Romance began to snuffle.
Reason said, It’s better this way, Erin, and you know it.
“Are you interested in art?” Doug asked abruptly.
“Yes, sure. I’m not an expert but I took some art history classes in college and I belong to the MFA ...”
Doug was looking at me in a way that made me cease my babbling.
“What do you think of the paintings here?” he said.
I glanced around. “I don’t know. I mean, I hadn’t really looked at them.”
“Something else more interesting to look at?” Doug said and grinned that knowing grin.
I blushed and blurted, “I think they’re for sale. It’s like a . . . like a show.”
“So, let’s look now. What about that large canvas, over there?”
Doug nodded toward the back of the room. And then he put his hand on my arm, just above my elbow and said, “Do you like it?”
The painting was okay. Doug’s touch was electric.
“Yes,” I said, a bit breathlessly.
“What do you like about it?”
Oh, Lord.
I kept my eyes straight ahead and on the painting.
“It’s ... it’s powerful.”
Do you see what’s going on here, Romance whispered excitedly.
I wish I didn’t, Reason answered darkly.
“Yes. Powerful.” Doug’s breath tickled my ear and I shivered.
He took his hand off my arm and moved away.
“We should get the check,” he said. “It’s on Trident.”
I could hardly find my voice. Doug was looking at me amusedly but steadily.
“Thanks,” I finally said. “For lunch.”
Doug smiled. “We should do it again.”
I smiled though the smile might have been goofy.
“Okay,” I said. “I mean, yes, we should. Meet for lunch. Again. Sometime.”
I hastened off to the ladies’ room, taking coat and bag with me, while Doug took care of the bill. My face was flaming and I was pretty sure it wasn’t the result of the one glass of wine I’d had with my meal.
God. I’d been so wrong, thinking Doug had brought me to Radius to end what had never really begun. The truth was that Doug Spears and I had just been on a date. I knew a date when I saw one. Even more so when I was on one.
Suddenly, powdering my nose, I was sure I couldn’t go back out there and face Doug Spears. I was utterly convinced I’d made a jackass of myself, getting all gooey when all he’d intended was ... What?
A date, Erin, Romance sang. A romantic rendezvous. The beginning of a beautiful friendship!
The beginning of trouble, Reason said darkly.
“I can’t go out there,” I said to the mirror. How was I going to handle this? What if Doug asked me if—if he could kiss me? Oh, God, did I want that to happen?
Yes. And no.
My panicked thoughts were interrupted by the ladies’ room door swinging open and a woman in a navy suit entering. She gave me the requisite ladies’ room half smile and I gave her the same. Suddenly, it occurred to me that if I stayed where I was any longer Doug would be compelled to ask a waitress to check on me.
I hurried from the ladies’ room and walked briskly toward our table, vowing to handle whatever happened next with aplomb and grace. Except ...
It was no longer our table. Two hefty Irish-American types were settling in and Doug was nowhere to be seen.
The table’s waiter saw my puzzlement.
“The gentleman is waiting outside,” he said. I did not miss the smirk.
My hopes were dashed. And I was enormously relieved. And disappointed. And ...
No decent man left his date in the restaurant alone. He waited for her, either at the table or by the bar.
I found Doug, as promised, on the sidewalk.
He stuck out his hand and mine shot forward in automatic response.
“Thanks for joining me, Erin,” he said in a perfectly neutral tone.
“Thanks for asking me,” I said, now utterly confused. Would he again mention our getting together in the future?
No. He would not.
“I’ve got some errands to run, so I’m off.”
“Okay,” I said and tried desperately to hide my disappointment.
Doug smiled a perfectly neutral smile and walked off down High Street.
I stood staring after him, feeling like the proverbial village idiot.
Not far away, I heard Reason clear its throat.
Chapter Eleven
Erin—Hola! Man and gfriend not leaving country; her family demanding immediate marriage. Sorry; you wld have liked them! Have never been so tan—you wouldn’t recognize your own mother. Stay out of the sun. Mama.
Abby had found herself a man closer to her own age than poor sixteen-year-old Pierce. The guy was a teacher at a private high school for kids with emotional problems. Delinquents. Druggies. Kids who stole Daddy’s car and wrecked it on an average of once a month.
Bob Cleary was either a saint or emotionally perturbed himself to choose such a career.
Anyway, that afternoon he and Abby had gone to a movie. Later, Bob told her he’d like to accompany her to her date with us at Flash’s. He wanted to meet her dearest girlfriends. That was nice.
But we were not impressed.
JoAnne watched Bob Cleary leave the restaurant. When he was out of sight, she leaned in.
“Is he hung?” she asked Abby in a stage-whisper. “He’s so skinny! It looks like there’s nothing there. He looks like a Ken doll, no bulge.” JoAnne considered. “Or like Gumby.”
“Maybe he tucks,” Maggie said.
“I thought only transvestites and cross-dressers tucked,” I said. Mostly for effect.
“I don’t know if he’s, er ... I don’t know what’s down there,” Abby admitted. She leaned forward, eyes wide, voice low. “He’s a virgin. He’s very religious. He’s saving himself for his wife.”
Okay, emotionally perturbed.
JoAnne hooted. “Holy crap! That proves it! He’s a pencil dick. Hung like a raisin. He has a subpenis. He’s going to lure some poor unsuspecting girl, some Born-Again-Virgin, into marriage and she’s going to be all, ooh, I found such a perfect gentleman and I don’t have to deal with ex-girlfriends or STDs, blah, blah, blah. And then, on the wedding night, big anticipation, she’s been burning up with lust, can’t wait to get into his pants. He comes out of the bathroom, she’s sitting on the bed trying to look shy, not too eager. He drops trou ... It’s all over. Right then and there, the marriage is over. Unmitigated disaster.”
“What if the girl was a real virgin?” Abby mused. “What if she doesn’t know any better?”
“She will,” JoAnne said darkly.
“Oh, come on. It’s not the size of the ship, it’s the motion of the ocean.” This from Maggie, who, as far as I knew, hadn’t had a date in at least three years. At least.
JoAnne laughed. “Oh, my God. Are you high? Are you on drugs?”
“JoAnne’s right,” I said. “That’s the biggest pity-lie ever. Of course size matters. Come on, have you ever been having sex with a guy and suddenly you realize, oh, crap, is it in? I mean, you can’t even tell! But you don’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings, you’re a nice person and all, so you decide you’d better make some noise just in case it is in. Thinking, when the guy hears the noise he’ll up the activity, so maybe you’ll feel something after all. Instead of intense boredom.”
“Wait. Back up just a minute.” JoAnne turned to Abby. “You’re not saying you’re a virgin, are you?”
“No! But, well, I just thought that if, you know, things work out with Bob, I could wait. I mean, it’s not like I can’t live without sex.”
“Got that right,” Maggie confirmed with a nod. “I’d rather live without sex than be involved with a guy who is lousy in bed. Or a guy who cheats on you.”
“Sure. Who wouldn’t,” JoAnne agreed. “But what happens if you wait until your we
dding night and discover that, A, not only is he a pencil dick, but B, he hasn’t got a clue in the sack. Huh? And how would he have a clue if he’s a virgin. What’s his experience level, jerking off to X-rated videos? Are adult virgins even allowed to do that?”
“I’ll teach him.”
“Better you than me.” Maggie.
“What if he can’t learn?” I wondered. “I mean, what if he has no natural ability. Or what if he thinks you’re a whore because you like sex and know more about it than he does. What if he equates you with the girls in his X-rated videos? What about that?”
“It’s a bad deal all around,” JoAnne confirmed. “Divorced men, fathers, virgins. Cross them all off the list. At least for a serious relationship. Virgins, no use whatsoever.”
“Add postal workers—no, wait, all federal employees. And professional athletes,” Maggie suggested. “They all cheat on their wives.”
Abby looked suddenly indignant. “That’s not true! Look at Lance Armstrong. No way he would cheat on his wife. He’s got three little children and oh, I love their names! Luke, Isabelle, and Grace. And he’s so hot! He’s always so intense and focused and he looks so ... so, ferocious when he rides!”
JoAnne grinned amusedly. “And I bet he stinks to high heaven when the race is over.”
I nodded. “Outdoor Man Smell. OMS. The worst.”
“Well, I’m sure Lance takes a shower before he has sex with Kirsten,” Abby said, somehow hurt. “Lance Armstrong is a gentleman. I can just tell.”
“I’ll say this much for him. He’s cancer’s hottest poster boy. If I were single ...”
There was a moment of stunned silence. I wanted to slink under the table.
Then: “You are single, Erin,” JoAnne said forcefully. “Get a grip. Your fantasizing about a married man doesn’t translate into your being in a relationship.”
Why had I told JoAnne about having lunch with Doug?
“It was only lunch,” I said inanely.
Abby and Maggie each gave me a strange look. The looks said: Erin is strange.
“You’re hiding from the truth, Erin,” JoAnne went on. “You’re hiding from having to build your own future. Is it really better to be someone’s sidecar than to be behind the wheel yourself?”
“Why do you have to do this to me?” I said angrily. “Why can’t you just let me live my life.”
“Because unlike someone whose name I will not mention, I love you. Now, let’s order. I’m starved.”
I asked Maggie if I could walk her to Back Bay station after dinner. I wanted to talk with her, alone.
“You don’t hate me for being interested in Doug, do you?” I said after we’d walked about a block in silence.
“No. Of course not. You’re my friend.”
“But you don’t respect me for it, do you?”
“Erin, I respect you,” Maggie answered patiently. “That doesn’t mean I have to respect or approve of every decision you make. Besides, it’s your life, not mine. Only you know what’s really in your head and heart. Only you know why you need to make a certain decision.”
“Thanks.”
There was something I’d been wanting to ask Maggie about her own life, but had hesitated to do so. It had been a long time since we’d discussed her romantic past; as far as I knew, there still was no romantic present. What I wanted to know about was Maggie’s hope for a romantic future.
“Maggie? We’re always going on about meeting someone special, getting married and all. Do you ... I mean, I know you went through some bad stuff, but it’s been a while. Do you ever think about meeting someone special? Or do you just humor us when we babble on?”
Maggie laughed softly. “Well, that was awkwardly put.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. I enjoy babbling as much as the next woman. I love being with you guys. And, yeah, sure. I think about meeting someone special. Who doesn’t?”
“Okay.”
We walked on in silence for a bit. Then, Maggie said, “I guess I just want someone to, you know, catch my drift. Like in the Alanis Morissette song.”
“You even have a drift?” I teased.
“Everyone has a drift.”
“So, what’s yours?” I asked.
Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it. I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your drift.”
“You’re just supposed to—have it?”
“Yes. You have it and you hope that someday, somewhere, someone else catches it. And, I guess, that you catch theirs back.”
“You’re really talking about Abby’s soul mate thing. Right?”
Maggie shrugged again. “Maybe. But I prefer to think in terms of drift.”
As long as we were talking openly ...
“Did you think you’d found someone who caught your drift when you married Vittorio?”
“God, I can’t imagine what I thought at the time! I mean it. That Maggie is a different person. Grad school Maggie. I was so young! I suppose I must have thought he was—okay—my soul mate. I don’t think I would have married him otherwise. But I was so shy, so stunned he was interested in me, this sexy Italian guy, I was so charmed by his stories of Italy and his accent ...”
“Ugh.”
“I know, I know.” Maggie sighed. “You live, you learn. That’s also from an Alanis song.”
“That’s also a big cliché.”
“It’s true, though, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s true.”
We walked along in silence again for a few mniutes. Then, I said, “So, what if the person who catches your drift is married to someone else. What do you do then?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “Maybe he hasn’t really caught your drift. Maybe you only think he has.”
Okay. Fair enough.
“What if your soul mate turns out to be not at all what you expected?” I said then. “How would you even recognize him? Say, you’re expecting a musician and he turns out to be a dentist.”
Maggie laughed.
“You worry too much, Erin,” she said.
Again: Fair enough.
We’d reached the Clarendon Street entrance of the station.
“Well, good night, Maggie,” I said. “Be careful.”
“You, too, Erin. Good night.”
Chapter Twelve
April, Boston
A Boston April can be a fine thing. Or not. Happily, that April was sweet and warm. The four of us met at Sonsi on Newbury Street and took a table facing the sidewalk, close to the wall of open glass doors.
Abby was the last to arrive. With a thud, she dropped a stack of magazines onto the table. The stack began to slide, allowing a quick glance at each cover. Vogue. W. Bazaar. Allure. Elle. French Vogue. Together, the magazines had to weigh ten, fifteen pounds.
Abby scrambled them together into two shorter piles and sat.
“Welcome,” JoAnne said.
“Do you actually read all those magazines every month?” Maggie asked in disbelief.
“Of course,” Abby said. “Though not every article in every issue. For example, I wear only clear nail polish so I skip articles about the newest nail polish shades though I look at the pictures so that I know what’s going on out there. I like to be informed.”
“And I thought I was being informed by watching CNN,” Maggie quipped.
“And what am I thinking reading all those medical periodicals cover to cover?” JoAnne added, wide-eyed.
“Hey, information is information,” I said. Secretly, I devoured Allure and InStyle each and every month. I knew where Abby was coming from. Except that I didn’t make it a habit to carry my magazines with me.
Abby shot a glance at a middle-aged woman who’d just passed our table.
“See that woman?” she whispered. “Her hair is far too long for her age. A woman of a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Definitely not below where her neck meets her shoulder line. And it should be worn very neat, not all wild and f
ly-away.”
“You’re ready to impose that rule?” I wondered.
“It’s just my opinion. When I’m of a certain age I’ll cut my hair.”
“What’s ‘a certain age’?” Maggie demanded. “Who determines that?”
“Well, I think it’s a little different for every woman. You know, depending on her looks—her face and figure, and her style. But I’d say the cutoff is fifty. Absolutely no long hair after fifty. That’s just too horrible.”
“You never cease to fascinate me,” Maggie said. “Where do you get this stuff? From those magazines?”
“Yes. And I just learned it, growing up. From my mother and aunts, you know. You learn the rules and the exceptions to the rules. Erin knows what I’m talking about.”
Leave me out of this, I protested silently.
“Well, knock yourself out,” Maggie said. “I can’t be bothered with the ‘rules.’ I just hope this doesn’t mean that when I’m sixty and have a gray braid hanging down my back you’re going to snub me in public. Does it?”
“Oh, of course not. But I think your hair might be too thin by then for a really nice braid.”
JoAnne groaned. “Can we please change this stupid topic?”
“It’s not stupid,” Abby protested.
“Are you from another century or something?” JoAnne asked. “Next you’ll be saying you believe a woman should hand over her rights as a citizen and all her property to the man she marries.”
“No! Of course not.” Abby considered. “But, I do believe that a husband and wife—or life partners, whoever—should share their finances.”
“I believe in keeping finances separate,” Maggie countered. “I think a woman should always be prepared to get out while she can—and have something to live on. Do you know how many women are totally screwed in divorces, even if the law ‘provides’ for them?”
“Men get screwed, too,” I said. Not because I felt great sympathy for those men—like Doug?—but I did feel they should have some representation.
Living Single Page 8
