“Keep your football-player friends away from your sister,” I warn Adam.
“Are you kidding, Mom? I’m trading Emily for free lift tickets.” Emily grins. “How many passes am I worth to you?”
“Depends how much you put out,” he says.
I know they’re joking, but I’m finding this conversation decidedly not funny. I reach into my wallet and pull out five twenty-dollar bills. “Here, Adam. Buy your own lift tickets.”
“What about cash for me?” asks Emily. “Or am I supposed to find out my value on the free market?”
“Great values,” I mumble as I shell out another hundred bucks for her. Whatever she has or hasn’t learned about feminism, she must be doing okay in macroeconomics.
When the kids are gone, the minutes on the clock refuse to move forward. I speak to Kevin three times and confirm that I got it right. He’s coming to visit. I can’t believe how eager I am to see him. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Talk about creeping in a petty pace from day to day. How did Shakespeare know just how slowly the time goes when you’re waiting for your Virgin Gorda lover to come to New York?
I change the sheets—even though I’m the only one who’s slept on them—and put candles around the bedroom. In the interests of making Kevin feel at home, I move the goldfish bowl from the family room and put it on my dresser.
Knowing Kevin’s grabbing a taxi to my office the moment he gets to New York, I take forever getting dressed the next morning. I unearth a lacy pink La Perla bra from the bottom of my lingerie drawer, but I can’t find the matching undies. I hold two different panties in my hands. Which would a man prefer—the sensible, high-waisted Wacoals in almost the same color as the bra, or the blue that definitely doesn’t match, but is, after all, a tiny bikini? I put away the Wacoals. Anybody who can’t answer that question doesn’t deserve a boyfriend.
I grab a blow-dryer and a tube of Frederic Fekkai Smooth Hair crème to tame my curls. Forty-five minutes and two aching arms later, my hair is miraculously straight. So what if it’s sticking a little flat against my head? I’m smart enough not to dab concealer under my eyes because I don’t care what anybody says, unless you’re Bobbi Brown, it always makes your bags stand out more, not less. And Bobbi didn’t offer to come over and help me this morning. I tuck myself into my favorite little black dress—or LBD as Bellini and InStyle call it—and change my earrings only twice because I’m running way late.
I remember how much I dislike commuting as I miss one train by ten seconds and wait impatiently for the next. Finally in the city, I try to slip quietly into my office, but as I rush down the hall with coffee cup in hand, Arthur is turning the corner. By the time I notice him, I’ve managed to dump half my decaf light with two Splendas onto his blue suit.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, trying to mop it up with a paper napkin—and leaving behind a lapel full of lint.
“This is what happens when you’re late,” Arthur says curtly. He takes a monogrammed hankie out of his back pocket and, clearly annoyed, dabs at the mess.
“Can I take that to the cleaners for you?” I ask.
“I hope you have something better to do today,” he says reproachfully.
I fumble for the keys to open my office, balancing my purse, my briefcase, a sheaf of paper that my assistant handed me, and the half-cup of coffee that’s left. Arthur stays at my elbow, and then follows me in.
I drop everything unceremoniously on the desk.
“Did you have a nice New Year’s?” I ask Arthur.
“No,” he says gruffly.
Well, that’s promising.
“I looked at your update memo on the Tyler case,” he says. “A lot of fancy legalese, Hallie, but I don’t see that you’re getting anywhere.”
“I’m still trying to negotiate a settlement.”
“They said flat-out no. What do you think you’re negotiating?”
“I have some good leads,” I bluff.
“Tell me one.”
“Melina Marks is speaking at Dartmouth,” I blurt out, going for the first thing I think of, even if it’s irrelevant.
Arthur glares at me. “What does that mean? More of your personal life interfering? Let me guess. You want a day off to go listen to her— and see your son while you’re there.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped, and it takes me a moment to regain my composure. “Arthur, I’ve worked hard to get where I am in this firm, and I won’t have it undermined. You can question anything you like, except my professionalism.”
“It’s exactly your professionalism that I’ve been questioning.”
And he may have a point. Because just then I hear my assistant giggling at her desk and a moment later there’s a flurry at my door.
“Surprise, babe. I got here early,” says Kevin.
I look up, stunned. Kevin, my wonderful Kevin. He’s wearing a maroon Polarfleece jacket with khaki shorts, and he’s holding a bouquet of flowers from the same deli where I got my coffee. He strides in past Arthur and gives me a big kiss.
Flustered, I pull back and catch Arthur’s eye. If this is how I’m making my case for being a professional, it had better be as a professional playgirl.
“Kevin this is my boss, Arthur,” I say. “Arthur, my friend Kevin.”
“The infamous Arthur,” says Kevin jocularly. “I hope you haven’t been giving my Hallie too hard a time.”
Arthur looks Kevin up and down, his eyes moving from his thick-soled Merrill boots to the bare legs to the gold Neptune medallion at his neck. In Virgin Gorda, I loved Kevin’s laid-back sexy style, but right now I’m wishing he’d stopped at Brooks Brothers. Arthur is smart enough not to judge a book by its cover, but this is one dust jacket screaming for attention.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks. “This is a workplace, not the set of Survivor.”
“Hey, chill out. Be cool,” says Kevin.
Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m as cool as I need to be.”
“Yeah, man, in fact, you’re stone cold.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been back in New York an hour, and I suddenly remember how harsh this city is. The weather. The people. Brrr.”
“If you’re cold, may I suggest long pants?” says Arthur.
Oh, wonderful. My boyfriend and my boss in a pissing match. No matter which of them wins, I come out the loser.
But Kevin isn’t here to embarrass me, and seeing what’s happening, he changes his tone.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I know Hallie’s busy and you have a law firm to run.”
Arthur just stares, so Kevin adds politely, “Really, sir, my apologies for bursting in.”
Arthur seems mollified, and I’m so proud of Kevin that I give a big grin. Realizing he’s on a roll, Kevin continues graciously, “I didn’t mean to barge in, Arthur. I’ll get out of your hair.” It’s just a figure of speech, but my boss is mostly bald and pretty sensitive about it. Trying to back-track, Kevin quickly amends, “I mean, I’ll get out of Hallie’s hair.”
“You have no idea how much trouble hair is,” I say, trying to help but only making matters worse. “The washing, the conditioning, the blow-drying. Then the mousse and the gel.”
“I can never figure out the difference between those two,” says Kevin.
“Mousse is a little lighter,” I start to explain, but Arthur has already turned on his heel and is storming out of my office.
“Really, there’s nothing good about hair,” I call out after him. “Did I ever tell you about the time in 1996 that Emily had lice?”
There’s silence in the office for a moment and Kevin and I look at each other, not sure how much damage has been done. But then, despite myself, I start to giggle.
“No lice in Virgin Gorda,” Kevin says with a laugh. He comes over and embraces me. “Now how about a proper kiss hello.”
Our lips meet eagerly, and I can tell that Kevin’s idea of a proper kiss involves jumping out of our clothes and onto the couch. As much as I’d like
to, I think we’ve drawn enough attention to ourselves today. I give Kevin an unsatisfying peck and he gets the message.
“I guess I can’t tempt you to get out of here early?”
“Early, but not this early,” I say.
“Lunch? My favorite Chinese place, Ping Tong Palace, is around the corner.”
“Hasn’t been there in about fifteen years,” I say.
“You’re probably the La Côte Basque type, anyway,” he says.
“Not anymore. That closed too.”
“Then where do people eat around here?”
“At their desks,” I say.
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” he says, grabbing his beat-up L.L. Bean backpack. “I can play tourist for a while. I’ll come back at the end of the day. Five?”
“Six. Six-thirty.”
“Fine.” He kisses me on the top of my head. “By the way, you look good.”
“I do?” I ask happily.
Kevin makes a face and reconsiders. “Not really. I mean, it’s good to see you. You’re beautiful. But what’s with the straight hair and black dress? It’s just not you.”
“It’s the New York me,” I say.
By six-thirty, I’m feeling more guilty working while Kevin’s here than I ever did being at the office when my kids were home. At least they had playdates. The best I can do is make sure Kevin has a good playdate with me tonight. Since he’s come to New York, this is my chance to show him how fabulous the town really is. Bellini’s gotten my name on the list for a hot opening-night party.
“Ready to go home?” Kevin asks when I meet him outside my office building. He’s decided he doesn’t want to come in—probably ever again.
“Better than that. I’ve planned a big time in the Big Apple.” Excited about our evening together, I give him an enthusiastic kiss. “For starters, I got us into a major opening of Himalayan art.”
Kevin looks at me dubiously. “Why would we want to do that?”
“It should be fun. One of those only-in-New York kind of nights.”
“The only kind of night I want is in your bed.”
“Later,” I say, giving him a little kiss on the nose. “I mean, have you ever seen Himalayan art?”
“I’ve never even seen a Himalayan goat,” he says. “But if you have your heart set on it, let’s go. Just like in high school. I can tell you’re trying to teach me things again.”
We head downtown to the Rubin Museum of Art on Seventh Avenue and Seventeenth Street. The building used to be a Barney’s store, and shoppers who worshipped at the shrine of Prada were horrified when low-rent retailer Loehmann’s took over half the space. But the Rubins bought the other half of the store, and now there are more Prada shoes on display than ever before—on the feet of the patrons visiting the rarefied art museum.
A big crowd is gathered outside and Kevin and I join the line under a large orange banner heralding the exhibition: Handprints: Twenty-First Century.
“Be a lot easier to make our own handprints,” Kevin says petulantly, pushing his palm against the museum’s glass front.
We move slowly forward, Kevin continuing to make greasy prints all the way to the entrance. When we’re finally in front of the broad-shouldered, earphone-wearing, clipboard-carrying bouncer, I confidently give my name. He checks the list and passes us on through.
“I guess we’re the Chosen People,” I say proudly, taking Kevin’s hand. “And we didn’t even have to give up pork.”
He shakes his head. “Why do you New Yorkers only like places where you can’t get in?”
“But they did let us in,” I say.
“Great, and we probably could have gotten into Burger King, too.”
I squeeze his arm. “Better food here,” I promise, spotting tuxedoed waiters circulating with silver trays. One of them comes over to us immediately, probably because in this neighborhood—unlike my office’s— the pairing of Polarfleece and shorts in wintertime make Kevin look like an MTV star.
“Hors d’oeuvre?” asks the waiter. “It’s porcini mushroom with minced crabmeat and a dab of crème fraîche.”
“My favorite,” says Kevin, scooping up five of them, since he obviously hasn’t had dinner.
We edge our way toward the special exhibit.
“Handprints. I’d recognize those anywhere,” Kevin confirms staring at the long wall of framed pictures. He wiggles his own fingers. “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had—”
“—none,” says a man next to us, completing the rhyme. He’s dressed in all black with rimless glasses. He has a pointed goatee and an intense look in his eyes. I’m sure he’s dripping with disdain for Kevin’s childishness, but instead, he turns to him with a rapt smile.
“You’ve hit perfectly on what this exhibit is about,” he says. “The hand as the fundamental underpinning of human myth and meaning. As the basis for both common folklore and high culture.”
“Right,” says Kevin. To continue proving his intellectual prowess, Kevin makes two fists and raises the thumb of each hand. “Where is thumbkin? Where is thumbkin?” he sings.
“Here I am! Here I am!” chimes in the man, animatedly waving his own thumbs at Kevin.
I’m suddenly afraid that this is a gay mating call, and Kevin doesn’t know it.
But the man is simply thrilled to think he’s found a fellow aficionado of the finger. “What you’ve so innocently pointed out is that the thumb is the engine of the hand, and far more important than pinky or pointer. But it has different significance in Mongolian culture and Tibetan. Come let me show you what I mean.”
I’m intrigued now, so I start to trail after him. But Kevin isn’t impressed. “Pretentious asshole,” he whispers in my ear. “I’m going to get some more hors d’oeuvres.”
In front of another wall of prints, the man starts making cultural comparisons and gesturing wildly—I guess proving that the hand is also the fundamental basis of language. From across the room, Kevin waves to us. With his hands. I’m starting to think this really is an important exhibit.
“Sweetheart, look at this,” I say, when Kevin finally ambles over. “I’ve just been learning from my new friend Digger that the extended middle finger in that painting is a sign of royal lineage, denoting the high status not of the artist, but of the patron who commissioned the work.”
Kevin gazes at the picture skeptically, then extends his own middle finger in the air. “Hasn’t anybody ever told you two what this really means? I think it’s a pretty universal symbol.”
“Stop that,” I say, trying to cover his hand before anybody else sees. Digger may be a little offbeat but he’s also smart, and he’s attracted a small crowd of art lovers who are milling around us, wanting to hear what he has to say about the importance of hands. I look down at my own. Maybe I should have gotten a manicure.
A photographer from the New York Post pushes through the throng.
“Digger? I need a shot of you for the society page. With your friend.”
Digger puts his arm around me.
“The other friend,” says the photographer, pointing to Kevin. “She’s a nobody. I can’t have a nobody in the picture”
“I’m a nobody, too,” Kevin objects.
“Then you’re a nobody with great style,” says the Post man. “I love the look. So faux downscale.”
“Genuinely downscale,” Kevin says disdainfully. “And why would I want to be on the society page, anyway?”
The group around him titters, knowing that everybody wants to be on the society page. And despite his protests, they still think Kevin’s somebody. In Manhattan, you have to be very rich or very famous to dress with such nonchalance.
Suddenly, the photographer turns away, obviously noticing a celebrity even more worthy of his attention. Or maybe somebody just dressed worse than Kevin.
“Sorry, pal, catch you later,” he says, dashing after bigger prey.
Kevin
looks at me and shakes his head. “I don’t understand these people. Your people. Your New York people,” he says. “Your boss thinks I’m dressed bad and that’s bad. The Post thinks I’m dressed bad and that’s good.”
“Badly,” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re dressed badly.”
“You think so, too?”
“No, darling. You’re gorgeous,” I say, realizing I’d better not explain that I had automatically corrected his grammar. That would make me sound like the teenage girl who was always smarter than him.
“Let’s see the rest of the exhibit,” I suggest.
“I’d rather just eat some more of those crabmeat-mushroom things,” he says, practically tackling a waiter walking by. But after he stuffs a few in his mouth, he doesn’t mind when I take his hand to wander through the rest of the museum.
We slip away from the crowd and walk upstairs, past textiles embroidered with Mongolian goddesses and silver Shiva sculptures.
“Look, a female Buddha,” I say, admiring a bronze statue. I read from the card next to it. “Gender identity is a powerful tool for exploration of the divine.”
“My feelings exactly,” says Kevin, putting his arms around my waist and nibbling my ear. “It would be divine to explore your gender. All I want is to make love to you.”
I giggle. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen enough Himalayan art already.”
“I’ve seen enough of everything except you,” he says.
He leads me toward a dark alcove, where it’s just us and a painting from Bhutan of naked gods.
He slips his hand down the front of my dress and caresses my breast.
“Ever have sex in a gallery of Himalayan art?” he asks, kissing me.
“Just once or twice,” I tease.
“Then let’s do it again.” He starts to unzip the back of my dress, but I spin away.
“Not here,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks. He lowers his lips, kissing my neck. “Trust me, all these gods and goddesses will give their blessing.”
“But the people downstairs won’t,” I say, squirming away and tugging my dress closed. “Come on, honey. We can’t do this in public.”
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 22