Switcheroo

by Olivia Goldsmith

  He shivered in the dark interior of the convertible. The cloth roof gave no protection against the night chill. Why had he so carefully restored this car, and why did he insist on driving it? It was all part of the same syndrome: the look-I’m-still-young-and-potent disease. He’d seen it hit Phil and wreck his life.

  Bob sat in the ridiculous, tiny, freezing-cold car and thought about how much he loved Sylvie and how he had forgotten to appreciate their life together. Sylvie hadn’t grown middle-aged, he had. She was still spontaneous, still loved her music, was still ready to travel and do vibrant, crazy things. Even the switch she’d pulled on him showed how creative, how talented she was. Alone, in the darkness, on hold, Bob blushed again. He thought of the secrets he’d kept from her that she now knew. He thought of making love to her at Marla’s, how exciting and how moving it had been, and how stupid he was to not know her then. Didn’t the Bible use that expression—Abraham “knew” Sarah—when it spoke of sex? He hadn’t known her. And he’d probably ruined his life irrevocably. He looked down at the telephone receiver and, unworthy as he was, said a prayer.

  Sylvie walked into the music room and closed the door behind her. She was in no rush. After all, what could she possibly say? And what could Bob say that would make everything all right? She flipped on the exterior lights but left the room dark. Outside, the view through the French doors was magical. Frost had whitened the lawn, glowing now in contrast with the ink-dark evergreens. Sylvie sat down at the piano, as she always did in times of joy or misery. She began playing a nocturne. After a few moments Sylvie took a deep breath and then lifted up the telephone.

  “What exactly is it you want?” Sylvie asked.

  “Sylvie?” Bob’s voice sounded surprised, as if he hadn’t expected her to be there. Well, why should she?

  “Yes. It’s me,” she said and, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder, returned to playing the song, more and more slowly and with heavier chords. “What do you want?” she repeated.

  “I want you,” Bob said. “I know that’s an outrageous thing to say, and probably impossible, but you asked and I told you.” Bob’s voice sounded thick to her, as if he had been crying. Well, she’d cried plenty, Sylvie thought. “Sylvie, now that I’m losing everything, things are very clear,” Bob’s voice said.

  “I guess they always are at the end,” Sylvie told him.

  “I didn’t love her, Sylvie. I didn’t even know her.”

  “Except in the carnal sense,” Sylvie reminded him. Her fingers stumbled over the keys. The phone was hurting the crook of her neck.

  “I know now that what I loved was my past, the time that I had with you, when we were young and it was fun,” Bob said. “I wanted that, not her.” He paused. “Sylvie, I didn’t even notice the resemblance. Not consciously. I know it’s unbelievable. But I think it was—”

  Sylvie heard the two beeps of call waiting. “Could you hold for a minute?” Sylvie asked and pressed the flash button without waiting for Bob’s answer.

  “Sylvie? It’s Marla. I mean, Susan.”

  “What do you want?” Sylvie asked.

  “I just wanted to thank you. And to let you be the first to know: John and I are engaged.”

  “Engaged? What about Nora?”

  “Who’s Nora?”

  “Never mind.” Everyone was insane, Sylvie figured, herself included. “Best wishes,” Sylvie managed. John was going to marry that girl? He was welcome to her. Maybe her mother was right—men were only humanoids. “Congratulations to him,” Sylvie continued.

  “You’re the only person in the world who’s ever kept her promise to me,” Marla—or Susan—said.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s the start of a trend,” Sylvie told her. “I gotta go.” She punched back to Bob.

  “Sylvie? Are you there?” he asked.

  “Yes.” This was all she would say; she’d let him do the talking.

  “Sylvie, you have to hear this,” Bob continued. “I’ve always loved you. I admit that I forgot it for a little while, but it’s true. We should have played together more often. Music, and other things. We once made a good team, didn’t we?”

  She nodded, though she wouldn’t acknowledge it with her voice. They were both silent for a few moments.

  “You gave. I can give too. I could sacrifice anything for you, Sylvie.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” Sylvie told him, allowing just one tear to roll down her cheek. She’d already cried enough over this, but it seemed as if the one tear had all of her pain and bitterness distilled within it. It tickled her cheek, but she wouldn’t wipe it away. “You really hurt me,” she whispered. “It wasn’t a nice thing to do.”

  “I know. You’re right. You did better than I did,” Bob acknowledged. “Forgive me.”

  He was incredible. All men were. Couldn’t he understand? “Look,” Sylvie said. “You’ve destroyed my trusting you.”

  “But I…”

  Sylvie wouldn’t let him say a word. Not until she got this out. Because even if he couldn’t get it he had to hear her aching. “You made love to your mistress. You cheated on me and I was there. I was her. Remember your hands on the back of my neck, and the way you held down my shoulder? That was me you were holding, me you were kissing.” A tiny pain noise escaped her, but she wouldn’t cry.

  “Sylvie, I didn’t know, I…”

  “Bob, there’s so much you didn’t know. You didn’t know Marla was my double. You didn’t know she was a real person, and how you were hurting her, cheating her. You didn’t know you still loved me. You didn’t know how I wanted you. You also didn’t know I could make love like that. It was perfect. The two of us were perfect. Except you didn’t even know it was the two of us. You’ve underestimated me for a long time. I’m not some suburban laundry expert, some genius with the Electrolux. I wasn’t just the mother of your children and the keeper of your house.” Another gasp of pain came out of her, but she managed to continue. “I’m an imaginative, adventurous, passionate woman, and you took me for granted. You…you…oh Bob, you’re a fool.”

  “I have no excuse,” he said. “I’m a jerk. But…I made other mistakes that hurt me. And I didn’t know that either. I gave up my music,” he said. “I think I started to resent you. I started to blame you, the kids, Jim. But it was me, Sylvie. I chose as I did. I was safe in my rut. Resentful, but safe.” Sylvie heard him choke up. She wondered where he was calling from but wouldn’t ask. “I’ve never been as open, as true to myself as you,” Bob continued. “I didn’t know my limits and I didn’t know my strengths.” There was a long silence. “Sylvie? When will you let me try to make it up to you?”

  Sylvie stood up, stepping away from the piano bench, turning her back to the rest of the room. What could she say? She stared out the window into the empty backyard. Bob was a desperate man right now. Wouldn’t he probably say anything? How long would that last? “I don’t know. Maybe when you’ve learned that vaginas are connected to hearts. Unlike dicks.” She paused. “I may never be able to trust you again,” she admitted.

  And yet her heart yearned for him, for the man who had held her and loved her so tenderly—in another woman’s bed. But Sylvie wasn’t going to make it easy for Bob. She wasn’t going to be weak. He’d promise much now, but what would he really give up for her? How could he make this up to her? Would he ever change from the compulsive, closed man he had become with her? Sylvie didn’t want to go on alone. She didn’t want to break up their family, but she wasn’t willing to go on in the way she had been. “Good-bye, Bob,” she said and hung up.

  Sylvie stood in the darkness of her music room with the dead receiver in her hand. Was her marriage over? If it was, she would be alone without someone to love for the rest of her life. She wouldn’t go through this again. Would she give up her history and her marriage? Did she have a choice? What Bob had done was agonizing and humiliating to her. But Sylvie had heard what he said and knew, perhaps from her own wisdom, perhaps from her mother’s, that she s
houldn’t take his indiscretion personally. Not because she was a wimp, nor because she was too “nice” to keep him on the hook, not because it was more convenient to forgive him. Not even because she wanted those moments of passion again—though she did. She realized she could forgive Bob because he, like many men, often had very little idea of what he was doing until it was actually done. She believed he hadn’t meant to hurt her, and that picking someone who looked so similar to her had, more than anything, been a way of recapturing their past. Okay, it was stupid, ridiculous way and it hadn’t worked. It almost ruined both of their lives, and maybe had perhaps scarred the lives of their children, but he hadn’t meant for it to happen.

  Bob was not really a conniver or a manipulator. If anything, he was an emotional dunce and, she decided, she could forgive him for that. Almost any woman was smarter about her feelings than the very smartest man was about his, but since she preferred living and sleeping with a man she would have to accept men’s limitations. He had hurt her, he’d been foolhardy, but he certainly wasn’t going to do it again. Maybe she could forgive him. She wouldn’t take it personally; she’d take it as a group.

  Just then, a bouncing light against the wall caught Sylvie’s attention. Was it a flashlight? What was…She turned around, expecting to see Rosalie outside the French doors. But it couldn’t be her. She was in the dining room. Sylvie flipped off the outside lights in the hope of getting a better idea of where the spots were coming from.

  “Oh my god!” she cried. Headlights were coming at her. The hall door flew open. Everyone ran in from the dining room.

  “I can’t believe it!” Reenie said.

  Sylvie and the rest of the family went to the French doors.

  “Oh lord!” Mildred exclaimed.

  “Go, Dad!” Kenny cheered.

  “The car! The car!” Jim shouted in horror.

  Sylvie stood completely still, a radiant joy filling her. She held her breath. Would he do it? Would he go all the way for her?

  Mildred flipped on the pool lights. “There is a God,” Mildred said, “and She is good.”

  Sylvie watched as Beautiful Baby approached the brink and, without slowing down, without even a moment of hesitation, was driven over the edge and into the pool. The twins screamed. Jim groaned. The family began as one to move outdoors, but Mildred wisely restrained them.

  “Let your mother go alone,” she told the twins.

  Sylvie stepped outside and began to run across the patio, then through the yard, toward the pool. Bob emerged, climbing the ladder just as Sylvie got to it. He was already shivering with the cold. “I’d do anything for you,” he gasped, and Sylvie stood there for a moment, hesitating on the brink. “Please, Sylvie,” Bob begged. “Forgive me. Let me try again. Let’s play duets again.”

  “I don’t know. It would take a long time to trust you again.”

  “I’ll give you all the time I’ve got left. We’ll go on a cruise. We’ll dance, alone at home, to the radio.” He looked at her, obviously desperate. His teeth were chattering, his lips blue from the cold. “We’ll get that bus and drive cross-country.” Sylvie only looked at him. “Say something,” Bob begged. “Anything. Tell me you’ll consider it. Tell me there’s even the smallest chance you’ll forgive me. Please, Sylvie. Tell me what to do.”

  Sylvie smiled wickedly at the only man she’d ever loved. He’d really have to work hard. And even then…But in the meantime she’d have more of that great sex. She’d be adored, and if he stopped admiring her, if he took her for granted, well…“Please, Sylvie. Please. Just say something. Give me a clue.”

  “In four words: take me to Maui,” she told him.

  As Bob put his arms around her she gasped, from both the cold and from his warmth. He kissed her, hard and deeply. Behind her she could hear the twins, Mildred, and even her father, clapping. But soon, as Bob’s cold lips pressed against her warm ones, she heard nothing but their heartbeats.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Barbara Turner for continuing to be my sister; Dwight Currie because, no matter what, he will make me laugh; Paul Mahon for not being there when I needed him the most; Rachel Dower in memory of our “Clueless Goes to College” marathon; Diana Hellinger for remembering who I am when I finally call; Larry Ashmead for the books, laughs, and zinnias; Jerry Young, who can recite all the lawyers he works for—in ascending order of skill; Amy Fine Collins for your patience and reciprocal love and admiration; Pat Rhule because you always take my calls and almost always make me laugh; Linda Grady for her continued loving support; Bob Bookman with the hopes that this season you snag a ball in Dodger Stadium; Kelly Lange for your endless hospitality. I still have your keys; Steve Rubin and Ed Town for keeping a candle in the window for me; Jody Post with apologies for not sending this book in draft; Nunz and Rose Nappi with thanks for a great Thanksgiving and the best of friendships; Amy Baer for leaving the baby to come see me; Walter Mathews for the great conversations and the window shopping in Hudson; Kathi Goldmark for letting me perform “Book Tour Blues” in public; Melody Smith for her selfless concern; Sherry Lansing for starting off everything; Ben Dower in the hopes that this book will get you your next set of clubs; Gerry Petievich, my writing brother on the West Coast; Neil Baldwin, whose work at the National Book Foundation continues to inspire me; Richard Saperstein for “getting it” and then buying it for New Line Cinema; Ah Elovitz for hanging with me despite my snoring; Beth Dozoretz for being such a kind friend and an inspiration to me; Michael Kohlmann for keeping up with all my madness; Jim Robinson for all the technical assistance a writer girl could ever ask for; Jennifer Perini, the only young, tall, thin blonde I truly like; Michael Elovitz for lending me his room while I wrote this book; Andrew Fisher for passing the bar; Gail Parent for teaching me her immortal ode: “Oh, Hollywood, Oh, Let Me Go”; Lorraine Kreahling for those weekends in Greenport, Lorrie Sue; Jack Rapke because I’m nuts about you, okay? To all my contractors, for finally getting out of my house; Howard Schwartz for doing what you do so well; Anita Addison for her total understanding of women in the media; Anthea Disney for continuing to laugh at my jokes; Ruth Nathan, best friend a writer girl could have; New York Society Library for their unfailing assistance; Cindy Adams for the dry cleaning advice; Paige Rense for understanding my love for my house and Michael Wollaenger for not cutting any of my 3,456 words about the love; Chris Robinson for always being my boyfriend (so far); Harold Wise, even though you haven’t shown me your manuscript; Bruce Vinokour with thanks for putting up with me; Marjorie Braman for the great edit and insistence on “Marjorie Moments”; Lynn Phillips for her insights and the informed reads of my draft; Dalia Rabinovich for listening to her mother; Adam Schroeder and Scott Rudin for making me a household name; Louise Schmidt for her endless pillow making on my behalf; Brenda Segel for the gorilla stories; Keith Gregory at Southern Methodist University for their inspirational attention to new novelists; Storyline Entertainment for giving me work; Jeffery McGraw for your endless enthusiasm and equally endless patience; Chris Patusky for not taking me out; Anita Gates for getting my jokes and allowing me to praise writers publicly; Tyrone D’Brass for inviting me to decorate his palace in Rajasthan; Bert Fields for the superb representation; Ron Fried for still thinking I’m so nice; Martine Rothblatt for all her excellent advice; Nick Ellison, with thanks for our fabulous dinners; Chris Lee for really listening to me; Helen Breitwieser Katleman, with best wishes and congratulations to Mr. Right; Michael Chinich for the Polaroids—oooh, Michael! Was Morgan naked in that picture?; Liz Ziemska, in awe of your wisdom and professional knowledge, not to mention the new haircut; Bill, Ann, Kip, and Steven for taking loving care of Matilda; Jacki Heppard for her short stay but lasting impression; Donna Langley for her suggestions, patience, and good humor; Beaver Hall for the gnawing, lodging, and tail slapping; Michael Barnathan for the beautiful bouquets—you make me so happy, Michael; Lucy Hood for the brave attempt at synergy; Susie and Joe at Misakiya for feeding me daily; Phyllis Levy for
our shared love of cats; Cathy Cavender for giving me a difficult assignment and helping me get through it; Dan Melnick for being my older, male, more brilliant twin; Hugh Wilson for keeping in touch; Gladys Sanchez for taking care of my house and my office; Beth Arky for letting me walk the line in TV Guide; Akiko Wied for your patience and hard work; Patricia Martin and Leif Zurmuhlen for keeping me on the Right Side of Forty; Kitty Kelley for the open invitation; Joe Kiener for being simultaneously so tall and so smart; Jerry Leed at Fashion Award for helping me clean up my act; Leonida Karpick for knowing how to sell my books; Jennifer Blum for being the brains behind the operation; and Nan Robinson for finally showing some enthusiasm.

  More from Olivia Goldsmith

  Bad Boy

  Every Sunday, best friends Tracie and Jonny meet to discuss their love lives: Tracie loves bad boys who seem too good to be true (and usually are), and Jonny foolishly falls for girls who never like him "that way." When Jonny convinces Tracie to turn him into a bad boy, she gives him a makeover, teaches him to scope out women at baggage claim, come back from a dinner date with a new girl's phone number scrawled on his hand, and always carry a motorcycle helmet—even though he doesn't ride a motorcycle.

  Jonny quickly becomes a successful heartbreaker just as Tracie discovers that she just might be head-over-heels in love with her best friend. But Tracie's current bad boy has—at last—decided he wants to settle down, her girlfriend has the hots for Jonny, and Jonny can't understand why Tracie never liked him for who he was before the leather. Bad Boy is a smart, laugh-out-loud tale of modern romance sure to keep readers everywhere in stitches.

  The Bestseller

  At Davis & Dash, one of New York's most prestigious publishing houses, five new authors will be published—but only one of them will be a bestseller. They have worked long and hard to write their novels of romance and murder, drama and love, but the story behind the stories is even more exciting. And the vicious competition to get the right agent, the perfect editor, and the choice spot on the bestseller list must be seen to be believed.