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To my father
Acknowledgments
For their help and encouragement, I would like to thank:
Andrew Kennedy, Stella Kennedy-Whitaker, Rodney Whitaker, Diane Whitaker, Michael V. Carlisle, Emily Griffin, Diana Pernice Small, James Pryor, Roberto Antonetti, Rex Lagrone, Holly Lundquist, Carol O’Brian, Henry Oliva, and Mark Pogson—with special thanks to Sylvette Desmeuzes-Balland and Tomasin Seabright for their contribution to an earlier phase of this project.
I would also like to acknowledge as a source of information and inspiration the book by Sylvette Desmeuzes-Balland, Le divorce vécu par les enfants (1993 Plon Paris), from which many of the ideas about divorce in this novel are taken.
1.
Agatha Weatherby longed to be a principal player in the drama of Life, or at very least to play the lead in the story of her own life—which was not much to ask, surely. Yet at the age of thirty-nine, she felt herself still relegated to the role of loyal sidekick, wise confidante, and catalyst in the lives of other more glamorous and charismatic people, chief among them her friend Valerie Hughes.
If Agatha had failed thus far in her quest for stardom, it was not for want of trying. With that aim in mind, beginning in childhood, she had adopted the device of narrating to herself lively accounts of her daily life and viewing herself as if through hidden cameras, creating in her head a sort of perpetual slice-of-life documentary of which she was the undisputed witty and winsome protagonist.
She was engrossed in that mental exercise one September day when she arrived at the Back Bay café where she had arranged to meet Valerie for lunch. Agatha was early. That was important; she needed to prepare the setting.
Choosing a table in the bay window, she angled her chair so that she was visible both to the passersby on Newbury Street and to the other patrons of the café. By turning her head just so, she could also get a good three-quarters view of herself, reflected in the window glass. Peeking out the corners of her eyes, she surveyed her fine Roman nose and gave her head a tiny shake in order to admire the swing of her severe black Cleopatra-cut hair. Then she blew out a sigh, checked her watch, rolled her eyes, and tapped her fingernails on the table, all this broad mime of impatience for the benefit of anyone who might be watching—just in case an attractive man, for example, might have noticed her there and mistakenly supposed she had no one to lunch with. She couldn’t bear for anyone to think she was sitting there all alone without a date. And seeing her check the time might even give the man an opening for a conversation. “Is he always late?” he might ask, as a way of finding out if she had a husband, and she would feign surprise, as if she hadn’t noticed him there. She would blink and arch her eyebrows—she practiced that now in the window—then she’d correct him dryly: “She. And yes, she always is.” That would make him smile, and then he might try to charm her by saying something like—
“You’re early again,” a voice interrupted. Valerie had arrived, and in just doing so she had attracted all the attention that Agatha’s elaborate pantomime had failed to draw. She swung a shopping bag onto one empty chair and slid into the other. “Do you have any idea how bad that looks?” With two quick dips of her straight, bony shoulders, she shrugged off her jacket. “Like an old lady with nothing to do but feed cats.”
Agatha almost turned to give an exasperated look of You see what I have to put up with? to her new friend, the man—but remembered just in time that she’d made him up. Sharply, she said, “I think you mean that being late on purpose in order to make an entrance is a very sad attempt to impress. It’s a well-known fact that genuinely busy and important people are meticulously punctual.” She smiled brightly. “So what’s in the bag?”
Valerie held up a smart black jacket with a plunging neckline. “Think it’ll do the trick?”
Agatha fingered the material and frowned intently, her pique forgotten. Clothes and shopping were important matters to her; she took objects and their acquisition seriously. “Yeah. Yeah, they’ll sign. They may not be sure what they’re buying, but they’ll sign.”
Valerie gave a short laugh, and hearing the annoyance in it, Agatha added, “I mean, obviously, they’ll be impressed by your proposal, too.”
“I know they will. Because it’s brilliant. Now, come on, let’s order. I have a plane to catch tomorrow and a million things to do before that. What’ll it be? My treat.” Valerie flashed a smile at the waiter, who held out a menu to her, right on cue.
Of the two types of lunches Valerie ate, it was hard to say which was more irritating. Either she had something pretty and skimpy, one of those dishes that are 93 percent ornamental, 7 percent edible, and which she managed to eat without staring hungrily at Agatha’s more laden plate, or else she had an absurdly rich meal and tucked into course after course with the gusto that looks life-embracing and sexy only when skinny people are doing it. Somehow a heavier person packing it away never has quite the same appeal, and Agatha couldn’t eat that much without making self-conscious jokes. Not that she was fat—no, she was not fat—but she had been fat in high school until Valerie, bless her, had taken her in hand, and now the Ghost of Fatness Past seemed to hover over Agatha, threatening to reassert itself unless she remained vigilant. It was tempting to wonder whether Valerie’s slenderness might not arise from some kind of eating disorder, but Agatha didn’t think so. All she could draw from Valerie on the topic was a smug, “I just listen to my body.” Today Valerie’s body was telling her to have a small salad, and Agatha bitterly ordered the same, but the difference was that she kept sneaking glances at the passing cake trolley. Of course she wasn’t going to have any cake, but the trolley still snagged her attention each time it creaked past, causing her to lose track momentarily of their conversation.
“He wishes he were coming with me on this trip,” Valerie was saying when Agatha tuned back in after a Black Forest cake had sailed by, “but he can’t, of course. We worked so hard on this project together, it’s ridiculous that he can’t do the presentation with me. God, he’s suffocating in that marriage! He says the only time he feels alive is when he’s with me.”
Agatha snorted contemptuously.
“Oh, come on now, Agatha. Just because it didn’t work out for you doesn’t mean—”
“Don’t be naïve. Married men don’t leave their wives.”
“Of course they do. They do it every day.”
“They do not. Look at me and Howard. He was—”
“We’re not talking about Howard! God help me, will I never stop hearing about Howard? I mean, the name alone—Howard, Agatha—did that not tell you anything? I’ve had to put up with Howard stories for years, all throughout your affair and every day since, and I’ve listened because I’m such a goddamned good friend, but now you listen to me for a change. The guy was a dope, you were a dope, and that’s all there is to say about Howard. And don’t you dare compare him to Adam, because they have nothing whatsoever in common!”
“Except that they’re both married men having affairs and not leaving their wives,” Agatha finished, unruffled. “But I know it’s hard to see the bigger picture when you’re so involved. You’re too close to make out the pattern, but s
omeday you’ll see it all in perspective.”
“Oh, now that’s a relief!” Valerie struggled for a breezy tone. “I appreciate your concern for me, of course, but you’re wrong about Adam. It’s obvious you don’t know him. He’s a serious and conscientious man, not the type to leave his wife and children on a whim. I wouldn’t love him if he were.”
“Wow, is that a hoot! I have to hand it to the guy. He’s really conned you, hasn’t he? Let’s see, he’s made it so that his not leaving his wife is the reason you love him. What a master!”
“Shut up and let me finish, would you?” The breezy tone was hard to maintain, but Valerie tried again. “I know—I’m certain—that someday he and I will make a life together, but not—”
“How do you know that? Has he actually said so? In words? Ha! You see?”
“I know he’s desperately unhappy with her.”
Agatha studied her poised, queenly friend, and an amusing idea came to her, a little way of paying her back for that measly salad. “If you really believe that, Valerie, if you really think he’s so unhappy, then you’ll do him and yourself a favor and you’ll give him an ultimatum—today. ‘It’s me or her, buddy.’ Make him choose. That’s the only way to find out what’s really going on between you. And damn it, it’ll show him you still have some self-respect!”
“I have far too much respect for myself to give my lover an ultimatum. That’s just the kind of adolescent, drama-mongering idea I would expect from you. Adam just needs a little time, and I’ve got plenty. I know he’ll choose me in the end.”
“In the end, exactly! But how far off is that? When his kids are in college? You don’t have that kind of time. Or is that what you had in mind, a golden-years romance, conducted on the golf course? Or maybe you’re supposed to wait for the wife to die of natural causes? Tricky, since she’s so much younger than you.”
“Three years,” Valerie said tightly.
Agatha changed her tone from challenging to persuasive. “Think about it, Vee. This is the perfect time to do it, while you’re away on this trip.” Agatha was warming to the idea now, almost wishing she had thought of it in time to use it on old Howard. Not that it would have worked, but it would have gotten her out of that no-win situation faster. “Give Adam an ultimatum and just go! You’ll be gone for a couple of days, right? So let him sweat. For forty-eight hours. Give him a little taste of what life’s like without you. Of course”—this was the clincher, and Agatha had to stifle a laugh as she thought of it—“ it would be pretty scary for you to run a risk like that.”
“Oh, don’t be absurd.” Valerie glanced at the bill, tossed down some money, and began gathering her things.
Agatha pressed on, enjoying herself. “But if you honestly think that being with you is what he wants, you’ll muster the courage and seize this chance to find out!”
Valerie glanced at her watch, appearing not to have heard. “I’ve got to run.” As she stood up, Agatha clutched her arm. “Take the chance, Vee. Listen, why in God’s name should he ever choose between the two of you, as long as he can have you both?”
Valerie pulled herself free. “I have a lot to do this afternoon. I appreciate that you’re looking out for me, but I assure you I know Adam, and I know he loves me.” She blew Agatha a quick kiss and turned to leave.
But Agatha hadn’t quite finished. In a crude imitation of Adam’s English accent, a voice more reminiscent of a monocled colonel in India, she boomed, “You know I love you, old girl, but it’s not that simple!” Then, more loudly, after Valerie’s retreating back, “She’s my wife, gawd demmit!”
Forks froze in midair as lunchers turned at long last to look at Agatha, who, basking in their attention, demurely pretended not to notice it. She crumbled some bread and smiled to herself, feeling so gratified by the outcome of the lunch that after a moment’s thought she lifted her finger and gestured for the cake trolley.
* * *
Normally when Valerie peered out the window of a plane during takeoff, she felt a delicious sense of self-congratulation and superiority to the earthbound wretches who lived in the tiny houses below and circled boringly in their poky little cars. Clearly, all the dynamic, vital people were up here in the clouds, sipping champagne and plotting their next professional triumph. She never felt more confident than when she was on a business trip, and this was due in part to the excellence of her luggage and its contents, for she traveled blissfully unencumbered, with just one small leather bag neatly packed with good clothes and the finest toiletries. All very chic, very expensive, and very compact.
It was only when she was flying to a fresh project and the promise of another victory, feeling reassured by the quality of her luggage, that Valerie allowed herself to think about her dreary childhood, and then only as a measure of how far she had come. She and her mother had owned sacks and sacks of clothing, all of it unfashionable or ill-fitting, tight or bunchy or scratchy or missing a button, the wrong color or the wrong material. But they could never throw any of it away, because “it might be useful one day.” Valerie’s mother had had the knack of making what was actually a sufficient income feel like abject poverty, and their kind of poverty was not having too little, it was having too much—too much crap that they didn’t dare throw out because they might be grateful for it someday. Some evening, if her mother wasn’t too tired after work, she might get out her sewing machine and “do something with that skirt.” But she was usually too tired, and even when she did alterations, they were never quite right, so Valerie had to learn to dress carefully, cleverly combining and layering to conceal the defects in her clothing. From the day that her adored father walked out on them until the day Valerie left home, she and her mother lived shackled to their junk, dragging bags and boxes of useless stuff from one rented apartment to another, lugging their bulky, humiliating poverty around with them from one New England town to another until they settled near Boston in the gray suburb of Burlington when Valerie was in high school.
There she had met funny, angry Agatha, and a lifesaving friendship had sprung up between the two girls, the one funnily dressed, the other chubby, both of them outsiders because the qualities they shared—intelligence, irreverence, originality of thought—were not qualities valued in their high school. Valerie had found her salvation in saving someone else, in the form of Agatha’s Great Makeover. By dint of firm coaching and unflagging encouragement over many months, she had transformed a homely fat girl into a striking and passably slender jolie laide. And in gratitude Agatha had taken Valerie shopping for her first really good outfit, which Valerie had subsequently worn, with variations, nearly every day and hand-washed at night to keep it perfect. Yes, to own little, but of excellent quality, was what Valerie had craved all her life. And now, thank God…
But this particular trip was failing to produce the usual euphoria, in part because there was no first class on this busy intercity flight to Newark. After shifting restlessly in her seat, Valerie ordered champagne but found it tasted tinny. Clouds obscured the view, so there was nothing to look down on, and her fellow travelers seemed a particularly ill-favored bunch, all sniffling and coughing, with ugly mottled complexions. And was it her imagination or did the headrest cover feel slightly oily? Oh, ugh, could that oil be seeping into her clean, shiny hair? Like fog rolling in, a strange ickiness—no other word quite fitting the case—was settling over everything, and it was all Adam’s fault, of course. Instead of soaring free, she felt anchored to the ground by a tether that was stretching uncomfortably tight the farther she got from him. “Going the wrong way” was how it felt. Scary and dangerous, hurtling at hundreds of miles per hour in the wrong direction. What a bore. He should be by her side where he belonged, and instead he was down in one of those very suburban houses she despised, with those kids and that wife of his. One of the more galling aspects of being involved with a married man was that when you were apart, you were alone, but he was not.
Valerie’s spirits recovered a bit during the pres
entation of her project—designs for a new petrochemical factory—which went well, as expected. She was adroit and charming as always, dynamic and professional, with just a dash of sexiness she could toss in, or not, à choix, like a packet of condiments in an airplane meal. “Our best hustler,” Masterson, the boss, always called her. An old hustler himself, he valued the ability to sell over creativity, because, “What’s a good idea? I’ll tell you what a good idea is—it’s the one the guy just bought.” The client had sent a committee of three to meet Valerie, and if she got over this hurdle, there would be a meeting the next morning with their boss, more of a formality; the real test was here. The committee consisted of a tough young woman, the type who broadcast her high personal standards by being hard to please when evaluating other people’s work; a middle-aged man who didn’t say much—clearly the important one; and a youngish man whose eyes wandered ceaselessly between Valerie’s breasts and her thighs, like an unusually meticulous nomad scouring the same patch of sand over and over for the very best place to pitch his tent. Valerie was free to make these observations because she was becoming such an old hand at this business that the glib patter of her sales pitch did not require her full attention. “… creating a space ideally suited to your needs. The work areas are specifically designed in terms of the technological requirements of your enterprise, as well as the physical and psychological well-being of your staff. Our vision reflects your company image: progressive, approachable, and above all ecologically minded.” That last was the clincher; the committee’s butts shifted uneasily in their chairs, and their eyes shifted, too. Their business was anything but green, and the pretense that it was formed the cornerstone of Valerie’s argument. The tough woman kept insisting it was over budget, and Valerie responded by hammering home the green thing. The addition of the atrium was what pushed the project over budget, but the atrium was essential. “Envision it, the impact it will make on your clients. Step inside and your immediate impression is of greenery, lushness, tall trees, flowering shrubs, water splashing in the fountain—a fresh and magical place. By bringing Eden right into your factory, you are demonstrating louder than any words ever could how completely your enterprise and the forces of nature are in harmony.” Take that, ya bastards, she added to herself. The company had had complaints from local ecologists; Adam had found out about it, and the atrium was his response. “Trees,” he’d said to Valerie with a weary wave of the hand. “Fill it with trees. It’ll be a case of ‘We’re green because we say so.’” And how right he had been. The two men were sold on it, and even the woman relented with a taciturn, “Well… so long as Valvassori approves it.” The older man glanced with irritation at the younger, who was still gaping at Valerie and who happened to be his son-in-law. “We’ll see what Valvassori has to say tomorrow.” They rose and shook Valerie’s hand.
Leaving Sophie Dean Page 1