The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  Stymied, I hang up and replay the conversation with Eric in my head. He definitely said he’d call me around dinnertime. And he was arriving this weekend. Oh, shit. Why did I assume “weekend” meant Friday?

  By eleven o’clock, I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean Friday.

  And I’m right. When Eric calls, I’m sound asleep and it’s two A.M., which officially makes it Saturday. Still in my clothes, I must have dozed off in the cozy club chair in my bedroom, reading When Bad Things Happen to Perfectly Nice Married Women.

  “Hallie, it’s Eric. I’m so sorry to be late,” he says when I groggily pick up the receiver. “My pilot didn’t show up and I had to wait two hours for another one.”

  “How incredibly frustrating for you,” I say, trying to work up some sympathy for the travails of private-plane ownership.

  “Anyway, I just flew in from London. You live at 21 Oak Street, right?” he asks.

  “Twenty-seven,” I say automatically. I stand up and walk across the room with the portable receiver, trying to stretch out from my bedless snooze.

  “Oh, now I can see you,” he says.

  I look around the room, half expecting Eric to jump out of the closet, and I’m not far off. I go to the window and peer into the darkness. Under the street lamp, I see the outline of a long black limousine, pulling up in front of my house.

  “Nice bra,” Eric says cheerfully. “Is it new?”

  I look down and realize that he must be in the car, staring into the bright lights of my bedroom. Instinctively, I throw back my shoulders— and then quickly reach for the tab on the shade. I pull it so quickly that it comes crashing down on my head.

  “You okay?” Eric asks.

  Damn Bill. I told him months ago that the shade was loose. Can I ask Eric to fix it? Or maybe his driver, pilot, housekeeper, butler, or maintenance man. Or wife. Remember, he may have a wife.

  “I’m fine. But listen, I already ate dinner tonight. And it’s after two. How about if I come by tomorrow? Lunch, dinner, I’m free for either.”

  “But I’m not. Change of plan. I thought I’d be here for the whole weekend, but I have to leave tomorrow to close a deal in Bermuda.”

  “Buying shorts?” I ask, joking.

  “No, I’m trading long.” And then he pauses. “Okay, I get it. Bermuda. Shorts. Very funny, Hallie.” He chuckles. “Come on down. I want to see you. And hurry. Don’t feel like you have to put on a shirt just for me.”

  I find myself smiling and grab for the sheer pink blouse. After all, he’s already seen the bra.

  When I step outside onto my dark cool porch, I see Eric leaning against the limo, arms folded, a big grin spreading across his face. I’m self-conscious as I walk carefully down the steps and across the long front walk, aware that Eric is taking in my every move. Thank goodness for the sexy shoes. As long as I don’t trip, they do add a little wiggle to my walk.

  Instead of worrying about the impression I’m making, I decide to concentrate on the handsome man in front of me. And he is still handsome. If it’s been twenty years, I don’t know where they went. His thick hair still falls boyishly across his brow and his strong body seems as lean and muscular as when he was captain of the crew team. Last time I saw him, he wasn’t wearing a perfectly tailored pin-striped suit with French cuffs peeking out of the sleeves, but his gorgeously chiseled features are offset by the wry, amused smile that won me the first time.

  “You must be Eric,” I say, extending my hand with a little laugh.

  “And you haven’t changed one bit,” he says, pulling me toward him and kissing me lightly on the cheek.

  He opens the car door and we slide into the backseat of the limo. The driver offers a brief hello before closing the glass window that separates him from the passenger’s compartment and pulling away from the curb. Eric reaches for my hand. Have I really not changed, or is it just that I’ll always be the same in his eyes? How romantic. Or maybe he’s just too vain to put on his glasses.

  In the car, Eric tells me all about his various business deals, which seem to include commodities trades and international financing. In case he hasn’t made the point about how successful he is with his limousine, private plane, and penthouse apartment, Eric announces that he was recently in Forbes.

  “Did you happen to see it?” he asks.

  “Your friend Tom Shepard mentioned something, but I never got to read the story.”

  “Check this out,” he says, pulling out a laminated copy of the Forbes magazine article that he just happens to have in the backseat.

  I’d like to know what it says. I’d definitely like to know what it says. But I’m as vain as Eric. No way am I putting on my reading glasses in front of him to find out. In fact, I’ve already Googled the menus at Per Se and Masa and made my choices, just to avoid this very situation.

  “It’s so dark, why don’t you read it to me,” I coo.

  “The big headline is I’m 277.”

  I know it’s not his age. It’s certainly not his weight. And I’m hoping it’s not his cholesterol. Does every man I know have to take Lipitor?

  “You’re 277 what?” I ask.

  “On the list.”

  It doesn’t immediately come to me what list he’s talking about. “Don’t worry. You’re number one with me,” I say.

  He laughs. “Number one is Bill Gates. Or maybe some Saudi prince. I’ve done well, but I’m not competing with them yet.”

  Oh, a list of rich guys. I guess 277 is pretty impressive. Definitely better than I’d rank. I was proud when I opened the mail yesterday and found a preapproved Discover card.

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you and I didn’t stay together,” I offer. “With me around, you never would have made the top three hundred.”

  I mean the joke to be self-deprecating, but Eric turns it around. “You’re right. We’d have been having too much fun for me to concentrate on work. All that sex. Hey, for that chance, I’d be willing to drop off the list completely.”

  “We did have a lot of sex back then.” I giggle.

  “I still have the blue ceramic piggy bank. Do you remember?” he asks, as if I could forget. “A nickel in the slot every time we made love. I can barely lift the thing it’s so heavy. I think our one-day record was fifty cents.”

  “A stellar twenty-four hours,” I say, grinning.

  “All that money sitting there. It’s the only investment I’ve ever made that didn’t keep growing. But I figure it’ll pay off eventually.”

  “You can use my half to buy a lottery ticket,” I tease, though I’m wondering if the investment he made is in me. And how he’s hoping it will pay off.

  “Ever have another fifty-cent day?” he asks, taking my hand and playfully stroking his finger across my palm.

  “I’ve had fifty-cent years,” I groan. “If you’ve ever been married, you’d know about those.”

  “I’ve been married three times, though I’m single at the moment,” Eric adds hastily.

  Three times? Obviously he’s not averse to making a commitment, just to keeping it.

  “What happened to your marriages? A few fifty-cent months and you quit?”

  “No, it’s just that I always have a mistress.”

  “Eric!” I gasp.

  He laughs. “Work. My mistress was my job. Takes more time than any woman. And more time than any woman can put up with.” Then he smiles and winks at me. “Besides, my darling, nobody could ever match your charms. Though I will say each of my wives reminded me a little of you.”

  “Is that a compliment?” I ask. “Were they five foot five with wavy brown hair? Greenish gray eyes? Or is it that they were all nineteen— like I was when we were together?”

  “All of the above,” Eric says, chuckling.

  Having a chauffeur is definitely the way to travel. We’re already in Manhattan and I didn’t have to pay for a train ticket or sit next to a beer-swilling businessman on Metro-North. We pull up in front of the entrance to the Time Warne
r apartments and Eric jumps out before the driver can come around and open the door. I peer out of the car window, craning my neck up at the towering green glass building. Despite the hour, the street is bustling with late-night club-goers, chatting gaily as they hop in and out of taxis.

  Eric swings open my door and extends his hand. When I got into the car half an hour ago, I didn’t really focus on where we were headed, but obviously we’re on our way upstairs. It’s almost three in the morning. The restaurants can’t still be open. I take Eric’s hand and stroll with him through the lobby and into the elevator. As we walk by, the doorman, two lobby attendants, a concierge, and the elevator man all nod obsequiously and say, “Good evening, Mr. Richmond. Pleasure to have you back.” Nobody bothers to glance at me. I’m obviously a transient.

  Or a tramp. If Emily ever did something like this, I’d kill her. Wouldn’t she realize what it means to a guy if you agree to go up and see his apartment at this hour? But I can easily convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Eric’s single and so, apparently, am I, at least in every way that matters. My wedding ring is off and so is my husband—off with another woman. If Bill can have Ashlee, I can have Eric. He doesn’t even count. I already have that notch on my belt.

  We step into his apartment and I gasp. Even before Eric turns on the pinpoint lights hidden in the ceiling, the room is already shimmering with the glow of the city. The glistening views reflected on all sides in the floor-to-ceiling windows provide all the decoration the room really needs. Some interior designer has been smart enough to realize the hard work has already been done and his job was just not to get in the way of the fantastic views. Muted low-slung sofas in soft grays sit on a quietly elegant beige carpet. An undulating glass coffee table almost disappears, except for the slim Giacometti sculpture sitting decorously on its surface. The one wall without a window manages to hold its own with a subtly spectacular Picasso.

  Someone must have known we were coming, because the sleek steel table in the dining room is set for two. The tapered candles are already lit, and a generous dish of caviar is sitting inside a silver bowl filled with ice. Eric goes over to the waiting magnum of Dom Perignon, pops the cork, and fills two glasses, leaning over to hand me one.

  I grab the glass and take a big gulp.

  “Wait a minute. We need a toast,” says Eric coming closer. He raises his glass and clicks it against mine. “To you. To us. To first love.”

  Now I bring the glass to my lips, but I can hardly swallow. The whole apartment could be out of a movie, and so could this scene. Is all this just a fantasy? Remember, Hallie, you haven’t seen this man in twenty years.

  “You know, you were my first love,” Eric says as we sit down on a deep-cushioned sofa and he scoops some of the caviar onto a plate. He holds out a little spoon of beluga for me. “And you were my first lover. I’ve gotten even better in bed since then.”

  “I don’t know if I have. I’ve been with the same guy all this time.” I’m not sure if that’s a selling point or not.

  He puffs up, clearly pleased with himself. “You’ve just been with me and Bill?”

  “Not just. But almost just,” I say, skirting the issue. Men don’t want to know the exact number, anyway. If they did, what would be the ideal answer? More than two (you have experience) but less than five (you’re not a . . . well, you know)? And who’s going to admit the truth, especially if it’s double digits?

  I lean forward to take a taste from Eric’s spoon. Mmm, that’s good caviar. I run my tongue over my now-salty lips and make a sucking noise trying to get the wayward black roe out from between my teeth. Very attractive. When will God or General Mills invent a food that you can safely eat in front of a man? Everything either drips, crunches, or sticks to your molars.

  Champagne seems pretty safe. When Eric takes a tray of thinly sliced chateaubriand from a side table, I decide to stick with the bubbly. He refills my glass for the second time. Or is it the third? What am I trying to do—be like one of those college girls who downs a bottle of tequila so she can claim “I didn’t know what I was doing” when she ends up sleeping with the guy?

  More food keeps appearing, although I never see anybody bringing it in. Eric must be so rich he doesn’t just have a staff, he has elves.

  Eric is as charming as I remembered him, and as the evening—or morning—goes on, I begin to relax. And not just from the champagne. I feel that magical mix of new excitement and easygoing comfort. The conversation veers from Eric’s brand-new business stories to old memories and we laugh as we catch up on almost-forgotten friends. Eric tells me that the party-loving wrestler who lived downstairs in his freshman dorm is now a missionary in Southeast Asia. I offer that the guy who won the college beer-chugging contest (fifteen cans in fifty-seven minutes) is now a pilot for United Airlines.

  “But he doesn’t fly any major routes,” I quip.

  Eric laughs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. “People change, don’t they,” he says. Then he looks at me seriously for a minute. “I heard about your little sister, by the way. All those years ago. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.” He’s touched a nerve, but I swallow hard and decide to let it pass. Determined to change the subject, I quickly ask, “How’s your mom?”

  “Doing fine. She just sold another one of her paintings. I’ve never figured out who hangs her stuff, but in Boca Raton, she’s hot. By the way, she still asks about you. She never forgave me for not marrying you.”

  “A woman of fine taste,” I say, feeling comfortable again. So this is the advantage of an old boyfriend. I feel that first-date sexual tingle but I’m cozy enough to kick off my shoes and curl my bare toes up on the sofa. I snuggle a little closer and rest my head on Eric’s shoulder, taking in his subtle, rich scent.

  “You’ve switched colognes. I miss the Old Spice,” I say, teasing. “Remember? You used to come back from crew practice and instead of taking a shower, you’d douse yourself with the stuff.”

  Eric makes a face. “Not fair,” he says defending his way-back-when frat-boy hygiene. “I always put on deodorant first.”

  “I know. A smell I’ll never forget.” I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Ban has been banished from my house ever since.”

  “Now I use L’Occitane, imported from France. I hope you approve,” he says putting an arm around me and moving closer.

  I don’t know if it’s the allure of the moment (and the hundred-dollar skin lotion) or the appeal of the past (and the remembered Old Spice), but I lift my chin toward Eric. And in case he doesn’t know what I’m angling for, I slide closer and kiss him.

  The kiss seems to have an immediate effect because I feel a pounding vibration between us. Eric reaches down, sliding his hand over my hip and toward his own. The vibrating intensifies.

  “Cell phone,” Eric explains, pulling back and grabbing the Motorola from his pocket. He glances at the number. “Got to take this.”

  I sit back, slightly embarrassed. I know my sex life with Bill had slowed down lately, but can I really not tell the difference between a pulsating phone and a throbbing man?

  Eric has jumped up and is pacing around the room, barking orders to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He’s not happy about something in, as far as I can tell, a deal for orange juice futures. I personally think the future belongs to papaya, but Eric’s not asking my advice.

  He slams shut his phone and comes back to the couch. He starts to stroke my face, and runs a finger through my hair. But then he jumps up again. “I’m sorry, Hallie, but I’d better follow through on this problem or it’s going to keep bothering me.”

  Well, I’m not going to let it bother me. I reach for some more caviar while he arranges a four-way conference call covering three continents. Given all of Eric’s attention, the future of orange juice seems secure.

  Eric finally comes back to the couch again, but he still seems tense.

  “Want a massage?” I ask, rubbing his shoulders.<
br />
  “I have a better idea. I could use another kiss,” he says, taking my face in his hands and pressing his lips against mine.

  We embrace for a long time. His kisses are soft and warm, and his hands caressing me feel both familiar and new. I lean into his firm chest and pull him tight as both the space and the years between us dissolve. Time in all its essence disappears and when I finally open my eyes, I see the first whispers of light breaking into the dark sky outside.

  Eric breathes softly into my ear, and when my whole body responds, he asks tenderly, “Will you come into my bedroom?”

  I hesitate, and over my shoulder, I see him glance at his watch.

  “Short on time?” I ask.

  “Always,” he admits. “But I don’t want to lose this chance.”

  The phone doesn’t ring, but the doorbell does. Eric groans and gets up. “It’s just my assistant Hamilton. We always start early.”

  He lets in a nerdy-looking thirty-year-old who’s holding a heavy briefcase. “Good morning, Mr. Richmond. I have those papers and we can . . .” Hamilton pauses, noticing me, and looks slightly abashed, though I’m probably not the first woman he’s found lolling around Eric’s apartment at the crack of dawn. But now he stammers, “Am I interrupting something?”

  Eric glances at me with a little smile. “I don’t know yet. We were just negotiating.”

  Hamilton disappears discreetly to a back room as yet unseen by me and Eric glances seductively at me and takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s go put another nickel in the piggy bank.”

  I smile coyly. “Not on the first date. You know me.”

  Eric shakes his head. “I do, but you’re not going to make me wait six months again, are you? This isn’t really a first date.”

  All of a sudden, I feel hesitant. The night has been wonderful, but maybe it’s gone as far as it should. Eric’s a busy man now. I don’t know that I want to take the next step.