But I was expecting to feel guilty that Friday night before the controversial board meeting I would skip, so I stayed up all night watching TV and avoiding friend requests on Facebook except for one from the Chapel Street stranger, Zach. Immediately after accepting my fifth friend, a message box popped up.
“Hi!” he wrote. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I thought you older women were supposed to be confident enough to make a first move. :)”
I gasped. “You are very rude young man,” I replied.
“You have a lot of friends :)”
“One too many in fact.”
“How old do you think I am?” he asked.
“Thirty,” I answered.
“Not quite.”
Yikes! I gulped. “Too young,” I replied.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Forty,” I wrote then backspaced five times thinking of Oscar who says never to trust a woman who tells her real age for a woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything. “Forty,” I typed again. “So you are still twenty-something?”
“Thirty-two,” he wrote. “Not quite thirty—a little bit more. Did that bother you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Still does.”
“Are you doing anything tomorrow tonight?” he asked.
“No.”
“Want to?”
“What?”
“Go out?”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“You’re eight years younger than me.”
“So?”
“I’m a lot more mature than you, young man.”
“Says who?”
“Father Time.”
“That’s not necessarily true. Age doesn’t always mean maturity, and it doesn’t matter anyway. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid,” I replied, thinking of Kenneth’s words.
“So meet me at Tokyo Teppanyaki in Chapel Street. I’ll book a couple of stools.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t take too long. You’re not getting any younger.”
I logged out and went to bed to toss and turn while thinking about the board meeting I would miss, and dinner at Tokyo Teppanyaki.
I made my way to the kitchen for a morning coffee to prepare myself for the phone call to the office to excuse myself from the day’s agenda. I reached for a crumpet, but detoured to rummage around in my gym bag for the remnants of a protein bar just in case there was a date with a young man on the horizon. I would need to buy a full body suit to camouflage my winter bulges.
I called Amber for her thoughts on the proposed outing, which would guide me towards doing the opposite. I knew what she would say, but really, I was just letting her know that a young man was pursuing me. There was no answer so I left a bland message and returned to my laptop to start work on the first part of my writing assignment.
During my research, I was mortified to learn that a virus can spread great distances and into my airspace just by an infected person speaking or breathing. I had thought I was safe maintaining a metre buffer away from a cougher, but not so it seems—a cough or sneeze was a turbot boost catapulting the virus even further. This scientific research confirmed there is wisdom in my winter hibernation, which is not the foolish quirk of a woman who does not like the cold, as friends might suggest.
I logged in to Facebook and up popped the message box again.
“U there?” wrote Zach.
I wondered if his sudden interest had arisen from a bet, charity or a New Year’s resolution, or perhaps Rudyard Wilkes had written another article on ‘the older woman’ after some new research.
“I am.”
“What about tonight?”
“Why do you want to go out?” I asked, and had also typed “with me” ie a woman in her forties, but deleted the words as they sounded desperate or lacking self-confidence.
“I’m happy to come to your place if you prefer :)”
Cheeky sod, I thought. “Ha!” I wrote. “Not happening.”
“So just dinner then?”
“How come you suggested Tokyo Teppanyaki, which just happens to be one of my favorite places for public eating? Who have you been talking to?”
“Hahahaha!” he wrote.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Your friend told me.”
Amber! I knew it! “Where, when and why were you talking to Amber? Did she tell you to contact me?”
“You really are paranoid. My friend Ryan emailed Amber a few times. He wanted to go out with her, but she said she was in a relationship.”
“Engaged actually.”
“I asked Ryan to ask her if you were single. She said yes and I should friend you on Facebook. And she said you definitely would not say no to Tokyo Teppanyaki even in winter…whatever that means.”
“What do you do again?” I asked even though I remembered and was just testing for a Rudy ploy.
“Real estate sales exec.”
Same answer, although it might just prove that he had rehearsed well or had done this a lot. I went for another coffee to help me focus on the dilemma.
“What about tonight?” he wrote again.
“Can’t go out tonight,” I replied, not wanting to risk being seen out and eating heartily after I had skipped the board meeting.
“Next weekend then?”
“I really don’t understand why you’re asking. I’m a decade older than you.”
“Eight years and why does age matter?”
“Do you have a bet with a friend? Is this some kind of initiation or social experiment?”
“LOL. You’re very cynical. We had a fun night out the other week, didn’t we? I like you. I thought it was mutual.”
Amber called then, but I had decided not to mention Zach because she would be desperate to know. I asked her about her weekend ahead, and Jake, and made for uncharacteristic small talk.
“What’s up?” Amber asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Why did you call?”
“No particular reason. This is what friends do.”
“Oh right, just to be friendly.”
“You’re sicker than I thought,” said Amber. “Take two Asprin and lay down. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“Have to go,” I said. “Amazing Race repeat is coming on.”
“You have an addiction problem, Mace.”
“There’s nothing better than watching real people embarrassing themselves on international TV. My life was so empty before I discovered reality TV. Now, I am complete.”
“Speaking of complete, have you heard from anyone lately?”
“Have I heard from anyone lately? Erin called yesterday about my writing assignment, is that what you mean?”
“Never mind,” she said, and I imagined a smug smile on the other end, but mine was smugger.
I returned to my laptop. “Okay,” I typed in the message box, “next weekend.”
“Great!” he replied. “Friday night. I’ll be in touch.”
I put aside my laptop, assignment and messaging with Zach to settle on the sofa under a blanket. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived and genuinely feeling unwell. The board meeting overtook my thinking, and I wished it would go away so I might enjoy my day of rebellion, but that was not to be.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I WENT with the ‘green around the gills’ look for the Monday morning after the board meeting skip. Rachel laughed when she saw me, which was not the reaction I was looking for.
“You’re all green around the eyes and mouth,” she said.
“I’ve been sick all weekend,” I said. “I couldn’t make it to the board meeting on Saturday.”
“You missed a board meeting because you were sick?” she asked with a look that went from incredulous to suspicion in a second. “You’re never sick; you have the constitution of an elephant, probably because you don’t go out in winter and you hold your breath around people.”
“Rats,” I said.
“I’m no good at this.”
“Here,” she said. “Let me help you.” Rachel grabbed her handbag, pushed me through to my office and locked the door behind us. “Sit,” she ordered.
“You’ve used too much green concealer and you need more powder, much more.” She swiped my face with a tissue and eye remover then patted, pinched and poked. “Now, you never, ever wear mascara or eyeliner when you’re pretending to be sick, and go for an eye shadow that makes your eyes look redder than they are.” She stood back to inspect her handiwork. “Why aren’t you wearing lipstick?”
“I went with the bare look for today.”
“Wrong,” she said. “That’s way too obvious. You need to make it look like you tried, even though you’re really sick, so lipstick is a must.”
“You’ve done this before,” I said as she continued working with her masterpiece.
“Once or twice…but not since I’ve been working for you,” she added as an afterthought.
“What do guys do?” I asked. “Do they wear make-up after a sickie?”
“They go out on the Sunday night, get hammered, and come in with a hangover and voila, they really are sick.”
“There’s so much about life I’ve yet to learn,” I said with a sigh.
“There,” she said, standing back with admiration. “You’re good to go. It’ll be more convincing if you go home around lunchtime, as if you’ve struggled through the morning, but just can’t continue on.”
“No way,” I said. “I can’t handle being out of the loop—it’s too stressful.”
Rachel opened my office door to return to her desk. “Here comes Thomas,” she whispered. “He does not look happy.”
“Close the door,” I whispered back.
“Good morning, Thomas,” I heard Rachel say through the closed door, just before it flung open.
“Where were you?” he yelled.
“Very ill, thanks for asking. What happened?”
“Just one vote in it,” he said. “If you had been there—” He shook his head and glared, and for the first time since Saturday morning, I was glad to have endured the guilt of being absent in lieu of being a deciding voter.
“Sorry, Thomas, I just couldn’t get out of bed.”
“Well, it won’t matter too much. I’ve come up with a counter plan. As soon as you’re feeling better, I’ll fill you in. By the way, you look like shit.”
The objectionable lesson worsened as the day progressed—I could not make it in and out of the lunch room without my sickly façade prompting inquiries from people I would not talk to on a good day, and I had to respond with some meekness for plausibility. Even my boss, the CFO, dropped by my office to check on me given the rarity of a Mace-free board meeting.
I relegated the green concealer stick to a bottom drawer for a later, more legitimate use—a merlot induced skin blotching perhaps. I was ready for Tuesday and a miraculous recovery.
As penitence, I dropped by home for dinner with mother and dad and missed the next installment of Survivor Redemption Island, for as Oscar says, “Experience is one thing you can’t get for nothing.” It comes with a price and if nothing else, I am very good with self-punishment.
The visit had a secondary purpose—to check on dad as Kimba suggested, but he seemed fine and said as much although he could do with some exercise. From memory, dad has never had a waistline; he has always been a Humpty Dumpty.
Mother thought I looked unwell so I rushed for a warm shower to remove the day’s deception, and of course, looked like a new woman afterwards. I endured the ABC for a couple of hours and wondered about Survivor’s latest bootee while ignoring innumerate distress messages from Sophie. Fortunately, mother and dad are early to bed and early to rise, and I was on my way home in the dark damp by nine.
I called Sophie fourth thing after channel surfing, wine pouring, and checking for emails and messages. There was nothing from Zach and I was a little miffed as I expected more enthusiasm from one so young.
Sophie was more emotional than usual because Adam had moved out and into a serviced apartment in South Yarra. This was a first, and a sign perhaps that there might not be a Phase I again. I invited Sophie to spend the night at the townhouse since Lucinda was with her grandmother. She accepted and arrived around eleven with an overnight bag. In the meantime, I had called Erin and Amber to fill them in on latest developments, but they already knew having been on the phone with Sophie for most of the day and night while I was with mother and dad. Erin was also on her way over.
I had the merlot ready and tissues, and Erin brought ice cream, chocolate and cookies; the essentials for any crisis. All we could do was listen, pour and supply, because Sophie did not want to hear that perhaps, yes, it was all over this time. Nor did she want to hear that it would all blow over, again, or any of the other outcomes in between. It was a hopeless situation, and frustrating that one so intelligent and educated could not see clear on finding a way forward with her life with or without Adam. As I watched her excavate the cinnamon ice cream for chunks of oatmeal cookie and fudge, I was resentful, empathetic and reflective. When would the cycle finally end? Why could she not make a decision and live with it? Why did she have to take the rest of us down every time? It occurred to me then, and perhaps a little late in the scheme of things, that propping up a perpetual rag doll was enabling—it was never going to sit upright of its own accord. Then I thought of Oscar the great philosopher, who said, “What is the good of a friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means?”
“More wine?” I asked, and opened another bottle. “It’s all over this time, Sophie,” I said.
Erin stared into me with wide, disbelieving eyes. I continued. “You can’t keep doing this, going back and forth all the time, year after year after year.” I labored the last five words. “And we’re just as bad for putting up with it.”
“Mace?” asked Erin. What are you doing crazy woman?, she added with her eyes.
“Enablers,” I continued. “That’s what we are for propping you up all this time. We should have told you to sort it out years ago, but no we didn’t, because that’s what friends do—we prop each other up, but over and over again for a decade? It’s the same old issue as if nothing ever gets absorbed into that head of yours.”
“She doesn’t mean it,” Erin said to a shocked yet silent Sophie.
“I do. I absolutely mean it. Someone should have said it years ago.”
“You want someone to tell you what to do? Well here it is, Sophie…nothing is going to change between you and Adam, and I for one am sick of it. You need to file for divorce, sell that house, and buy a new one that has no history so you can start over. You don’t want to be living in a place with memories of the two of you together as a couple. Trust me, I know.”
“Mace!” Erin yelled, “What’s wrong with you?”
Sophie said nothing, but looked contemplative rather than tortured.
Attempting a diversion, Erin rushed over to my entertainment unit and flung back the white doors to reveal my cable box. “I thought so!” she shrieked. “You’ve got cable!”
I laughed. “Yes, Erin, I have cable.”
“You owe me two hundred dollars.”
“Can I pay in installments?” I asked and noticed a faint smile appear on Sophie’s lips.
“No, you cannot.”
“It’s a bit rude of you, Erin, to be thinking about money at a time like this.”
She glared at me.
“You’re right, Mace,” Sophie whispered. “I love Adam more than anything, but we just can’t seem to get it together, and probably never will as you say.” Tears welled then, but they were new tears, tears of resolution, not tears of angst and frustration.
Erin stood in the middle of the room glancing from me to Sophie repeatedly as if she was surrounded by baby-eating aliens.
“It’ll be easier for you and Adam,” I continued, “because you still love each other. You should be able to settle everything amicably. If
you hated each other then things could get nasty, or if someone had cheated, that would be even nastier.”
“I don’t want to sell the house. I love our house.”
“You have to. It must be a clean start on neutral territory, and you’ll get to love another house that is your own.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about Lucinda because your mother already takes care of her, and Adam would want to make everything as easy as possible for both of you. He’s not the least bit vindictive.”
We all sat for a while in the muted light of my living room, silent, sipping slowly on remnants of merlot and yawning. Erin’s eyes stayed firmly on me hoping to catch my attention for a word-less tongue lashing.
“I think I’ll call it a night. Thanks Mace. Thanks Erin,” Sophie said, hugging us both before retreating up the stairs to the spare bedroom.
“How long have you had cable?” Erin asked.
“A while.” I smiled.
She shook her head. “You’re unbelievable, Mace.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s not meant to be. I’ll be off,” she said. “Send through your next writing assignment when it’s done.”
“Oh, I will.”
“And don’t forget the two hundred dollars you owe me.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
I turned on the television for a late, late night movie and to finish the ice cream, which I knew would curdle in my stomach with the merlot. I would not need the green concealer stick in the morning.
Sleep was not forthcoming for I was on a high from my success counseling Sophie. I really was destined for a career in modern-day matchmaking and break ups. I was an expert thanks in part to the wisdom of my mentor, Oscar, who knows a lot about marriage. He says, “Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.”
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