“Hello,” Claire said as he joined their small group. “I’m Claire.”
“I deduced that,” he said. “Though I must say you look livelier in person than in that ice-princess author photo.”
“Thank you. I guess.”
“We’re all so proud of her.” Jami beamed, squeezing Claire’s waist. “Did you hear we made a hard/soft deal with Japan today? And her agent is talking to Dreamworks? And she got a great review in EW this week? It’s all happening so fast!”
Claire felt ridiculous, standing there listening to Jami inflate the facts. She had a mental image of her 230-page book literally puffing up and floating away on its own hot air. The Japan deal was for a paltry $5,000; Claire’s agent had managed to slip the book to Dreamworks because her neighbor was a minor executive there; the “great” review in Entertainment Weekly was actually an okay B+. But this, Claire knew, was the game.
“It’s at the top of my pile,” Jim Oliver said, taking a swig from his glass. He held it aloft and squinted at it, as if contemplating a toast. “So what’s with the blue martinis?”
Claire held up a copy of her book and wagged it at him.
“Well, that clears it up,” he said. Jami, whom Claire had gotten to know well over the past few weeks, elbowed her in the side.
“It was my mother’s drink,” Claire said. “Curaçao is like heroin to her.”
“And she was—you know—depressed,” Jami interjected with a meaningful nod.
Claire looked across the room at her mother, Lucinda Ellis, there in the flesh, chatting amiably with Martha Belle Clancy, the safety blanket she’d hauled up from North Carolina. The two of them, wearing floral dresses and beige pumps and Monet pearls, looked like stage props for Claire’s book. Every now and then Ben would bring someone over to meet Lucinda, and she’d gush in a way that tended to startle New Yorkers but that came as naturally to her as breathing.
As she looked around, Claire’s gaze fell on Alison, standing at the drinks table, accepting a blue martini from a boy with a tattoo of thorns ringing his forearm, and looking around for someone to talk to. She seemed unsure of herself, out of place. In Claire’s former role, the role she’d played all her life, she would have rushed over to introduce Alison to someone, but now she decided to let her be. Claire’s therapist was helping her to separate, to stop feeling responsible for other peoples’ feelings at the expense of her own; it was part of her decision to write the book, to put off having kids, to take time to figure out what she wanted in her life.
To get involved with Charlie.
Claire glanced at her watch: 8:44. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said to Jami. “I’ll be right back. It was nice meeting you,” she added to the People guy, who tapped the book and grinned.
In the bathroom, with the door locked, she pulled her cell phone out of the little bag she was carrying and pushed number nine, speed-dialing Charlie’s cell phone.
“Hi,” he said, picking up after several rings. “This is a surprise. Aren’t you—?”
“I escaped,” she said. “I’m in the bathroom.”
“Who’s that, Daddy?” she heard a child say, and Charlie replied, in a muffled voice, “Nobody, honey, just—work.”
“‘Nobody’?” The word stung, even though Claire knew she was being irrational. She sighed. “You’re not here.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve called. At the last minute—”
“I knew you weren’t coming.” He didn’t say anything, so she continued. “It’s okay. It’s just … boring without you.”
“I don’t believe it. This is your moment.”
“It doesn’t feel like my moment. It all feels very—removed, somehow.”
“It’s a damn good book. You know that, don’t you?”
“What book?” Claire could hear Annie asking in the background.
“Nothing, sweetie,” he answered, his voice muffled again. “Just something I read. Go help Noah with the train tracks. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“You finished it already?” Claire asked.
“Just this afternoon, on the train.” He paused, and Claire guessed he was waiting for Annie to leave. Then he said, “It’s an incredible story. It makes me—oh, never mind. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Tell me.”
“Honestly—it makes me like you even better.”
“Oh.” She smiled into the phone.
“So relax. Enjoy this.”
“Urrr.” She groaned. “I’d rather be with you.” She held the phone to her ear, listening to the static between them. “When can I see you?”
“Soon.”
“When?”
“It’s the weekend,” he said. “I don’t think I can get away.”
“Before I leave on tour? Monday?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Charlie … ”
“What?”
“I just … I want to be with you.”
“Yes,” he said again.
When the call was done she clicked off and held the warm phone to her chest for a moment, as if it were a piece of him. Then she slipped it back into her bag and opened the door. Surveying the room, she watched as Alison caught Ben’s eye and he nodded and held one finger out—wait—so that the person he was with couldn’t see. After a moment he extricated himself with a deft turn and started to make his way over to her. Claire saw Alison’s features soften and her shoulders drop. Now she could relax—Ben wouldn’t desert her until she found her footing.
All evening, Claire had watched Ben work the room as only Ben could, seeking out the uncomfortable and the socially awkward, refilling drinks and matchmaking commonalities. Every now and then he’d look over at her and lift his glass, offering to refill hers, or raise his eyebrows in a bid to rescue her if she needed it. More than once, feeling the warmth of his gaze, Claire wondered how it could be possible to love someone as much as she loved Ben, and yet no longer be in love.
Chapter Three
Ben needed a drink. For the past fifteen minutes he’d been listening to Martha Belle Clancy, Claire’s mother’s best friend, talk about her hobby—a series of needlework dioramas she was making of major Civil War battles (she’d completed six already, through Fredericksburg)— and for at least twelve of those minutes, his glass had been empty. Feigning interest in Martha Belle, a challenge to begin with, was getting harder by the second. Ben had already chatted pleasantly with Claire’s mother about all the things she disliked about New York—the weather, the traffic, the noise—and by now he figured he had just about fulfilled his husbandly obligations.
Surreptitiously, he glanced around the room—wasn’t a waiter supposed to be circulating? He’d settle for another blue martini, though what he really wanted was a Scotch. Where might Colm have hidden the hard stuff? If Ben could somehow extricate himself, maybe he could hunt it down.
Just then Alison emerged from a crowd in the hall, and Ben was momentarily distracted. He watched as she moved across the room to the drinks table, where the bartender poured her a martini. My God, she’s lovely, he thought—those fine features, bright inquisitive eyes. She seemed flooded with quivering energy, like a doe standing in a clearing. The gray sweater and black pants she was wearing reminded him of how she’d looked in England ten years ago. With faint creases around her eyes, her slim body softened slightly by motherhood, she was still, he thought, gamine, with an Audrey Hepburn–like grace.
Why was she alone? Why hadn’t Charlie come? Being present at these kinds of events was the sort of thing the two couples always did for each other, expected of each other. It was Claire’s first, perhaps only, book, as important to her as the births of Alison and Charlie’s children (and hadn’t Ben and Claire come to the hospital as soon as they could, hadn’t they brought flowers and gifts even as Ben’s heart was aching with longing for a child of his own as he held the astonishingly light bundle in his arms, looking down at its curranty face?). Clearly it had something to do with t
hat falling-out between Claire and Alison, which Claire refused to discuss with Ben in any kind of rational way but also refused to get past. What was that all about, anyway? It was so unlike Claire to hold a grudge. Ben attributed it to prepublication jitters and maybe some unresolved childhood issues. It did make things awkward for the four of them. Ben didn’t feel that he could call to make plans, and even his friendship with Charlie—which he’d thought of, perhaps näively, as separate from the couples’ friendship—had suffered; Charlie stopped calling. Ben picked up the phone several times to dial Charlie’s number at work and then … put it down.
Ben and Charlie used to meet for lunch twice a month at least, at the Harvard Club (if Ben was paying) or a hole-in-the-wall Chinese place called Kung Pao (if Charlie was). More often they’d send each other e-mail arcana—a funny video clip, an absurd real-news story, a link to someone’s noteworthy blog or an obscure band’s Web site. Sometimes they’d get together to listen to live music in the Village. Over the past few years, what with Charlie having kids and moving out to the suburbs, it had gotten harder to see each other, particularly without spouses. Their jobs were demanding; their interests had diverged. Amiable, affable Charlie had become a bit tense and distracted. He spent weekends, now, changing diapers and puttering around the house. His life had taken on the gravity of responsibility, which trumped petty outside interests. When Ben talked about a play he’d seen or a book he’d read or even an article in The New Yorker—anything more taxing than the sports page—Charlie would shake his head. “I’m living under a rock,” he said once. “I can’t think of the last time I went to a show or finished a book. It’s all-work, all-kids these days.”
Not that there was anything wrong with that. Ben envied Charlie’s transition to parenthood, the way he talked about his children with wonder and puzzlement and something verging on awe.
Ben caught Claire’s eye across the room and raised his empty glass in a tacit offer to refill hers. She smiled and shook her head, almost imperceptibly, then gave him a playful grimace no one else could see— Here I am, soldiering through.
“You and Claire simply must get down to Bluestone to visit,” Martha Belle was saying. “I know y’all have a lot going on, but it has been a while, hasn’t it?” She nudged him with her elbow. “And Lucinda is dying to have some grandchildren. She says she doesn’t want to put pressure on you, but I think a little pressure can do wonders.”
“Martha Belle, you are too much,” Ben said. “But you don’t have to convince me. Claire is going down there on her book tour, so you might raise it with her then.”
“Well, maybe I will,” she said, raising her eyebrows with a significant pause, as if all had become clear.
Ben clasped her hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I want to see those dioramas one of these days.”
“I look forward to showing them to you,” she said, beaming. “I know you need to mingle. Go, go!” She shooed him away with plump, fluttering fingers.
Ben made his way over to the bar, in search of the elusive blue martini and the ill-at-ease Alison Granville. He found both.
“Oh, Ben!” Alison said, with obvious relief. “It’s lovely to see you.”
He took a martini from the bartender and kissed Alison on the cheek. “Lovely to see you, too,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get over here since you walked in.”
“I saw you with Martha Belle. She always scared me a little when we were kids. She’s so—energetic.”
Ben nodded. “She’s the manic to Lucinda’s depressive. Have you heard about those dioramas?”
“Oh, yes. In fact, I’ve seen one or two. They’re quite impressive.”
“I’m sure they are.” Though Ben and Alison had little in common, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been with her alone, having a shared knowledge of Claire’s world gave their exchanges an easy familiarity. “You look wonderful,” he said.
“Do you think so? I feel a little—dowdy,” she said. “It’s hard to keep up with you city slickers. And I’m sure I have kid goo on my pants somewhere.”
“So that’s what that is,” he said. “Everyone was talking.”
She gave him a smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Where have you been lately? I haven’t seen you in months.”
“I know,” she said.
“Anything new?”
“I’ve been doing some freelance work. Not much, to be honest. I know it sounds ridiculous, but with the kids and everything—”
“It doesn’t sound ridiculous,” he said. “It sounds nice, actually.”
“It is. It is nice.” She tilted her glass to take a sip, but it was empty.
“You need another drink,” he said. He took the glass out of her hand and set it on the table.
The bartender handed her another martini. “Thanks,” she said. She took a sip and turned back to Ben. “It’s so funny that Lucinda’s kitschy cocktail has spawned all this.”
“The next big fad sweeping the nation,” Ben said in a radio announcer’s voice. “Bluuue martinis.”
“I doubt Claire would mind.”
“I wouldn’t either,” he said. “We have big plans, you know. We want to open a Blue Martini theme park, for adults.”
“No roller coasters, I hope.”
“Oh, definitely roller coasters. Cocktails and roller coasters. How great would that be?”
She laughed.
“So did you come alone?” he asked. “Where’s the ball and chain?”
“He had to stay home,” Alison said. “A minor domestic crisis.”
“Nothing dire, I hope.”
“No, just … ” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. He wanted to come.”
No point in belaboring it, Ben thought. “Well, tell him he was missed.”
“I will,” she said. “Who are these people?”
“Let’s see,” he said, looking around. “Editorial assistants, publicists, media types, relatives. All here for the free drinks.”
“Do you know everybody?”
“Just the relatives.”
“I used to love these parties,” she said. “I guess I’m out of practice.”
“It’s all publicity, anyway. We’re just stage props for the marketing team.”
“No, we’re here to celebrate Claire’s achievement.”
“It’s only an achievement if it translates into sales,” he said.
“That’s a little cynical, isn’t it?”
“Is it? You know the business better than I do.”
“All right,” she said. “So—I assume you’ve read it?”
“Of course. Have you?”
She shook her head.
“It’s pretty good. There is this annoying character named Jill, but other than that … ” He grinned. “Look, it’s a novel and all. But you don’t come off too badly. In case you’re wondering.”
Was it his imagination, or was Alison blushing? She took a sip of her drink and cocked her head to the side, as if she were trying to decide what to say. “Ben, can I ask you something? Do you … ” She stopped. Her cheeks were flushed. “Do you know about this—this thing Claire and I had a few months ago? It wasn’t a big deal—or at least I didn’t think it was. But we haven’t really spoken since.”
He nodded. “I heard something.”
“I guess I really hurt her feelings. I must have.”
“Don’t assume that. Frankly, I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s been crazed with this book stuff. We’ve barely had a conversation in the past few weeks, and I live with the woman.”
“Well, okay,” she said. “It’s just not pleasant to be—estranged, you know?”
In that moment he sensed Alison’s vulnerability, as deep and raw as a wound. It wasn’t just being alone at a party, or being at odds with Claire; it was something more. She might not have known it yet, but it seemed to Ben that she was deeply unhappy. And in some way, impossible to articulate, even to himself, Ben felt linked
to Alison in this, as if his fortune and hers were entwined.
“I do know,” he said.
Chapter Four
By the time Alison did, finally, talk to Claire, the party had thinned and the bartenders were loading dirty stemware into plastic rental crates.
“I’ve been trying to get over to you all night,” Claire exclaimed, an obvious lie that Alison was content to accept. Claire pushed the hair out of her face and exhaled, blowing air across her lower lip, as if now, finally, she could relax. “Have you talked to my mother? Does she know you’re here?”
“We said a quick hello,” Alison said. “We’ve both been … ” She waved her hand around to indicate a flurry of activity. In fact, she had been avoiding Claire’s mother all evening, and she suspected that Claire’s mother had been avoiding her. Lucinda’s quiet diffidence had always depressed her; Alison rarely knew what to say. Alison had always thought that they recognized in each other certain personality traits, such as timidity and passive aggression, that neither of them particularly admired. Their orbiting Claire this evening only accentuated their similarities.
“Did you have a good time?” Claire asked suddenly. Her eyes were glassy and unfocused. She reminded Alison of a birthday kid after blowing out the candles, exhausted from being the center of attention for too long.
“It was a great party,” Alison said, with genuine feeling—it had been a great party. “Did you enjoy it?” This was where their relationship was now—somewhat formal, and yet still, somehow, intimate. Alison didn’t know if Claire had had a good time, but she felt entitled, even obligated, to ask.
“I did,” Claire said, as if she were surprised to say so. “Though it’s weird for things to be so … so public, after all that time scribbling away in a room by myself.”
“Dear God, yawn. Isn’t that what all writers say when they finally get published?” Ben said, coming up behind them. “We’re going to have to think of something more original for you to say when you go on tour, you know.”
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