by Dan Begley
“Mitch, let me ask you something.” She rubs her hands on her jeans, a little uneasy, like she’s not so sure about what she’s about to do. “Does the name Edward Lewis ring a bell?”
“Not at all.”
She gives me a small smile. “Actually, I’d be kind of worried if it did. It’s Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman. You’ve seen it, right?”
“Yep.” And I want to add “unfortunately,” but I realize just in time that it’s her favorite movie.
“Remember what Edward does?”
I think for a minute about the scenes I actually remember. “Punches out the guy from Seinfeld?”
“Way before that. What he does to get the whole movie going.”
“Uh… hires a prostitute to pose as his girlfriend.”
“Exactly.” She pauses to let me make the connection.
“You want me to hire a prostitute to pose as Bradley?”
She just stares at me. “You’re so clueless sometimes.” She puts a hand on her hip and does something I think is supposed to be a hooker pose, but Marie doesn’t have much of an inner hooker, so it looks more like she threw her back out. “I was thinking maybe someone closer to home.”
“Ah… that close to home.”
I believe I’ve found my cousin. And a kissing cousin at that.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I know a lot about New York City, since I watch TV and I’ve been to the movies, and it’s the setting for basically every other TV show and movie ever made (except Shrek; I think that was upstate New York). Even so, I wasn’t prepared for this. Just from the limo (that’s right, limo!) ride from LaGuardia to our hotel in Midtown, past the Chrysler Building and Grand Central Terminal and St. Patrick’s Cathedral and MoMA, it’s better than I ever expected.
I have three goals for tonight. First, dinner. We go to a place called Reuben’s (yep, it’s where they invented the sandwich) and it’s great. Second, I want to take a dry run to the place where we’ll be meeting tomorrow, Michael’s, to make sure we know how to get there and how long it’ll take. So we swing by. And last—touristy, stupid, I know—we go skating at Rockefeller Center. It’d be great if they still had the Christmas tree up, but it’s still just fun to be out there knowing you’re not on a pond in the middle of the woods, you’re in a city, and if you want to walk across the street to Saks in your skates, you can. Marie spends most of her time sipping hot cocoa, while I do some laps to burn off nervous energy.
Back at the hotel, I take a shower, and when I come out of the bathroom, I expect to see her sprawled on the bed, cozy and comfortable, doing her nails or combing out her hair or lying on her side, modeling a satin teddy or leopard print v-string that she had time to buy at Hermès when she slipped away at the restaurant and pretended to use the bathroom, since she is, after all, pulling a Julia Roberts for the weekend. Instead, she’s sitting on the bed, not so cozy or comfortable, in a flannel shirt and sweatpants that are definitely not lingerie, with her knees pulled up to her chest.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did I miss something?”
“Uh-uh,” she mumbles. She’s staring over her knees, at a spot on the bed.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Right. Nothing. That’s why you look like someone just died.” I lay myself across the bed, next to her. “What is it?”
She pulls her arms tighter around her shins. “You’ll think I’m a baby.”
I rub the small of her back. “I already do. Baby.” Cheesy and silly, but that’s how I feel. “Now tell me.”
She does a little rocking thing like an upset child might. “I was just thinking about tomorrow. I’m not good at this kind of thing.”
“What, lying? It’s easy, once you start. Just ask Jason.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
But she can’t even work up a smile. “I’ll be walking in there pretending I’m someone I’m not, that I did something I didn’t do.” She picks at the hem of her pants. “I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get the words out.”
“Then don’t. I’ll tell them you have laryngitis. Wave for hi, thumbs-up for thank you, wave again for goodbye. Hell, I’ll even tell them you have the bird flu. They won’t want you in there any longer than you have to be. How’s that?”
But she just buries her head deeper against her knees.
“Marie, listen, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s my book. I wrote every single word, so it’s not like I’m stealing it from anyone or claiming something is mine when it isn’t. I’m just using a pseudonym.” I’ve already told her all about O. Henry and Mark Twain and George Eliot and she seemed to get it. “Besides, they don’t care if my shoe wrote it. They like it, they want to publish it. No one’s getting hurt here.”
I give her a moment to come around, but she doesn’t. Then I hear little noises. Sniffling noises. “Hey, are you crying?”
“No,” she says thickly. She wipes her eyes and sniffles.
“Jesus, I had no idea this had you so worked up.”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I thought I’d be okay with it. But I keep thinking about how it’ll be, me trying to laugh and smile and act like this is one of the happiest days of my life.” She gives her nose a sloppy wipe on the top of her knee. “I can’t explain why it bothers me so much, you seeing me lie like that, even though you know why I’m doing it. But it just… it just makes me feel like such a… fake.”
I put my arms around her, and as she just sort of collapses into me, I know what this means: I’ll never have to worry about her being dishonest, or cheating on me, or deceiving me in any way (the only downside being that I’ll never get one of those grand surprise parties for my birthday, since pulling off one of those requires at least a small measure of trickery; but it’s a small price to pay, all things considered). She’s too genuine and honest, and ever since the first night in the bar when she found a way to tell me I was handsome, to this day she’s never given a hint that she’s capable of anything less than the truth. Not till I needed a flesh-and-blood Cousin Bradley and she got roped into this mess. She’s not like my mother or father, capable of hanging on to a secret for years, and she’s especially, especially not like me. Or Jason.
That’s when I realize I’m fucked.
Back when I was still with Hannah, we played a “would you rather?” game called Zobmondo one night with some of her friends. It’s a pretty crude game, with questions like, “Would you rather get a paper cut on your eye, or have a toothpick shoved underneath your fingernail?” or “Would you rather eat a bowl of live crickets or a tarantula’s legs?” But some of the non-gross-out questions were actually provocative, and one that really heated things up was, “If your significant other had a fling on a business trip, and there were no repercussions—pregnancy, stalking, ongoing relationship—would you rather know or not know?” Here’s what I said that night: Yes, I’d want to know so that I could have the opportunity to address the deficiencies in the relationship that caused her to cheat, and try to fix them. But here’s what I was thinking: Hell, yeah, I’d want to know, so I could either dump her or have a get-even lay of my own.
But if I played that game today, with Marie as my cheating significant other, I’d have a different answer. No. Don’t tell me. Keep your trap shut. Because if I ever found out she’d done that, loved another guy that way, once I had that image blistering in my brain, I’d be forced to break up with her. Or live with it. And either way, I wouldn’t be able to eat or sleep or breathe, which means I’d probably croak, quick. So the best option would be never to know. And if she has a twinge of guilt, that’s fine—she should—let her go to a priest or rabbi or Rosie and spill the whole affair and get it all off her chest, cry a river of tears if need be, but don’t tell me. Let me play the oblivious fool till the day I die.
But I can’t do that to her.
I get up from the bed. “I slept with Katharine.”
The way I say it, apropos of nothing, I can tell she doesn’t know who I’m talking about—Katharine who?—then she does, and then she’s grasping at the other part—that I slept with her—and then she’s trying to put the two together: that Mitch, her fiancé, slept with Katharine Longwell.
“The day we ran into Hannah and you found out who I really was. I flew to Chicago that night and we talked about my book and had dinner and slept together.”
There’s a mighty relief in saying it, finally getting it off my chest, and it’s clear now that we could’ve never started a life together, not an honest one, without my telling her. But keep this in mind about getting something off your chest: once it leaves there, it goes somewhere else. In this case, that’s Marie, and all she keeps hearing is, “I slept with Katharine, I slept with Katharine.” I’m losing her fast.
“Marie, please, listen to me. I saw that look on your face in the mall, when you told me never to touch you again. I panicked. I did something stupid and cowardly and horrible, and I’m so sorry, and it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done. But you need to know, I only did it because I thought we were over.”
Silence. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, no tears, no words. She just sits there. It’s haunting, really. And it’s beginning to dawn on me that when she finally does come around, there’s no way we’ll be able to work through this tonight, or sleep in the same bed or room or hotel. One of us has to go. I need to go. But I’m not going to make the same mistake I did the first time; I’m going to say what I need to say.
“I did an awful thing, Marie. I know that. But I love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
She says just the sort of thing that you’d expect in a situation like this: nothing.
I slip into my clothes and don’t bother to comb my hair or grab any toiletries, and I barely remember my wallet and don’t even try to get my watch, because it’s on the nightstand on her side, and the whole time I don’t look her way, don’t say a word, and best as I can tell she still hasn’t moved. Only when I have my jacket on and I’m standing in front of the door do I hear something from her, which sounds like her clearing her throat, and I allow myself to turn her way.
“Why now?” she asks. She’s still on the bed, still with her arms wrapped around her legs, and I can tell she wants to be strong and furious, but her voice is twisted-up and whispery. “Why did you tell me now?”
I think I know the answer. Because I wanted to give you the power to crush me, because I’ve done something to crush you. But I don’t say that. I stare as long as I can bear it into those beautiful, terrible eyes.
“I thought you deserved to know.”
And then I go.
I’m out on the street and it’s after ten, and the voices that visited me the day after Thanksgiving to tell me it was over with Marie show up again, now in Dolby surround sound. And I don’t suppose it’d be too hard in New York City to find something—or someone—to take my mind off everything for a while. But of course, that’s what got me into trouble in the first place, so this time I hit the mute button, unplug the system, toss the whole thing into the sewer. I find another hotel, which costs a fortune. I zone out in front of TV and keep my cell phone on, in case she calls, but she doesn’t. Nor does she call the next morning, but I don’t panic. She didn’t want to come anyway, even before I dropped the bomb on her, so I put on last night’s clothes and head for the meeting, reminding myself that I did everything I possibly could last night to let her know how I feel. I’ll handle this. We’ll get through this. I won’t do anything stupid. (That is, other than telling her I slept with Katharine in the first place.)
I get to Michael’s right at noon, and I’m led past modern art and chrome chairs and numbered booths filled with people who look like they’re someones to a larger, airy room with lots of windows and a garden out back. Katharine is already at the table, in a violet cashmere sweater with her hair pulled back, and she looks even better than last time, if possible. (Of course, I also saw her naked last time, so this clothed version is competing with that version and doing funny things to my head.) Brent’s hair is longer, blonder, and he’s swapped the brown leather blazer for black. Susannah reminds me of Judi Dench: short cropped gray hair, sparkly blue eyes, stylish pantsuit. They all look great. The man who doesn’t look so great, at least compared to the trés chic trio, is Sheldon Leifer, publisher at Regency House. He’s bald and has grizzled whiskers and a wrinkled forehead, and he’s the kind of guy that if he were a dog, once he got a stick in his mouth, you’d never get it back. We shake hands and I take a seat next to Katharine.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I say.
Sheldon waves it off. “No problem, Mitch. We just walked in ourselves. We were about to order drinks. What can I get you?”
“A soda would be fine.”
“Come on, kid. Your cousin’s getting a book published. We’re tossing around a few mazel tovs, celebrating. Now, what can I get you?”
“I guess I’ll have a glass of wine.”
“Good man.” He turns to the others. “How about I order a bottle of the Martelet de Cherisey?”
Katharine, Susannah, and Brent nod. It’s obvious Sheldon is used to getting nods. He signals to the waiter, who practically trips over himself to get right over.
Katharine lays a hand on my shoulder and leans in. “And when will Bradley be joining us?” she says in a low voice.
I try to keep a pleasant face. “She wasn’t feeling so well this morning.”
“Which means she’s running late?”
“Well… maybe worse.”
“How much worse?”
I shake my head. “To be honest, I don’t think she’ll be able to make it.”
“What do you mean she won’t be able to make it?” It comes out a little like a hiss. “Mitch, it’s the one thing I asked you.”
“I’m sorry, Katharine. This was out of my control.”
She gives me a hard stare, and Brent, who has obviously picked up on her tone and body language, gives me one too. Susannah frowns.
Sheldon glances over. “Katharine, dear, is there a problem?”
She adjusts one of her bracelets. “Um, well, perhaps. We might have an author who’s ill this morning.”
“But she’s coming.”
She readjusts the same bracelet. “Well, that’s just it… she may not be able to make it.”
Sheldon looks at me like I’m to blame, though he knows I’m not, though I am. But I’m not telling. “That’s not good,” he says in a way I find menacing.
“It’s really no problem. Sir. I can do whatever needs doing. I’ve been handling it all along.”
He gives one of those chuckles that lets you know he’s the opposite of amused. “Hey, kid, that may all be well and good, but I need to meet with the author. Capiche? And since that ain’t you, I’m starting to think that maybe we can all have a pleasant drink together, a good chat, but in the end we’re just wasting our time.”
I can tell that they’re all upset with me. But what if she really were sick? Would that be my fault?
Sheldon gives Katharine a look. “I thought we had an arrangement here,” he says, his voice steely.
Katharine swallows, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she’s at a loss for words. It’s her chance to throw me under the bus. “I’m sorry, Sheldon.”
Everything is crashing down in front of my eyes: I’ve embarrassed Katharine in front of a high-profile publisher, Sheldon may bust my kneecaps, even Brent has turned against me. Susannah doesn’t even know me and already hates me. The fallout from this will be enormous, and the sound of contracts being shredded pierces my brain.
“Hello. Sorry I’m late.” We all turn to the voice. Marie.
I just sit there, mute as my fork, but Katharine practically leaps from her seat.
“Bradley!” she trills.
Marie doesn’t nod, doesn’t say yes, but she does manage a smile, which, in
this situation, is all she needs to do.
Katharine gives her a quick hug, then introduces her to everyone. She takes the chair next to me, avoiding my gaze.
Sheldon gives her a look over the top of his glasses. “Sweetheart, you just saved your cousin here from getting the old heave-ho out to the sidewalk,” he says, and they all laugh.
The wine has come out and everyone’s smiling now, even Marie, though I’m not sure what’s plastered on my face. It must be okay, whatever it is, since no one has pointed at me to say, “Oh my god, look at him!”
“First, my compliments on the book,” says Katharine. She lays her hand on Marie’s, and I can only imagine how this makes Marie feel. “You did a wonderful job.” Sheldon echoes the sentiment, as do Susannah and Brent, all of their faces considerably thawed since Marie’s arrival.
Marie bows her head. “Thank you. And thanks, all of you, for bringing this about. But as I’m sure Mitch explained, I’m not one for the spotlight. I just wanted to stop in and say hi and thank everyone, because I knew that was important to you, Mr. Leifer. But I really must be going.”
Sheldon looks disappointed. “Stay. Chat. Order some food. I have this beautiful bottle of wine, I’ll order a second.”
“That’s very nice. But if I could be on my way, please, I’d be very grateful.”
“Then as you wish, my dear. I’ll make this brief.”
Sheldon picks up his wineglass—“A toast,” he says—and we all follow suit, except Marie. She picks up her water goblet.
“Bad luck to toast with water, darling,” Sheldon remarks.
“I’m sorry. This is the best I can do right now.”
“Then good enough,” he says. He holds his glass higher. “To Bradley. Welcome to the Regency family. May your time with us be healthy and prosperous.”
“Here here,” we all chime in.
Marie barely takes a swig of her water and puts it down. “And now, if you’ll excuse me. I assume Mitch can handle everything from here.” She stands up and pushes her chair in. “Again, thank you for all you’ve done.”