An Ex to Grind

by Jane Heller

  Back came the jerk. “You really can’t stand being without me, can you, darlin’?”

  “This is about Buster, Dan. If something were to happen to him, God forbid, you would know where to reach me, since I’m almost always at the office, but I wouldn’t know where to reach you.”

  “You’ve got my cell number.”

  “Yeah, but your cell isn’t always turned on. Or you’re not in an area where there’s a good signal. Or you leave it in a taxi.”

  “I did that exactly once,” he said defensively. “Four years ago.”

  “I’m just saying I’d like to have your schedule, in case I need to get in touch with you quickly. I know you have your familiar haunts now, spots where you hang out on a regular basis. I promise I won’t make any cracks about them or give you any lectures. I just want a list, okay?”

  “You’re not yanking my chain? This is really about Buster?”

  “Why else would I care what you do with your time?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who’s always got an angle.”

  I stood very straight, trying my best to appear upright, dignified, beyond reproach, anything but the architect of …an angle. “It’s strictly about Buster, Dan. As I said.”

  He shrugged and went into the kitchen for a pen and paper. While I waited for him to return, I took a little stroll around the living room, stopping to run my hands along the chenille fabric on the club chair. I recalled picking it out and thinking how lush and soft it was, never imagining that I wouldn’t be the one sitting on it anymore, much less owning it.

  I continued to move throughout the room, gazing with greater and greater yearning at each piece that I—okay, Dan and I—had purchased, allowing myself to dwell on the memory each evoked: the antique-brass wall sconces we’d discovered at an estate sale; the mahogany side table that had been hand-carved for us by craftsmen we’d met while vacationing in Montego Bay; the fringed Turkish rug on which we’d made love the night Dan had returned from a road trip to San Francisco.

  And then I came upon a grouping of framed photos, including one of him and me at my graduation from business school. I was positively beaming into the camera as I clutched my diploma to my chest. I had achieved my goal, but it was Dan who’d made it possible, and the expression on my face reflected both my excitement and my gratitude. He’d paid my way, taken care of me, sheltered me. I’d tried to do the same for him when he needed me, but those days were over. I was not taking care of a person whose only goal in life was to torture me. He was Desiree’s problem now, not mine.

  He came back a few minutes later with his list and handed it to me. I stuffed it into my briefcase, kissed Buster good-bye, and left.

  “Don’t do anything criminal at work,” he called out after me.

  I ignored him and walked down the hall, toward the elevator.

  “I’d hate to read about you in the business section of the Times, with all those corporate crooks and their legal hassles,” he added.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said as I hit the elevator’s Down button. “You never read the business section of the Times. The classifieds either.”

  If he had a comeback, I was too far away to hear it.

  I studied Dan’s schedule in the taxi on the way to the office. It wasn’t exactly a page-turner, but I hoped it would be useful. I tried to call Desiree from my cell phone to get her thinking about which client to send out to which of his hangouts, but the cabdriver had his radio on. A pulsating, repetitious song was playing, and I couldn’t compete with the Middle East’s equivalent of Justin Timberlake. Might as well wait for a land line, I decided.

  “Ornbacher called about fifteen minutes ago,” said Steffi as I arrived at work. She was seated at her desk with her headset on, her neatly recorded call sheet in front of her. “Do you want me to get him at his hotel? He said he’d be there a little longer.”

  “Did it sound urgent?” I said.

  “It always sounds urgent with him. Why does he have to yell at everyone?”

  I smiled. “Don’t be intimidated by him.” Despite how poised Steffi was, I had to remind myself that she was still inexperienced with clients, most of whom believed that their money entitled them to push people around. Ornbacher may have been a lecher, but he was actually pretty easy to deal with, relative to the others. “He yells because he’s got a hearing problem, that’s all,” I said. “I’ll call him in a few minutes.”

  “But—”

  “There’s something I need to deal with first.”

  She blinked in surprise.

  “I’ll call him before he leaves his hotel, Steffi. Not to worry.”

  I hurried into my office, closed the door, and dialed Desiree’s number. I was dying to get started on our “project.” I figured our conversation would be quick—just an exchange of information—leaving plenty of time for me to get back to Jed.

  “Hi. It’s Melanie checking in,” I said after Taylor put me through.

  “So soon?” she said.

  “I’m a doer,” I said. “You told me to find out Dan’s schedule? I found out his schedule.” I pulled the piece of paper out of my briefcase and spread it out on my desk. “Now, he doesn’t account for every minute of the day and night, but there are definite areas to exploit. Like the gym. He goes to Manhattan Body and Fitness on Sixty-fourth and Second on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays from ten to noon. I’ve already confirmed that they take walk-ins, so your clients can pop in there any time. On those same days, he has lunch at the Post House, the steak place on Sixty-third between Park and Madison in the Lowell Hotel. He likes to sit in the back, so he can avoid the legions of people he’s deluded himself into thinking will still recognize him. Late in the day he plays poker at his friend Ernie’s apartment at 201 East Seventy-second, which isn’t a public place, of course, but maybe your clients could—”

  “What? Pose as the UPS delivery person?”

  “Fine. Forget that one. On Wednesday afternoons he plays football in Central Park, in the North Meadow at Ninety-seventh Street. He’s there from two to five—lots of time for that special someone to stroll by and get his attention.”

  “Melanie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Dan goes to the gym, eats lunch, and plays games. I knew he wasn’t out there finding a cure for cancer, but you didn’t tell me he did nothing.”

  “Why do you think I’m trying to shed him like a bad cold?” I said.

  She sighed. “I don’t know who’s going to jump at the chance to meet him. Not my clients. Not even my really desperate ones.”

  “He does have a certain kind of charm,” I said. “Maybe when he finds the right woman, he’ll be motivated to change.”

  “Maybe, but in the meantime he’s no catch.”

  That’s why you’re getting paid the big bucks, I wanted to say. Instead I tried flattery, which is always a good motivator, I’ve learned. “You’ll find the perfect person for him, Desiree, because you’re the best matchmaker in the city.”

  “In the country,” she corrected me. “I’m opening branches in Miami and Beverly Hills as soon as I pull my financing together.”

  “The financing won’t be a problem once you get your Heart Hunting for Exes division off the ground,” I said. “You’ll make a fortune off people like me.”

  “Yeah, well right now I’ve gotta find somebody for your ex, like you said. I just don’t know which girl to put with him.”

  “I’ll go through your files with you if you want,” I said. “I know what type of woman he likes.”

  “Hey, be my guest if you’ve got the time,” she said.

  “I’ll make the time.” I checked my calendar. “How’s five-thirty tomorrow afternoon?”

  “You’re in a big hurry about this, huh?” she said.

  Just then, Steffi knocked softly on my door, opened it a crack, and stuck her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, but I took the liberty of getting Ornbacher on the phone for you. I checked my watch and thought he
might be leaving his hotel, so I placed the call. You’ll talk to him, right?”

  How could I not love Steffi? She really did anticipate my every need. I was just about to finish up with Desiree anyway.

  I mouthed to her that I’d be right with him.

  “Yes, I’m in a big hurry,” I told Desiree. “See you tomorrow.”

  She hung up. I hung up. Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and picked up the other line.

  “Jed,” I said, full of confidence. It was incredible how much better I felt about things since making the decision to hire Desiree to solve my Dan problem. It was as if the proverbial weight had been lifted off my shoulders. “I was just about to call you. What’s up?” I chuckled. “Besides the stock market, I mean.”

  “Nothing,” he boomed. I had to hold the phone away from my ear to avoid permanent damage.

  “But you called me earlier,” I reminded him.

  “I sure did, but I got hold of Bernie when I couldn’t reach you, and he already answered my question,” he said. “I told him you must have had another one of those family emergencies.”

  Okay, so I’d made a poor choice by trying to slip in a call to Desiree first. I wouldn’t make it again.

  That night I was back at the Heartbreak Hotel, sharing some wine and cheese with Patty. She’d resumed her unfortunate habit of hurling breakable objects at the picture of her ex-husband that was taped to the wall. In the interest of peace and quiet, I’d pleaded my way into her apartment and wrestled a small hurricane lamp out of her hand.

  “Have you seen the hottie who just moved into 3F?” she said, having calmed down considerably after her second glass of merlot.

  “No,” I said. “And I thought you were off men after your experience with Jason.”

  “I am, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a hunk when I see him.” She sipped more wine while I went for another helping of cheese. “This one’s very Viggo Mortensen.”

  I shrugged, drawing a blank.

  “The actor from Lord of the Rings,” she said as if I were a complete blockhead.

  I never went to the movies anymore, so the reference was lost on me. I’d been too busy working. Even as a kid I didn’t take up movies or any other activity that would qualify as a hobby. There wasn’t time. Not with debtors’ prison looming.

  “He’s got these deeply set eyes,” she said, “and wild dark hair, and a body that’s lean and mean and—”

  “Are we talking about the guy in 3F or this Viggo person?” I said.

  “Both,” said Patty. “There’s one big difference though. Viggo’s rich. The guy in 3F is hurting for cash, judging by the torn jeans and the cracked leather jacket.”

  “Dan paid thousands for his cracked leather jacket. It was Ralph Lauren.”

  “Yeah, well this guy’s not buying designer clothes any time soon. When he was moving in, he hardly had any cartons. Just a bunch of canvases.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Painter?”

  “Laid-off-book-editor-turned-painter. His name’s Evan Gillespie and he specializes in water.”

  “You mean he’s a watercolorist?”

  “No, I mean he paints oceans, rivers, streams, whatever.”

  “Don’t tell me. His wife kicked him out because his ‘art’ wasn’t paying the bills.”

  “Bingo. They just separated, and he’s camping out here until the divorce comes through and he finds a place of his own. He told me when we were down in the laundry room.”

  “He’s probably waiting for the alimony checks to start coming in.”

  She nodded. “What is it with these men? Didn’t they used to be able to support themselves, never mind us? Is there an epidemic out there? Something in the air? Some odorless, colorless toxin that renders them incapable of earning a living?”

  “My friend Nards says it’s our fault.”

  “Oh, you mean the whole bit about if we hadn’t stolen their jobs and performed as well as they did, the natural order of things would be restored? What a crock.”

  “I know. What’s wrong with us being on top?”

  “Amen to that. Who needs the missionary position?”

  “Yeah. Why should we shrink just to make them feel bigger?”

  “Some women are doing that, you know.”

  “Doing what, Patty?”

  “Having vaginal reduction surgery. To shrink, so the guy will feel bigger.”

  “I wasn’t talking about sex.” Were women really doing that? “I was talking about how men are paralyzed by our success. Look at Jason. He’s a photographer who stopped taking photographs because he couldn’t compete with you. And this Evan is probably a painter who’s—”

  “Different. I’m not interested in him, trust me, but he’s a painter who actually paints. I saw his stuff.”

  I rolled my eyes again. “Just what the world needs. Another masterpiece of a sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. Patty wiped the red wine off her mouth with the back of her hand and got up to answer it while I dove for more cheese. God, food was wonderful.

  “Who’s there?” she said, peering through the peephole.

  “Evan Gillespie from 3F,” said a male voice. “I just wanted to return the Tide you lent me in the laundry room. I bought you a new box.”

  I stood up to leave. “And they say chivalry isn’t dead.”

  “Don’t you want to meet him?” said Patty, who had already opened the door.

  There, in the threshold, was a tall, lanky, shaggy-haired man in his thirties with the aforementioned deeply set eyes, plus the jeans and the leather jacket. He had a long face and thin lips and cheekbones so prominent he looked as if he was sucking on something. Patty was right: he was striking. Dan had swept me off my feet with his golden, all-American, comic-book-hero beauty, but this guy was handsome in a darker, more subtle way.

  “Hey, sorry to barge in,” he said to Patty, ducking a little as he entered her apartment. His voice was raspy, whispery, soft. “Here’s the detergent. Much appreciated.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the Tide. “Melanie and I were having some wine and cheese. Want to join us?”

  He glanced at me and gave me a friendly smile. “I’m Evan Gillespie.”

  “Melanie Banks,” I said, walking around him so I could make my escape out the door. The last thing I needed was to get trapped having to make conversation with another bumbo. The one I was forced to make conversation with every other Monday morning was more than enough. “Welcome to the Heartbreak Hotel.”

  “Melanie’s ex-husband is Dan Swain,” Patty blurted out for a reason known only to her. Maybe she thought that dropping the name would impress Evan.

  “Traffic Dan Swain?” he said. So he was impressed.

  “Yes,” I said. “Let me guess. You’re a Giants fan.”

  “To be honest, I hate football,” he said with a shrug. “But if you live in New York, you know the city’s sports heroes. Your ex-husband was one of them.”

  “Ah, so true,” I said, hoping to avoid having to listen to Dan’s accomplishments on the gridiron, entertaining though they were. I wasn’t in the mood. I stepped closer to the door and found myself wedged between Evan and a chair. His eyes, now that I could see them up close, weren’t just dark. They looked black, thanks to pupils that were huge.

  “Sorry about what happened,” he said, surprising me by not going the highlight-reel route after all. “Tough break for him. For both of you.”

  “Are you referring to the injury or the aborted TV career?” I asked. It was always interesting to me which aspect of the Traffic Dan Swain legend people remembered.

  “I was referring to his current situation. Being a former jock with no other identity,” he said. “He’s in the newspapers now and then—when he’s at a nightclub shaking hands with fans and stuff like that. He looks pretty lost. I feel kind of sorry for him.”

  Now that was a switch. Most people would do anything to trade places
with the golden boy. “He’s living very well,” I said. “I wouldn’t get out my violin on his account.”

  “Melanie supports him,” Patty volunteered, continuing to serve as the provider of information that wasn’t hers to provide.

  “That’s a big responsibility,” Evan said, nodding at me. “You must be a very generous person to help him out like that. Especially since you’re not married to him anymore.”

  Well, now that was downright odd. He had completely misunderstood Patty. Surely, he didn’t think I was writing Dan checks because I wanted to. Surely his own wife was about to get stuck writing him checks, and it wouldn’t be because she wanted to either. Still, his eyes were kind as they took me in, his expression one of admiration. I glanced at Patty and willed her to keep her mouth shut. There was no reason to disabuse this nice man of his good opinion of me.

  “Well, I guess I’d better get moving,” I said, my hand on the doorknob now. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “What sort of work?” asked Evan.

  The sort of work that enables me to support that ex-husband you’re feeling sorry for, I thought. “I’m a financial planner at Pierce, Shelley and Steinberg.”

  “She’s a vice president,” Patty chimed in.

  “Great. I wish I could hire you, but I don’t have any investments to manage,” said Evan with a laugh.

  “That’ll change,” I said, wondering how his wife would handle the burden of making the support payments every month. I made a mental note to get her name and pass it along to Desiree. Another potential client for the new division of Desiree Klein Heart Hunting.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. “I’m certainly putting in the effort.”

  “I bet you are.” He probably had a good lawyer. They all had good lawyers, and we got stuck paying their legal bills, as if the alimony wasn’t enough.