With Friends Like These

by Sally Koslow

  Winters didn’t give this female a second look. He concentrated on me, drilling through my defenses. “What makes you passionate?” He asked the question as casually as if he’d said, Can you pass the salt? Our lattes arrived with biodegradable wood spoons.

  This was no longer plain conversation. I couldn’t say I didn’t like it. “Results, words, ideas,” I answered. “People who love their life.”

  “Are you one of those easygoing, life-loving people?” His tone mocked.

  “Exactly.” Any cool I’d ever had obviously hadn’t made the trip to this coast. I looked away, searching for the artificial sweetener. There was none.

  “I doubt that,” he said. He stirred two spoonfuls of brown sugar—I assumed it was the expensive sort from Belize—into his latte and leaned back; I wondered why I felt as if he had taken a step forward. “Oh, you love parts of your life. But I can see something’s missing, something major.”

  What was missing in my life was candor and honesty. That’s all I cared to concede, but only to myself. “Winters,” I said deliberately. I wasn’t going to be baited, and it occurred to me that this was a test. For what exactly, I couldn’t say. “I obviously want a new job. Your job. I mean, the job you are trying to fill. Everything else in my life is fine.” Not that it’s any business of yours.

  “Don’t go all defensive on me,” he said as he raised his hands in the genuflection of whoa. “It’s simply that in my experience, it’s the hungry person, the not-exactly-thrilled-with-his-life guy, who gets ahead, who has that spark. That’s the person I want on my team.”

  His laugh was a low ripple in a sea lapping against a beach the color of cashews. He said team. I heard bed.

  “Everyone else is a little fat and lazy,” he added. “I can see you’re not fat, but …”

  Mean Maxine demanded my attention. Wax poetic all you want about beaches and laughter, she said, but what sane woman would even want this job, or be up to the sparring if she got it? Mean Maxine was dead-on. And yet.

  “Listen, I’m sorry for fucking with you. I hope I haven’t offended you in some way.”

  “Let me count the ways,” I said, reaching for a smile, but I don’t do innuendo well. I was out of my league, or at least out of practice.

  “Say,” he asked as he downed half his latte, “I keep meaning to ask—do you know a Chloe Keaton? I believe you two are at the same agency.”

  I knocked my glass into his lap. The server appeared with a pile of napkins. As she mopped the icy spill, my mind sputtered. Winters placed his warm hand on my arm as if to steady me while I spat out apologies. “Chloe? Of course …” I was trying to think of what to say, pretending I didn’t enjoy the touch on my skin, when inexplicably I turned around. Walking toward me was a man with a loping gate exactly like Tom’s. Next to him, running to keep up, was a small boy, the image of Henry.

  I blinked. Tom shouted, “Surprise,” which Henry repeated.

  Try wriggling out of this one, Mrs. Fisher-Wells, Mean Maxine said. You are so getting what you deserve.

  Chapter 31

  Jules

  Another of Jules’ Rules: Doing nothing has a way of turning into something.

  I’d broken one of my own commandments. For weeks I’d toyed with calling Sheila to schedule a procedure, but when I started to punch in her number, my hand froze. This had nothing to do with a reversal in personal politics. I, a pro-choice militant since I understood the concept, had put my money where my mouth is only the day before, when I sent off a chunky donation to NARAL. But I was in suspended animation and didn’t know if hormonal voodoo had caused my paralysis, much as it had heartburn, constipation, and my dearest friend, perpetual hunger. I was charging the refrigerator like a rhino.

  Was something deeper and darker reeling in my psyche? I suspect that people say I’m not introspective. I can handle that. It’s not the worst thing to be, a woman who has never chewed her cud. Except now.

  Arthur had to be revived by Carmine’s second-best brandy, after which I rushed home. For most of the ride I was twenty miles over the limit, powered by mortification, which gas stations should offer as a premium alternative. I asked myself throughout the drive and all night long, why had I told him? Now, days later, Arthur felt we were splitting the mental rent on the snake pit where I was trapped. I told him he had to stop with the texts, the e-mails, the calls, the cards, and especially the flowers. Correction: the cheap cretin didn’t think to send flowers.

  When I was ready to talk to him, I would. In the meantime, I wanted to speak to an individual with mental ballast who happened to care about me. I’ve been known to go to confession, but this wasn’t a problem to take to church. Much as I like a whiff of incense and feel immensely proud that my people built Rome, the Pope and I do not see eye to eye on most issues, starting with every pesky detail associated with not having babies. Nor did I have the time to find a shrink, not that I’d trust one. Some women would turn to their mothers. Mine, of course, is out, in every sense of the word, as is my sister, though like Liza Minnelli, she stages regular comebacks. Last we heard—from Hefty Harry, who owns the other half of Ma’s house—Maria was a croupier in Atlantic City. She’d changed her name to Margaux and her boobs to 38DD. When HH spotted her working a craps table, she pretended she didn’t recognize him, despite his Niagara Falls comb-over, but that was definitely my sister’s tramp stamp sagging down her butt cheek, captured on his iPhone.

  For a chat, I was left with friends. Obviously, Quincy wasn’t an option. I’d gotten the feeling that Chloe wanted to step up to the big leagues and start giving me advice, but as sincere as she might be, I didn’t need an amateur trying to deal with my emotional dyslexia. So, folks, the dial landed on the last one standing. I waited to call until seven-thirty on a weeknight, and I was picturing Talia in Brooklyn watching Tom slave over a hot pot thick with sustainable vegetables.

  It was St. Thomas who answered. “Hey,” I said. I like him fine. Tom Wells is bighearted and smart without a Mr. Hedge Fund stick up his butt. Yet he spoke my name as if he was trying to break it.

  “Love you, too,” I said.

  “Hang on,” he grumbled. I heard Talia shrieking, “Let me talk,” and Tom shouting, “Say you’ll call her back. It’s just Jules.”

  You selfish prick. For one moment, Just Jules wanted to be the center of the universe. I was about to hang up when Talia came on the line. “Sorry, it’s not a good time,” she panted. “How late can I get back to you?”

  “Anytime from midnight to five a.m.,” I said.

  “That bad, huh?” she answered. “You sound like dreck. We’re having a little marital turbulence here, but I promise I’ll call. I’m so sorry.”

  Not, I’d have bet, as sorry as I was.

  As the night progressed, I worked through tasks and treats I’d selected with distraction in mind. I ironed napkins, printed out invoices, deep-conditioned my hair while rereading a chapter of an Anne Rice novel, ate a pistachio Nutella sundae, and at eleven o’clock switched on HBO. After twenty minutes, I’d liquefied into a swamp of tears and perspiration. Had I still been in high school I’d have done what this movie’s cutely dimpled baby mama did—give away her infant, turn the page, and get on with her life. Except … I didn’t want to witness my body turn into a Buick only to deliver my little cannoli to a woman who thought she’d be a better mother than I.

  Holy epiphany. Had I just thought of myself as a mother? The world had stopped spinning.

  If I couldn’t have this child, I didn’t want anyone else to, either. Was I a selfish, horrible, burn-in-hell bitch? Probably. I was a cockroach in a baby food factory, mold on cheese, a bathtub ring. I had worked myself right down to Nazi sympathizer when I heard the phone. I checked caller ID. Not Arthur.

  “Sorry,” Talia said. “I wanted to call back sooner, but …”

  “But you’re ready to blow Tom’s brains out, and here I’ve always cast you as Ozzie and Harriet’s unflappable grandchildren. What happened?”
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  “Oh, nothing,” she said, but I could tell she wanted me to ask about her giant problem.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “He surprised me when I was in California,” she explained. “Flew out on a whim in time for my dad’s birthday, which was an incredibly kind gesture and—long story short—he found me having coffee with a guy. It was a work thing, but Tom didn’t like what he saw.”

  This was a problem? But attention had to be paid. “Just asking, but were you two professionals fondling naked, let’s say, while you were drinking whatever people drink now in L.A.?” I stared at my toes and wondered if I should switch polish colors. Clambake looked too festive for my mental state. I needed to pick from the vampire palette.

  “Tom thought so. He harped all weekend on the body language he claimed to see. Usually he’s a sweetheart—you know that—but he has this insecure streak.”

  We’d taken a curious detour. I’d always assumed Tom Wells’ rarified lineage rendered him as solid as Plymouth Rock. “I’m no Tom expert,” I said, “but I know your husband well enough to say he isn’t the sort to pick fights over nothing. Tell me straight, dollface. What’s with this other guy? Someone special? A man you want in your life? Already in your life?” I escalated to taunting and didn’t care. I felt wickedly happy, simply because there was trouble in someone else’s paradise. This was a distraction.

  “No, no, and no, I’ve told you.” Talia’s voice was exactly how you’d speak if you were afraid that your husband might be lurking ten feet away. “The person with whom I was having an innocent latte was simply a guy with a good job opening.”

  When Talia does whom, I know she’s pissed. “You already have a good job,” I pointed out. Every mother would kill for a deal as sweet as the one she and Chloe split. The company even paid for vacation, health, and dental, though neither of them worked full-time.

  “I have a good half job.” She paused dramatically. “While I have the expenses of a whole life.” I heard exasperation. “This would be full-time and I think it would pay well.” She paused again. “He hasn’t offered a thing yet and maybe won’t, at least to me. He’s taking his time. I think he enjoys the torture.”

  Burn-in-Hell Bitch identified a spasm of sympathy. Is anything more humiliating than sucking up to the Man? Exactly why I’m my own boss. “Who’s this mogul dangling a job in front of you?”

  After a seven-second delay she answered, “I’d rather not say.”

  Intriguing. This was what I needed, all right, not chores and beauty maintenance. All of a sudden I was in Tom’s camp. “What’s going on?”

  “Absolutely nothing. I’ve told you everything.” Which I doubted. “It’s your turn,” she said, working hard to keep from sounding angry. She was failing. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. I have an audition tomorrow. I’m picking new wallpaper. I booked a hand-modeling job for a jewelry company with a line of cocktail rings. I’m pregnant.” I tossed it out, light as confetti, a flurry of snowflakes blowing off a spruce.

  “And I’m a natural blond shiksa with a trust fund. Jules, it’s getting late.”

  One Mississippi, two Mississippi.

  “Ah, Twenty Questions,” Talia said. “You’re breaking up with Arthur?”

  I pounced. “Are you suggesting I should?”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting, and you know it.” She groaned. “You’re always on his case. I thought maybe … Any friend might think …”

  “You thought wrong,” I said, at risk of defending Arthur. Did Talia and the others have nothing better to do than gang-bang my flawed relationship?

  “Work-related?”

  “Colder.”

  “Is Arthur an alcoholic? Is he seeing that Jennifer you told me about? Did he give you herpes?”

  “Colder, colder, colder.” For someone who calls herself “a creative type,” Talia has zero imagination.

  “It’s late. I give up. What’s on your mind?”

  My fingers stroked the fuzzy purple throw on my lap. In the large gilt mirror across from the couch, I looked rather like an empress, but that’s not how I felt. “Like I said at the start, I’m knocked up, my friend. In the family way. Big with child. Preggers. Didn’t Chloe tell you?” Apparently not. What was going on with those two that I wasn’t even conversational filler?

  Now the dead air was at Talia’s end. “Seriously? Shall I be congratulating you?” she asked, quietly, cautiously. Her voice sounded almost fearful.

  “The jury’s out.”

  “How far along?” She was whispering.

  “Far,” I whispered back.

  “My God, why did you let me blather about my stuff? This is huge.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Have you told Chloe?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I thought my news would be front page, column right, but I guess not.”

  “Where will you be tomorrow around eleven?” Talia said after what seemed like a pause long enough for me to have read a page in the Constitution. “I’m renting a car to see a client in Stamford first thing in the morning, and afterward I could swing by. We could talk this through.”

  “That would be … lovely. I’d like that,” I said, more formally than I’d intended. “Now go find your husband and jump his bones. Do penance whether you’re right or wrong. Tell him the last thing you want to do is fight. Tom’s a great guy. Don’t fuck it up.”

  Why is it that the way other women should solve their problems is always blatantly obvious? It’s easier, at least for me, to shovel out kindness than accept it.

  I got off the phone, put on my heavy-duty rubber gloves, and washed my dishes. Finally I took myself to my own empty bed. After one last, long hiccupy cry, I slept.

  • • •

  Talia showed up bearing brownies and a crisp paper bag brimming with froths of lavender tissue paper. “Oh, Jules,” she said as we embraced. Neither of us seemed willing to let go. “Open it,” she said as she mopped her eyes and nodded toward the gift. I whipped out a bed jacket trimmed with marabou, its peachy satin suiting a buxom forties movie star. “I bought it for Christmas,” she said, “but why wait?”

  I slipped the jacket over my daytime home uniform, a black sweater and velvety pants that I pretend aren’t sweats, and gushed gratitude, all while I hoped that Talia wasn’t scrutinizing my body and wondering if I’d been using pregnancy as an excuse to go on the ice cream diet. We walked into my kitchen, the steam from my caffeine-free herbal tea flushing my face. I brewed Talia espresso. The milk was already waiting in a crystal pitcher, the sugar cubes next to dainty tongs in a silver bowl. Like a lazy cat, I craved a spot warmed by the sun and settled myself in the chair next to the window, but with Talia there, there was no calm in the room. I’m used to being a conductor, not a jittery first violin.

  At least she got right to it. “I was pregnant in college.” Talia twirled one of her curls, a gesture activated whenever she was waiting for a bomb to detonate. “I was nineteen, a junior. I can barely remember the guy’s name. Jason someone. I just knew that I wasn’t ready to have a baby—it wouldn’t have been fair to … to anyone. I never even considered going through with it and …” She spoke at length of talking things over with a campus minister because she was too embarrassed to see the rabbi, of the kind souls at Planned Parenthood, of keeping a secret from her parents and the teenage father. She described her morning sickness, as if to prove that she wasn’t making the whole thing up.

  But I am not twenty. I am a grown woman with three bedrooms and a financial portfolio heavy on steady-Eddie blue chips and bonds. I have started to save for retirement, took out disability insurance last year, and have calculated that I should be able to hold off on collecting social security until I’m close to seventy. I pay my taxes each year by February 15. I, not Tom Wells, am fucking Plymouth Rock.

  “Do you ever think about that child?” I interrupted to ask. Did she see it in each pass
ing stroller, in every YouTube video with break-dancing babies? I knew that would happen to me. The nuns would get me in the end.

  “I’m Henry’s mom now,” Talia said, too quickly, as if that explained anything.

  “Obviously, ending the pregnancy is an option,” I said, not wanting to torture Talia just for the hell of it. “I’ve made an appointment.” This was a lie. “I’m about seventy percent sure I want to go through with it.” I wasn’t sure of a thing.

  “I have to ask—where does Arthur fit into this picture? Have you told him?” She seemed eager.

  “In a moment of insanity I said something,” I admitted. “But this is my decision.” I was fairly sure Talia’s look spoke disapproval—that I made Arthur’s opinion matter because he couldn’t unknow what I’d told him. But I needed to steer away from the shipwreck that was my life. “Tell me more about the job thing and the business with Tom.”

  “You want to talk about that?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s at a boutique agency, Bespoke Communications. Know it?”

  “Don’t think so. It’s Latte Man I want to hear about.”

  “His name is Winters Jonas.”

  “Really? He and Arthur may have worked together once.” Who could forget a name like that? I was also fairly certain that not long ago Arthur had mentioned some job in this guy’s office that he thought would be ideal for Chloe.

  “Arthur knows him? Really?” Talia said as she found another ringlet to twirl and looked at her watch. “Eleven?” she said, as if she’d just mastered telling time. “I’m going to need to get back. Sorry I’m in a rush, but …” She grabbed my hand, which I wanted to toss off. Too much soul baring before noon; I wished I hadn’t heard her confession. “I’m here for you, no matter what,” she added earnestly. I despise earnestness. “I hope you know that. We all are.”

  I snorted. Not Quincy!

  “If you go through with this, I’m with you a hundred percent. I’ll go along with you if you …”