Claire Voyant

by Saralee Rosenberg

  But something about the way Althea hit all those bull’s-eyes led me to believe that she wasn’t just a good guesser. She knew what was causing me to lose sleep because she was the universe’s answer to a diligent studio executive. She had read the script, screened the dailies, and knew how the story ended. Which really pissed me off. I hated the idea that the paths I chose, and the outcome of those choices, were all in the script. The script written, executive-produced, and directed by God, with maybe a bunch of cutthroat associate-producer angels trying to exert their limited powers in order to satisfy their own agendas.

  As an actress, one would think I would love the notion of our lives being preordained. Our destinies a wrap. But I knew better than anyone that a great life was about as rare as a great script. And all too often, we didn’t even realize when we were holding one in our hands.

  In general, it’s not a good idea to be behind the wheel of a borrowed Porsche when you are DWU: Driving while unhinged. Particularly if you don’t know the area and, therefore, the best exit to your destination. If only I’d remembered that while trying to find my way back to the Fabrikant estate.

  You know the scene. You take your eyes off the road to read the signs for one split second, and boom. You’re exchanging phone numbers with a guy who is not likely to take you to dinner after the tow truck pulls away.

  I was shaking when I dialed Drew to tell him, fully expecting to hear this otherwise genteel man flip out.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Drew asked for like the tenth time.

  “I’m fine. I’m just so so sorry. I should have listened to you and let you drive. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “As long as you’re okay,” he insisted. “It’s only metal and money.”

  Yeah. A lot of metal and money. “I’ll pay you back, I swear. Whatever your out-of-pocket-costs are. This was entirely my fault.”

  “Claire, relax. It’s okay. We’re like a twelve-car family. I have other things to drive.”

  “Yes, but it’s a Porsche. It’s seven years’ bad luck to wreck one.”

  “Not for the body shop.”

  “Are you always this understanding after your car’s been towed?”

  “Are you kidding? You know how many times I cracked up my car and had to call my dad to come get me? He was never happy, but as long as I made the call, it meant I was okay, and he just taught me to deal with it.”

  “A great attitude.” I coughed. “Now let’s see how you handle the really bad news.”

  “What?”

  “You know the guy I hit?” I closed my eyes. “Seems it’s a very small world.”

  “Oh no. How small?”

  “Pretty small, apparently. I’m not a hundred percent, but he may be Marly’s Uncle Alvin?”

  “Oh shit. Not Alvin Becker. Claire, you idiot! The guy is a lunatic!”

  As I listened to Drew carry on that I was an irresponsible, stubborn jerk, it didn’t faze me one bit. I guess I hated the idea of dating a man who only had one speed (Mr. Nice Guy). Imagine the pressure on me to follow suit. I’d have to spend at least one week a month biting my PMS tongue. At least now I had proof that he could go ballistic like the rest of us mere mortals.

  “Thank you,” I sighed. “I feel so much better already.”

  Can I tell you what saved my ass when I finally got back to the house? My ass is what saved my ass. Seems Drew had been planning an official welcome-to-my-room party, complete with scented candles and mood music. But after the stressful events of the night, he begged off.

  Unfortunately, between the phone calls from Penny, the dinner kiss, the hour of scrubbing, the strange reading, and the accident, I was so wired myself, I really wanted Drew to stay. So when I saw that he was torn, I went with my instincts and locked the bedroom door. The music he had chosen turned out to be just right for a lap dance.

  Funny how the scent of vanilla, and a little striptease can get a man to forget what ails him. By the time I was down to my tiny black Cosabella thong, Drew was no longer thinking about smashed fenders and broken headlights. But he wasn’t the only one feeling pleasure.

  To my delight, he had been a good little boy and paid close attention to instruction-happy Samantha on Sex and the City. (God bless HBO: Hot Breathing and Orgasms). And even though I knew I should stay focused on the moment, I found myself thinking about the call I would make to Sydney. We may not have had a special coffee shop like Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha, but we knew how to dish.

  I couldn’t wait to tell her that dating Drew was like having four of the best boyfriends on the show: He had a big, hard body like Smith, a big, wonderful heart like Steve, and big, deep pockets like Harry. But best of all, he was my Mr. Big. I just looked at him and I got weak. No doubt in my mind—I was not walking away from this guy after six seasons.

  “I swear, you get more amazing by the day.” He stroked my hair.

  “So you’re not mad at me anymore?”

  “I’m furious, but at least I found a way for you to repent.”

  “If I had known being a sinner was this much fun…”

  “Down, girl.” He kissed my hand. “As it is, I’m not going to be able to walk in the morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d be good for another three rounds.”

  “Not tonight, coach…I’m out of practice.”

  “Okay, that makes no sense. Didn’t you and Marly—I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “Claire, we had sex…but not like this.”

  “And you were going to marry her anyway?”

  “Things were different with us. Basically, she was bisexual.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yeah, as long as I’d buy things for her, she was sexual.”

  “Oh…. You scared me,” I laughed. “But seriously, I don’t get the relationship. I mean, I know what was in it for her. The big house, the fancy cars…”

  “It’s not what you think. Marly and I were great together…just not in bed.”

  “And that was okay with you?”

  “She took care of me in a lot of other ways. She didn’t make any demands. She was a good listener…and we had an understanding.”

  “An understanding.”

  “Yeah. If we needed to shop elsewhere on occasion, it was okay.”

  “You’re joking, right? You actually gave each other permission to screw around?”

  “Basically.”

  “Oh my God. That’s insane. Does the term sexually transmitted disease mean anything to you?”

  “We were careful. But to be honest, it’s how I grew up. I know it sounds strange, but my parents had the same arrangement.”

  “With the operative word being had. Now they’re getting a divorce.”

  “For a lot of reasons.”

  “Well, you would know better than me, and I’m no expert. But it seems to me that infidelity isn’t exactly the cornerstone of a good, healthy relationship.”

  “I’m not saying it works for everyone.”

  “Okay, well, just so you’re clear? It wouldn’t work for me. And if we’re going to be together, we would have to have an understanding, too. It’s just us. I couldn’t share you.”

  “And I couldn’t imagine ever needing anyone else but you.”

  “Thank you, but this conversation just took a very scary turn. We grew up so differently. My parents fight like crazy. You’ve seen them. But I can’t imagine either of them ever playing around…not that anyone else would want them. And yet, no matter how loud they hollered and carried on, they still believed in the institution of marriage, in the holiness of the vows. And I do, too. But what if you can’t accept those same values?”

  “Claire, I was faithful to Marly.”

  “But you just said that you had an understanding that you could shop elsewhere.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t. I accepted what we had, even though it wasn’t perfect.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed to be
lieve in love. I needed to know that if you cared that deeply for someone, you could get past just about anything.”

  “Well, obviously she didn’t feel that way. She’s pregnant, and it might not be your chid.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How is that even possible? You make it sound like she wasn’t even interested in sex, yet she cheated on you? Why?”

  “She had her reasons. Can we talk about this later?”

  “I’m sorry I’m prying…. It just seems so strange that she—”

  “Had certain needs I couldn’t give her. Okay? Can we please just leave it at that?”

  “That’s what a guy says when he’s impotent. But you certainly aren’t that…at least for me.”

  “I’m begging you, Claire. I really don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “But wait. I know she loves you. She practically covered your whole place with those pillows she made. Marly and Drew together forever…And they lived happily ever after…”

  “Claire, stop it already. I can’t do this. I can’t be in a microwave relationship—press a button and zap, all your questions are answered in the time it takes to heat a cup of coffee. My life is complicated. There’s a lot you don’t know. And I’m not going to spill my guts just because you’ve turned into Curious George. Jeez! I can’t tell you how much I hate it when girls I go out with think they’re entitled to know every goddamn thing I ever said or did. Then they have to sit there and analyze it, and discuss it, and worry about it, and call their girlfriends, and have them sit there and analyze and discuss it. I’m a guy, not a bug under your microscope.”

  “Okay. I get the point. I’m sorry. I’ll never ask you another personal question again.”

  “Like hell!” He got up to put on his shirt.

  “Wait? Where are you going? Don’t leave. We were just having a little argument.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not as little as you think.”

  Have you ever been at a party where you were the only one not enjoying yourself? When you were counting the seconds until it was socially acceptable to bolt? That’s how it was at the neurology consult. After being subjected to a litany of follow-up tests, the brain boys were positively ecstatic with the reports. One for the books, they called me. Miracle Girl. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

  Seems that in spite of their earlier fears about my recovery, they simply couldn’t believe the speed at which I had resumed my normal brain functions. There were no residual effects from the fall. No language deficits. No more memory loss. No physical impairments. No visual problems.

  Little do you know, I thought as they babbled on. I was both blind and stupid because I didn’t see that Drew had begged me not to pursue my line of questioning. I didn’t understand that he had a right to his privacy. I just drove right over his emotional divide, then crashed, as I did with his car.

  “You must be so relieved.” Shari hugged me. “It’s even better news than we thought.”

  “I know. It’s amazing.”

  “And it was so funny how baffled they were. Like patients can’t ever recover unless it’s a result of something they did. Doctors can be such arrogant putzs, can’t they?”

  So can nosy girlfriends. “Definitely.”

  “Why don’t we call your folks now? I’m sure they’re anxious to hear the great news.”

  “Good idea…. Do you think you could you do it? I’d like to call Drew first.”

  “You want me to call your parents, while you call my son? Isn’t that a bit backwards?”

  “Yes, but my parents don’t hate me, and he does.” I started to cry. “Last night I did something so stupid….”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be all right, Claire. C’mon, don’t fall apart now. It’s been such a great day. You’ve got your health back. You’re going to be fine.”

  “I’m not going to be fine unless Drew forgives me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I blew it, that’s what I did. I opened my big mouth and tried to get him to talk about his relationship with Marly, and he got very angry…. I mean, I nearly totaled his car, and he was, eh, no big deal, I have others; but I wouldn’t stop prying, and he went off on me. And now I’m afraid that it’s over, and it never really even began.”

  “Oh. Not good.”

  “It’s not?” I gulped.

  “Drew is an extremely private person, Claire. He’s not good with digging deep into the psyche for answers. And don’t get me wrong, he’s honest and open…but with limitations. His father was just like that, so I know what you’re going through. You couldn’t pry a button off his shirt with a crowbar.”

  “So what am I supposed to do? I can’t handle his being angry with me.”

  “I know my son. Just give him time to cool off. He’ll forgive you.”

  “No, he won’t. I saw the look in his eyes when he left. I pushed too far, and now he’s checked out for good.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about his going back to Marly, if that’s what you’re so upset about.”

  “Yes, he will…she’s pregnant.”

  “What?”

  “Oh my God. Oh shit. What did I just do?”

  “She’s pregnant? Are you sure?”

  “Oh my God. I can’t believe I just did that. On top of everything else, I betrayed his trust.”

  “Claire, get a grip. He actually told you that Marly was pregnant?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh for God’s sake…I can’t believe that little…All this time he’s been doting on her and supporting her. And then she goes back to Jonathan anyway and gets pregnant?”

  “Wait. How can you assume Drew’s not the father? I’m so confused.”

  “Claire, stop rambling. It’s almost impossible for Drew to be the father.”

  “It is?”

  “He’s got something called varicocele. Lousy sperm production. He’s damn near infertile.”

  “Infertile?” I stood there with my mouth open. That’s what this was about? But how could he be infertile? We bought condoms. He said that after the baby was born, he was going to order a blood test to confirm the identity of the father.

  Naturally, I had a million questions. But I was so afraid of repeating my utterly inconsiderate performance from last night, I asked nothing. The last thing I wanted to do was alienate the one person who could explain everything when the time was right.

  You know how broke I was. Let me refresh your memory. I had a total of $477 in my bank account. Oh, and a few savings bonds from my college graduation hidden somewhere. Maybe add another three, four hundred to the pot. And then my former fiancé, Aaron Darren, had invested a small amount for me in this upstart pharmaceutical company in New Jersey that was going to go public after they got the patent approved for their noninjectable version of Botox.

  That was basically it. I was thirty years old, and for all intents and purposes, I had squat. No stock portfolio, no real estate, no life insurance. Not even an IRA. But I did have debts. Yes, sir. Plenty of those. A car loan, credit card bills up the wazoo, back rent, and a small—well, not so small, a $10,000—loan I borrowed from Sydney’s father when I thought I was going to need a down payment on a condo.

  But did I return the money when the deal fell through? Of course not. Did I at least use the money to pay off my Visa bills? Are you serious? I blew it on a much-needed vacation to Italy, some new clothes including this red Badgley Mischka gown that would be perfect for the Oscars if, God forbid, I was ever actually there, and finally this exquisite dyed Persian lamb coat from Maximilian that was marked down to an amazing you’ll-never-see-a-deal-like-this-again four grand.

  Not smart choices for anyone, let alone an accountant’s daughter. Someone who grew up with a better-than-average understanding of tax brackets, deductions, maximum contributions, cap gains, and the whole alphabet soup of personal finance. A lot of good it did me.

  Until the day I ended up in an attorney’s office, listening to a conversation
between two estate lawyers, Uncle Ben, and my dad via speaker phone. It was the first time I was sorry that I hadn’t paid closer attention to my father’s business dealings.

  But no matter that I didn’t understand the exact details of what they were hashing out, one thing was crystal clear: I was going to walk out of this office a wealthy woman. Not Oprah rich, but I heard figures being bandied about that riveted me to my seat.

  Bottom line? A man I had never met, let alone knew existed, had invested money in my name every year of my life. Set up a trust fund, with an honest-to-God trustee, whose job it was to invest and reinvest my assets, so that one day, as compensation for being abandoned, I would have enough money to live comfortably. Very, very comfortably.

  You heard me. I, Claire Awful Person Greene, had just inherited a portfolio worth almost two million dollars. Do you have any idea how much money that is? Me, either. But my dad did. And as I listened to his booming voice crackle through the loudspeaker, talking about lump sums, and tax liabilities, and costs basis, and seeing tax returns of the trust, I had never been happier to have him in my corner. He knew exactly what to say, unlike me, who would have sounded like a blithering idiot.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said to the silver metal box on the desk after the meeting ended.

  “My pleasure, dear.”

  Was he crying? Oh God, don’t cry, I thought. I’ll never be able to keep it together.

  “This is a wonderful day for you, Claire.” He blew into his hanky. “A wonderful day. I’m so happy for you. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you and not a care in the world. Now you’ll be able to afford whatever you want, travel wherever you want…. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I love you…. I’ll call you back in a little while.”

  “No, call your mother.”

  “Which one?” I teased.

  “You only have one, dear.” He laughed. “And she’s great, isn’t she?”

  “The best.”

  Chapter 30

  OF COURSE I WANTED TO CELEBRATE THE SINGLE, MOST EXTRAORDINARY day of my life. Lunch was on me, but I had no takers. Uncle Ben couldn’t have been happier for me, but he was already late for a meeting, so the best he could offer was to drop me at the house and promise a celebration later.