I took off my coat and hung it up. “Oh, that I’ve known for a while. It floored me in the beginning, but it wasn’t as if we had no inkling of the ‘unsuitable older woman’ in his past.”
“I thought that meant a ten-year age difference. Moira McAllister was close to my age.”
I sighed. On the one hand, Moira taking up with a sixteen-year-old would always be problematic for me. On the other hand, it had been a significant long-term relationship for both of them, with all the joys and difficulties of any romantic partnership that lasts beyond the initial infatuation—and that shouldn’t be reduced to a one-dimensional portrayal of a cougar and her boy toy. “Well, if the situation had been less shocking, his father probably wouldn’t have disowned him.”
“There’s that, I suppose,” said Zelda. “So…will he still come for the party tomorrow?”
“As far as I know.”
It was dinnertime. Zelda had already made a salad and pastrami sandwiches. We sat down at the table, busied ourselves with our food, and didn’t speak for a couple of minutes.
In the silence, my conscience twinged. Larry de Villiers’s e-mail still sat in my inbox, its humble sincerity a reproach every time I came across it. I didn’t know how to answer him—or how to bring up the subject with Zelda.
It was a relief when she said, “You’re taking everything in stride, darling. I guess MoMA doesn’t change anything for you and Bennett?”
“Not really.” But yes, really. How did a fake engagement proceed? Would we throw a party? Send an announcement to the Times? Would I actually wear an engagement ring everywhere? “It’s not as if he’d been caught clubbing baby seals. He was just mostly naked in some of the pictures.”
“I hope his parents will feel the same way you do.”
That poured cold water on my frothy hopes. “Have you talked to his mom?”
“I thought of telephoning her. But what would I say?”
I set down my sandwich. I’d been so cocooned in that distant, beautiful future spun of my own dreams and wishes that I hadn’t given any real thought to the here-and-now of the situation. And it wasn’t only his parents Bennett had to worry about. “Oh, God. It’s going to be messy, isn’t it? I hope people at his hospital aren’t going to be dicks.”
“I hope people in your department aren’t going be dicks,” said Zelda, reaching for a pickle spear.
I hadn’t even thought of it from that perspective—academia did not like to grant permanent membership to candidates with any personal notoriety. “Screw the tenure committee. They can—”
The doorbell rang.
“Delivery for the party?” I asked Zelda.
“No, everything is scheduled for tomorrow.”
I went to the door and looked out the peephole. Bennett! I yanked the door open. “Come in! You look cold.” He had on the same grey overcoat and blue scarf that he’d worn earlier, but now his nose and ears were all red and his boots looked as if they’d been left in the snow for hours. “Have you been out walking all this time?”
“Wasn’t exactly in the mood to do anything else.” He kissed me on my cheek. “Hi, Zelda. How are you?”
Zelda, who had peeked out from the dining room, glanced at me. I looked back at Bennett. “We’re both doing better than you at the moment.”
He smiled a little. “Well, thanks for that.”
“Would you like to join us for dinner?” asked Zelda. “We have salad and some nice ciabatta rolls.”
“I’m fine. I just came for a word with Evangeline.”
“In that case,” said Zelda, “you children have a lovely chin-wag and I’ll see you later, Bennett.”
When we were alone again he kissed me, the kind of kiss better suited for lovers reunited after long and hopeless separations, like Aragorn and Arwen at the end of the trilogy. Needless to say, I, who last saw him only hours ago, relished the hell out of it.
“You okay?” I asked, breathless.
“I was going to say it could be better. But then I remembered that I had sex with you four times in the last twenty-four hours, so maybe it doesn’t get any better than that.”
I might have preened a little. “I know. It’s all downhill from there.”
He smiled again and I was weightlessly happy—he had walked all over Manhattan and had come here, to my door.
I rubbed his cold hands with my palms. “Have you talked to your sister? Do your parents know yet?”
He nodded.
“What does Imogene make of all this?”
“Her current boyfriend is a lawyer, so she was going on about ways we can try to get the pictures taken down.”
“Can you?” I felt a quick jolt of hope.
“I doubt it. I’ve signed any number of model releases for Moira, and the pictures I saw were all from when I was in California, after I turned eighteen.”
Of course MoMA’s lawyers would have done their due diligence.
“Besides, it’s already all over the Internet—no use trying to latch that barn door.”
“We’ll tough it out,” I told him, and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.
He looked at me oddly. Was that too intimate an act? Or was it my use of the collective pronoun that had caught his attention? But of course it was “we” now, we who were on the verge of announcing our “engagement.”
He reached into his pocket. “Anyway, I came to give you this.”
“This” was a simple, antique ring with filigree work on the band and a modest, round-cut sapphire. “The one you picked out?” I said, trying not to squeal like a girl half my age.
“Yes. But I’ve reconsidered the engagement idea.”
My hand tightened around the velvet box. What?
“It was a tremendous offer and I’m very grateful,” he said quietly. “But my parents would rightly see the timing as suspect—as would Zelda. And I don’t want anyone, especially not Zelda, to worry.”
I should be proud of him—it was a very mature, very responsible decision on his part. But all I could think of was that mirage-beautiful, TV commercial–worthy future of ours. “So…no engagement announcement tomorrow?”
He reciprocated my gesture from earlier and kissed me in the center of my palm. “I can handle a scandal without hiding behind you—as appealing as that idea is.”
Belatedly I remembered the ring in my hand. I glanced down. “Then what’s this?”
“A present.”
“What kind of a present?”
“A no-reason present.” He leaned in and kissed me on my lips. “Don’t look so concerned—nothing has changed.”
Except I thought everything had.
BENNETT’S NAKED PICTURES MADE THE eleven-o’clock news that night—on two different channels, no less. The footage consisted of quick cuts of his face and his body accompanied by breathless copyreading. Who is this young man? And what made him so special to Moira McAllister, the great photographer?
“Oh, I can tell you exactly what made him so special,” said one female anchor, as her colleague chuckled.
It was far worse the next day. Not only had Bennett’s name been dug up, but his address and his place of work too. The facade of 740 Park Avenue was splashed everywhere, along with a professional head shot of his, probably taken from the hospital’s website.
“But this young man is no ordinary surgeon,” said a midday news anchor. “In fact, we can safely label him one of the most eligible bachelors in Manhattan. There is that family pedigree, of course, but there is also the fact that he has been a very, very savvy Silicon Valley investor and made a huge fortune during his time on the West Coast.”
“Money, art, sex, and a May–December romance. Phew,” said his co-anchor, “no wonder people can’t stop talking about it.”
I monitored the coverage in every medium—it was important to know what Bennett was up against. But I did so as if from a tremendous distance—as if I were dealing with strange sequences of alien signals picked up by SETI dishes.
He’d broken our engagement. Why? What did it mean? Was my new hypothesis a mountain of appalling fallacies? I swung between a mute horror at being completely off base and a scalding embarrassment that he had rejected my grand overture after all.
I knew perfectly well that there had never been any engagement, other than the air-quote variety. I also knew perfectly well that he’d made the right call in not proceeding any further with a move that screamed diversionary tactics. All the same, in the end, this was what it boiled down to: I’d wanted to take our relationship to that proverbial next level and he’d said no.
Yet another ding from the Google alert I’d set up. I clicked through and winced at the masthead of a big gossip site. They’d found the YouTube video of the tango from Sam and Charlotte’s wedding—and they’d tracked down Damaris Vandermeer and asked her a few questions on camera.
After Damaris went over the details of her association with Bennett—fortunately not exaggerating their level of acquaintance, as far as I could tell—she had this to add: “But I don’t care how hot he is. He’s a jerk. He went out a few times with a friend of mine and then just up and disappeared. I’ll bet she’s having the last laugh now. Her dad would have a heart attack if her boyfriend’s butt was all over the Internet—so that was a lucky escape for her.”
I closed my laptop and dropped my head into my hands. What a mess.
The media storm would move on: News cycles were ever shorter, and attention spans ever more reduced. The coverage would be intense and blizzardlike, blanketing every venue—but it would peter out just as quickly, all the outlets pouncing en masse toward the next scandal du jour.
The real consequences would take place on a more private, more personal level. How long would it take Mr. Somerset to get over this circus? Would he ever get over it?
Texts piled in from the Material Girls. Fortunately my friends had my back. None of them high-fived me for bagging myself such a nice ass or pointed me to any video coverage. They only asked me to let them know if there was anything they could do.
I texted back, assuring them that everything was okay and nobody was freaking out. And then, because I was freaking out, I texted Bennett.
You okay?
He replied immediately. Holding up.
Are there people outside your building?
I believe so.
The party was starting in an hour. How will you get out?
I’m at the Mandarin. Nobody’s waiting here.
Smart choice. If you want to sit out the party, I’ll understand.
So would I. But I never miss a chance to see you.
I stared at those last few words. In fact, I took a screen shot. And e-mailed it to myself. I’d probably have printed out a few hard copies too, if the idea weren’t so over-the-top.
But why don’t you want to be engaged to me?
I mentally slapped myself and walked downstairs to make sure everything was ready.
ZELDA HAD INVITED A MIX of our neighbors, her social friends, and her friends from the music industry. The Somersets arrived exactly fifteen minutes after the time specified on the invitation. Zelda introduced them to a couple of longtime neighbors, while I went and fetched glasses of wine.
Bennett’s parents looked strained—and I probably appeared no more at ease. But we made a good show of comity and politesse. I asked after their well-being. They admired our living room decor—a hodgepodge, really, pieces of pop art Pater had left me, posters on atomic structure, and our collection of Middle-earth miscellany.
Bennett rang the bell half an hour into the party. I met him in the hall and took his coat. “They’re here.”
He was in a glen-plaid three-piece suit worn without the jacket, and a dark blue silk tie patterned with tiny skulls. I remembered what he’d said once about dressing down for his father. This time he’d dressed up, to shield and buttress himself.
I gave his hand a squeeze. “You can leave anytime you want.”
“I’m your boyfriend,” he said softly. “I’m staying till the end.”
My heart turned over. “Look forward to a very long ninety minutes, then. Let’s get started.”
I led him to Zelda, for him to wish her a very happy birthday. She happened to be talking to Mrs. Vanderwoude, who lived three doors down from us, and introduced him as my date.
Mrs. Vanderwoude gasped. “I just came back from the Moira McAllister exhibit at MoMA. That’s you, isn’t it, all over that room?”
And so it begins.
Mrs. Vanderwoude was old and deaf and spoke at the top of her lungs. Half the guests glanced our way. But not the Somersets, who stood with their backs to the room, seemingly absorbed in a bright yellow-and-blue pop-art painting.
“I did some modeling when I was younger,” Bennett answered. “It took a lot of odd jobs to get me through college.”
Mrs. Vanderwoude turned her face rather coquettishly. “Must have been something, working with a great artist like that.”
“Yes, it was. A memorable experience.”
It was a you-are-getting-this-much-and-not-a-bit-more answer. Perfect civility, delivered with a smile, no less. But the underlying severity was not lost on Mrs. Vanderwoude. She put away her coy expression and ate a Brie puff from her plate before she asked, “So, how long have you and Evangeline been going out?”
Bennett glanced at me. “Not long enough. I hate to think of all the years I wasted without her.”
“Cool it, lover boy,” I murmured, even as I prayed for his words to be true. “There’s a reason my friends think you’re in an off-Broadway show.”
“But Bennett is actually a surgeon,” Zelda hastened to add.
“Beauty and brains—just what Evangeline has been waiting for all these years,” said Bennett.
I shook my head and took his hand in mine. “Come on. Let me introduce this pinnacle of modern manhood to some more people.”
The general public often had a mistaken idea of the lonesome scientist toiling away in a lab. Modern science not only required a great deal of teamwork, but also a lot of glad-handing in the never-ending search for funding. So I was no stranger to negotiating a crowd.
Still, this party was real work.
Within a short time, thanks to Mrs. Vanderwoude, news of Bennett’s notoriety had spread. Some of the guests moved around surreptitiously to get a good look at him. Others were first shown his pictures by a phone passed around, and then they too craned their necks in his direction.
We the happy couple shouldered on against this high tide of curiosity. Nobody was openly rude. Nobody, after Mrs. Vanderwoude, even brought up MoMA. Which somehow made the atmosphere more oppressive, and the interactions more tiring.
I could only imagine how trying it must be for Bennett to know that not only had everyone in the room seen the pictures, but that they were likely speculating on his relationship with Moira and making all the shallower assumptions.
Not to mention being keenly aware, at the same time, that his parents were in the room and undoubtedly hating every second of it.
At last, our paths crossed before the appetizers.
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad,” said Bennett, his voice even, friendly.
They nodded, Mr. Somerset coolly, Mrs. Somerset with undeniable anxiety.
“Sorry about MoMA, by the way.”
“That’s all right,” his mother said immediately.
“We got a call from Vanity Fair this morning,” said Mr. Somerset. “They want to do a feature story about you and Ms. McAllister.”
I might have grimaced openly.
Bennett was unmoved. “This is right in their wheelhouse, so Vanity Fair will do what Vanity Fair will do. I just hope it won’t bring negative attention on you, Professor,” he said to me.
I was surprised and touched by his concern. “I’m okay. I’m more worried about what happens tonight when you go to work.”
He smiled slightly. “At least most of my patients will be under anesthesia.”
Mrs. Some
rset turned a caprese salad skewer round and round on her plate. “Too bad the same can’t be said of your colleagues.”
“They can have some fun at my expense if they want to.”
“And I’m sure they will,” I said. “But in a week or two they’ll get bored with catcalling you. Which reminds me”—I turned to Bennett’s parents—”why don’t we plan a get-together for once this blows over? There are tons of places in town that Bennett hasn’t tried yet.”
“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” gushed Mrs. Somerset.
“Bennett, mind coming over here a second?” called Zelda. “I have someone I want you to meet. He’s your attending physician’s brother.”
“Excuse me,” said Bennett.
After he departed in Zelda’s direction, Mrs. Somerset and I exchanged contact information. Mr. Somerset, who’d been silent since the statement about Vanity Fair, spoke again at last. “Have you seen the exhibit, Evangeline?”
“Bennett and I were there yesterday.”
“Is it as sensational as the media has made it out to be?”
“Oh, it was sensational, all right. But…” I hesitated only a moment. “But I think you should go see the exhibit. There are thousands of images, and the vast majority of them aren’t the least bit objectionable. They’re more like a photojournal. If you’ve ever wondered about those years of your son’s life, you won’t find a better record anywhere.”
“You’re right,” said Frances Somerset. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
Rowland Somerset wasn’t so easily swayed. “But it isn’t just a record of his life in pictures—it’s also a record of a relationship. That doesn’t bother you, Evangeline?”
I looked him in the eye. “It was uncomfortable for me—this was the private life of someone I know and respect. Not to mention, no one who sees the exhibit can miss the sexual angle of that relationship, and I’ll never be one hundred percent okay with the fact that he was a minor when it all started.
“But after I left, it wasn’t the nudity—and everything it implied—that I remembered. I was…saddened by what the young man in those pictures didn’t know yet. That his forever wouldn’t be forever after all. That he’d have his heart broken. That it would be a long time before he looked so trustingly at anyone again.”
The One in My Heart Page 20