The Idea of Him

by Holly Peterson

  I watched Wade wave to people and check his e-mails on his phone ferociously, oblivious to every thought going on in my head and every feeling pounding in my heart. Life is so hard to wrestle down: we think we’re making the best decisions and then a confluence of events takes place and we don’t know whether we made the wrong decision or stuff happened out of our control that turned “good” decisions into “bad” ones.

  Growing up, from that time on the lake that late summer day, through the plane crash to my twenties, I thought James and I would end up together. How could we not? Through that billowing snow when the rescue workers pulled him out and he gripped my hand on the tarmac later, I never thought on any level we’d let go. And then something just happened. Life flung him overseas just as I wanted to set my feet on the ground. I wanted stability. I wanted kids. I wanted to be with someone who would replace all I’d lost.

  When I was twenty-five, I’d thought this man beside me would give me the life that was taken from me, that he would replace my father’s electric sparkle that had been so violently extinguished in the crash. James wasn’t that person, but he was my best friend and soul mate. How would life have turned out if I’d married my soul mate rather than the New York thrill ride next to me? Probably easier, more settled; I’d have felt more secure, more loved, sure of myself. If that’s what I wanted and needed, why did I push that away and replace it with this Wade who was such a struggle to pin down?

  Looking at Wade now, trying to sharpen my understanding of him, trying to remember how fun he was, how good with the kids—trying desperately to salvage those feelings I had and to justify the life path I chose—I couldn’t help but remain in shock he wasn’t looking at me just now. He didn’t get it. Was that electric sparkle ever once in our marriage focused on me the way I needed?

  Or was he another New York media type in this room: a man fueled by a toxic combination of self-aggrandizement and self-loathing?

  “So, Madame Crawford, let’s start with you,” Georges said, ever the loyal servant, while bossing his patrons around. “You’ll break my heart if you don’t try the sea bass.”

  “As you wish.” I couldn’t bear an argument.

  “Excellent choice. And you, Mr. Crawford?”

  My eyes wandered around the room while Wade teased Georges about his ridiculously high margins. “Don’t rob me with your usual prices because I want a baked potato with onions and broccoli on top. Enough of your fancy-ass food. I’m not in the mood today.”

  Georges said, “We’ll give you our version of onions and melted cheese: caramelized shallots with some mascarpone. I’ve got an idea for that mascarpone. I’m going to serve you the best glass of wine we have open. Free. That should harm my margins more than a measly potato! I’ll fetch Mr. O’Malley, the real wine expert around here. He’s always got great ideas of pairings that . . .”

  “That’s okay,” I said, clutching Georges’s arm. “We don’t need wine. Just an iced tea for me, please.”

  “Allie, don’t be rude,” Wade scolded. “Thank you, Georges, we would love to talk to him.”

  “Very well, Mr. Crawford,” Georges said as he moved my hand from his arm and strode off to the next table. I started the Lamaze breathing that I’d learned, but never used, during childbirth. It didn’t work this time either.

  Wade smiled at me and said through his gritted teeth, “Look, as I was saying, when we get through this period and I’m firmly in charge of Meter, it’s very important we appear united. Once the magazine is on a steady path, I want to really talk about us, and how we find a way forward—even if that means, well . . .”

  “I’m not sure I do know, Wade.” I wondered if he’d say the word split, but at that moment I spied Tommy halfway across the room, which seemed like a far larger problem just then.

  My entire torso became as damp as my palms already were. I decided to quickly scoot out to the ladies’ room before Tommy could reach our table. In doing so, I jerked the table and knocked my water glass onto the banquette. With no other recourse but to hide in plain sight, I let my hair fall over my face as I pretended to wipe up the liquid beading up on the velvet bench with my napkin, prompting Tommy to come to my aide.

  This was not happening, I told myself.

  “Allie, for God’s sake. Let Tommy handle the mess; it’s only water.”

  Wade knew his name? What kind of crazy three-way did we have going on here?

  I persisted in my charade, pulling all my hair over the top of my head on the left side to obstruct my face. There are a lot of Allies in the world. Leaning lower, my head was now in a position that looked like I was delivering oral sex.

  “May I take that from you?” Tommy asked, reaching his hand into the space between Wade and me. I surrendered, shook my head, and looked him straight in the eye.

  Tommy narrowed his eyes at me in an obvious and deliberate fashion, but he didn’t flinch. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed to be helping me and putting on a brave, tough face, or so surprised he didn’t know how to feel.

  “May I recommend a wine, Madame,” he said, leveling his gaze right on me.

  “I, um, don’t think I drink in the middle of the day,” was all I could muster.

  “Well, then, Mr. Crawford, would you care for a glass of red or white? I believe Georges wanted . . .”

  “Tom,” Wade answered. “I’ll have what we had when we brought the Estée Lauder people here last week, the one, you remember, with the light, I think you said, cranberry and licorice mélange of some kind?”

  “The 1996 Domaine Armand Rousseau Chambertin?”

  “Yes, just the thing. And just one glass; my wife will stick with her iced tea. Thanks.”

  “Your wife?” Now Tommy turned slightly ashen, his tough-guy veneer crumbling. “I, uh, hadn’t . . .”

  “Ah, I guess you never met her. Allie Crawford, Tommy O’Malley.”

  “Allie Crawford. Never met your wife before.”

  “I’m Allie Braden,” I offered, like a token of peace. “I, uh, use Braden professionally, I uh . . .”

  “Since when?” asked Wade, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

  “I do,” I shot back.

  “Not at your job you don’t. What other profession do you have?”

  “I mean, sometimes when I meet . . .” My voice just trailed off.

  “So, Domaine Armand. Very well, sir.” Tommy turned neatly on his heel and strode away from the table, trying hard to act unfazed. I was highly fazed.

  Wade grabbed my elbow in a viselike grip. “Allie,” he grin-whispered. “I don’t care if you’re already switching to your maiden name. I get it.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” My face was burning now. Never a mention of divorce and yet here we were, practically discussing the terms.

  “I want to know every single goddamn thing about your relationship with Max Rowland.”

  Wade’s face was glistening with the exertion of lying to me. “I have to go wash my hands.” Clearly his shark-infested waters were more dangerous than even I had understood.

  As Wade worked his way through the room and to the stairs, I was not one bit surprised when Jackie’s friend from the bar in the tight dress slung her bag over her shoulder and sashayed down the stairs right in front of my husband. It was a good ten minutes before either of them returned.

  30

  Rare Moment of Maturity

  I exited the Tudor Room, jacket half on, scarf trailing behind me and catching in my heels, as if I were running for my life. Wade had left a few minutes ahead of me, sexy redhead with the severe blunt cut now on his coattails. I’d thought about surreptitiously following them to their lair, but I decided that at this point in my life, I simply couldn’t control who Wade was screwing or where. I ran around the corner full speed for no apparent reason, full of regret at the way I’d treated Tommy, full of angst over why I’d married Wade in the first place. I rested against a telephone pole and considered throwing up Georges’s $48 sea bass into
a trash can in the middle of the day in Midtown Manhattan.

  Just then, Jackie tapped my arm with her forefinger. “I saw the whole thing go down. I was dying. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Oh, Jesus. It was awful, Jackie. I like Tommy so much, and I swear almost nothing has gone on yet between us. I wanted to write with him, help him with his script as he’s helped me with mine. I don’t know, having a partner of some kind while I do work that scares me to death. He’s never cared about my husband, but now I’m sure he does.”

  “Can I give you some advice?” she offered, her mere twenty-five years of life experience only emboldening her further. “Because it looks like you need a little.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Affairs aren’t for pussies.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, amazed she’d pegged me so well.

  “Believe me, I know. Remember affairs are a dark and dirty game, only for the toughest of the tough.”

  “But you told me to just screw anyone like you do,” I reminded her.

  She looked down. “I’m pretty sure you don’t roll like that. I’m getting to know you a little. You get hooked and then you let them reel you in.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” I answered sternly. “It’s just a screenplay thing.”

  That lame explanation fell flat, and she rolled her eyes at me. “C’mon, there’s a false bottom underneath every affair that’s designed to give way just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom. If you only think you can handle it, you definitely can’t.”

  I was feeling like I’d hit rock bottom, and I hadn’t even officially started the affair. I told her, “He just came over to our table out of the blue; it’s not like I’m going to be destroyed. I’m not even . . .”

  “Thing is, you look like you do care, a lot. Just beware.” She smiled. “Affairs are like gambling is all I’m saying. You have to fold the split second you’re ahead. You’ll want that one more pull of the lever. One more spin of the wheel. The jackpot of all jackpot turn-ons might be just one little turn around one more little corner and your obsession will take over all the reasoning powers you have.”

  I was surprised by her astute advice, but Jackie was right: just when I got hooked on Tommy O’Malley with the magic tongue, the ground gave way, and all the confidence I’d artificially gained from his affections went tumbling after.

  My cell phone rang.

  “What the fuck, Allie Crawford?”

  Long pause. I looked at Jackie and mouthed, Tommy, and pointed to the phone. She caressed my shoulder, turned, and sped back into the restaurant.

  “You sound mad,” I replied, trying not to sound weak or too upset. “And if you’re mad, that’s just not fair, and I’m not going to take any shit from you and we’re done, if that’s your position.” I was distraught, and I didn’t even remotely mean what I said. It was all false bluster on my part and hardly his fault we’d bumped into each other.

  “You think I sound mad? Allie Braden? I googled you and nothing came up.”

  “My husband is not part of the deal, you said so yourself. We agreed never to discuss him.” I paused. No answer on the other end. “I get that you’re a little shocked, but if you’re pissed, that’s not fair. You kept details about your life from me too.”

  There was silence on the line. I felt uncomfortable having this conversation over the bleating of horns and screech of brakes, but there was no stopping it now.

  Tommy finally answered, a controlled calm in his voice. “You told me your husband works in the magazine business. You come off like a normal woman, working at a PR firm of some kind, party planning, like no big deal.”

  “I don’t have a big-deal job. I told you the truth about all that.”

  He sighed. “There’s a difference between giving me the barest outline of things and telling me the real deal.”

  “Stop being like that,” I countered. “We’re in an undefined relationship. You specifically told me not to bore you with my real life. You never wanted to know who he was or what he did. That’s what you do when an affair is on the horizon—you ignore the real world.”

  “You do know that if we were having an affair we would actually be fucking, right? And besides, there’s a difference between nondisclosure and deception, Allie Braden, or should I say Crawford.” His voice seemed less angry, a little hurt, even. “Look, we talk about everything. He’s not just some guy, you know. I happen to serve him his pinot noir three days a week. If I’m banging his wife, or close to it, I’d like to know that so I can either spit in the pinot or get someone else to serve him.”

  I spun on my heel. With Tommy still at the restaurant, maybe I could patch things up a little in person.

  “You’re right,” I answered quietly.

  “And so what if I’m good at saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Big Swinging Dick Wade Crawford. Yes, that candied black raspberry aroma with a little smoky kick you enjoyed with your Chilean sea bass last week? It was the 1994 . . .’ That doesn’t merit a whole explanation, Allie. It isn’t a deception because I didn’t tell you exactly which restaurants I consult for.”

  “It wasn’t a deception on my part either,” I said. “It was discretion. Big difference.”

  “Right. Discretion. Potato, potahto.”

  Let’s call the whole thing off? Was that what he was saying?

  I went on. “You’re right. We both kept things from each other. For reasons only each of us might understand that the other doesn’t. Can we just accept that and not play guessing games that lead to God knows where or try to nail each other on some point just for the sake of it? Can we please just move forward?”

  Silence. He was considering my proposal, one that shocked even me in its maturity, especially in my current whacked-out state of mind.

  “I have to think about all this,” he said after a few moments.

  Maybe the Wade Crawford news was a game changer. Maybe Tommy was intimidated by Wade’s success. Or maybe Tommy didn’t like that he actually knew the husband in the flesh. That does, I suppose, make a difference. I felt sick inside. I debated whether to tell him so.

  “I feel sick inside,” I said.

  “Me too,” he answered gently.

  I stayed silent. Listened to him breathe. Affairs aren’t for pussies, I recalled Jackie saying.

  After a long pause, I asked him, “If we both feel sick, maybe we should consider for a minute how unusual it is that we feel this bonded in so short a time.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, what now?”

  “I don’t know, Allie. I just don’t. We have to reconsider.”

  “Okay. Look. Can we talk tonight? I’ve got to get back to work.” Of course I didn’t want to be the one who called. I wanted him to call me and say, “This was all so silly.” No reason to stop the fun now, and we had script work to do. “You’ve been so generous with my writing, I do want to return the favor. It’s your turn, you know.”

  “Sure. I’ll text you.”

  As I slipped the phone into my pocket and crossed Fifty-Fourth Street, the wind whipped up the side of the building and practically threw me against the person next to me. Two strides back, no wind; here a virtual tornado. I kept my eyes closed, praying that Tommy wouldn’t run for the hills.

  THAT NIGHT AT six P.M., my phone pinged and I saw his number texting me. I leaped for the phone.

  It read:

  WE R DONE.

  31

  Life in Boxes

  Something very base took hold of me during this time, and I felt its pulse slamming against a deep cavern inside: the fear of being alone.

  I’d wake up in a lonely and desperate box, clouded with a fog of insecurity. In that box, it wasn’t only self-doubt that enveloped the walls around me; it was a total inability to see that I could pull myself away from the mess I’d become.

  That alone fear had the power to make me irrational. It convinced me I’d chosen door number two when I should have chosen door number
one; so when I woke at four A.M., I’d plot every way to get James back on this side of the Atlantic. Or, when James didn’t fill that hole, I would seek someone else to. I’d sit at my desk sitting on my hands not to text Tommy to ask for a second chance, feeling so adamant that his adorable everything would just plain save me. Save me from what exactly? Why did I need to fill the hole with another man the second I considered purging myself of my husband?

  Sometimes, mercifully, that alone fear wouldn’t ride me so hard. I would then say to myself that I could survive with the kids on my own; Wade would simply get a little studio down the block and have fun with whichever naked woman he wanted on his kitchen counters there. Oh, the glory of no lying husband in my house! He’d live nearby! We’d get along! I wouldn’t care about his photo assistant girl or his Jackie dalliance and their perfectly toned arms! Life would be like a permanent spa vacation in Tahiti with no husband and no male-servicing duties.

  I’d walk around the city and feel all neat and packaged up in the strong, confident, I-can-do-this box, perhaps channeling Jackie more than I thought I could. I don’t need anyone. I’m not a total mess. But that bravado would be fleeting . . .

  To get through this, I told myself most women contemplating divorce for real must react like I did. It was okay to give in to both feelings—to experience the momentary highs of independence and the fears of soul-wrenching loneliness. So what if I was strong 10 percent of the time and fearful the other 90 percent? If I felt tough all the time and ignored the painful part of my reality, then my supposed strength would be no more than a mere brittle façade. That’s the self-help speech I gave myself anyway.

  Three mornings after the breakup text from Tommy and after seventy-two hours of dark glum inability to see how I would ever feel that 10 percent of strength again, I experienced the physics of rebound.