An Ex to Grind

by Jane Heller

“Will this cover it?” I said, sliding a twenty across the table.

  “A hundred will cover it.”

  “How’s fifty?”

  He shook his head. “A hundred bucks and I’ll squeal like a pig.”

  So I paid him his hundred. He promised to call me at the office with a full report about Dan and Rochelle the minute they left. We also agreed that, should there be future occasions where I required his assistance, he’d be available. At the same price.

  It amazed me how quickly he was willing to sell out his “loyal customer,” but such was life. As for that wad of cash, no, I wasn’t crazy about parting with it, but I cleaved to the dictum I’d learned in business school: there are times when you’ve got to spend money to make money.

  Fred checked in about three o’clock. Apparently, Dan bought Rochelle a Bloody Mary, which she barely touched. He bought her a steak, and she didn’t touch that either. Nor did she touch the baked potato with sour cream and chives, the creamed spinach with minced onions, or the cheesecake with fresh strawberries. Fred was clearly more interested in who ate what than in who liked whom.

  “She’s a ballet dancer,” I said. “She probably eats lettuce for lunch.”

  “Nope,” he said. “He bought her a salad, and she hardly touched that.”

  “Did they seem to have good chemistry?” I asked. “I mean, was there any physical contact?”

  “He had his hands on her blouse.”

  “He was pawing her in public?” I said with a mixture of excitement and revulsion.

  “Nah, he was mopping her up. She spilled the Bloody Mary on herself. It was the one sip she took, and it ended up all over her.”

  “Not very coordinated for a dancer,” I said. “Did you notice anything else?”

  “I heard her say she’d love to.”

  “Love to what, Fred?”

  “I didn’t catch that part.”

  “This is what I get for my hundred dollars? Fragments of sentences?”

  “You wanted the whole conversation, you should have paid me more. I would have put a bug under the table.”

  Later, I called Desiree to see if she’d heard from Rochelle.

  “Good news,” she clucked. “They’re going out tomorrow night.”

  “He asked her out?” I said, practically leaping out of my chair. It was late and I was the only one left in the office. My voice echoed through the empty corridors.

  “She was the one who asked him out, but a date’s a date.”

  The night of the date was a nerve-wracking one for me. As I sat on my bed with Buster on my lap, my back propped up against the fake-walnut headboard, I was fixated on whether Dan held Rochelle’s arm when they crossed the street, whether he kissed her good night when he brought her home, whether he brought her home at all and instead took her to his place.

  Or should I say our place. I sighed as I looked around my bleak, impersonal studio in the Heartbreak Hotel with its I’m-only-living-here-temporarily vibe. It was fine, sure. Not a total rat hole. It’s just that our old apartment was special. It was a home. The only one I’d ever known. Instead of facing a dark alley, it had sweeping views of the city that used to make Dan shake his head and say, “I’m definitely not in Minco anymore.” It was dated and tired when we’d bought it, but after our renovation it was spectacular. I remember standing in the threshold and thinking, This apartment will be my security. I’ll hold on tight and never let it go.

  What a fool, huh? Who would have guessed that not only would my ex get to keep it but that I’d get to pay him to keep it.

  “Well, we’ll just see about that, Buster,” I said, rubbing my face up against my dog’s. “We’re not giving up without a fight.”

  Buster snorted, jumped down from the bed, and trotted off to the tiny alcove that was my kitchen with its miniature appliances. They reminded me of the ones Weezie gave her daughter as toys, so she could “pretend cook.”

  I got up and followed my dog to make sure there was enough water in his bowl in case he was thirsty. While I was there, I decided it was time to throw out the stack of newspapers I’d allowed to pile up on the floor. I bundled them up, told Buster I’d be right back, and headed for the trash room at the end of my floor—locking myself out of the apartment in the process. As soon as I heard the door slam behind me, I realized I was in trouble. I’m serious. I was wearing only a T-shirt over my under-pants. That was it. Not exactly the appropriate attire for prancing around the building in search of the super.

  Oh, and did I mention it was 10 P.M.?

  I might as well have been stark naked the way I skulked over to Patty’s apartment, praying no one would see me.

  I rang her bell, put my mouth right up to her door and whispered, “It’s me. Melanie. Let me in, okay?”

  Nothing. I pressed my ear to the door. No target practice. Not even the hum of the TV. Patty was either out or out cold.

  Now what? I thought, sliding down onto the floor, so I could cover my tush with the T-shirt while I tried to get a handle on my predicament. I couldn’t just go knocking on my neighbors’ doors. They were all strangers. Well, except for Evan Gillespie, who was practically a stranger. What’s more, the last time he’d seen me, I’d rejected his overture to come over and look at his paintings. And then there was that piece of cheese/snot dangling from my nose, which had rendered me unappetizing as well as unfriendly.

  God, how could I possibly show up on his doorstep half-dressed and ask for his help?

  Because I had nobody else. The realization of how alone I was—not just in the hall that night, but in general—depressed me. There were a couple of colleagues at work whom I saw socially, when we made a conscious effort to clear our schedules, and there was Weezie, although she had a full life with Nards and the kids and lived an hour away in Connecticut. But no big, boisterous circle of buddies. Dan had been my best friend once, which was only natural. A husband is supposed to be your best friend, but then what happens when he falls away?

  You’re stuck in the dimly lit hallway of the Heartbreak Hotel, that’s what, wishing you could crawl into the carpet.

  I allowed myself a few more minutes of self-pity then picked myself up. I yanked on the bottom of the T-shirt, stretching it, stretching it, stretching it so that it just covered my privates. And then I padded in my bare feet and bare legs over to Apartment 3F.

  Please let him be by himself, I thought as I rang the bell. If there’s a party in progress and ten people rush out to have a look at the wacko from 3A, I’ll die.

  Just then, the door opened.

  Evan was alone, it appeared, and understandably surprised to see me. He was wearing a smock over his jeans, and it was splattered with paint. Even his finely etched face had paint splotches here and there. I must have interrupted Picasso at work.

  “Uh, hi,” I said, continuing to pull on the T-shirt. The only problem there was that, while pulling on it made it longer around my crotch, it also made it sheerer around my chest. A nowin situation.

  “Hi,” he said, looking me up and down. His expression was sort of a cross between squelching a laugh and trying to figure out what was going on. “Melanie, right?”

  “Right.” I started winding a lock of my hair around my finger and twirling it.

  He nodded, continuing to eye me. “I remember inviting you over to see my work. I just don’t remember you saying yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t come to look at paintings,” I said, utterly mortified but relieved that he was home.

  “No paintings, huh?” He checked out my state of undress again and smiled. “Then you must have liked me more than you let on.”

  I felt my face flush deeply. It had been so long since a man flirted with me, let alone ran his eyes over my body (not counting Jed Ornbacher) that I found it extremely unsettling. “I hate to bother you, but the reason I’m here is because I locked myself out of my apartment and I can’t really go asking the super for his key like this. I was wondering if you’d help me.”

/>   He crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t even try to conceal his amusement. “You want me to lend you some pants?”

  “No.”

  “A longer shirt than the one you’ve got on?”

  “No. I would appreciate it if you’d go downstairs and ask the super of this fine establishment to give you the key to my apartment.”

  “Supers don’t hand out keys to anybody who asks for them. At least, they shouldn’t.”

  “But you’re not anybody. You’re my neighbor. You could explain the situation to him.”

  I was desperate, and he could see that, so he toned down the teasing and offered his solution.

  “Come.” He motioned me inside 3F. “First you’ll call him and explain it to him yourself. And then I’ll go downstairs and get your key. It’ll all work out just fine if we do it that way.”

  “Okay.” Despite the awkwardness of the situation, I liked listening to him. Whether it was the unique cadence of his voice or the reassuring way he spoke to me, I liked it.

  He took off the smock he’d been wearing over his turtleneck and handed it to me. “Why don’t you cover yourself with this while I find the man’s number. You’re probably cold.”

  I liked that he cared if I was cold too. I thanked him and put on the smock, paint and all. While he went rummaging around in his backpack to look for the phone number, I glanced around his apartment. It was supposed to be furnished just like mine, Patty’s, and all the others, but he must have moved some pieces out because all I saw in that studio was the sofa, the coffee table, and the bed. The rest of the space was filled with art stuff—bins of brushes, piles of drawings and photographs, and canvases in various states of completion, one of which was propped up on an easel.

  Intrigued, I walked over to take a closer look.

  It was a colorful oil painting of the sea during a storm, on a Caribbean island, possibly. Along with the blues and greens and even pinks of the water and sky, there were a couple of fishing boats in the scene, their crews struggling to stay afloat. The painting was amazingly three-dimensional—as accurate and realistic as a photograph but so much more vivid. I was entranced.

  “It’s called Summer Squall,” said Evan when he came back and caught me appraising his work. “I painted it in the Bahamas last summer after I got fired. I’m just doing some touch-ups now.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “I feel as if I’m right there.”

  “Glad you weren’t. We all got soaked that day.”

  “But nobody drowned or anything?”

  “Not a soul. It was one of those five-minute thunder boomers. They have them almost every afternoon.” His dark eyes shone at the memory. Obviously, he was a man who enjoyed the outdoors. An adventurer.

  “Do you sell in galleries or is this just something to fill your time while you look for another publishing job?”

  “I’m not looking for another publishing job,” he said. “Not after I was replaced by a woman barely out of college whose only work experience was at MTV. I met her once, and she actually confused Thomas Pynchon with Monty Python.”

  “Why do you think she got your job?”

  “Because she’s the right demographic—young and female and a reader of chick lit. Haven’t you noticed that men are becoming obsolete in this society? It’s all about what women want now.”

  His speech sounded like Nards’s. “Do you really believe that? Women are doing well, but men are still running the world.”

  “For now. Meanwhile, those of us who aren’t running it are getting nudged aside. I’m lucky I have my paintings to fall back on. And yes, I do sell them—to private collectors through word of mouth. Galleries are for people who want trophy art.”

  In other words, he was talented but clueless about how to market himself. Another Dan, for God’s sake. No wonder his wife got fed up and threw him out. Still, he was awfully attractive.

  “Here’s the super’s number,” he said, passing along a business card. “Give him a call, and I’ll run down and get your key.”

  “I appreciate it.” I called the super, arranged everything, hung up. “It’s all set.”

  “Then off I go.”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled, little creases forming around his eyes. “Now that I’ve vented about how mighty women are, I think I’ll relish the thought of rescuing a damsel in distress.”

  As he headed out the door, it occurred to me that no one had ever referred to me as a damsel in distress. I was Melanie Banks. I was accomplished. I was empowered. I had always fended for myself. I wasn’t in the habit of being rescued. What I didn’t expect, as I watched Evan go out the door, was that it felt kind of nice to be rescued for a change, to depend on someone else to do the heavy lifting.

  I’ll have Steffi send him one of those delicious fruit baskets to show my gratitude, I thought. Since he’s a bumbo, he’ll be thrilled with some free food. Of course, as soon as his ex starts sending the checks, he won’t be the starving artist anymore. He’ll probably move to the Bahamas and buy a place right on the water—with her money.

  I sighed, sank onto his sofa, and resumed my obsessing about my ex’s date with the ballerina/Web designer. It was nearly eleven now. Maybe they had already gone back to Dan’s and were making out on my old living room sofa right that very minute. Maybe they were getting so carried away with each other that Rochelle would be powerless in the face of her lust, blow off Desiree’s third-date rule, and decide to sleep with him after all.

  I allowed myself a smile. If they did spend the night together, that would only leave eighty-nine nights to go.

  Chapter

  11

  Evan returned with the key and insisted on walking me back to my apartment. After all that gallantry, I figured that the least I could do was invite him in for a minute. He’d been very decent, and while my focus was on Dan and whether he was or wasn’t having a good time with Rochelle that night, I wasn’t completely without manners.

  “I’d love to, but I’ve got the painting to finish up,” he said.

  “It’s almost midnight,” I said. “Do you always work so late?”

  I laughed when I heard myself. Like I didn’t work late nearly every night of the week?

  “I told you, painting’s my passion,” he said. “My wife would give you an earful on that subject. She’s a successful real estate agent, and even she keeps more reasonable hours.”

  I bet she’d give me an earful, I thought, picturing a woman at the end of her rope after enduring her husband’s layoff, his affair with his paintbrush, and his financial dependence on her. “Patty told me you’re recently separated,” I said.

  “True,” he said. “Kaitlin and I are hammering out the details of the divorce now, but I have a feeling it’ll go smoothly.”

  Yeah, smoothly from your perspective. You’ll get everything while Kaitlin, the one with the misfortune of having the bank account, will get zilch. “And then I guess you’ll be moving out of the Heartbreak Hotel?”

  “That’s the plan. But then I don’t see you staying here forever, Melanie.” His eyes locked onto mine with such intensity that I had to look away. Yeah, he was cute, but so what? They were all cute and look what good it did anybody?

  “Right you are,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m hammering out a plan of my own. It should have me out of here in a little over three months.”

  “Maybe you’ll tell me about it sometime.”

  “Maybe. Anyhow, thanks again for the help with the key.”

  He bowed at the waist. “Just being a good neighbor.”

  “I owe you one.”

  “I’ll remember that. The next time I lock myself out of my place, I’ll come knocking.”

  “And I’ll try to be fully dressed for the occasion.”

  I looked down at myself and realized I was still wearing Evan’s smock. I started to whip it over my head so I could give it back to him, but as I did, the T-shirt that was und
erneath it stuck to it—we’re talking about major static cling—so that I nearly whipped them both off at the same time. What I’m saying is that I flashed the guy. In one extremely ungraceful move, I managed to expose both my tits and my ass. I’d never been so thoroughly embarrassed in my life. Normally, I was a buttoned-up type, cloaked in my armor of business suits, the last woman in the world to go around showing skin. Now Evan had seen my skin.

  “Gotta go,” I said, practically slamming the door in his face, then opening it a crack, passing him the smock, and slamming it again.

  “I’ve seen breasts before, Melanie,” he whispered out in the hall, “and they’re nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “You haven’t seen mine before!” I called back. “And I wouldn’t count on ever seeing them again!”

  There was a chuckle, then footsteps, then he was gone.

  “They went to a Knicks game,” said Desiree. It was the next day, about one-thirty in the afternoon, and she was only just getting back to me after I’d called her office three times.

  “And?” I said.

  “Rochelle raved about the seats. They were right down in front, where all the big shots sit.”

  “I know all about those seats,” I said. “They’re season tickets and guess who paid for them.”

  “Well, she was impressed.”

  “Was she impressed with Dan too?” Oh, please God.

  “She said he was a lot of fun. Easygoing, quick with the jokes, knowledgeable about the game. Oh, and he made sure to introduce her whenever somebody came over to talk to him.”

  “What a guy. How did it go after the game? Did they stop somewhere for a nightcap? Or did they just head back to her place?”

  “She wishes. He put her in a cab, gave the driver a twenty, and sent her home by herself.”

  “No!” I was crushed. We were 0 for 2.

  “He told her he had a headache.”

  “That’s what Advil’s for. Why didn’t she drag him over to a drugstore and buy him some?”

  “He said it was a migraine.”

  “Dan doesn’t get migraines, Desiree. He was ditching your client.” Weezie and Nards had promised that Desiree Klein was a matchmaking genius. So far, I wasn’t seeing evidence of that.