Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I never know what to say at times like these.”

  “Neither do I,” he smiles.

  I smile back. What else could I do?

  Vale is already on his way to pick me up, but I don’t really feel much like going to a party anymore. “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

  “It’s okay, Holly! Thanks, but I’m okay. It was five years ago. I’m over it.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no, I’m not over it, over it. But I’ve accepted it. I’m moving on.”

  “Do you mind if I ask…”

  “How she died?”

  I nod, painfully uncomfortable, yet unable to contain my curiosity.

  “Breast cancer. It ran in her family. Her mother and two of her great-aunts died of it.”

  “How awful.”

  “She had it when I married her. We knew she didn’t have long.”

  “Wow,” I say quietly. “You must have really loved her.”

  “Yeah…” He laughs nervously, uncomfortable himself now. “Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’m no saint. And neither was she. She? What’s the matter with me? I mean, Sylvia. Her name was Sylvia.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Remy? I suppose it’s not really my business, but…”

  “But you’re my friend. We’re friends, and…” He shrugs. “I hate telling people. Because of this. This weirdness afterward. I hate it.”

  “I can definitely understand that.”

  “I don’t want you to feel bad for me.”

  “I don’t,” I lie.

  “Good, because most people treat me like a baby for a while after they hear. It’s like, I’m a widower, not a leper, you know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay!” he cracks his knuckles and gets up to leave.

  “Why don’t you stay for a bit?”

  “Naw. Your sugar daddy’s coming and I wouldn’t want to hold you two lovebirds up. Have a good time tonight!”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup. I’m taking the pretzels, though.”

  “I figured you would.”

  He’s halfway to the door when he turns around. “Oh—I almost forgot!”

  “What?”

  “I’m thirty-four.”

  “That’s it? You look almost old enough to be my father.”

  “Old enough to be your big brother, maybe,” he winks.

  “Get out of here!”

  George’s book launch is painful, though she’s never looked better, glowing with excitement and showing off her ten-pound weight loss with a sexy new outfit. After what seems like an eternity, she introduces the writer, who obliges us with a short reading from her novel, Surrogate Moon. From what I can tell, it’s about a race of sterile humanoids on some distant planet who, too smart for their own good, devise a way for their females to mate with carnivorous plants.

  I sit between Quentin and Vale. Vale keeps nodding off, and Quentin snickers loudly when the writer finally comes to the end of a violent five-minute passage describing the pod-babies’ first attempt at breast-feeding. A few rows in front of us, George is on the edge of her seat, utterly enthralled. I try to pay attention, I really do, but my mind keeps drifting back to Sylvia. I wonder what she looked like, if she was smart, if she suffered. It occurs to me that I hadn’t even asked Remy what kind of books she wrote. How could I have been so rude?

  As promised, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres follow the reading. I eat and drink as much as I can, while Vale and Quentin try not to look bored out of their skulls. The crowd of excited well-wishers around the writer do inspire enough envy in me to take Remy’s advice—I vow to write a partial manuscript and an outline of my research, along with a kick-ass query letter, and send it off to every publisher I can find that might possibly be interested.

  A couple weeks after the reading, Vale calls from work to tell me his business trip scheduled for the weekend has been cancelled. He invites me over to his place for “dinner and whatever.”

  It’s going to be The Night.

  It probably would have happened sooner, if Vale wasn’t always away in L.A. or Chicago or San Diego, or if he didn’t work such ridiculously long hours. (I’ve accepted that dating someone successful requires certain sacrifices on my part, especially while he’s in his prime income-earning years.) What this all boils down to, practically speaking, is that we’ve been seeing each other for about five weeks and have done most of our courting over the phone. Aside from our first kiss—which I secretly suspected he’d penciled in, and which happened in the car he’d hired to take him to the airport then deliver me back home—the only time we’d even fooled around was one night at his place, but things didn’t get too heavy because he had to be at work by five the next morning, when business opens on the East Coast.

  Despite his physical unavailability, Vale is really good at calling. Once, when he was in L.A., we got drunk together and had phone sex (my first time, but I got the sense he’d done it before). Usually, though, our conversations are much more mundane. At the end of each day, he likes to tell me exactly what he’s done—almost a minute-by-minute play-by-play. Ninety-seven percent of the time I have no idea what he’s even talking about, but it seems to be something he needs to do. At the end of these conversations, he politely asks about my day, and so I recap what I learned about absinthe or acetaminophen or whatever. Not that I’m complaining, because it certainly helps me fall asleep.

  Anyway, all this is to say I’m ready. Since tomorrow also happens to be my birthday—May 10, the same day as Sid Vicious and Bono—I take a good chunk of my paycheck for the week and go out and buy some really sexy lingerie at La Perla, which specializes in small but wealthy chests in need of professional help. I consider the $110 Classic Push-Up Bra in black lace (and $75 matching thong) an investment in our relationship. Damn if I’m not going to make my assets work for me.

  While Vale reheats the dinner his caterer had prepared for us that afternoon, he cracks open a bottle of Château Something that is way too good for somebody with my unrefined palate to be drinking. We make it about halfway through the first course—stuffed dates with goat cheese and pistachios—before we’re in his bedroom, tearing off each other’s clothes. Well, technically the only thing that got torn was the condom wrapper; the clothes were actually unbuttoned, folded and neatly put aside.

  Before I know it, it’s over.

  It was…

  Great!

  Or rather, it was good. Solidly good!

  Decent. More like decent…

  Better than Jean-Jean, anyway.

  Well…maybe not.

  But at least it wasn’t physically painful or anything. Which made it better than a trip to the dentist, though not quite as much fun as visiting the gynecologist. (At least with the gyno, you know you don’t have to go back for another year and can enjoy the satisfaction of an unpleasant chore ticked off your list of things to do.)

  And another thing…someone else’s face kept popping into my mind at the most intimate moments. At first, I tried to push him away. What the hell was he doing there anyway? Afterwards, though, I realize that my fantasy visitor provided the only bright spots in an otherwise subpar eighty or ninety seconds. So I welcome my subconscious desires into the forefront of my mind and fall asleep thinking of plaid shirts and work boots, the smell of sawdust in my nostrils.

  The light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows wakes me early. I lie there for a while, trying to get my thoughts and stomach in order. The better the wine, the worse the hangover.

  When I return from the bathroom, Vale is awake. I slip back into bed and snuggle up next to him.

  “Happy birthday, Holly,” he whispers. “Twenty-nine looks good on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have something for you.” He leans over me and opens the night table drawer. “And don’t say ‘You shouldn’t have!’”

  Why on earth would I say that? A girl has t
he right to expect a little something from her man on her birthday, doesn’t she?

  “Uh, okay.”

  He passes me a small turquoise box. Tiffany & Co. Not ring-size, but definitely jewelry.

  “Wow! Thank you, Vale. But where’s the card?”

  He props himself up on an elbow. “Just open it, smart-ass!”

  Slowly, I untie the bow and flip open the lid. Inside, on a blue velvet pillow, two diamond studs sparkle wildly. Two large diamond studs.

  “Wow!” I say. “For me?”

  “Of course, for you! I noticed the ones you always wear are pretty small and thought you might like an upgrade. Was I right?”

  “Uh, yeah! Of course…”

  I never thought of my earrings as small. They’re the only diamonds I own, willed to me by my dad’s mother, so to me they’re pretty great. I’d cried tears of relief when I found the stud I thought I’d lost while packing up my apartment in Buffalo.

  “Try them on for me!”

  I walk over to the mirror and remove my earrings, then take the new ones out of the box.

  Vale comes up behind me and kisses my neck. “They’re screw-backs, so you won’t lose them. And you might have to up your insurance. These puppies are three quarters of a carat each! Here, let me help you….” He pulls my hair back.

  I slide the diamonds into my ears, screw on the backs and stare at myself. A skinny girl with a plain face, wearing an expensive bra and earrings that cost more than all the jewelry her mother has ever owned.

  “Gorgeous,” he breathes.

  I turn to face him. “Thank you Vale. They’re beautiful.”

  “I knew you’d like ’em. Happy birthday.” He gives me a quick kiss, then goes to put his pants on. “I have to make a phone call to Chicago. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, an hour and a half, tops….”

  “But it’s Sunday!”

  “I know, hun. And while others are resting, I’m billing four hundred ninety-five an hour.”

  “Okay,” I sigh.

  “Why don’t you take a nap? You must be tired…we didn’t get much sleep!”

  “Maybe…”

  “Come on—it’s your special day and you deserve to be lazy.”

  “I guess.”

  “That’s my girl!” He smiles and pads off. I hear the door to his office close.

  I put my old earrings into the Tiffany’s box and slip them into my purse. “Better not forget these…”

  Instead of going back to bed, I take a good, long soak in Vale’s enormous bathtub—set on a raised podium next to a window with views on the Bay—and think about the night before. Mediocre, at best. The stuffed dates, on the other hand…now those were something special.

  I get dressed, grab my purse and knock on the door to Vale’s office. It’s been over an hour, and by the look on his face when I walk in, I can tell he isn’t anywhere near to being finished.

  “Hang on a sec,” he says into the receiver and puts whomever he was talking to on hold. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving, hun!”

  “Yeah, sorry. I forgot I had lunch plans with George. She wants to take me out for my birthday.”

  He makes a pouty face.

  “Will I see you this week?”

  “Things are all fucked up in Chicago. Looks like I’m going to have to go out there after all. But I’ll call you….”

  “All right.”

  “Come here and give me a kiss, birthday girl…”

  I go over and give him one. On the cheek.

  I have no idea if George is even going to be home, so I’m delighted to find her seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, talking on the phone. She hangs up quickly when she sees me and comes over to give me a huge hug.

  “Happy birthday!”

  “Thanks.”

  “So how was last night? Dish! Immediately!”

  I smile and sit down. “It was okay.”

  “Okay? Just okay? I want details! Tell me everything!”

  “It was fine.” She stands there, staring at me. I want to cry, but instead I ask, “So what about you and Quentin? When’s that going to happen?”

  “I dunno,” she shrugs. “I’m not ready yet.”

  “Not ready? You haven’t had sex in over six months! What are you waiting for?”

  She exhales dramatically. “I’m not like you, Holly. I don’t need it. I won’t die without it. I’m like a…a sex camel. I can go for long periods without any male contact, provided I store up in advance. And the professor and I…I mean Stuart and me…we had that long weekend together right before we broke up. So I think I’m just gonna coast on that for a while. But I want to hear more about you and Vale, okay? So was it any good?”

  I’m having enough trouble lying to myself about it, and I’m certainly not in the mood to be convincing someone else it was great when it hadn’t been. “Let me get this straight—you’re waiting with Quentin because you stocked up on nookie half a year ago? It doesn’t make any sense. What’s really going on?”

  George’s face turns bright red. “For God’s sake, Holly! I don’t want to talk about it!” She stomps off to her room and slams the door.

  Is there trouble in paradise?

  Vale has mentioned on more than one occasion that his brother-in-law is still completely smitten with her, so I naturally assumed that things were fine, though I realize I haven’t heard it from the horse’s mouth in quite some time. George has been working really long hours and we haven’t had much of a chance to talk lately. On the weekends, she usually comes home after I’ve gone to bed (since my boyfriend has been off saving the insolvent masses, I’ve been renting a lot of movies and catching up on sleep). A few weekends ago, when we’d all gone out together—dinner and the latest John Grisham adaptation, which Vale had snorted through condescendingly—they were lovey-dovey enough, although in retrospect maybe Quentin was holding up his end a little better.

  I knock on her door. “George? Can I come in?”

  A faint “Yeah,” followed by sniffles.

  She’s half buried under her giant quilt, her face turned toward the wall.

  “You okay? Because I have a really good joke about you being a sex camel and it would be a shame to waste it.”

  “Joke?”

  “I was going to ask if you were of the one-hump or two-hump kind…”

  Instead of the laugh I’d been hoping for, she wails, rolls over, and begins crying again. “Two humps, Holly! That’s the problem! Two humps!”

  “Come on, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “I’m so sorry!” she sobs. “I don’t mean to be such a basket case. But I’ve been feeling a little…a little fragile lately.”

  I sit down on her bed and pull the covers back. “Why?”

  “Oh, Holly. I don’t know what to do and I can’t take it anymore. I’m racked with guilt….”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes… No… I don’t know! It’s just guy stuff. Do they suffer like we do? Do they?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “And I’ve been putting off telling you because I thought you’d be upset. It was going to be so much fun, me and Quentin and you and Vale, just like we’d talked about. And now you and Vale are totally together and, well, I don’t know what to do….”

  “Spit it out already, will you?”

  “Well… I met someone.” She peeks back to catch my reaction.

  “You met someone?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Someone not Quentin, someone?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Who?”

  “Max.”

  “Max?”

  “Un-huh.”

  “Max who?”

  “Max Levine.”

  I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t. She just lays there with her eyes closed.

  “For God’s sake, George. I’m going to need a little more information.”

  “He’s Chloe’s son.”

  “Chloe, your boss Chloe?�
��

  “Un-huh.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “Does she know?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So…this is bad because you think she’ll be pissed?”

  She nods. “That’s part of it. They don’t get along very well at all. What if she finds out and fires me? What if I can’t find another job? What if it doesn’t work out with me and Max and I throw away the best job I’ll ever have in my entire life?”

  “Slow down, George. First things first. Who is this guy? Does he even like you, or is this some sort of unrequited lust thing?”

  “No—it’s the real thing, all right. I met him at Fran’s book launch. He was the cute guy with curly brown hair and glasses sitting in the second row.”

  “There were a lot of people there. Did you introduce us?”

  “No. I only started talking to him after you guys left.”

  “If he doesn’t get along with his mother, why was he even there?”

  “His therapist suggested they do things together. It’s complicated.”

  “Oh. So what happened? You started talking and…”

  “We hit it off, like, completely. Then everyone was leaving so he asked me over to his place—”

  “You went to some strange guy’s apartment you don’t know?”

  “Well, I know his mother, so I figured it would be okay.”

  “And…”

  “And we stayed up all night talking.”

  “And…”

  “And we didn’t do it that night, if that’s what you’re asking. We haven’t yet. But it was so magical and we kissed and talked and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten along so well with anyone in my whole life! He’s exactly right for me—he’s cute, smart and soooo funny and sensitive to women’s issues and not gross or vulgar or a slimy kisser at all. Can you believe it?”

  My silence must speak volumes.

  “But he’s not rich…” she continues. “He’s a musician. A struggling musician.”

  “Oh.” Of course he is.

  “He was in this really great band for a while, but it didn’t work out. He played me their demo!”

  “Yeah?”

  “He plays banjo.”

  “Banjo. He plays banjo.”

  “Electric banjo, actually. I know it sounds kinda weird, Holly, but he’s amazing. And he’s pretty confident that once he gets another group together, it won’t be long before he lands a serious record deal. His sound is, like, totally original…. It’s sort of this new folksy, half-funk kinda thing with some bluegrass influence, obviously, as well as—”