The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  She checked the clock. Ilene was to meet Frieda, David, Justin and Betty at City Hall, One Centre Street, at 2 P.M. for the ceremony. The time was approximate. The way Ilene understood it, there was a holding pen room for the wedding principals and their parties. Each bride was given a number, and she had to wait her turn. Frieda had been advised to give the whole ceremony—from getting a number to leaving as husband and wife—a couple of hours.

  Ilene took a personal day. David had, too. Cash was buzzing about Ilene’s pregnancy/separation and David’s surprise wedding. She was sure the gossip would travel along the business journalism wire to Bucks. Peter probably hadn’t heard yet. If the news had reached his office, and he still hadn’t contacted her, that just said it all, didn’t it?

  She shook the thought out of her head. “Kibosh negative thought” was the fourth tenet of the anti-plan (after “No planning,” “Mind own business,” and “Seek excitement”—not that she’d made a written list; that would be so old school).

  Tenet four had been a challenge. The most persistent negative thought, especially on this day, was getting harder and harder to suppress. Ilene lay in her bed, trying to milk another few minutes of rest out of the morning.

  When she closed her eyes, Ilene saw Sam Hill.

  Her lids sprang open. She shook her head clear and said out loud, “Frieda and David will be happy. This is what she wants. Mind your own business.”

  She repeated those sentences while bathing (not showering), eating eggs and bacon (not a muffin), dressing in slacks and a cotton shirt (not a skirt and blouse), drinking green tea (not coffee). She sipped too quickly, slightly burning her tongue. She closed her eyes from the minor pain. And saw Sam Hill.

  Ilene said, “Sam Hill is gone. Frieda says she doesn’t want him, and that’s good enough for me.”

  Ilene turned on the TV. She turned it off. She flipped on the computer, checked e-mail. Signed off. She picked up the phone and put it down. “I will not interfere with Frieda’s life,” she said. “She is capable of making her own decisions.”

  She made her bed and reorganized her underwear drawer. She cleaned out her night-table drawer. She started to alphabetize the CD collection. She plucked a handful of jewel boxes off the shelf. A CD fell on the floor. She picked it up, looked at the cover.

  And saw Sam Hill. Literally. She held the cast recording of Oliver! Peter had insisted on buying. She was glad Peter purchased it. He had a spine. He stood up to her. He’d genuinely enjoyed the show and wanted to keep a reminder. Ilene held the CD, a reminder to her of how badly she’d acted that night, how dismissive of Sam and intolerant of Peter. She’d pushed David on Frieda when they’d come to watch Sam. She was ashamed of herself. She looked again at the photo of Sam, in red beard and wig, as Fagin. His eyes couldn’t be costumed, though, and they were fantastic. Frieda had told Ilene that Sam stared into her eyes the entire time they made love. Position allowing.

  Ilene checked the back of the CD. Underneath the song list, she found an address, phone number, and website info for No Sudden Movement Players. “I will not interfere,” she said.

  She picked up her phone and dialed. While it rang, she looked at her ceiling and said, “Hear me, God. This is the last time, I swear.”

  “No Sudden Movement Players,” said the female voice on the other end.

  “I need to contact Sam Hill immediately,” she said.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m a top Hollywood agent,” replied Ilene.

  “The one from ICM?” asked the girl. Sam had an agent? wondered Ilene. Maybe he wouldn’t be broke forever after all.

  She said, “I’m from CAA.” Did CAA still exist? Ilene had no clue.

  “I’ll have to take a message for Sam,” said the receptionist. “He’s flying to London today.”

  Shit and double shit! He’d told her at the post office about this trip. Ilene said, “When is his flight? Can I reach him at home?”

  The voice said, “I’m sure he’s left for the airport by now. The plane leaves in a few hours. With security checks and—”

  “Which airline?” asked Ilene, grabbing her purse.

  The voice hesitated. “I’ll tell you the airline and the flight number, if I can send you my head shot.”

  “I’d love to see it. I can tell from your voice that you’re a very talented woman.”

  The very talented voice said, “Virgin Atlantic, flight number five sixty-seven. Departs Kennedy at two.”

  Ilene hung up. She grabbed her purse, zipped down the elevator and grabbed a cab.

  “Sam!” screamed Ilene as she raced down Concourse C, rounding the corner into Gate 45. She waved her arms over her head, catching the attention of everyone in the airport.

  “SAM HILL! WHERE ARE YOU?” she shouted. She scanned the crowd of people waiting for their turn to board his flight. She ran up and down the rows of chairs in a panic. She had to find him. He had to be here.

  Knowing she couldn’t get to the gate without a ticket, Ilene had ordered hers by cell phone on the way to the airport. Once she got to Kennedy, she used her credit card at the e-tickets machine, got a paper boarding pass, and hurried to security. She had to relinquish her prized pair of manicure scissors ($25), her tortoise-shell handled nail file ($15), and her Swiss army knife ($100). She could redeem the items on her return, or try the airport lost and found. She was in too much of a rush to listen to all the details, so she mentally kissed her grooming tools goodbye.

  She beelined to the gate. Ilene hadn’t run like that since the sixth grade, when she swore off moving at a pace that would make her glow. She was glowing with a cause now, and not ashamed of it.

  “SAM HILL!” she shouted again, as loudly as she could. Raising her voice higher than she had since the seventh grade, when she swore off calling undue attention to herself in an unseemly fashion. “WHERE ARE YOU??!!”

  A fat, bald, pockmarked man came up to her. He said, “You’re looking for Sam Hill?”

  She said, “You know him?”

  The man said, “I’m Lars Altuna. The artistic director for No Sudden Movement Players.”

  “Where’s Sam?” she demanded, grabbing his ugly polyester jacket lapels and pulling him toward her.

  “I’m right here,” said Sam, coming up alongside Lars Altuna.

  Ilene exhaled. “You have to stop Frieda from marrying David.” She checked her watch. “In one hour.”

  Sam blanched. “She’s going to marry him?”

  “Not if we get there first,” said Ilene.

  He said, “Now you like me?”

  “Who I like doesn’t matter.”

  “Is this because of the post office?”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “And now we go.” She tugged his sleeve.

  Lars Altuna tugged on the other. “Not so fast, Sam,” he said. “We have a show tomorrow night in London. You’re contracted to do it. If you don’t get on the plane, you’re fired. You’ll never work in this town again.”

  Sam said, “I barely work in this town now. Let’s go, Ilene.”

  Ilene said, “You’re not fired.” She dug in her purse and pulled out a plane ticket. She said, “This a Virgin Airlines ticket in Sam’s name, leaving New York tomorrow morning at six, arriving in London at noon. He can be at the theater by two. He’ll do the show tomorrow, and he’ll get tonight with Frieda before he disappears for two weeks and makes her crazy again.” She drew breath. “Sam, give me your ticket for today’s flight.”

  They exchanged tickets. She found the luggage claim check stapled to it and shoved it into Lars Altuna’s hand. She said, “Lars, pick up Sam’s bags in London and take them to the hotel for him.” She pulled a couple of twenties out of her wallet. “For any inconvenience.”

  Sam and Lars stood motionless and watched Ilene work. She was the queen of planning. Too bad she was giving it all up. Or maybe she could simply stop evil plotting and use her powers for the greater good.

  Lars said, “Works for me.”
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  “This is a first-class ticket,” Sam said of his seat for tomorrow’s flight.

  “They didn’t have any seats in coach,” she said.

  “How much was it?” asked Sam.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Two thousand dollars.”

  “You spent two thousand dollars to reunite me and Frieda?”

  “Plus the five hundred for my Virgin ticket to get to the gate, and another two hundred for miscellaneous expenses.”

  Sam whistled. “Almost three thousand dollars? That’s one-seventh of my annual income.”

  “Ack!” bleated Ilene. “Don’t say that out loud. It hurts my ears. I never want to hear it again.”

  They exited the airport and got a taxi. In the backseat, Sam said, “The night we broke up, I said something terrible to Frieda. She might not forgive me. She might marry David anyway.”

  Ilene said, “You take direction?” He nodded. “We show up. You look at her with your eyes. Say as little as possible. She really gets off on the pensive, laconic Maine treatment. And kiss her. She also gets off on your lips. Although they seem a bit thin to me. It might be best not to make a big speech. You two did most of your communicating without words anyway.”

  “It’s a plan,” he said.

  She cringed. “Don’t say that word.”

  Chapter 41

  Friday, September 26

  Noon

  Betty called in sick. She didn’t have any personal days left. She’d used them up in Earl’s hotel room. She’d been lying in bed for hours. The thought of this marriage made her tired. How did Frieda do it? David was, inarguably, a catch. What was it about her sister that drew men? Betty couldn’t draw a man with a pencil. She hated herself for the jealousy, but it had crept into her head and wouldn’t leave.

  Things had become strained with Peter, too. In the week since their Braveheart screening, he’d been remote. He’d been looking at apartments—one bedrooms and studios. She told him that he should just go home, back to Ilene, where he belonged. But he insisted on getting his own place, determined to leave yet another Schast sister to her own devices.

  Earl, meanwhile, had dropped off the face of the Earth. Betty’s steely resolve had lasted only one day before she called his hotel. She tried his cell. She paged him. No response. Maybe he’d been killed by a mugger. Or eaten by a pack of feral dogs. Or been bound, gagged, and manacled at an S & M club. Hit by a bus, run over by a subway, or (the worst possible option) fallen in love with a good woman who had turned him into an honest man. The question—where was he?—compelled her to call and page, again and again. It was a humiliating exercise.

  She stopped calling when the receptionist at his hotel told her he’d checked out. Gert couldn’t have been more relieved to hear the news. She told Betty to forget Earl, to push Peter out of the nest (“he’s cramping your style”) and date a bunch of men so she wouldn’t get too attached to any one. Start saying “yes” to the guys who hit on her at Burton & Notham. Gert said she should whore around for a couple of years. Frieda, who eventually got the details on the Return of Earl suggested the same thing. That Earl had been an initiation by fire. She’d passed the test, and had some easy, fun flings coming to her. With her “new hotness” (Frieda’s words), Betty would have loads of men to choose from.

  Ilene steadfastly refused to have anything to do with plotting Betty’s next romantic steps. She kept telling her baby sister to just “let it flow” and “take it as it comes.” Betty, who’d had problems with the old Ilene, was starting to despise the changes in her sister. At least the meddling Ilene was involved and seemed to care. This new free-range philosophy, to Betty, seemed chicken. She’d always counted on her big sister to make a declarative statement about everything.

  Betty threw back the covers. Only two hours until the ceremony, and she had things to do. She showered and picked through her closet to find something to wear. Something colorful. She chose a red wrap shirt Earl had picked out and black jeans. A City Hall ceremony wasn’t formal. She’d go casual.

  She needed to buy a gift. She had no idea what to get. It wasn’t a traditional wedding. The couple hadn’t registered. They each had a whole apartment full of furniture and dishes. Neither David nor Frieda needed any material objects. Still, Betty wanted to bring something nice for the bride and groom.

  What would please Frieda? wondered Betty. She’d asked several times, but Frieda only wanted to discuss Ilene. Betty suspected the focus on Ilene was a way for Frieda to avoid thinking about this wedding. Frieda might spend the rest of her life finding ways to avoid thinking about this marriage.

  Frieda said to Betty yesterday, “Ilene is headed for a nervous breakdown. She’s acting like a religious convert. She actually said that confessing had set her free.”

  “So she’s converting to Catholicism,” said Betty.

  “Worse,” said Frieda. “The Cult of the Anti-Plan.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” said Betty. “For a pilgrim, she’s pretty tough.”

  “No one is that tough,” said Frieda.

  Frieda pointed out that the Schast brother-in-laws had been wiped out of the family by cancer: Gregg by the disease, and Peter in its aftermath. Frieda told Betty she would love to see Peter to tell him how sorry she was about the separation. She tried to call him at work, but Jane said he wasn’t available. She’d left a message. No return call. Frieda had always had a soft spot for Peter, especially because of the way he’d treated Justin.

  Suddenly, Betty knew exactly what she would bring to Frieda’s wedding. A gift that would make Frieda happy. And it might do more for the Schasts, too. But how to arrange it, without raising suspicion?

  Betty picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Peter Vermillion’s office,” said Jane Bambo.

  “It’s Betty.”

  “He’s out to lunch,” said Jane.

  “I want you to tell him that the Mayor’s Office called. They’re holding an emergency press conference to announce that Mike Bloomberg is buying the New York Stock Exchange. He’s offered to pay two million dollars a seat. Tell Peter that one hundred seat holders have already agreed to sell. The meeting is scheduled at two, but not at the usual pressroom. Reporters are to go to the sixth-floor lobby at One Centre Street to be checked in by security. Oh, and the list is by invitation only. No substitutions.”

  “He’ll never believe it,” said Jane.

  “Convince him,” said Betty.

  “What are you up to?”

  “I’m making my first attempt to meddle in other people’s lives,” said Betty. “It could end horribly. It might ruin what should be a day of love and rejoicing.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Ilene?” asked Jane.

  “Yes,” said Betty.

  “Getting them back together?”

  “At least in the same room.”

  Jane said, “When Ilene wanted something from me, she used to give me gifts.”

  “What did she give you?” asked Betty.

  “A day of beauty at Georgette Klinger.”

  Betty said, “I’ll get you Making Faces by Kevyn Aucoin for thirty percent off the cover price.”

  “Throw in The New Joy of Sex at thirty percent off, and we’ve got a deal,” said Jane.

  Chapter 42

  Friday, September 26

  2:33 P.M.

  The holding pen was crowded, but, thankfully, the city had supplied enough chairs. Frieda counted ten wedding parties in the room. A few of the brides-to-be wore all-out, white sequined and beaded gowns, veils, trains. The matching grooms were in tuxes (one black, one green and one purple). Some of the groups were large (ceremonies were limited to ten witnesses), but the majority were parties of two, the husband and wife, husband and “wife,” or “husband” and wife (the latter two categories were having same-sex commitment ceremonies, recognized by the State of New York as legally binding). At present, Frieda’s wedding party consisted of herself in a lavender dress, David in a gray suit, and
Justin in chocolate smudges and lollipop smears.

  “The candy was a mistake,” said David.

  Frieda knew there’d be a wait, so she’d brought a bag of sweets to occupy Justin. He’d consumed the goodies in the first ten minutes, and was now running up and down the length of the room, jumping and smacking the walls to leave ever-higher chocolate marks on the beige paint.

  She said, “Maybe we should come back another time.”

  David said, “This isn’t a crowded restaurant. We’re here to get married. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  The clerk opened the door and yelled into the crowd, “Now serving couple number seventy-eight.” Frieda and David were number 80.

  Justin ran by. David and Frieda watched him, their heads swiveling. “I’ve never told you ‘I love you’ back,” she said.

  “That’s okay,” he said, “When you’re ready.”

  David said he’d fallen in love with her in days. Nights, actually, the ones spent out to dinner, talking about their lives. She found this assertion unbelievable, but then reminded herself that she’d fallen in love with Gregg, and then Sam, in minutes.

  She said, “If I asked you to walk across the room and touch the wall with your left foot to prove your love, would you do it?”

  He didn’t answer. He stood up, walked across the room, kicked the wall with his left foot and returned. He said, “I’ll do it again if you want me to. I’ll do anything within reason. I do draw the line at murder and robbery.”

  “What about vandalism?” she asked. “Public nudity?”

  “I have been naked in public, and liked it. So I can’t reasonably object to that,” he said, and started telling her a story about a summer at Martha’s Vineyard.

  She half listened. The other half of her mind replayed the night she and Sam broke up. She had tried to corral Sam, to leash him to her side. And now that she had a man who would bark like a dog if she asked, she wished she’d stuck with the one who trusted her enough to leave her on her own.