Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “We’re not judging you,” Abby insisted. “Really. We’re just worried.”

  “And expressing our concern,” Maggie added.

  “Right. Erin, none of us is perfect. We’ve all made mistakes and ...”

  “It’s not a mistake, JoAnne,” I insisted. “It’s not. I know Doug. I know what I’m doing. If you can’t be happy for me, then ...”

  “Then we’ll keep our mouths shut,” Maggie said firmly, with a stern look at JoAnne and Abby. “Now, let’s order. I’m starved.”

  “Thanks, Maggie. I’ll be just fine. I will.”

  JoAnne patted my hand. “Of course you will. Now, let’s see. A bottle of wine?”

  At least.

  “So,” Abby said brightly, “when do we get to meet this person?”

  Okay. Here was something I hadn’t considered yet.

  JoAnne laughed. “Abby, you don’t meet your friend’s married lover. It’s a secret fling, remember?”

  “Doug might want to meet my friends,” I said, knowing as I spoke that he would not. Why would he? To get to know me better by meeting others I loved. Yes, that was a good reason, but ...

  “Why would he want to meet us?” Maggie said. “He’s got to suspect your friends don’t approve of him. No woman can approve of a cheater.”

  “Please don’t be so judgmental,” I begged. “He’s not a bad person. Would I be involved with a bad person?”

  Silence. Then: “Honey, again, we’ve all made mistakes.”

  “Oh, God,” I cried, “I should have just kept my mouth shut about the whole thing.”

  The rest of the evening was tainted with—sadness. My being with Doug had somehow driven a wedge between me and each of my friends. It had set me apart from them in a more definite way than any “legitimate” relationship would have.

  In the midst of chatting friends, diners, and passersby, I felt terribly, terribly alone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  August, Boston

  August in Boston is brutal. End of the discussion. Okay, it’s not as bad as, say, Charleston, South Carolina, where the temperature doesn’t fall below one hundred degrees until well after dark.

  But I don’t live in Charleston, I live here, in Boston. And to me, August in Boston is horrid.

  Maggie had invited us all over to see her pictures from Paris. As Maggie does not have a reputation for being a good photographer—and the fact that she has no air conditioner, only a loud, cheap-o fan—I, for one, was not really looking forward to the event.

  The things we do for our friends.

  At the last minute, Abby had called to cancel; she claimed a sore throat but I wondered. So the three of us sat around Maggie’s comfortable but shabby living room. I chose the floor. I thought I’d seen something move in the corner of the couch.

  “Lights, please,” Maggie cried.

  JoAnne turned off the lamp next to her chair.

  With very few exceptions, slide shows are notoriously boring, whether in a classroom or in a living room. Maggie’s was not one of the exceptions. After thirty unprofessional, unfocused, and slightly blurry shots of landmarks and pigeons, I was ready to explode.

  “Maggie?” I said. “How come there are no pictures of people?”

  “There’s one of me,” Maggie protested.

  “Yeah, of your left elbow. I mean, why aren’t there any pictures of your face? And of—what’s the name of the friend who went with you?”

  “Colleague. I told you, she’s a colleague, not really a friend. Dr.—Bruce. That’s her name. Don’t wear it out!” Maggie chuckled lamely.

  JoAnne gave me a look. It said: Maggie is one odd chick.

  “Well, did you two get along?” she asked Maggie

  “Fine. Yeah. I mean, we got along okay. You know.”

  Well, I for one did not know. But ...

  “Nice shot of the Eiffel Tower,” I lied.

  “Thanks. I’m really proud of that one.”

  The evening went on in much the same manner through four hundred bad slides, very bad wine, a slightly moldy tub of onion dip, a box of stale crackers, and the ineffectual whir of a fan.

  The things we do for our friends.

  When sex was not an option—for example, when someone else was staying late at Trident or when Doug had a commitment at home in Newton—we kissed. Doug and I spent a lot of time kissing, often in the backseat of cabs, sometimes in movie theaters, between the stacks in the big public library, once even behind a grimy old stone pillar in a ratty little church.

  When Doug and I kissed it was—well, like nothing I’d ever experienced. Physically, a kiss is pretty much a kiss, and the act of kissing has a limited range of possibilities. It wasn’t as if Doug had invented a hitherto impossible way in which to curl his tongue or anything. What was so different and overwhelming about our kissing was the emotional force in it, the psychological force behind it, in short, the sense that I was annihilating Doug and that he was annihilating me, destroying each other because we had to, each giving permission to the other for obliteration.

  Well, that falls short of accurately describing what went on when our lips and tongues met. And at the time I kept this kind of intimate information to myself. Partly, because I was afraid of JoAnne’s mockery—“Annihilation? Obliteration? Oh, yeah. Sounds real appealing, honey. Ever think of trying your hand at writing romance novels? The S&M kind?”—and of Abby’s concern—“Erin, um, maybe you should talk to a therapist about this—kissing. It doesn’t sound very, well, healthy.”—and of Maggie’s keen questioning—“How do you know what Doug’s thinking while he’s kissing you? Have you discussed this obliteration thing with him?”

  And mostly because I wanted to keep such information to myself, treasure it, gloat over it in secret, like Gollum gloated over his Precious.

  “I’ve got the kevorka.”

  “What?” Maggie said.

  JoAnne threw her bag onto the table and plopped into the empty chair.

  The four of us had met for dinner at M. J. O’Connor’s, an Irish pub.

  “The lure of the animal,” I explained.

  “Again: What?”

  “Oh, never mind,” JoAnne said, waving her hand.

  “Who’s been following you today?” I asked.

  “Every man over the age of fifty-five has been pawing at me with his eyes since I left my house this morning. I’m not safe on the streets, I swear. Is that bartender looking at me?”

  “Thank goodness your patients are children,” Abby said.

  “Some of them have older fathers,” JoAnne said darkly. “Don’t get me started on Mr. Price.”

  “Again, for the second time: Explain kevorka.”

  “It’s a thing from Seinfeld,” I said.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  While JoAnne regaled Abby and Maggie with details of her kevorkian day, I thought about my own little theory of initial attraction. Not the kind that involves individual personality and character, not the kind that occurs during a first conversation, but the kind that takes place instantly, upon first sight, while passing on the street.

  I believe that there are two basic elements that catch a man’s fancy, that rivet his attention. These two elements are Mystery and Movement. Sometimes they exist together. Personally, I’ve always found they work best on their own. No point in muddying the powerful effect of either by mixing up their signals.

  Alternately, Mystery might be called Sensuality and Movement might be called Sexuality. More accurately, the promise of each.

  Generally speaking—always a dangerous thing, I know, and not necessarily true in my own case—a young woman’s strength is Movement, aka sexuality. A mature woman’s strength is Mystery, aka sensuality.

  Here’s an example from my own wardrobe. I own a dark brown faux fur hat; it frames my face in a Romantic way. My own father calls it my Anna Karenina hat. Every time I wear this hat, men of a particular sort stare, stumble, smile, blurt gen
tlemanly greetings. It’s a magic hat. It evokes Mystery. In that hat, I become a Mysterious Woman. Perhaps I have suffered the loss of a great love. I am alluringly tragic. I offer the promise of Sensuality.

  Also from my wardrobe: A beige suede jacket with lots and lots of fringe. Fringe swings. It dances. It moves with my every move. When I wear that jacket, an entirely different sort of man stares, stumbles, smiles, blurts greetings—and whistles. The jacket is magic. It displays Movement. In that jacket I become a Wild Woman. Maybe I’ve had rock star lovers. I am teasingly dangerous. I offer the promise of Sexuality.

  As I mentioned, at the age of thirty-two I am right on the cusp, still able to pull off the fringe suede jacket with heartening results, also able to compel with the hat that suggests I have endured a tragic love affair and yet am still able to love selflessly. How long I’ll be able to pull off the jacket is yet to be seen.

  I tuned back into JoAnne’s lengthy tale. Abby’s mouth hung open. Maggie was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

  “I was daydreaming,” I said. “What did I miss?”

  “Just the guy who fell off his bike because he didn’t see a hole in the road because he was gaping at me.”

  “Oh.”

  I looked carefully at JoAnne, at her clothes and at the details of her hair and ...

  “It’s the lipstick,” I said. Sensuality. The promise of sex with a real-life tragic heroine. “Definitely the lipstick. Is it new?”

  “Yeah, I just picked it up. It’s some new brand, part of a retro line, you know, you put together a makeup look from the forties.”

  “What’s it called?”

  JoAnne shrugged and dug into her bag. A moment later she pulled out a black tube.

  “It’s called ‘Rita Hayworth Red.’ Are you sure it’s the lipstick?” JoAnne asked. “Not my all-over irresistible feminine allure?”

  “That helps. But trust me, I know these things. It’s the lipstick.”

  “That lipstick is dangerous to society,” Abby said.

  “The society of men, anyway. Tell Erin about the guy who stopped in the middle of the street and then the light turned and all the cars were honking and he was still staring after you.”

  “You just did.” JoAnne eyed the black tube warily. “That guy had to be at least seventy. Maybe I’d better save this for a special occasion.”

  “Maybe you’d better throw it away,” I suggested. “If you have any heart.”

  “Forget it. I don’t. I’ll save it for those days when my feminine ego needs a little boost. Now, let’s eat. I’m starved.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  E—still regaining strength but Jorges is helping my recovery. txs for money. you didn’t tell yr father did you? Mother

  Where does one have sex with one’s lover if A, one’s lover is married; B, one’s lover won’t come to one’s perfectly lovely home; and C, one is opposed to checking into sleazy one-hour, no-tell motels?

  Answer: One has sex wherever one can.

  We fooled around in Doug’s office, after hours, of course. We fooled around—to what extent we could—in the dark of a movie theater’s back row, at the last showing, of course. We made out—what an embarrassing teenage term—in a nightclub called Mercury, where we were by far the oldest couple in the place. After our second visit, I declared Mercury off-limits. I’d heard a snicker on our way out. A snicker from a twenty-something with the flattest stomach I’d ever seen. I thought very bad thoughts about her.

  And because it was August and the weather hot and humid but not altogether unpleasant, we found ourselves—involved—in the great outdoors.

  Yes, even once in an alley in the Leather District somewhere near South Station. There was definitely something thrilling about doing it against an old brick wall in the dark of night. It had the prostitute fantasy-thing about it—but ultimately, that fantasy could not survive the monstrously huge rat I saw scoot over Doug’s shoe. That was the end of the alleys.

  Sex with Doug Spears was great. But the occasional excursion was fun, too. And romantic. It made me feel, for a brief time, as if we were a real couple. An everyday-world couple.

  One day Doug and I skipped out of work and treated ourselves to a day in the North End.

  “You know,” I said, as we walked along Hanover Street, “I never even considered playing hooky when I was a kid. Never. Besides, if I had played hooky the guilt later would have made me confess and beg for punishment.”

  “What about college? Don’t tell me you made every single class in college. No hangovers? No blowing chemistry—”

  “Chemistry? Who do you think I am?”

  “Okay, no blowing French to hang out with Pierre and get your own hands-on language lesson?”

  I laughed. “Well, okay, in college I did skip a few classes. On rare occasions. But never for a guy.”

  “You’re an example to all women.”

  “I’m an example of someone who didn’t have nearly enough sex in college.”

  “I hope we can correct that sad situation now,” Doug said, nuzzling my ear.

  “After we eat.”

  “I love a girl with a healthy appetite.”

  “Good,” I said, “because you’re paying.”

  “Then I’d better get some more cash,” Doug said and there was something in his tone I didn’t get.

  Until the next moment I realized that, of course, he couldn’t put a midweek North End meal on his personal credit card in case Carol might see the bill and question the occasion. And he couldn’t put the meal on his corporate card because he’d told his staff he had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon.

  We were hedged in and our happiness proscribed no matter where we went or what we did. My spirits plummeted.

  “So, what’s on the agenda?” Doug said when he’d gotten the cash.

  If he could make an effort at enjoyment, so could I.

  “Well, first stop is the Daily Catch, also known as Mangia Calamari. We order the fried calamari, which I eat with a dash or two of hot pepper oil.”

  “Sounds good so far. Except don’t expect me to kiss you afterward.”

  “Ha. The best is yet to come, believe me. Then we order black pasta with aolio oilio. It’s served in the pan right on the table. Maybe we’ll order the monkfish marsala. Do you like monkfish?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, you will. There’s something very sexy about marsala sauce.”

  “You open whole new worlds to me, Ms. Weston.”

  “Don’t mock. Then, we’ll go across the street to Café Vittorio for dessert, maybe some hazelnut gelato or a Napolean. And to use the bathroom.”

  “Why can’t you use the bathroom in Daily Catch?”

  “Because there is none.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We proceeded as I’d planned.

  During lunch, Doug surprised me with exciting news. It seems that he and Jack Nugent had been talking about luring me to Trident.

  “But I’ve never even considered doing branding and positioning for big corporations,” I said, stunned.

  “Maybe it’s time you did. We’re not ready to make a specific offer yet,” Doug explained. “We’re working on tailoring a position for you and your strengths. But Jack does want you to know what we’re thinking. If coming on board with Trident is out of the question for you, we’d like to know now, before we spend any more time on the idea.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” I said, and I meant it. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the rest of lunch and coffee after—Doug’s hand playing on my thigh under the tiny table at Café Vittorio—was more fun than it might have been if Doug hadn’t dangled the lure of a lucrative career move.

  I decided to do some shopping while in the North End. I dragged Doug to Monica’s for cheeses and olives and prosciutto, all of which I would eat alone or with my friends, certainly not with Doug, who’d never been to my apartment and who sai
d it was where he drew the line. Something about crossing my threshold, he said, would make him feel too guilty about our relationship to continue seeing me.

  I didn’t understand but I accepted his feelings, though his refusing to visit my home did hurt on some deep level. Home is where people in love should feel most in love. Doug and I had no home.

  Three hours later we made our way back to the Back Bay through the circuitous path resulting from the construction nightmare known as The Big Dig. Back to our separate lives. Doug home to wife and kids. Me, home to Fuzzer.

  As I walked back to the South End, clutching my bag of Italian treats, I thought about the afternoon alone with Doug and began to feel sad again.

  Sometimes, escape doesn’t seem worth it. It makes reality seem too horribly grim.

  I had a troubling conversation with my father not long after that. I’d just gotten home from work when the phone rang. I hoped it would be Doug; we’d had plans to meet but at the last minute Doug had canceled. He’d been called home early by Carol. She had been throwing up all day and just couldn’t handle the kids, now that they were home from school and activities.

  Of course, I took Carol’s stomach virus to be a sign of pregnancy. I was not in the happiest of moods.

  It was not Doug calling. It was my father.

  “Oh. Hi, Dad,” I said.

  He laughed. “Not a very enthusiastic greeting. Expecting someone else?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I just got in.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you. You probably have plans. I just wanted to check in and say hi.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Hi. What’s going on?”

  I walked with the phone into the kitchen to feed Fuzzer. The Great Beige Beast was yowling as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

  “Erin,” Dad said, not answering my last question, “I haven’t heard you talk about anyone in a long time. Have you been out with anyone lately?”

  I popped open a can of food. Fuzzer threw himself on the floor at my feet and screamed.