by Rona Jaffe
“In more ways than I can imagine,” Olivia said.
“What was your mother like?”
“Afraid of everything.”
“Conventional?”
“Very.”
“Wanted you to take your preordained place in society and be an overachiever at it?”
“Exactly,” Olivia said. “She never dreamed I’d become a vet.”
“She didn’t like that?”
“Not much. She didn’t like animals.”
“She didn’t seem to like people much either,” Marc said.
“I never thought of that,” she said. She realized that she hadn’t ever told Roger the story, it just hadn’t occurred to her. “How did you get to speak English with such an American accent?” she asked.
“I’ve been in New York ten years.”
“Still . . .”
“In the summers, when I was a teenager, my parents sent me to stay with a family in Iowa. They felt it was typically American. Plus, I have a good ear.”
“Ah. And can you actually support yourself as a writer?”
“Miraculously, yes. I write for magazines. And I have simple tastes at the moment.”
“I should read more magazines,” she said apologetically.
“You haven’t missed very much. I’ll send you some tear sheets of my better pieces.”
“I’d love to read them.” She glanced at her watch. She hadn’t realized it was so late. “Uh-oh, I have to get Roger for lunch.”
He put some money on top of the bill in the saucer. “Thank you for spending some time with me. It was interesting and fun.”
“It was for me, too.” They looked at each other. It had been so long since she’d had an exciting conversation with a new person—a new man—that she didn’t want to leave. She felt different: more alive. “I wish I could stay longer,” she said reluctantly.
“I wish you could, too. Maybe we can meet in New York sometime. Have coffee. Talk some more.”
What would that be, she thought, a date? No, it’s not possible. He knows I’m taken, and he’s so much younger than I am. He’d probably like to become friends. I wouldn’t mind that at all. There’s something about him that’s like fresh air. And I do love looking at him. “Maybe we can,” she said.
She and Roger had lunch at the Relais Plaza in their hotel, watching the chic and elegant people. “So what did you do while I was sleeping off my excesses?” he asked pleasantly.
“Bought your present. And I ran into a client of mine in the antiques store, so we went for coffee.”
“Who?”
“Marc Delon. The dalmatian.”
He thought for a moment. “Oh, the French kid.”
He’s not so French and he’s not such a kid, Olivia thought. “Yes.”
“That’s nice,” Roger said. There was something in his tone that was almost condescending, and it annoyed her.
He said I fascinated him, that I’m beautiful, that he wanted to know me better, she thought. He’s writing a book. And he knows something about me that you don’t know. “Yes,” she said, “it was,” and her tone was as casual as his.
In the afternoon they walked, stopped for an apéritif at Ma Bourgogne in the Place des Vosges, a cafe they had always liked, overlooking the little square park and the picturesque old houses that were now apartments, and came back to the hotel to get ready for dinner.
Olivia put on a sand-colored linen dress that looked wrinkled because it was supposed to. “I wonder what Aunt Myra would have to say about this,” she said.
“Didn’t you bring a travel iron?” Roger said, mimicking Aunt Myra’s voice. “Don’t they have pressing at your hotel?”
“Oh, is that the new look?”
He had ordered a bottle of champagne sent to their room, and Olivia gave him his present. She had wondered what to write on the card, and finally settled for a very banal All my love, Olivia. He was pleased with his gift and kissed her fondly, not passionately. They drank a toast to future birthdays, to be spent together in interesting places, put the rest of the champagne into their small refrigerator to drink later and took a taxi to the Tour d’Argent.
Looking at Roger across the table in the golden light, and out at the view of Notre Dame’s illuminated stone gargoyles, and at the Seine moonlit below, Olivia thought how lucky they were. They had enough money and they were healthy, they could go where they wanted and do whatever they wanted to. They cared about the work that made it possible for them to do these things, and she had funds of her own besides. They had loved each other so much. Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone?
“What are you thinking?” Roger asked.
“That we’ll never have to worry about winning the lottery,” Olivia said.
They had a lovely wine with the famous duck, and a bottle of champagne with dessert. Their dinner was very expensive, but Roger insisted on paying for it himself even though it was his birthday. At the next table there was a man a little older than Roger, with a woman Wendy’s age and obviously not his daughter. They were looking at each other seductively, the young woman’s long fingers playing with the stem of her wineglass in a way that seemed erotic. Olivia looked away.
Would things always remind her of his betrayal, even when they were trying to get close?
They went back to their hotel, and got ready for sleep, although neither of them was sleepy. They were both a little nervous. The night maid had closed the drapes, turned down their two beds and made the room lighting soft. Roger opened the bottle of champagne they had started before they left. “You looked very beautiful tonight,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He came close and put his arms around her, but this time it was not as a cuddly bear. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you.”
He took the glass out of her hand and put it on the table, and then he began to kiss her. They hadn’t kissed like this for such a long time, and so much had happened, that there was something about it both familiar and strange. He slipped her robe off her shoulders, dropped his and, still kissing her, led her into her bed.
My bed, not his, Olivia thought. There must be some symbolism to this. But then, he always liked to do it on my side.
How long I’ve wanted this, and now . . .
Roger was kissing and stroking her, ready; and she caressed him, but not so ready; and then unexpectedly the image of Marc Delon slid into her mind. The body in her arms was Marc’s, taut, slim and strong, and the face she saw behind her closed eyelids was his, fresh and young, his long black hair hanging down over his forehead and touching her breasts like gentle feathers. She was suddenly, instantly, aroused. The fingers exploring her were Marc’s, and the tongue, and when he entered her she was wet and throbbing, trying to pull him further into her body, straining against him, wanting more, more. . . .
Two thrusts and Roger was out, finished. She wasn’t even aware that he had come, so fast and mild was his ejaculation. She felt frustrated and angry, lost between her passion and her disappointment, waiting. He held her for a moment, but he seemed embarrassed. She realized he wasn’t even going to try to take care of what he had started. He was probably nervous, she thought. He probably drank too much. Maybe he’s not really attracted to me anymore. Then he kissed her forehead and went into the bathroom.
She lay there holding on to her fantasy, thinking about Marc Delon.
20
AFTER LABOR DAY the city came back into its own. It was the start of a new season, no matter what the calendar and the thermometer said. There was excitement in the air again, things to do. Roger had lunch with Wendy.
He had been avoiding her during the summer as best he could. They had met for drinks three times, and lunch once, always platonically. Getting out of the office for lunch was as difficult for her as it was for him, she had said, since she wa
s working very hard, hoping to get a promotion. She had not complained that he hadn’t taken her to dinner, so he knew she was dating new men, probably ones she met in the Hamptons where she had rented her summer house. He was a little surprised that this woman whom he had known as a hysteric was getting herself together so well and so quickly, but he was relieved. Since he had run away from her apartment in impotent disgrace, he had been less than eager to try again.
They met at a steak house in Midtown, where, she told him, she sometimes took clients. In her chic little corporate work suit she looked like she was playing another role for him, but he knew this one was real. Still, it was strange and therefore somewhat alluring.
“My boss likes me now,” she said cheerfully.
“I didn’t know he didn’t,” Roger said.
“He used to complain that I would leave the office for too long. That’s when I was meeting you. Of course, he’s sort of a tyrant. Wants all us little serfs to be right there.”
“You have to be, to produce,” Roger said. He felt like her uncle, not her former lover.
“I know,” Wendy said. She picked at her Caesar salad. “How are you and Olivia getting along?”
“All right,” he said.
“Made-up and happy?”
“Sort of,” he said. He supposed that was an accurate answer. They were back in their bedroom together, they treated each other affectionately and even had sex from time to time, but it had never gotten any better than it had been that unsatisfying night in Paris. He was too nervous. The more he worried about how it would be, the more it stayed the same.
“You could have had me,” Wendy said. “Too bad.”
He didn’t answer.
“Men and guilt,” she said.
“It isn’t guilt,” Roger said, annoyed. “It’s loyalty. And I love her.”
“You used to say you loved me.”
I wish I had never said that, he thought, but he didn’t respond.
“Men and lies,” Wendy said, and smiled.
“You wanted me to lie,” he said.
“Did I? Did we ever discuss it?”
“It was understood.”
“I guess you’re right.”
The conversation had made him lose his appetite. Wendy always knew how to make him feel guilty. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologized. “It was cruel.”
“But truthful. I knew it was pretend.”
Pretend. What a childlike choice of words. She looked so vulnerable he wanted to kiss her. She looked like a little girl dressed in a stockbroker’s suit. Did clients actually trust her? “You deserve a man who doesn’t play-act at taking care of you,” Roger said.
“I know.”
“Did you ever consider going for professional help?”
“A therapist?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Because I was crazy enough to go out with you?”
“In a way.”
“I’ve been in therapy for two years,” she said sweetly. “I told her everything you and I did together.”
“Oh, God.” He hated the idea of her telling a stranger about him and all his weaknesses . . . about his fantasies, his secrets! He felt exposed and ridiculous.
“You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I am. What we did was private.”
“Not always so private,” Wendy said, and laughed. “Remember Julia’s?”
“You told her that, too?”
“It’s what a therapist is for. Do you want to know what she said?”
“I’m not sure.”
“She said you were lucky I was so inventive.”
He let that sink in. Absolution. Praise. He felt a pang of loss. “I was lucky,” he said.
“My mistake was wasting it—and me—on you,” Wendy said, in that same sweet, matter-of-fact tone. Her eyes were wide open and innocent. How blue her eyes were. They would never cease to surprise him.
“I told you that,” he said, trying to regain control. “I could have saved you a pile of money on the shrink.”
“You told me that to get rid of me. You didn’t believe it.”
“Is that what she said?”
“I’m not going to talk about this anymore,” Wendy said, and went back to her salad.
“So . . . how was your summer?”
“Great.”
“The house was a success?”
“Absolutely. I went to lots of parties and met lots of men.”
“Anyone you liked?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She put down her fork. “I’m in love.”
“In love?”
“Yes, and he loves me, too.” Her face lit up. “He’s a wonderful man. Handsome, kind, sexy, very intelligent, rich, older. All the things I like. He treats me so well . . .”
I thought you couldn’t live without me, Roger thought. “Sounds great,” he said.
“And he’s divorcing his wife for me.”
“Well.”
“I don’t need someone to pretend to love me anymore,” Wendy said. “I have a man who really loves me.”
“I hope you don’t get hurt.”
“Oh, you sanctimonious pig.”
“I just meant it’s sudden.”
“People always know right away.”
He thought back over his own life. “I suppose so.”
“It’s not like I’m a homewrecker,” Wendy said. “He and his wife weren’t happy. It’s just that I’m the only woman he was ready to change things for. He wants to marry me.”
“And you?”
“I always wanted to get married,” Wendy said. “I just never thought I’d meet the right man.”
“And he’s it.”
“Yes, he’s it.”
“I’m happy for you,” Roger said. Now that he was completely free of her he felt released, weightless, like a balloon sailing up into the sky. He also felt strangely sad. This other man, whoever he was, would have all the joys of Wendy’s body and imagination. He could show her off. He would never be bored.
But he would be bored, eventually. He would have to talk to her. Would he notice she had nothing to say? Would he care?
“How do you see the two of you in ten years?” he asked.
Wendy ran her fingers through her hair, in the gesture he knew so well. A faraway look came over her face, and then she smiled. “Best friends,” she said. “Good sex. Two kids.”
“Best friends?”
“Of course,” she said. “That’s essential. Didn’t you know that?”
21
IT HAD BEEN six weeks since Olivia had seen Marc Delon in Paris, and now she felt foolish for having had fantasies about him. If he had really been interested in seeing her again, he would have called. She told herself it might have been uncomfortable for him—even awkward and odd—to call her when she was at home with Roger, but he could have phoned her at the office. Nor had he sent her the promised tear sheets of his articles, which would have given her an excuse to call him. No, she was sure he had forgotten her, and it would be best for her to forget about him, too. Their meeting had been a moment out of time; it was what it was.
She thought his life was probably filled with such highly charged moments. How interesting it must be for him, and how interesting it would have been for her. But she didn’t want an affair.
Roger had been on his best behavior, but the barrier between them remained. She wondered if things would ever be the way they were before Wendy came into their lives. He told her it was completely over between him and Wendy now, that she had actually fallen in love with another man whom she was planning to marry, and that he was rid of her. But you’re never really rid of anyone, Olivia thought, because you remember. She wondered if Marc Delon ever thought of her—not that it was the same.
Melissa had
called to tell her that she and her brother Nick were giving a seventy-fifth birthday party for their father, Uncle David, to which she and Roger were of course invited, and that everyone in the family had to find a memento from Uncle David’s past and send it to her because they were going to make a commemorative scrapbook. Olivia went through the old family photographs—the ones her father’s second wife Grace had tried to destroy—and found a picture she liked of Uncle David when he was a young man. How handsome he had been! Nick looked just like him. She found a photograph of herself as a toddler, squinting and beaming under a sun hat, at about the same time the other picture had been taken, and pasted them side by side on a sheet of paper.
What should she write on it? What memories came up? Except for herself, they had been wild and happy children who during the long summer days at Mandelay paid no attention to the adults, but the adults had always been there, a comforting framework for their lives. She remembered Uncle David playing croquet on the lawn beyond the formal gardens, under the huge old trees, with Aunt Hedy and his friends. Even now she could hear the click of the wooden mallet on the balls, Uncle David’s cheerful tenor voice and Hedy’s deeper, authoritative one ringing out in the middle distance.
They took their croquet games seriously and always wore white, and when the games were over they went back to the house where Uncle David made drinks on the terrace. She had found that sophisticated. He also did magic tricks, good ones, for the entertainment of the children. She remembered him taking an egg out of her pocket. No matter how she cajoled, he would never tell her how he did it, even when she was grown up. And he was always laughing and smiling. Uncle Seymour, his older brother, worried and fretted—he had an ulcer, he had migraines, and when he came to visit there was always something important about business to discuss. Uncle Seymour smiled when he spoke about the improvements he was making on his own summer place, or when he could tell them how well Julia’s was doing, but Uncle David would whistle a little tune just because it was a nice day.
Olivia found another photograph of herself as a tall and gawky teenager, and pasted it beside the two others. Next to it she put a photo of Uncle David, still a handsome man, taken at about that time at some Mandelay party. Then she went through her recent scrapbooks and found a photograph of herself in her office, seated in front of her framed diplomas, holding Wozzle. She pasted that alongside the others. She didn’t add a recent picture of Uncle David, because he knew how he looked, he saw himself in the mirror every day, and this was a tribute to the past. Below the pictures she wrote: Dear Uncle David, Thank you for the magic. But don’t you think I’m old enough to know how you got the egg into my pocket? And also how you stay so young?