How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  Eight

  I knock on the door of number 1024 in the very chic Park Newberry building. It swings open and Lynne, somehow looking impeccable and stylish in a Lululemon workout outfit, with a cute bandanna over her hair, grins at me.

  “Welcome to the new pad!” she says, ushering me inside. “Teresa is running late . . .”

  “As always,” we say in unison, since being late is one of Teresa’s main occupations. I put down my large bag and hand my coat to Lynne, who hangs it in the entrance closet.

  “I can’t believe you bought this place so fast!” I mean, we barely made the bet a month and a half ago back in September, and she is already moved into her new condo.

  “It was just good timing. The owners had already moved to Florida, so the place was sitting empty. I was prequalified for much more than they were asking, and it was in such impeccable shape that there was no need for contingencies. My place was month-to-month, so timing wasn’t an issue on my side. Really, I had a team come in and paint for a couple of days, and voila! Obviously I still have a lot of work to do, but I’m pleased.” The place is covered in boxes, with artwork stacked against walls, but she has set up her living room pretty well, and has a nice spread of cheeses on the coffee table and a bottle of wine open. She pours me a glass and gives me the tour. The condo is pretty straightforward: two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, living room–dining room combo, and a large den that will clearly be an office. There’s a well-appointed eat-in kitchen, plenty of storage, his and hers walk-in closets off the master, and a spectacular master bath.

  “I see you’ve taken over both closets . . .” I say, laughing.

  “Seasons, darling. Winter and fall there, spring and summer over here.”

  “Not exactly taking the ‘if you build it he will come’ attitude, I guess.”

  “Hell no. This is my place. If he comes, and frankly I don’t know that I even want to go down that path again, then there will have to be a new neutral place when the time is right.” Lynne continues to be somewhat bombastic about her ex-husband, but I’m the last person to call her out on that. I certainly keep any of my Bernard references on the overblown side. Because it is always easier to shoot for funny than it is for truth.

  “That makes sense.”

  “You have no idea. I mean, when that lummox I married decided that the whole life we had been heading toward and planning for should just up and go another direction? I was fucked. I’d given up the best rental condo in the history of L.A. rentals and moved into his house, so after the divorce I had to find a new place, which wasn’t nearly as great as the one I had given up. So this condo is for me. If someone shows up who actually is worthy of permanence, we are going to buy something new together and start fresh. But for now I’m building my life around me. And this is a good start.”

  “Well, it is gorgeous, congrats.” I can see what she means about wanting to put down some very independent and personal roots. It sounds like her marriage, brief and badly conceived as she makes it sound, really threw her for a loop. I know from Teresa that they met and were married in just the span of six months or so, and that it only lasted a year and a half. Lynne’s been divorced for over four years, so while most might wonder why she is still so vitriolic about her ex, I get it. I know better than anyone that there is no real time limit on how much damage someone can inflict, or how long it can take to recover. I’ve been home from France for a long time. But the Bernard wounds, while technically healed, are still red on the surface and tender to the touch. For all her tough-girl exterior, I know Lynne, and I know if she is still finding reasons to denigrate the former Mr., then she too is dealing with some stuff that makes your breath catch if you turn the wrong way and aches when the rain is coming.

  The bell rings, and Lynne goes to let in Teresa while I look out at the view of Washington Square Park and the Newberry Library. It’s not the kind of place I would ever want for myself, too modern, too new, but it suits Lynne to a T and I’m happy for her, if a little chagrined at how easy it all seems to be for her.

  I know she is going to be the first to complete this stupid bet. And I don’t really know why that irks me—after all, we were very clear this isn’t about winners or losers. We can all fulfill the bet and be off the hook. We could all fail and have to write three checks. And yet, there is some tiny part of me that just doesn’t want Lynne to cross the finish line before us. Which is weird, because I don’t feel the same about Teresa, who flies into the apartment in a whirlwind of excuses about why she is late, handing Lynne a platter of cookies and shimmying her curves out of her coat. Hugs and kisses all around and then Lynne takes her on the tour while I retrieve my package from the front door and unwrap the still-warm loaf. I’ve made their old favorite, pizza strudel, a recipe I invented in high school. It’s essentially pizza dough rolled out to a long rectangle, covered in a combination of mozzarella and provolone cheese, studded with chunks of sweet Italian sausage and slices of pepperoni, and then rolled up strudel-style and baked. I slide it onto a cutting board and slice it into inch-wide slices, pour some chunky roasted tomato sauce into a bowl for dipping, and arrange it all on the white platter I brought as both serving piece and hostess gift.

  The three of us settle into Lynne’s deep couch, making small plates and sipping the dark red wine.

  “Cheers to Lynne on her new place and on checking off the big item on her list!” Teresa says, and we all clink glasses.

  “How about Eloise having two actual dates! That is pretty major,” Lynne says. “Even if there wasn’t any chemistry.”

  “Or bacon.” Teresa chuckles.

  I told them about Jack, and they both gave me permission to count the date as a two-parter to help with my other social obligations, which I thought was generous of them. And of course I told them about Ethan, since if I’m going to be dating badly, it might as well provide some amusement.

  I did not tell them about Shawn.

  After all, Shawn and I aren’t having our real first date till tomorrow night. So there is nothing to share, not yet. And for some reason, it was really easy to share about the Jack night, the blind date that turned into nothing, a funny story, what with me half-baked and him ogling the waitress. But meeting Shawn feels somehow different. Less funny and more unnerving.

  We’ve spoken on the phone every day since Saturday, talking as easily as we did at the party, and during the day he will send little funny texts or ask me what I’m cooking. Every time I get off the phone with him I’m really happy—for about three minutes, and then I get a pit in my stomach, and it sends me into something of a tailspin. I don’t want to hope, or think great things, or imagine that he is going to be something or someone for me. It’s been so long since I even entertained the thought; I feel like if I even dare allow the tiniest imaginings about him, it will pull some muscle. I realized that while I hadn’t been looking forward to the dating part of the bet, it was because I was anticipating a series of dates sort of like with Jack—benign, of no consequence, all one-offs with no actual romantic pressure. They told me I had to date, not that I had to find a relationship. The idea of actually liking someone never occurred to me.

  He called earlier tonight while I was in the middle of coaching Ian, and while I didn’t take the call, apparently just seeing his name on my phone made something change on my face, because Ian stopped frosting his chocolate beet cupcakes with his vanilla goat cheese frosting.

  “Why is your face all red and happy? Was that a boy?”

  I’m mortified. “It was a friend. Less chat and more work, there, Chef.”

  “It was a boy,” Ian said and then got back to work.

  “I agree,” Teresa says. “I think the dates are a big step. When is your next one?”

  Sigh. “Tomorrow night,” I say.

  “Ooh. Do tell. Who is this one?” Lynne says, dunking a slice of pizza strudel into the tomato sauce.


  “Just another Lawrence fix-up. Former client,” I say, brushing it off. After all, it’s true, and I don’t need to tell them about the party or the communications that have occurred since.

  “Well, I think you should broaden your horizons beyond just Lawrence,” Teresa says. “So I hope it’s okay, I gave your number to my cousin Joey. His best friend is divorced and a really nice guy, so expect a call from Angelo!”

  “And Milo,” Lynne says with a grin. “He’s a marketing guy for a restaurant group.”

  Oy. So not excited about the coming deluge of new boys. But I suppose, for the bet, if everyone keeps sending me dates, I can get it all out of the way.

  “Great, ladies, thank you for the assist! Enough about me. I want to hear how your stuff is going. I mean, obviously we are sitting in the first major hurdle for Lynne . . .”

  “She’s totally going to knock her whole list off in, like, two seconds,” Teresa says.

  “I know, right? Very annoying.”

  “Hey, I can’t help it if I’m Just. That. Fierce.” Lynne snaps up in the air with every word, the way she used to in high school when she was feeling proud of herself. We all laugh.

  “Well, I’m not exactly having the same luck as the two of you,” Teresa says. “I signed me and Giorgio up for a salsa-dancing class at the Park District, you know, heat things up a bit . . .”

  “That sounds like fun,” Lynne says. I think it sounds like a nightmare, but then again, I can’t dance.

  “That’s what I thought! But the teacher was really annoying, and the class was way overcrowded, and we didn’t really do much except step on each other’s feet and then Gio got mad at me . . .”

  “Why did he get mad?” I ask.

  Teresa looks at her hands sheepishly. “I couldn’t stop leading.”

  Lynne and I look at each other and bust out laughing.

  “It’s not funny! I was really trying, but when I tried I would just go all noodle legged, and then he would step on my feet and get madder . . . We ended up leaving class during the bathroom break and just going home.”

  “Well, at least you tried?” I say, trying not to laugh, since Teresa is clearly upset.

  “Right, the bet isn’t that you have to be successful at spicing up your relationship, just that you do things that show you are trying!” Lynne says. “After all, we didn’t tell El she had to find a boyfriend, just that she had to be dating!”

  I can feel myself wanting to grin, so I stuff half a piece of strudel into my mouth to hide my secret bit of happy.

  “Well, I hope the next thing works, or I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Teresa says.

  “Wha’s the next thnngg?” I say, chewing the cheesy, meaty pastry.

  “I signed up for a pole-dancing class,” she says with a wicked gleam in her eye.

  “Ha!” I say, almost spitting out my mouthful.

  “Don’t laugh too hard, I signed you up too,” she says, making Lynne snort. “Both of you.” Teresa looks at Lynne and nods determinedly.

  “Hell to the no, woman. I am not getting up on a pole,” Lynne says.

  “Yeah, that is just not going to happen,” I say, grateful for Lynne putting her foot down. If she had agreed, I would have been in trouble.

  “Oh, yes, it is. Eloise, it is a social night out, so it checks off a box for you, and maybe you can find some hidden rhythm in your no-dancing body. And, Lynne, you are coming because you are way too fancy for your own good, and it will be fun. It’s like a whole burlesque thing. You don’t have to do the pole; you can do fan dancing or even belly dancing. The class is, like, ten girls and four instructors, and there will be cocktails.” She holds her hand up as Lynne and I gear up to protest. “You. Are. Both. Coming.” When Teresa puts her foot down, there is no point in arguing. I can kind of see Gio’s point about the whole leading thing.

  “Fine,” Lynne says, throwing her hands up in surrender. “We’ll come. What the hell.”

  “This should be seriously embarrassing,” I say, imagining my enormous, ungainly self attempting to dance seductively while tripping over my own feet.

  “Yep,” Teresa says and winks lasciviously at us, and we all reach for more wine.

  • • •

  So I said, could you please take a break from Pokémon Go to perhaps do your job?” Lynne says, while Teresa and I make meaningful eye contact. The past hour has consisted of essentially a monologue about everything that annoys Lynne about people in her company. Teresa and I haven’t gotten a word in edgewise, not that we need to, since neither of us would have any idea about any of the people she is referring to. Of the three of us, Lynne was always the really big talker, never shy about telling someone their story was annoying or making snoring noises while someone else was saying something she found boring. Teresa was plenty chatty, but never seemed to mind when Lynne interrupted or talked over her. I was always the good listener: my vocabulary of ums, mm-hms, oh nos, and of courses were well matched with my full cadre of head nods, shakes, brow furrows, and shoulder shrugs. When Teresa and I were alone, we were fairly evenly matched, especially since she was always good at asking people questions about themselves. But when the three of us were together, Lynne definitely took the conversational lead. Although I don’t remember it being quite this egregious. It’s like we could be anyone; we are just sitting here to be the vessels to receive her endless verbiage.

  “Wow,” Teresa sneaks in while Lynne takes a sip of wine.

  “That’s a lot,” I say.

  “Right? Seriously, these damnable Millennials are going to be the death of me. I told the rest of the partners, if they insist on bringing in all of these baby-faced interns, then part of the program should be to be sure they tell them to speak when spoken to, and do the job so I don’t have to babysit. This is work. This is a j-o-b. You need a participation trophy and a twenty-four-hour Snapchat news cycle about your life and what kale-based products you ate for lunch? Go be a barista. Mama Lynne does not have time. Do the work, people, do it right so I don’t have to come back after you and clean up your mess.”

  On and on she goes. This intern accidentally copied a client on a snarky e-mail that was supposed to remain internal. That partner dresses like she thinks she is Linda Evans on Dynasty. This client is an idiot, that one is a misogynist, the other one might be a closet racist. Lynne went to her first condo association meeting and is clearly going to have to run for president next year if anything is going to happen. I check my watch.

  “Um, Lynne, I have to go let the dog out,” I say, unable to sit any longer.

  “Oh, yeah, I should get back to the boys, didn’t realize how late it’s gotten,” Teresa says, standing up along with me. “Do you need help cleaning up before we go?”

  “Nah, I got this. Thanks for coming over to christen the place.”

  “Our pleasure. Congrats, sweetie. Enjoy it,” Teresa says, pulling on her coat.

  “Really a great place, Lynne, so happy for you,” I say, and we hug and Teresa and I walk out and down the hall to the elevator.

  “Holy crap,” I say when the doors close.

  “Yeah,” Teresa says. “She was really wound up.”

  “I know she was always a talker, but that was weird and manic.”

  “I dunno, maybe she’s just nervous. She’s only been back a short time, and she only came back because she was hitting a ceiling at her L.A. firm and she had an iron-clad nonpoach clause, so she couldn’t leave them and open her own shop, even though her clients loved her. She’s in a new company, and now she’s purchased a new home, which makes it all real. I guess it is a bit overwhelming for her.”

  “I guess,” I say.

  The elevator opens on the ground level, and we walk outside to go to our cars. Teresa gives me a hug. “I hope your date tomorrow night is really wonderful. Will you call me this weekend and tell me how it goes?�
�

  I smile, thinking that actually, I hope my date is really wonderful too. “Yeah, I will, I promise.”

  “Okay. Drive safe. And, El?”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s still our Lynne.”

  I sort of know what she means. “Yeah. She is.”

  Nine

  This is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten,” Shawn says, finishing his first bite of lamb and immediately cutting me a piece and offering it across the table to me on his fork. I take it, reveling in the perfectly cooked, medium-rare, juicy meat.

  “Yeah, well, wait till you try this . . .” I put a piece of my duck breast on my fork, being sure to get him some of the braised beluga lentils on top for a perfect bite. He accepts the mouthful and rolls his eyes happily. “I know, right?”

  “Damn.”

  We are at Brindille, enjoying a spectacular French meal. And I really do mean enjoying. After a week of fairly constant communication, I was somewhat less nervous than I thought I would be for tonight. I mean, I was still a little agitated, but I managed to get myself dressed and made up without Marcy’s help or gifted pharmaceuticals. Shawn picked me up in a huge black Uber car, looking even more handsome than I remembered him in a pair of well-fitting dark jeans, a deep eggplant shirt, and a black cashmere sport coat with a jaunty gray and black herringbone pocket square. He came to the door to fetch me, immediately complimented me on my brunetteness with a wink, and kissed me on the cheek before offering his arm and escorting me to the car. He asked if Brindille was okay—he figured French was a safe bet since I had lived in the country—and I admitted that I’d wanted to try it for ages.

  “You know,” he says, “we are really doing a job on the little ones tonight . . . veal, lamb, duckling, bunny . . .”

  This makes me laugh. “It is a terrible thing, but the cuter the protein, the more delicious I find it!”

  “I’m just so delighted to be with a woman who will eat.”