by Emily Giffin
Tad returns with my glass of chardonnay and two menus. He asks if we’d like to hear the specials.
“Sure,” we say in unison, and then listen as Tad rattles off the longest and most detailed shrimp bisque description in the history of the world. Ben always hated food adjectives—particularly the words moist and chewy. Cookie commercials presented a problem for him. I tell myself, No more thinking about Ben! I peruse the menu, trying to find something that’s not too messy to eat. I decide on the seared-tuna salad. Richard goes with the pressed burger. I like the burger-wine combo.
“So read anything good lately?” Richard asks.
“You mean generally—or are you talking manuscripts?” I ask.
“Either,” he says.
I reel off a few titles in the first category—and a couple of projects in the second.
“What else can you tell me?” Richard says after Tad takes our order and trots off. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m the one who scheduled our little “business” lunch.
I take a sip of wine and say, “As far as work goes?” My mind races to various bits of gossip in the business generally. Just as I’m about to ask him if he’s heard the rumors that the mystery writer Jennifer Coats is unhappy with her editor at Putnam, and is shopping her new manuscript around, Richard shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Or whatever.” His whatever signals that this is most definitely not a business lunch.
I consider my response carefully, feeling as if I have just arrived at a fork in the road. Like the kind in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books I loved so much in elementary school. I could easily discuss the Jennifer Coats rumor or turn the conversation back to Amy Dickerson’s Today Show booking.
Instead, I hold up my left hand, wiggle my ring finger, and blurt out, “I got a divorce.”
Richard looks surprised, and I hope that he’s not going to play dumb and pretend that he knew nothing of my recent news. Then again, maybe he’s just surprised that I’m sharing it with him so readily. I’m a little surprised myself.
Richard tugs on his earlobe and says, “I heard. I’m sorry.”
I consider saying, “That’s okay,” but I’ve always hated when people respond that way after a death or any sad event in life. After all, it’s not really okay. So I say, “Thanks. It happens.”
Richard nods as he swirls the wine in his glass. He takes a long swallow, then says, “Half the time from what I hear.”
“Yup,” I say. “Odds you’ve never played, right?”
The first personal-question card has officially been played.
Richard laughs. “You got that right.”
“Ever come close?” I ask.
Second.
“Sure.”
“How close?”
Third.
“Not that close, actually.”
Richard gives someone across the room a quick salute. I consider turning around to see who it is, but don’t want to appear as caught red-handed as I feel.
As if Richard knows what I’m thinking, he says, “Jason Saul.”
I give him a puzzled look and he says, “Little fellow in marketing? With the soul patch?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “It’s actually a goatee. Not a soul patch.”
“What’s the difference?”
I describe the difference, pointing to my chin. Richard nods, looking enlightened. I am reminded of my favorite facial hair story. Years ago, Michael was in a moustache-growing contest with another guy at work. Michael was badly losing, and to demonstrate his point over lunch, he nodded toward a girl named Sally whom he actually had a minor crush on and said, “Even Sally would kick my ass.” He was trying to be funny, but unfortunately, Sally was a dark-haired Italian and one of those girls who waxes her upper lip. Sally was horrified and humiliated, as was Michael when he realized his slip. I tell Richard the story now, and he laughs.
“Is Sally still around?” Richard asks.
“No. She left a short time later. Guess she was traumatized.”
Richard nods, and then says, “So where were we?”
“Why you never married?” I say.
Fourth.
“When I meet someone I like being with more than I like being alone,” he says, “I’ll marry her.”
I laugh and tell him that had been, more or less, my philosophy when I met Ben.
“So, what? You figured out late in the game that you still preferred your own company to his?”
Fifth.
“Not exactly…Just…irreconcilable differences.”
Richard pauses, as if considering a follow-up. Then he stops himself and gives Tad a signal that he’d like another glass of wine.
I decide to just tell him. “I didn’t want kids. He did.”
Maybe I should get a T-shirt made. Most divorces aren’t so neatly summarized.
“Shouldn’t you have covered that one while you were in the courting stage?” Richard asks gently.
“We did. He reneged on our deal. Now he wants them. Or at least one. One more than I want.”
“Bastard.”
I laugh. I like the sound of Richard calling Ben a bastard.
Tad returns with Richard’s wine. So here we are, I think, having multiple glasses of wine at lunch as we discuss my divorce and his perpetual bachelorhood. And maybe he’s thinking the same thing, because the floodgates open and we are firing off the personal questions too quickly to keep track of them.
At one point I say, “So, I hear that you and Hannigan had me on your lists?”
“And I hear that I’ve topped yours for thirteen years.”
I say, “That Michael is a gossipy little girl.”
“So it’s true, then?”
My heart races as I tell him yeah, it’s true.
“I’m honored,” he says.
“You should be,” I say.
He leans across the table and taps the base of my wineglass. “And believe me, I am.”
I work hard at not averting my eyes before I lean back across the table and tap the base of his wineglass. “So am I.”
We finish our lunch, talking and laughing. Then, at Tad’s chipper suggestion, we agree that a cup of coffee sounds like a fine idea. When the check arrives, Richard gets it, saying he’ll expense it.
“Since we talked so much shop?” I say.
“Righto,” Richard says.
I smile, feeling both relaxed and excited, the mark of a good date. Which this is shaping up to be. And although I don’t recognize it until later that day, after Richard and I have strolled back to the office together and I’ve hunkered down to read a revised manuscript, it is the first time in a very long time that I am thinking about a man other than Ben.
Thirteen
Over the next four workdays, Richard and I exchange about thirty e-mails a day. It’s all disguised as friendly banter, but the sheer volume of traffic suggests otherwise.
At one point, when Michael comes into my office, he catches me laughing at the computer. He darts around my desk, and takes instant note of my in-box filled with Richard Margo’s name. There are at least ten in a row.
“Busted,” he says.
“Whatever,” I say, but my goofy grin suggests that I am, indeed, busted.
“What the fuck’s going on here?”
I minimize my in-box and work hard at ridding my face of the guilty smile I can still feel straining at the corners of my mouth.
“Are you schtupping my boss?”
“No,” I say with pretend indignation.
Ding! My e-mail notifier rings loudly.
“Is it from him?” Michael demands.
I can’t resist checking. It is. Which Michael sees over my shoulder.
“Holy shit. You’re so schtupping my boss!”
“There’s no schtupping going on,” I say.
Yet.
“Now. Can I have some privacy, please?” I say.
When Michael leaves, shaking his head, I read the latest from Richard.
; I type back, “Yes.” Then backspace and type, “Would love to” before clicking send.
I reread the entire exchange, beginning with another one of his weak attempts at a legitimate business purpose.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 9:30 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Timothy Lynde
Timothy Lynde just rang. He’s interested in paying to take himself on the road for a book tour. I think it’s worth it. Any ideas on what markets might work best for him? Let me know what you think…By the way, did I tell you I had a nice time at lunch the other day? Thanks for joining me.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 9:33 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: Timothy Lynde
I’ll think about cities and touch base with Tim. He’s a Mormon so Salt Lake’s probably a safe bet…As for lunch, yes, you mentioned that…I had a lovely time, too.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 9:38 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Mormons
A Mormon, huh? I went out with a Mormon once…It didn’t go so well.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 9:44 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: Mormons
Did she try to convert you?
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 9:50 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Re: Mormons
No, I slept with her and she was excommunicated…It wasn’t good.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 9:55 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: Mormons
Shame on you. When did this happen?
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 9:58 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: I’m old
High school. The ’70s…What are you, Class of 2000?
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 10:00 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: And you’re funny, too
Ha ha.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 10:03 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: You
I bet you were cute in high school.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 10:08 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Nope
I so wasn’t. I was spectacularly lame.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 10:08 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Re: Nope
I bet I was lamer.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 10:10 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: Nope
You were corrupting hot Mormon chicks. I was student body treasurer. Top that.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 10:19 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Re: Nope
Well, I was the school mascot… and who said she was hot?
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 10:25 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Yeah, right
Something tells me that she was hot.
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 10:26 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: I was a stud
Okay. I wasn’t really the school mascot. And she actually was pretty hot. A dead ringer for Marcia Brady. Which, at the time, was a big deal. Have I impressed you yet?
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 10:44 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: I was a stud
Man, you are ancient. Yes, I’m impressed…My boyfriend was more like Screech on Saved by the Bell…
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 10:49 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Still a stud
I know the show, but you lost me on Screech?…I was a big X-Files fan, though. Wasn’t that during your high school days?
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 11:01 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: Re: Still a stud
Don’t tell me—you had a crush on Scully, right?
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 11:09 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Re: Still a stud
Ah, Scully. Yes, I did have a crush on her…You actually sort of look like her. All you need is a navy suit and one of those FBI badges pinned on you and you’d be set to go. Can you spout off medical jargon on cue? If so, I might fall in love with you.
From: Claudia Parr
Sent: July 27, 11:22 A.M.
To: Richard Margo
Subject: This do the trick?
White male, 38. Stress lesions along the superior vena cava, anterior left lung and bronchi…Code Blue! He’s bradying down! We need a pericardiocentesis stat!
Are you in love with me yet?
From: Richard Margo
Sent: July 27, 11:23 A.M.
To: Claudia Parr
Subject: Sure did
Totally am. Want to have dinner Saturday night?
On Saturday Daphne comes into the city to go shopping with Jess and me. Our mission: date wear to impress Richard. Jess guarantees that a new outfit will give me all the confidence I need to make the evening a success. I hope she’s right, because ever since I agreed to the date, I’ve been feeling more nervous than excited. I’m nervous about dating again generally, and I’m nervous about dating someone from work. Compounding my anxiety is the fact that Richard and I have not talked face-to-face since our lunch at Bolo. We haven’t even spoken on the phone. I recognize that e-mail allows you to be much bolder than you truly feel inside. Part of me worries that it’s the cyberspace equivalent of having sex too quickly and then having to face your guy the next morning, sober and without makeup. Richard and I have said an awful lot of flirtatious things over the computer, but sitting across the table from him is a different matter altogether, and anticipating the first moment in the restaurant makes me nothing short of queasy.
So Jess, Daphne, and I start out bright and early on our shopping spree. We hit Intermix on lower Fifth first as it is only a few blocks from Jess’s apartment. The dance music blaring through the store is a pretty good indication that the clothes are too trendy for me. I don’t do clubs anymore, and I’m over having to yell to be heard at a bar—so certainly the same applies when I’m shopping.
I shout this sentiment to Jess, but she holds up her hand to signal that she’s not ready to leave. I watch her whip expertly through a rack of clothing, finding a funky pair of white pants, a paisley silk halter, and a fuchsia shrug. They are items that I would never pick up on my own—as an ensemble or even individually—but Jess has an amazing sense of style. She also has a knack for pairing garments you would never imagine going together to create a completely original look. Of course, having gobs of money helps in that department. She can afford a lot, but she can also afford the inevitable mistakes all women make when shopping. Who doesn’t know the phenomenon of loving something in a dressing room and hating it at home? If I buy something I don’t end up wearing, I berate myself for months, but at any given moment, Jess has a dozen designer rejects still hanging in her closet, worn once, if at all. The great tragedy of our friendship, at least from my perspective, is the fact that we don’t wear the same size. I would especially kill to make my feet grow one inch and fit into Jess’s rainbow of Jimmy Choos.
Still, despite trusting Jess in matters of fashion, I am skeptical of her selections now. “That’s so not me,” I say, pointing to the halter she is holding up against my torso. I glance at the white pants in her other hand. “And there’s no time to get those hemmed.” Pants off the rack never work when you’re only five four.
“Daphne can do a make
shift job. Right, Daph?” Jess asks.
Daphne nods eagerly. She is a whiz on the domestic front. She knows how to do little things, like fold egg whites, get red wine stains out of garments, or arrange flowers. I don’t know where she picked most of the stuff up. It certainly wasn’t from our mother, who has trouble lining up the seams of pants on a hanger. Not that I can talk. Hanging pants was one of the things Ben always did for me. Before I lived with him, most of my wardrobe could be found draped over the backs of various chairs. Which is exactly where they’ve returned.
“Just try them.” Jess points to the dressing room again, with authority. I obey her instruction, thinking to myself that when she does have kids, she’ll be the rare mother who gives teeth to the concept of time-out.
“A total waste of time,” I mumble, but it’s doubtful that she can hear me over the pulsing remix of George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” I am reminded of the time Jess went out with colleagues for a little karaoke and picked this tune. Talk about bold—taking the stage to a song that, as a grand finale, has you screaming the words Have sex with me! over and over again to a room full of drunken bankers. Par for the course for Jess.
A moment later, I emerge from the dressing room, thinking for sure that I’ve proven my point. The pants look and feel baggy, which is shocking because they’re a size six, and I’m usually an eight. Then again, I know I’ve lost some weight since my divorce—at least ten pounds, maybe more. I was just telling Jess last night that there are two kinds of women—those who eat in a crisis and those who lose their appetite in a crisis. Most fall into the chowhound crowd, so I consider myself blessed to be in the second camp.
“Those are incredible,” Jess says. “Whether you wear them tonight or not, they’re a definite yes.”
“Aren’t they too big?” I ask, tugging at the waist and checking my reflection in the mirror.
Jess slaps away my hand and explains that they’re supposed to hang low, on my hips. “Besides, you can’t go tight with white pants. You’ll look ghetto. Tight black pants are one thing, but tight white pants are so…Britney Spears,” Jess says to push Daphne’s buttons.
It’s sort of a contradiction to her traditional, homemaker side, but Daphne is one of those full-grown women who loves all things cheesy and adolescent. She has the complete DVD box set of Dawson’s Creek. She still keeps stuffed animals on the window seat in her bedroom. She also orders those glittery tank tops from the back of Us Weekly that say things like DIVA IN TRAINING. So obviously, Daphne’s a Britney fan. At one point, Daphne went so far as to see her teen idol perform out on Rockefeller Plaza on The Today Show. She was one of the only women in her late twenties, rocking out without a preteen in her company. The funny thing was, a couple of kids in her fifth-grade class spotted her on television the morning before school and seemed to be profoundly impacted by the sight of their teacher singing along to “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I told Daphne it would be like watching your teacher dance on Soul Train or Solid Gold. Impressive, but a little bit unsettling. Teachers, after all, were supposed to freeze in their classrooms at night while we went home and had a life.