by Rona Jaffe
He hesitated. She wished she hadn’t said it. “I’ve been … seeing somebody,” he said. “She would be very upset if she found out.”
She went numb with disappointment, too disappointed even to be angry. He had a girlfriend, he had a life, he was cheating. What was the point? “Tell me about it,” she said.
“I’m going to break up with her. She wants to move in with me, she wants us to live together. I’m not ready for that with anyone. I don’t want to live with her. She’s too young; she’s only twenty. I have nothing in common with her. You and I are from the same world, we can talk about things. She says: ‘Do you like my hair?’ ‘Do you like my blouse?’ That’s a conversation with her.”
“What’s her name?” She was trying to make it real.
“Brooke.”
Oy. “What does she do?”
“She’s a MAW. Model slash Actress slash Waitress.”
“I take it not Brooke Shields.”
“Hardly.”
He had not said he didn’t have a girlfriend, he just never said he did. She had not actually asked. “What does she look like?” Make it real.
“Blond,” he said. “Tall. You don’t want to hear this.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m going to stop seeing her. She’s too young.”
“I’m going to keep my separate room,” Susan said.
“We’ll have a wonderful time,” Andy said. “You’ll see.”
She thought about this Brooke; the blond, tall, probably beautiful, very young woman—a girl, really—who undoubtedly thought of Andy as a sophisticated older man, who wanted a commitment. She had been like that once. But the girl was much too young to settle down, and wrong for him. She didn’t know why men got involved in these situations anyway, unless they wanted to feel needed. She wasn’t going to think about it anymore.
She packed and went to bed early the night before she was to leave, drifting off into fantasies of their long weekend. He had made so many plans she wondered when he would ever have time to seduce her. She supposed sleep was unnecessary to him. She was both aroused and shy, and glad he had picked someplace far away and exotic for whatever was going to happen.
The phone rang. It was Andy, and his voice was strained. “You sound asleep,” he said. “I’m sorry if I woke you. I had to.”
“It’s all right,” Susan said. “I was awake.”
“There’s an emergency,” he said. “I’ve been on the phone for an hour; I have to fly to L.A. tomorrow. I feel terrible about this. I was really looking forward to our time here in New Orleans.”
It took a moment to sink in. “But what happened?” she said.
“I thought my male lead was set, but he apparently didn’t, and I have to renegotiate. If that fails I have to look for someone else. I’m so angry. I wish it hadn’t been now.”
“So do I,” Susan said. Nothing good is ever going to happen to me, she thought.
“I have to make a couple more calls. Shit. I’ll be gone about a week, I’ll call you from there. I’m really sorry, you know that, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry too,” she said.
She called the airline and the hotel to cancel her reservations. Then she unpacked and put her clothes away so there would be no upsetting reminder in the morning. Maybe it’s for the best, she told herself, but she could not think of a reason why.
He didn’t call for five days. She had thrown herself back into her work, but when she came home and played her messages and there were none from him she was depressed. One day when the phone rang and she picked it up on the first ring it was Clay. She was surprised and felt a little disoriented.
“Hi,” Clay said.
“Hi.”
“How’s the weather?”
Did you call me to ask about the weather? Can’t you read the New York Times? “Not bad,” she said.
“Snowing?”
“No.”
“It’s beautiful here today.”
I remember. Oh, I have a friend there, she wanted to say. A very cute young man who likes me. I’m glad the weather is nice for him. “How is business?” she asked.
“Slow. I’m developing a few projects. I may have to make a quick trip to Europe.”
“Will you be coming to New York?”
“No,” Clay said. “It’s too expensive now that I have to stay at a hotel.”
Damn right, and I closed the Josephs Hilton. “Are you taking Bambi?” she asked casually.
“Oh, no,” he said.
That meant yes.
“Of course, I may not go,” he said. “It depends on some meetings I’m setting up.”
“How are you feeling?”
“All right. You know those anxiety attacks I have … I’ve been having them again. My doctor says they’re from stress. What does he expect; this is a stressful business.” He gave a little laugh.
“I know,” she said. “What ever happened to Anwar?”
“Anwar?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, he’s around. I have to get to work. I’ll call you soon.”
She spent her session at the therapist talking about why she felt she had no life, and being told that enjoyable work and good friends were a life, that a man was not everything. But she found it impossible to stop feeling lonely: she felt empty, bereft and strange. When she got home Andy called.
“It’s been a weird few days,” he said. “Everything’s all right now. I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to call sooner. I’m back. Do you want to have lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure. Where?”
“I have an appointment near you, so you pick.”
She chose the restaurant where they had had dinner. The tables were far apart for privacy, and there were banquettes where they could sit side by side. When the captain started to lead them to a table she said she would rather sit in a banquette. They sat down. The captain left. Andy looked at her.
“Do you think you and I are going to be lovers?” he said.
“Maybe,” she said.
“What do you want in a lover?”
She smiled at him. “Someone I’m totally attracted to who’s sexy and bright and twenty-eight. What do you want in a lover?”
“A friend. Someone who would be my friend.”
“You’re a nicer person than I am,” Susan said.
The waiter came and took their order and went away. “If we were lovers,” she said, “would you sleep with anyone else?”
“Only Brooke.”
Still? She was shocked, and then she thought about it. He was supposed to be her bandage, her entree back into life, not her life’s companion. And one known rival was better than a dozen unknown ones. “You’re very honest,” she said.
“I’ll never lie to you. You’ve had too much of that.”
“I thought you were going to break up with her.”
“I will. I’ve already told her we should see other people.”
“Did she agree?”
“This time I think she understood.”
She thought about Tiny Tombstones. They set up the next one before they can leave the one they have. Cause, or effect? It would seem bizarre to anyone that I’m willing to share him, but I’m not in love with him, I’m just infatuated and totally in lust.
“Are we going to be lovers?” he asked very gently.
“Yes,” she said.
He took her hand. They sat there holding hands tightly, not saying anything, and when their food came they ate quickly and dutifully without letting go of each other. When they had their coffee she had to rip the corner off the paper packet of Sweet’n Low with her teeth. She was giddy with the thought of their decision.
He had to go back to his office but he walked her home and went upstairs for a minute. They stood inside her closed door with their coats on, kissing tentatively and awkwardly, weighted down with the responsibility of their promise. For the first time she didn’t feel the slightest bit aroused. She wound his thick, soft hair
around her fingers, feeling the dry fabric of his coat collar, his shirt collar under it, suddenly aware that compared to Clay he was a stranger. The frightening world was full of strangers. But she had to try …
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Andy whispered, and was gone.
She worked until two in the morning putting her latest interview together until she was satisfied with it, and then she called Dana. It was eleven o’clock in Los Angeles.
“Andy wants to go to bed with me,” Susan said.
“You mean you haven’t yet?” Dana sounded incredulous and stern.
“No.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had sex—a year?”
“Not quite …”
“Good sex?”
“Longer,” Susan said.
“You have to break the ice,” Dana said. “Go to bed with him; break the ice.”
She pictured herself diving into a frozen lake. But when she cracked through the surface the water was comfortable and warm. “I’m crazy about him,” she said, “but I’m afraid.”
“Is he there?”
“Of course he’s not here.”
“You have to break the ice,” Dana said firmly. “Do it, and call me after you’ve done it.”
“You have someone there,” Susan said.
“Yes, but he’s not listening, I’m in the kitchen getting seltzer.”
“Postcoital seltzer. I remember those days.”
“You can have them again. I expect to hear from you next week. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” Susan said, and laughed. She felt better.
When Andy called her the next morning she invited him to dinner at her apartment, and they settled on two nights later. She brought in take-out and arranged it carefully on platters so it looked as if she had made it, put flowers and candles on the table, and a soft, romantic CD on repeat. It was fun preparing for him, playing house. Playing seductress. He arrived bringing flowers, and a beautiful little chocolate cake for dessert. He’s so nice, she thought, feeling tenderness rush through her. She kissed him thank-you and they clung together gently, and drew apart, smiling.
She served a lot of champagne with dinner because they were both nervous, and had made the lighting in the bedroom very low so she would look neither old nor fat when she took her clothes off. It occurred to her that she had never had to worry about that before; it was another dismal inheritance. Before they even got to dessert they were in her bed.
She was in an altered state—colors were brighter, his naked skin eerily, marvelously, luminous and silky. An idiotic line kept running through her head when she looked at him: Your body is like a flame. She had never been with a man who loved making love so much; she had never been so passionate or come so many times with anyone. From the moment he touched her she felt out of control and not in the least frightened by it. Sex once a year certainly had its advantages.
He held her in his arms for a long time but he did not sleep over. She knew he could claim he had to be at work early in the morning, but she would never ask, and besides, she was sure the girl would be calling him to make sure he was safely home and alone, or he might even be calling her. She felt so tired and content that after he left she fell asleep in a minute.
The next morning she found the untouched cake on the kitchen counter, and three condom wrappers in her bathroom wastebasket. She read the brand name so she could buy a big box.
He came over again late the next afternoon and started kissing her while her hand was still on the knob of her front door. “I love you,” he whispered.
She was surprised and flattered. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she loved hearing it. They went to bed again and it was just as good; so much for her once-a-year theory. They lay there afterward in the winter early darkness, prolonging their parting, holding on. She was having dinner with a woman friend, he was having dinner with Brooke.
He looked shy, and she could see he wanted to ask her something and didn’t know how. “I know you’re older than I am,” he said finally. “But how old are you?”
“Guess,” she said.
“Thirty-five?”
“Older,” she said.
“Forty?” he asked tentatively.
“Older.”
“You’re not fifty?” he asked in horror. “Say you’re not fifty.”
“Of course I’m not fifty,” she said, insulted that he would even think it.
“Just as long as you’re younger than my mother,” Andy said.
“How old is your mother?”
“Fifty-two.”
“I’m younger than your mother.”
He took a shower and got dressed to meet Brooke. “You should use my hair dryer,” Susan said. “Your hair is wet.”
“It’s all right. I’ll tell her I went to the gym.”
“You said you don’t lie.”
“I said I don’t lie to you. I have to lie to her. She’s a little girl.”
When he left she called Dana. “I’ve broken the ice.”
“Don’t you feel better?”
“I feel great. But I wish he’d hurry and split up with his girlfriend.”
“If he splits up with his girlfriend,” Dana said, “what are you going to do with him?”
“I’d like to find out,” Susan said.
36
1988—NEW YORK
On the first day of the New Year, of what she hoped was the first day of her new life, Laura came home from the hospital. She had chosen the timing of her return for its symbolism. Other people wanted to come home for the holidays, but she saw only too much false glee, too many Ghosts of Christmas Past.
All her life she had been disciplined and used to pain, her existence devoted to conquering her body. The struggle for control over drugs had turned out to be very much like what she was used to. It gave her a purpose and satisfaction beyond survival or virtue: it gave her another means of battling her instrument into submission. In a perverse way she even enjoyed it. She was a model patient. She knew that every day from now on would be a fight to sustain what she had won, and she was ready for it.
Therapy, group therapy, and the NA meetings they made her go to had helped her too. She was not an alcoholic or cross addicted, but even out of the hospital she would have to continue going to the NA meetings with the others because like many of them she had been on drugs. By now when she looked in the mirror in the mornings, with her continuing daily fear that she would see a person who had turned fat overnight, she was able to be aware that her new body was svelte and smooth, the crepy wrinkles filled out and gone. She told herself over and over again—until now she actually realized the truth of it—that she was not fat, that in fact she was still very slim.
She smoked too many cigarettes; everyone at the facility did. She supposed someday she would tackle that problem too. Her metabolism was ruined from the years of starving and she would never be able to eat very much, but compared to what she had been used to eating it seemed like a feast. She thought her face looked a great deal younger, and before she left the hospital she had her hair cut so it was soft and fluffy instead of pulled back in a severe ballerina’s bun, colored it brown instead of black, and hardly knew herself; this soft, pretty woman with eager eyes.
She let herself into Tanya and Edward’s apartment with her key. It was very quiet. Where could they be when they knew she was coming? This was the moment they had all been waiting for. And suddenly they came running out from the back, full of hugs and kisses, followed by Nina who was holding an enormous bouquet of red roses.
“You said you used to get these,” Nina said, “when you were a star. I wanted to tell you that you still are my star.”
It was the nicest thing Nina had ever said to her and Laura started to cry. Such pride and love on Nina’s face; she couldn’t remember Nina ever looking at her like that.
She unpacked while they chattered and complimented her and got in her way. Her old clothes didn’t fit and she dropped them in a pile on t
he floor to give to a thrift shop. She supposed some child could wear them. Edward looked wonderful despite his ordeal; dear Tanya looked exactly the same; and Nina seemed to be bearing up well over her loss of that wretched Stevie.
“I was meditating,” Tanya said, “and suddenly I had a vision. You’ll never guess what it was.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” Laura said.
“There was a polished wood floor bathed in golden sunlight. And running across it, light as birds, were twelve women; older women, forty years old. You and I were there, and you know what? We were their teachers. Of course your hair was different.”
“You didn’t know I cut it,” Laura said.
“Do you know what I’m saying?” Tanya said. “That vision was a sign.”
“Of …?”
“Employment! The job you and I have been looking for. Now don’t say no; Edward and I have already investigated how to go about it. You and I are going to open a ballet school for women over forty.”
“I didn’t say no,” Laura said. “But why not for everybody?”
“Because anybody can do it for everybody. Besides, they don’t.”
Same old Tanya. But it wasn’t such a bad idea. “What do we call it, Mature Ballet?”
“I was thinking of something along the lines of Continued Flight—The Journey Goes On.”
“That sounds like a travel agency,” Nina said.
“But life is a journey,” Tanya said. “I did our charts, and this spring is a perfect time to start. Just when they’re trying to get in shape for summer.”
“I have an idea for a name,” Nina said. “If you don’t mind, Aunt Tanya. I think it’s commercial. Why don’t you call it The Laura Hays School of Ballet. That way anyone over forty will know that Mom is back in the world again and they’ll want to study with her.”
“But what if they bring their children?” Tanya said.
“Do you have something against children?”
“What about The Laura Hays School of Ballet—Adult Classes,” Edward offered.
“You’re so logical, Edward,” Tanya said admiringly.
“The old brain’s still working,” he said with a grin.