Hanging by a Thread

by Karen Templeton

  “These are all designed for larger women?”

  “Um, yeah. I didn’t figure the size twos needed another designer.”

  He smiles. “I daresay you’re right.” Then he crosses his arms, the sketch dangling from his hand. “Why on earth haven’t you pursued this as a career?”

  It’s as if a sudden storm flares up inside my skull, opposing ions repelling and colliding or whatever the hell it is they do. I open my mouth, fully expecting all the excuses to come flying out—that I don’t have the talent/money/means to do this, that I have a kid, that I can’t take the risk. Instead, all I hear is, “I guess the timing just hasn’t been right.” I don’t even know what that means, but at least it puts the kibosh on the interrogation.

  Ten minutes later, we’re threading our way through the clot of bodies seated outside of Pinky’s. The heavy summer night air is redolent with the scent of ten-buck cologne, cigarette smoke and hope; inside is no different, except for the cigarette smoke, and the fact that the air-conditioning’s up so high my lip gloss instantly congeals.

  “Classy joint, huh?” I yell over the blare of the jukebox, the roar of conversation.

  As we slide onto a pair of just-vacated bar stools, Alan dips his mouth close to my ear. So I can hear him. “It’s terrific,” I think he says. Brother. And I think I don’t get out much.

  I introduce Alan to Jose, who plunks our order—a Diet Coke for me, a German beer for Alan—in front of us before answering a signal from the other end of the bar. Within the next two minutes, no less than a half dozen people I went to school with make it a point to say “Hi” and exchange a few words. A few are in here by themselves, or with dates, but I’m surprised by how many are here with their spouses. And how relaxed and happy and content they seem. These aren’t losers trying desperately to validate their existence by making a transitory connection with another human being, but perfectly normal people simply out having a good time.

  Perfectly normal people who’ve lived their entire lives in this neighborhood.

  And are perfectly okay with that.

  “Looks as though I’m out with the popular girl,” Alan says, tipping back his brew. This guy makes chugging beer from a bottle look elegant. I am seriously out of my league here.

  “Hardly,” I say, stirring my swizzle stick in my Coke in order to get rid of some of the carbonation so I don’t belch after drinking it. “Just hit the right night, that’s all.”

  I can feel his eyes on the side of my face, but before he can say anything, I hear, “Ellie! Hey, girl!”

  I turn around to see a grinning Lisa Lamar, in a miniskirt and one of those skimpy tops where the whole point is to show off your purple lace Victoria’s Secret bra, hanging on to some new guy’s arm. This one has hair, at least. So much hair, in fact, the medal around his neck is nearly swallowed up in it.

  “This is Sal,” she says coyly, forking her fingers through her long, tiger striped hair.

  I make introductions; Alan and Sal shake hands, Lisa sizes Alan up without being predatory about it. She always was good that way. Then she makes appreciative noises about my outfit, before—and I can tell it’s been killing her to hold back—shyly extending her left hand, on which sparkles a fairly impressive solitaire. Round cut, simple platinum setting. I doubt we’re talking Tiffany’s here, but not bad. Not bad at all.

  “I don’t mean to brag,” she says as I make appropriate excited-for-you noises, “but Sal just gave it to me for my birthday last night and I’m still in shock! We’re gettin’ married in November!”

  The guys shake hands, Lisa and I hug. Then she asks me about doing her wedding dress, since she knew someone who’d gone to Heather’s wedding and it was all she could talk about, how gorgeous the dress was.

  “An’ I want to look classy, you know? You can do that, right?”

  Well, yeah. But before I can figure out how to tell her I can’t exactly do something for a couple hundred bucks, she says she’s been saving up for this since she was sixteen, price is no object.

  “Define ‘no object,’” I shout.

  “Sal,” she says, lightly smacking him in the arm to interrupt his conversation with Alan, “you got somethin’ to write with?” He hands her a matchbook and a pen; she scribbles on it and hands it to me, saying in my ear, “I didn’t think I should exactly be shouting this figure at the top of my lungs, you know what I mean?”

  I’m staring dumbfounded at the number on this tiny piece of cardboard. Uh, yeah, I know exactly what she means.

  “So. This would work?” she says.

  I take the pen from her and write down my cell number on the matchbook and hand it back. “Call me,” I say, and she squeals. Although we really need to talk about the tiger-striped hair, I think as the happy couple squeeze their way back to their table. Maybe I’ll bring Liv in on this one.

  “Drumming up business?” Alan says, grinning.

  “Apparently so.”

  “You want to be careful, though.”

  “About what?”

  Somebody’s put on some ancient Rolling Stones number (it’s been a while since the music selection’s been updated, but nobody seems to mind), so he has to lean over again in order for me to hear him. Damn, he smells good.

  “If you get too busy making wedding dresses for your friends, you won’t have any time or energy to develop your own line.”

  Now, would somebody tell me why that totally supportive comment is sending prickles of irritation along my skin? Why I’m prompted to shoot back, “But I like making wedding dresses for my friends”?

  And mean it?

  I see Frances and Jimmy come in and wave them over. In her tank top and slinky, ankle length skirt, Frances looks like a teenager, which I tell her.

  “Which only goes to show,” she says, climbing up on the stool perpendicular to mine, “if the room’s dark enough, anybody can look good.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Jimmy says, hauling himself up onto the stool next to his wife and signaling to Jose to bring them a couple of beers. “Soon as I come in, some chick sidles up to me and says—” he lifts his voice into a breathy falsetto “—can I have your autograph, Mr. Clooney?”

  We all laugh, not because Jimmy’s corny joke is funny, but because he’s so damn sincere about it. And as I make introductions, a wave of tenderness washes over me for these people, immediately followed by a twinge of conscience for how much for granted I’ve taken their presence in my life. If I were drunk, this would be where I’d drape myself around their necks and blubber, “I love you guys!” Since I’m not, I settle for talking and laughing and munching munchies for the next few minutes, until I suddenly catch Frances focusing on something, or someone, beyond me. Without thinking, I twist around, at the precise moment all the bodies part, giving me a clear shot of the booths. And there, in the same back booth where Tina and I had our little chat way back in January, I see her again. Only this time, she’s sitting across from Luke.

  Her gaze flies to mine as though answering my call, but her expression gives nothing away. A second later, Luke—whose back is to us—rises and goes to the restroom; when he’s gone, Tina lifts one brow, smiles triumphantly and gives me a big thumbs-up.

  I twist back around, briefly catching Frances’s eyes. But I refuse to hold her gaze, refuse to let myself see the relief I know will be there.

  “Ellie?” Alan asks. “Is everything okay?”

  I look into his kind, concerned face and think, For God’s sake, Ellie—snap out of it. Here I sit, out on a date with a wonderful, funny, together guy who—for whatever reason—is fascinated with me and who treats me like gold. And who, as far as I know, isn’t still attached to some other woman (although I should probably ascertain that for sure before much longer). Maybe the circumstances surrounding our being together are a little off-the-wall, and maybe we’ll end up hating each other by the end of the evening. But if this isn’t a sign that I need to start enjoying what’s put in front of me instead of pining awa
y for the one thing that’s not on the menu, I don’t know what is.

  “Yes, everything’s fine,” I say, giving him a bright smile. “But we should probably get going, don’t you think?”

  Alan’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, but he gets out his wallet and leaves a bill on the bar as we make our excuses to Frances and Jimmy. Frances grabs my hand and says, “Have a great time, you two.” Then, in a lowered voice to me, “You deserve it, baby.”

  That much, I can definitely agree with.

  Three hours later, I think it’s safe to say Alan and I don’t hate each other.

  In fact, I think it’s even safer to say he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. And since he hasn’t stuffed me in a taxi and thrown money at the driver, I guess he doesn’t think I’m too strange, either.

  And that’s not me putting myself down. That’s just the way these things work, sometimes. You can put two perfectly nice people together and still end up with zip chemistry. Like trying to put cream cheese on a kielbasa. Nothing wrong with either one, they just don’t work together. Although, come to think of it, I remember going over to visit Luke in his apartment a couple months before he and Tina got engaged, and discovering he’d put all his leftovers in one pot and then heat them up whenever he got hungry. Spaghetti, peas, chicken, whatever. Totally disgusting—

  Do you hear this? I swear, I should be taken out and shot.

  In any case…to get back on topic (which is, in case I’m interested, the man with whom I’m currently strolling down Park Avenue), if one can judge a date by the conversation, then this one has been great. At least, nobody’s eyes have glazed over yet. Always a good sign. Of course, we’re talking typical first-date stuff, but still. Having been on first dates where stepping out in front of a moving bus held no small appeal, this one’s a dream.

  It’s a lovely summer night, the sidewalk’s empty enough to hear our own footsteps, the humidity low enough that you can’t really smell the dog pee from the gutters. On either side of us, graceful old apartment buildings and sleek office complexes soar, majestic and silent. I look up; you can’t really see many stars from the middle of Manhattan, but there’s a full moon, reflected a thousand times in as many windows. Alan follows my gaze.

  “It’s quite magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “From this perspective, yes,” I say. “Even if it’s only an illusion.”

  “But does that really matter?” I shift my gaze to his, soft and enigmatic in this light. “If something’s beautiful, if it makes you feel good, what difference does it make whether it’s an illusion or not? After all, isn’t it all perspective? Whether something’s real or not?”

  I laugh. “Whoa. Too deep for me.”

  “Sorry. A good meal tends to make me wax philosophical. So on a more pedestrian note…” He looks down at my feet. “How on earth can you walk in those things?”

  “Practice. I’ve been wearing heels since I was fourteen, when I realized this was as long as my legs were going to get.”

  “I thought today’s women were all about accepting that they come in different shapes and sizes?”

  “Oh, I accept my body fine. But short legs are a real pain when you’re standing in a crowd. And I find wearing high heels is a helluva lot more practical than hauling around a step stool. Not to mention if I had on flats, we’d have to yell at each other to be heard.”

  He laughs, then reaches over and takes my hand. His is warm and dry and smooth. It’s…nice. “Have you always been this open and honest?”

  Guilt spikes through me. “Am I?”

  “Compared with most of the women I know, yes. You are. Which is why I know, when I ask you what upset you back at Pinky’s, you’re going to tell me.”

  And here I’d thought we’d avoided that little land mine.

  “I saw Luke and Tina.”

  “And that rattled you?”

  I’m so screwed. There’s nothing I can say that won’t either incriminate me or make me look like an idiot. Or a liar. So I don’t say anything.

  “I thought you said there was nothing between you?” Alan says softly.

  “There isn’t.”

  “Then…?”

  I slip my hand out of his. “Look, it’s complicated, okay? And I can’t explain it, because it doesn’t make any sense, and it’s my problem to deal with and nobody else’s—”

  “Sh, sh, sh, it’s okay,” he says, taking my hand again. “Now I know where things stand, that’s all.”

  I try to remove my hand from his again, but he holds on tight. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he says, smiling, “whatever your conflicts, you’re still here with me, aren’t you? It means, I’m not going to turn back simply because the road looks like it might get a bit bumpy.”

  My brows knot. “You’re awfully confident, aren’t you?”

  “Not really. But I do like challenges.”

  “So how come you’re not married?”

  Have no idea where that came from. None. Alan, however, seems to take my erratic behavior in stride. “I was, briefly. A long time ago.”

  “What happened?”

  There’s a fountain in front of an office building nearby; he steers me over so we can sit on the pool’s ledge. “My career, in a word. I love what I do, but I’m rarely in one spot for longer than a few months. Next year alone, I’ve got commitments here, in London, Milan, Houston, San Francisco and Prague.”

  “A lot of people would find that exciting.”

  “To tell the truth, it’s often boring. And incredibly lonely. Especially after so many years.” He pauses, then says, “Marlys and I fell madly in love while we were still at university. And got married. But I went straight from school to working as an assistant to a top stage designer, which meant I was rarely around. After a while, Marlys began to wonder what was the point of being married if we were almost never together?”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She basically asked me to choose between her and my work. And I chose my work. See, she was all for making a cozy little nest in a semidetached in Reading, just as our parents had done. While everything I’d done to that point had been with an eye to escaping cozy little suburban nests. Only now…” He releases a sigh. “I’d kill to have a cozy little nest in Reading. Or a Pinky’s to slip off to whenever I felt like it.”

  “You must be kidding. With all the traveling you do?”

  “And do you know what that makes me, Ellie? The outsider. Everywhere I go. Hell, I can’t even really call London home anymore. When I am there, I’m either jet-lagged or sleep-deprived, or so busy getting sketches and models done for the next project I rarely have time to go out. Most of my friends have given up on me. And with good reason.”

  The air between us reeks of his loneliness. “And Marlys?”

  “Happily remarried with a pair of brats and a chocolate Lab,” he says with a wry smile. Then he cocks his head at me. “I don’t know why I’m dumping on you like this. Not exactly stellar first date etiquette.”

  “S’okay,” I say, linking my hands around his arm. Then I add, as if trying to make him feel better, “I don’t actually go there very often. Pinky’s, I mean. Especially since Starr was born.”

  “Really? That’s a shame. They seem like good people. Good friends.”

  “They are.” To my surprise, tears gather at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back. “Question—if you hate your life so much, why do you do it?”

  “Habit?” he says with a slight shrug. “Ego? And the money’s not bad, not at my level. But frankly, I’m damn close to chucking it all for a teaching job at some college with a great little theater program. How’s that for ambitious?”

  “I think it sounds a damn sight better than continuing to do something that’s making you miserable.”

  He twists around to smile into my eyes. Then one hand brackets my jaw and his mouth drops to mine. He’s a good kisser, gentle but thorough, and for a moment I fee
l swept up in something sweet and magical, as close to a fairy tale as I’m going to get. But when he breaks the kiss, even though he then touches his lips to my forehead and strokes my cheek with his thumb, even though he’s doing everything exactly right, I can’t say that anything’s really fizzing here. Yes, he’s a nice man who can kiss well, but I’m not really meeting him halfway.

  He gets up and pulls me to my feet, keeping my hand in his as we walk back to the garage where he parked the Lexus. I glance up at the thousand moons, and realize it’s only magic if I believe it is. That, if I’m being honest, Manhattan is just a place like any other. Its power to mesmerize, to seduce, to excite, is in direct proportion to my willingness to be mesmerized, seduced, excited.

  That it really is all about perspective.

  On the drive back to Richmond Hill, Alan talks a lot about his work, I bore him to tears (I imagine) with Starr stories. I get the feeling the kiss didn’t exactly fire his jets, either. Not that I’m surprised. Or disappointed. Like I said, either the chemistry’s there, or it isn’t. No harm, no foul.

  “You don’t have to see me in,” I say when we pull up in front of my house, and Alan chuckles.

  “Was it that bad?”

  I flush up to my roots. “No, it wasn’t bad. At all. It’s just…I don’t want to waste your time.”

  He angles his body to lean his forearm on the steering wheel. I can only half see his expression in the light from the halogen streetlamp, but I can tell he’s smiling. “I didn’t think they made them like you anymore.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll slug me.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Old-fashioned.”

  I slug him. Well, try to. He’s got great reflexes. And a selective memory.

  “I’m not sure I’d call a woman who doesn’t know who the father of her child is exactly old-fashioned.”

  He shrugs. “An aberration.” Then he reaches over and fingers one of the earrings. “So. Was that kiss as boring for you as it was for me?”

  “You would have to ask that.”

  “Then I guess you’d probably think me completely daft for wanting to ask you out again.”