bet you will be,” she said.

  She was glad to be in London again. There was something about London that always made her feel at home, as if she’d been there in another life. She stayed at a sweet little bed and breakfast place which was much less expensive than the big hotels, and all day she ran around the streets looking. Some of the kids seemed to have nothing to do but try to look like members of punk rock groups and hang out with their other unemployed friends. It was a sign of a depressed economy and lost young people, and it disturbed her. But the beautiful old houses, the winding little streets, and the parks that were always green, even in the winter, cheered her up again. She had a very dignified, solitary dinner at The Connaught Hotel Grill, having carefully reserved in advance from New York, and the Scotch salmon, Dover sole, and the solid, peaceful atmosphere made her glad she had planned this special night out just for herself.

  She stayed in London only two days, and then flew back to New York. Sitting next to her on the plane was an unattractively loud man her own age, wearing a wedding ring, who asked her if she would have dinner with him in New York, and when she said no he spent the rest of the trip trying to make a date with the stewardess. Annabel felt sorry for her, having to put up with him and be polite. She busied herself with her paperwork, looking forward to going home.