by Jane Porter
“What do you think?” Tom asks as we’re led to our table.
“It’s cool.”
“I love it here.”
I’m not surprised. This is the ultimate in phallic power, and once seated, I realize that at least half the tables are filled with couples that are just men.
“Another drink?” Tom asks, trying to catch the eye of a server.
“No, I’m good.”
“One more won’t hurt you.”
“I don’t want to pass out.”
“You won’t pass out.”
“No, but I will be sick, and I’d hate to do that to your car.”
That’s enough to keep Tom from pushing more liquor on me.
For the next half hour we manage small talk while he has another cocktail and I try not to go mad with hunger. It’s nearly a quarter to nine by the time a food server appears to take our order, but before we can actually order anything, the waiter’s called away.
I feel like screaming. Or throwing something. I’m so hungry and tired, and have I said really, really hungry? But Tom’s oblivious. He’s happy with his drink, has launched into another discussion, this one about the best private golf courses in Monterey and Carmel, and all I can think about is food. I’m finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on anything Tom is saying.
Please just give me some bread. A little appetizer. One bite of salad. I’ll even accept a leaf of iceberg lettuce at this point.
Finally, finally, twenty minutes later, our waiter reappears with a smile. He shakes his head. “It’s always like this.” He puts his hands on his hips as he surveys us. “Have you two had a chance to look at the menu?”
We’ve had over an hour. “Yes.”
“Any questions I can answer about the menu, or Ovio?”
I’m past hungry. I’ve hit super grumpy. “Do we actually get anything to eat here?”
The waiter stops smiling, and Tom covers my hand. “Little feisty, aren’t you?” he says, squeezing my hand and laughing. Ha ha ha ha. “I think we have to feed Baby.”
I pull my hand out from beneath his, attempt to order, but Tom has a different idea. “I know the menu,” he says. “Let me handle this.”
Why the hell not, Tom? You’re doing everything else tonight.
Tom places the order, assures me I’ll like what he’s selected, and lets the pissed-off waiter escape.
“You were a little argumentative, weren’t you?” Tom says. “You have spunk. Fire. I like that.”
“I don’t think I was that unreasonable. It took him an hour to wait on us.”
“But we’re in no hurry. We’re having fun.”
I suddenly think that Tom and I are from two different galaxies, traveling through space at almost the same speed and time. “Did I embarrass you?”
“You can’t embarrass me.”
I almost believe that.
“I’m confident,” he adds. “You can probably tell.’
I can.
“But women like confident men.” Tom shakes his martini glass, dislodging the olives. “You like confident men.”
Again I’m so fascinated I can hardly speak. I have no idea where he’s going with this, and I’m dying to know what he’ll say next.
“You do,” he says, leaning across yet another table, creating yet more intimacy. “You. Like. Me.”
“I do?” I say it like a question, I mean it like a question, and yet he takes it as a statement of fact.
“You do. Because women can’t resist confident men. It’s the number one thing that turns them on.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Maybe not up here”—and he taps his forehead—”but here,” and now he taps his chest, where I assume he thinks the heart should be. As he’s tapping his chest, I notice the glint of a blue stone set in a big gold ring on his finger. It looks like a ring from his alma mater.
“You do here,” he adds, tapping his chest again. “You know it when you’ve found someone who can handle the situations life throws at you, who isn’t afraid to step up to the plate, who will always look out for you and put your needs first.”
This is getting really good. I don’t know if it’s the martini talking or he honestly believes this stuff, but I’m hanging on every word.
“I like you, Holly.”
I’m trying to keep a sober expression. “Thank you.”
“I mean it. I. Like. You.” He picks up an olive, sucks it dry, chews it. “And I like the vibe we’ve got going.”
There’s no vibe. I feel nothing but a desperate desire to escape, and yet I feel like a deer caught in headlights—I can’t make myself move.
Tom is popping another olive into his mouth. “I knew when I met you there could be something. I felt the spark, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He’s already continuing the conversation alone. I admire the energy he brings to the table.
“You’re not like most women I meet. There’s more to you. There’s”—and his hand waves. in broad circles—”a lot to you. Inside. You’re deep. If you know what I mean.”
“That’s really nice, Tom, but—”
“No buts.” He’s leaning on the table, the fire of gin in his eyes. “I’m a take-no-prisoners guy. I won’t accept anything less than unconditional surrender.”
The waiter—still in a snit—appears with our appetizers. I’m amazed they need sixty minutes to take our order and only five to prepare it.
Tom’s reaching for a miniature white corn tamale. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday. What’s going on?”
In my favorite Greek myths and fairy tales, the heroes were all the strong, silent type. Unfortunately, Tom seems to be neither. But I can’t ignore his attempt at sincerity. “We’ve an event that’s going south.”
“Why?”
“Nobody’s coming.”
“Why?”
I almost smile, my first real smile. This is funny to me. “Olivia says it’s been done to death.”
He nods, runs his tongue across his back teeth, picking out little bits of shredded chicken. “You need a new angle.” “Exactly.”
He points at me. “All you have to do is something new.”
I nearly slap the table. “Exactly.”
“You can do it, baby.”
I hate the “baby.” The “baby” needs to die. Fortunately, more food arrives, and for the next half hour we’re diverted by platters and samplers, and we eat so much that my waistband starts to cut me in half. And yet Tom really wants me to order coffee and dessert, and I do.
If only to put off what’s coming next.
I don’t want to get into his car with him. It’s not just that he’s been drinking, but I have an idea how this is going to play out, and I want no part of it.
I linger over my coffee until Tom’s paid the bill, pocketed his credit card, and climbed to his feet. He reaches for my hand and I feel as if he were inviting me to dance.
We walk arm in arm (I’m not happy about this) through the restaurant and exit onto the street.
The fog’s moved in, and as the valet attendant runs off to get Tom’s car, Tom uses the opportunity to put his arm around me.
I stiffen instinctively. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone touch me, so long since I let a man get close, and this is not the man I want close. Tom’s arm feels heavy. His touch is strange. We’re not a couple, and yet he’s moving ahead, surging forward, as if everything were already planned.
The cold, damp fog chills me, and I shiver. I don’t mean to; I don’t mean to give Tom anything at all, but Tom seizes on yet another opportunity and wraps the other arm around me, sandwiching me between his arms, against his chest.
“Cold, baby?” His voice drops, and he places a kiss on the top of my head. Ugh. And now he’s rubbing my upper arm with the palm of his hand.
I shiver again, this time repulsed.
“Poor baby.” He brings me even closer. I can smell his dinner. Feel the hair on his c
hest press through his shirt. His body is sturdy, square, and it probably isn’t horrendous naked, but I don’t want his body touching mine.
I try to pull away. He doesn’t notice. Tom just keeps rubbing my arm, back and forth, back and forth, while the word “baby” screams like a banshee in my head.
“Baby.”
I wasn’t ready for dating. I know it’s going to be a long time before I can think about making love with someone other than Jean-Marc, and even though it’s a little thing, I don’t want the cutesy nicknames, especially when they mean nothing.
Endearments shouldn’t happen on first dates. I’ve never been comfortable with endearments, but early on, when things are developing, endearments are plain wrong.
Endearments are alienating.
If a man uses an endearment too soon, he’s going to be one of those touchy-feely types. And women aren’t all that comfortable with touchy-feely men. A lot more women have intimacy issues than folks know, and an indiscriminate use of “sweetie” or “baby” is bound to have negative, and lasting, repercussions.
Tom, for example.
He was trying to do so much so right. And I’m going to give him points for trying, but the “baby” thing is playing in my head, over and over like that annoyingly cheerful kids’ song “The Wheels on the Bus” (go round and round, round and round; the wheels on the bus... ), and I know this is mean, but when Tom says “baby” and rubs my arm, my first thought, after getting rid of the wheels-on-the-bus refrain, is, Dude, you don’t know me.
But I don’t say it; I don’t know how to say anything I need. I couldn’t ask Jean-Marc why he stopped loving me, and I can’t ask Tom Lehman to stop touching me.
Instead I fixate on the use of endearments and think maybe Arnold Schwarzenegger (before the whole governor thing started) could get away with a “baby” and still seem masculine, but unless you’re built like the Terminator, or you’re Tarzan and still mastering human language, “baby” is out.
And so is “honey,” and “sweetie.” They’re icky.
If there are rules for good girls, then there should be rules for singles, and the number one rule would be no endearments outside serious, monogamous relationships. Casual endearments make the user look (a) weak, (b) desperate, and (c) cheap.
Valet pulls up with Tom’s BMW, and the uniformed kid climbs out from behind the wheel. “Nice car, isn’t it?” Tom says about his own car to the kid from valet.
The kid nods but doesn’t look as impressed as Tom probably thinks he should be.
We get in the car, and before we pull away, Tom leans over and kisses me. This is not a tentative kiss; this is big and wet and hard, right on the lips. His mouth feels funny against mine, and the hair on my nape tingles.
I try to dislodge myself, but Tom’s plunging ahead, pushing his tongue into my mouth, and my nails bite into the palms of my hands.
I don’t want the kiss, can’t imagine how he could feel one thing and I feel absolutely nothing, but I can’t say this, just as I’ve never been able to say what I really need. My eyes burn hot, a salty stinging, before I finally wrench away.
His thumb strokes my cheek. “You’re so sweet.”
I’m so not.
And then he guns the engine a little and pulls away from the curb. I’m disgusted, not with him but with me.
Tom turns the music up, cranking it all the way, and after he opens the sunroof again, he accelerates like mad.
Michael Andretti on his way home.
For a few minutes Norah or Sade or whoever she is fills the BMW with longing sound. I don’t buy CDs like this. I don’t find that this husky, throaty singing does anything for me.
Tom’s another story. His head is back against the seat; he’s driving as if all the blood in his body were rushing to his pants. I can feel the tension build. Something’s going to happen, and it’s not good.
Please just get me close to home before he makes a move. Please, God, just get me within walking distance. Please...
Tom’s hand settles on my thigh, a good six inches above my knee.
Obviously God’s not listening to me right now.
This is my fault. I married to avoid all this—married to sidestep the stuff I didn’t know how to do—and yet suddenly I’m alone again and even more vulnerable than before. How am I supposed to handle men if I don’t know how to handle myself? Or worse, if I don’t even know who the hell I am?
I’m screaming inside my head now. I don’t want to be divorced. I want to be married. I want to have kids and make pot roasts and string popcorn and cranberries for the most wonderful old-fashioned Christmas tree ever.
“I enjoyed tonight,” Tom says.
I try to make myself go numb, because hysterics are pretty much overrated and the screaming in my head doesn’t help my sense of calm or control.
And while I try to be numb, I try not to obsess about his hand, but his fingers are resting on the inside of my thigh, and they’re gently kneading the muscle—if there were muscle.
“Yes,” I say, and it’s strangled.
“You’re a lot of fun, Holly.” His hand is sliding up, his fingertips stretching.
What do I do? What do I do? I try to calm myself; I force myself to think.
Cross the legs, Holly.
Good idea. I shift, cross my legs, trapping his hand between my thighs. He doesn’t seem to have noticed. I wiggle, trying to dislodge his hand. He uses the shift of my hips to try to go in for the kill, and this time I forcibly remove his hand. There’s no point in subtlety. “I’m flattered, Tom, and as great as you are, I’m not ready for anything more than friendship.”
“But I can take care of you.” His hand lands on my thigh again, this time the other one. “You need someone like me. Someone strong, sure of himself, someone—”
“Confident,” I conclude, knowing where this is going, thinking he’s got persistence on his side, that’s for certain. I remove his hand again. “As you know, I’ve just gotten out of a serious relationship, and I’m not ready to start anything new.”
Tom takes the corner fast, and I suddenly recognize my neighborhood. We’re not far from my apartment now. Just a couple of blocks.
“Tell me about your ex,” he says. “What’s his name?”
“Jean-Marc.”
“Jean-Marc? What was he? French?”
“Yes.”
“Meet him in France?”
“No.” I don’t want to get into details, not with Tom. When I don’t say anything else, Tom looks at me quizzically. “Are you still in love with him?”
“No.”
“I think you are.”
“No.”
“You sound hung up on him.”
How would he know? I look at Tom, his face lit by the blue dashboard lights, and I wonder at his audacity, or what he calls confidence. I couldn’t ever be like him. Couldn’t force my opinions on people.
“Why didn’t it work out?” Tom persists. “Did he cheat on you?”
“No.”
“So he didn’t have an affair?”
“No.” My hands are clenched; I feel so tight and tense on the inside, I can hardly breathe.
“Most men can’t stay faithful. They’re dogs,” Tom adds helpfully.
“Are you?”
“No. I’m one of the good ones.”
God help us women.
For a moment the car is silent except for the longing and craving coming out of the stereo. Then Tom clears his throat. “What made him so special, this Jean-Luc—”
“Jean-Marc.”
“Whatever.” He pulls up in front of my house, turns to face me, waits for an answer.
I want to tell him that “whatever” is rude and that I find him incredibly boorish and that even Jean-Marc had impeccable manners. But I don’t. I hug the car door instead, fingers inching toward the lock. “I don’t know.”
“Was he gay?”
God, I hate Tom. “No.”
“You’re sure? Did you have sex
?”
That pretty much does it for me. I fling my door open, and Tom is quickly coming around his side of the car, but before his lips can get anywhere near my face again, I’m running up the front steps, waving and shouting good-bye.
Tom shoves his hands in his trouser pockets. “I’ll call you.”
The horrible thing is, I think he means it.
Chapter Six
It could have been worse. He could have been an ax murderer.
These are my waking thoughts the next morning, and perhaps they could be a little more cheerful, but I’m depressed that Tom has intruded into my morning already. I don’t want to think about him. It was bad enough he took over my Friday night. He doesn’t get Saturday.
Still lying in bed, duvet pulled firmly to my chin, I know that Tom is the reason I married in the first place. The Toms of the world scare me. I don’t understand them. I don’t know what they want from me (besides my vagina), and that’s not a prize buried in a box of Cocoa Puffs.
Rolling over, I press my face into my pillow and close my eyes and will myself to think of happier things. And not a lot comes to mind.
Waking up and knowing I’m the only one here, that even when I get out of bed I’ll still be alone, and that unless I go out for breakfast I’ll continue to be alone, depresses me almost as much as remembering my night with Tom Lehman.
This is a terrible thing to admit, very immature and antiprogressive, but I’m not great at being alone. When I’m alone, I have too many thoughts and too many feelings, and I don’t know what to do with them.
I could shop. Lots of people shop. I could exercise. Lots of people run and work out incessantly.
Or I could try to get used to being alone and to how it feels to have more thoughts and more emotions than I want.
Eating is really a lot simpler, isn’t it?
Considering my options, I decide to go out for breakfast. Eggs and coffee are cheaper than shoes and still cheaper than my favorite reasonably priced Benefit cosmetics (which I love and wear almost exclusively because the company was founded by two cool chicks in San Francisco, which means you must ignore all the bad things I say about the city’s predilection for turtlenecks and my difficulty finding parking, much less successfully parking, on steep hills), and eating out means I get company of sorts.