by Leah McLaren
There’s a flustered silence as the girl wraps a towel around Rachel’s head, causing her to close her mouth. Maya searches for something to say.
“Have you tried counselling?”
Rachel looks astonished. “No, why would we?”
Maya shrugs, not wanting to answer the question. “Well, it’s just that you seem sort of … I don’t know.”
Rachel laughs and shakes her head. “Unhappy? Are you kidding? I’m the happiest person I know—I’ve got everything I want. My life is perfect. I’ve just been married for a long time, that’s all. You’ve got to vent once in a while. That’s what girlfriends are for.” She gives Maya a meaningful look, reaches over and squeezes her knee. “We should go for margaritas one of these days.”
“Yeah, we totally should.” Maya wonders how much time to let pass before she moves her knee away.
Mercifully, Antonio breaks the silence. “Ready for a blow-dry, darling girl?”
Maya nods eagerly and lets him lead her over to the shampoo station, already relishing the silence.
When she returns home, the house is silent. Since the twins were born, she’s rarely come home to an empty house. She walks through room after room, calling out her children’s names. When she gets to the kitchen, she picks up the baby monitor and stares at it as if hoping for a message from the beyond. It’s nearly quitting time, so Velma won’t be at the park. Besides, they’ll be hungry for dinner soon. She has a moment of blind panic, in which she imagines a car crash, an electrocution involving a misplaced fork, and the double onset of childhood meningitis all at once. Then she sees the note.
The handwriting is more deliberate than usual but still unmistakably Nick’s. “Hi babe,” it reads. “Got off work early, so sent Velma home and decided to take the kids to the Jungle House for noodles. Back before bedtime. Enjoy your evening off—relax! Nick.”
Beside the note is a jar of lavender bath salts from Maya’s favourite French toiletry shop. She picks it up and studies the mauve-and-white label as if looking for clues. As one set of neurotic fantasies evaporates from her mind, another begins to present itself. Why is he being nice to me? she finds herself thinking. What can he possibly want? She racks her brains for reasons why Nick might be feeling contrite or emotionally indebted. Has he forgotten some major birthday or anniversary? (No.) Is he having an affair? (Maybe.) Is he just feeling guilty for months of stonewalling and emotional avoidance? (Unlikely.) She goes to the fridge and uncorks a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio. Pouring herself a big glass, she thinks about Rachel’s monologue on marital depreciation—how it had made her feel sorry for Gormless Glen, a decent, hard-working guy who could never do a single thing right. A man condemned to a lifetime of criticism and failure in the eyes of his spouse.
Maya swallows a bit of wine, letting the acid sweetness roll down her throat to some deeper, fast-warming place. Low in her belly, a coil unfurls.
Whatever Nick’s game is, Maya resolves to play along and avoid giving him the satisfaction of resistance. She knows how guilt works; she isn’t going to relieve him of it by being the cold fish to his ingratiating suitor. Whatever he’s feeling guilty about, she’ll make him feel guiltier still by accepting his every kindness with gratitude and compliance. If he wants her to relax, she’ll relax. She’ll be the most relaxed and understanding wife on the block—a paragon of well-adjusted reasonability. As if to prove the point, she picks up the lavender salts and marches upstairs to draw herself a bath. There, she figures. That’ll show him.
CHAPTER 7
There are no two words in the English language that instill more trepidation in Nick Wakefield than those he is being forced to contemplate: “date night.”
It isn’t the event itself that horrifies him—like anyone else, he is capable of enjoying dinner and a movie with his spouse, or has been in better times—but the notion of a life so circumscribed by duty that even a weekly window for romance must be put in dull service to the cause. Date nights were for people who read advice columns, joined professional networking groups, signed up for “club cards” at every retailer they frequented, went on package vacations and had their savings swindled away in pyramid schemes. Unimaginative, credulous people, in other words—normal people who’d gone without passion in their lives for so long they’d forgotten what real passion felt like (if indeed they ever really knew at all). Date nights were the death of spontaneity, the gateway into a life defined by middle-class banality. A code word for mandatory sex. And while Nick liked to think of himself as a man with a healthy libido, nothing left him colder than the idea of erotic duty.
Hadn’t it, after all, been the performance requirements of baby-making sex that had signalled the beginning of the end of what his own commercials might call the “spark” between Maya and him? Nick hadn’t been averse to children—he knew it was part of the deal, and since they’d been married several years, it was getting to be time—but he hadn’t banked on Maya’s goal-oriented approach to the project, a full-on regimen of folic acid (for her), zinc tablets (for him), ear thermometers, ovulation charts and mandatory twice-daily rumpy-pumpy during “the window,” followed by weeks-long dry spells in which he was instructed to “save it up” for the next opportunity. All of this was compounded by Maya’s mounting anxiety when things didn’t immediately go as planned—an anxiety that could be assuaged only by appointments with a private fertility specialist, culminating in hormone injections (for her), hospital-supervised spunk extraction (for him) and, finally, nature’s greatest-known obstacle to a healthy married sex life: twins.
Nick had tried to make the best of the news at the time, pointing out gamely that it was “two for the price of one,” and that now they could simply get it over with in one shot—the usual gloss people put on the terrifying reality of multiple births. But the truth was, he secretly blamed Maya for the logistical difficulties presented by two babies where one would have sufficed. Because of her hyper-vigilance—her habit of panicking before there was any cause for alarm—they had spent the past three years saddled with double trouble. Considering where appointment sex had gotten him so far, was it any wonder he’d developed a natural aversion to date nights?
And yet he knew what he had to do.
After the success of the bath salts on Tuesday (he’d come home to find Maya damp and pink-cheeked in her robe, curled up under the winter duvet), he felt emboldened by the plan laid out by Gray. If he was to pull off a convincing impersonation of a good husband, it was going to take time and effort. If he wanted the ultimate prize—the financial and sexual freedom of unencumbered singledom—he was going to have to do many things that didn’t come naturally to him. The trick would be in keeping his eye on the ball—remembering that his actions, while purporting to seek one result, were in fact striving toward the opposite effect. In essence, for the next few months, he’d have to commit to a state of supreme ironic detachment—one that would require every ounce of emotional control he could muster. If he was chilled out before, now he would be reptilian.
With this resolve, Nick makes a reservation at Ethel’s Kitchen, a newly opened restaurant specializing in high-end Sloppy Joes and single-malt Scotch, for the following night: Saturday night. Date night. He emails his wife to inform her of the plan and is surprised to get an almost immediate response: “Love to. Can’t wait. xo M.”
The “xo” surprises him. It’s been ages since they used terms of endearment in email correspondence. Email, now, is for family logistics rather than adolescent declarations of love. Seems silly and disingenuous to “x” and “o” someone you’ve given up kissing and hugging in real life. Still, something about Maya’s sign-off gives him a moment of pause. He feels a small twist in his lower intestine: the worm of guilt. Is it possible she actually still loves him? After all that he’s done (or more to the point, not done)? He pushes the thought from his head. It’s a date, then, he thinks. So far, so good.
The next morning Nick, reasoning that Rome wasn’t built in a day, bre
aks his resolution to spend time with the kids on the weekends. Instead he follows his usual Saturday routine: a fifty-kilometre ride through the ravine system with his cycling buddies, followed by a long day at the office. Pre-production is ramping up on the CurvePhone job, and the thought of hanging around the house fills him with roiling anxiety. He spends the day drifting around the office, looking over preliminary budgets and ducking in and out of pre-production meetings, flirting with the stream of potential wardrobe girls (all named Aynsley or Ashley and wearing jeans and towering heels) who’ve come in to interview for the job. By the time six o’clock rolls around, he’s feeling pumped. He is going to take this date night and kill it.
When he gets home that evening he finds Velma in the kitchen, batch-baking sweet potatoes for the following week. He is whistling a Rihanna tune about umbrellas as he tosses his coat over the back of the chair and drops his keys on the table.
“Well, someone’s in a good mood,” Velma says, eyeing him with mock suspicion.
He takes a bottle of beer from the fridge—some organic microbrewed craft thing—and drinks it half-standing at the kitchen counter, pausing only for a gulp of air and to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “Is there something I should be grumpy about?” he says, emitting a silent purr of a belch.
Velma raises an eyebrow. “Careful you don’t get drunk. Your wife has been getting ready for hours. I swear she spent half the day just picking out what dress to wear.”
So Maya’s told Velma about date night. Nick watches her gingerly peeling the skin off the steaming yams and wonders how much else Velma knows. Doubtless she will have noticed a certain amount of discord in the house. Her tone is certainly a knowing one. Will he have to bring her onside too? He takes another slug of beer and considers this. Decides it’s too soon to tell.
“Where is that gorgeous woman I’m married to?” He tosses the empty bottle in the recycling.
“Reading stories. You know how she likes to do bedtime herself.”
Nick nods. He does know. Maya’s bedtime routines are sacrosanct, the indelible framework within which everything else in the household functions. He takes the stairs two at time and pauses outside the master bedroom—the room he used to consider his own but now doesn’t enter without knocking. Through the crack in the door, he can hear the well-worn murmur of her voice reciting Where the Wild Things Are. He wants to see the twins but remembers that Maya doesn’t like him to “overstimulate” them at bedtime—so he decides to take a shower instead. He heads to the spare bathroom, sheds his clothes and is soon leaning into the hot water, blood rising to the surface of his skin in a thousand tiny, delicious pricks.
Warm and scrubbed, he stands in front of the guest room closet, body throbbing, towel on hips, contemplating his clothing options for the evening ahead. While dressing, Nick secretly imagines himself a benign dictator of an oil-rich Third World nation holding a parade in his honour. He sits down on the suede-upholstered bench and stares at the open racks of colour-coded dress shirts, the stacks of cashmere sweaters separated by tissue paper, the made-to-measure suits spun from the finest Italian wool and stitched together by his private tailor in Hong Kong. When did he acquire all these beautiful things? he wonders vaguely. Does he even deserve them? The thought paralyzes him for a moment. Then the right outfit comes to him: the lavender V-neck with the grey wool trousers. An ensemble fit for a date night.
He smells Maya before he sees her. Citrus mixed with something darker: liquorice root and burnt cedar. The perfume he bought her while he was shooting in Morocco five years ago. Possibly the last gift he gave her that wasn’t chosen by his assistant.
She is actually smiling, a rare surprise. She stands awkwardly, stockinged feet in a simple black shift dress, a pair of high heels in each hand—one gold, one blue.
“Definitely the gold,” he says.
Maya puts a finger to her lips to indicate that the twins have settled and must not be disturbed. Then she glances down at the pair of four-inch metallic ankle straps dangling from her fingers. “You mean these?” she says.
“Isn’t that what you came in here to ask me?”
“Actually I was looking for the mink oil for my shoes. What time is dinner?”
“Not ‘til eight, but I’m sure we can have a drink at the bar first.”
He cinches his towel a bit tighter around his waist and looks down at the lavender sweater unfolded on the bench in front of him. Maybe it’s not quite right with the grey flannel trousers? He looks to Maya for approval, but she’s already left the room. When she returns five minutes later, he’s buttoning his cufflinks, having abandoned the sweater for a checked shirt and blazer. She wears the same shift dress, though her shoulders are now swaddled in a delicate mohair wrap. Then he notices her shoes: blue.
“Your car or mine?” she asks.
Finally, a question to which Nick knows he has the right answer. “I’ll drive,” he says.
As soon as they enter the restaurant, Nick can feel her stiffen. He does all the right things—opens the door, takes her coat, places a gentle hand on her lower back as the head waiter leads them to their table—but none of it matters. Maya is on her guard. He can see it in the way her eyes move restlessly around the room, with its mirrored walls and vintage vinyl diner booths, never pausing on any person or thing for more than a second at a time. She opens her menu, then closes it again. At Nick’s behest, the waiter brings over two vintage single malts and two glasses of spring water, which disappear quietly and without comment. He exhales with a whisper.
“Where’s the wine list?” she says.
He hands it to her with some reluctance. It’s thick and heavy as an atlas and he was looking forward to using it as pre-dinner reading material.
“Shouldn’t we choose what we’re eating first?”
Maya shrugs. “There’s not much choice.”
Nick glances around the room and registers an alarming number of people in designer pajamas with asymmetrical haircuts eating wet ground beef on Wonder buns.
He bridles slightly—the restaurant was his choice, and one he’d hoped would amuse her—but then he checks himself and forces an indulgent smile to the surface of his face. At first he feels his skin might rip from the effort, but then something loosens behind the surface, like an elastic waistband giving way. “I hope you’re in the mood for some seriously high-end slop,” he says.
Maya, who’s been studying the wine list like it might contain the lost secrets of the ancients, lifts her head and gazes at him evenly, back flat against her chair. “Okay, then,” she says. “Let’s have the Montepulciano.” She hands him the book and taps a buffed fingernail on her selection to make sure he understands.
Second one down, Nick notes with an inward grimace. Everyone knows you never order the second-least expensive wine on the list, especially not at a restaurant like this—that is, the sort of place where trendy people gather to stare at each other and spend stupid amounts of money. The reason for this rule, as any halfway sophisticated lover of the vine knows, is that the second-least expensive wine is invariably the most commonly ordered bottle and consequently the most marked up. Thus, in choosing what seems like the best deal—an inexpensive wine that saves you the embarrassment of looking like a cheap-skate—you actually end up getting swindled.
He is compelled to explain this to Maya (again), both to make her realize her mistake in ordering the Montepulciano, and also to point out he’s not being cheap by objecting—quite the opposite, in fact. After all, he would happily spring for a pricier bottle, safe in the knowledge it’s actually the better deal. He hasn’t yet opened his mouth to contradict her choice when her objections begin streaming through his mind. Why do you have to be so stubborn and controlling? Why can’t I just make one simple little choice without everything turning into a fight?
In the middle of this internal bickering, the waiter comes over and asks, with an obsequious little bow, if “the gentleman” has “come to a decision on the wi
ne.” Nick doesn’t pause to think about it—he just draws a breath and does the thing he knows he must do in service of his New Self: he smiles tightly and orders the Montepulciano. The waiter nods, then reaches out to take away the list. It’s only after the second tug that Nick realizes he hasn’t—that his hands somehow won’t allow him to—let go of it.
“So sorry,” he says relinquishing the list and watching the waiter retreat with a quizzical look.
When Nick turns his attention back to the table, he notices Maya staring at him rather intently, eyes wide and blinking double time.
“What’s wrong?” he says, suddenly stricken by the idea that she might be about to cry, which she almost never does. For the second time since they’ve entered the restaurant, Nick braces. But then her eyebrows lift and he sees that in fact she’s amused. Soon she’s sputtering, eyes glistening, cheeks mottled, hand pressed to a trembling mouth, trying and failing to suppress a burst of laughter.
“What is it?” he asks, feeling suspiciously mocked.
She hides her face, waves with her free hand and breathes until her little fit has passed. “Nothing,” she says finally. “Nothing at all.”
Normally Nick would press her, but tonight he decides to let it go. Because of this, they end up staring silently at their menus—a litany of hand-chopped meats with accompanying “secret” sauces—until the waiter arrives with the wine and makes a merciful fuss about opening it. Before Maya can speak, Nick orders the five-course tasting menu, beginning with the pork-belly mince with Hollandaise sauce and homemade ketchup on brioche for two. She looks at him, startled.