Grace blushed. “Yes. I think so.”
“Then don’t underestimate him.”
So far, so good, I thought. Five very different personalities gathered around one coffee table and so far no one had thrown an ashtray.
Of course, I don’t have an ashtray in the house; almost no one does these days. Still, if there had been an ashtray, especially a heavy glass one, my sister just might have thrown it. Her disapproval of Trina was stamped all over her face. I wondered if Laura was truly horrified by Trina’s casual approach to marriage or just jealous of her ability to gather husbands.
It was a mean thought, but there it was. My sister too often inspires mean thoughts.
After a third glass of champagne, Trina tripped off to the bathroom.
“I don’t know how you can be friends with someone like that,” Laura hissed the moment she was out of sight.
I feigned ignorance. “Someone like what? Someone who knows how to find a husband?”
“No! You know what I mean. She’s so . . . so shallow!”
“I don’t think she is shallow,” Grace said. “I think she’s thought a lot about how she lives her life. She’s in control of everything she can be in control of. She’s living her life consciously, deliberately, which means she’s thought things through.”
“I wish I had some of her hardness,” Jess said. “Or her carelessness, or her independent spirit, or whatever it is that allows her to function so blithely.”
Laura folded her arms across her chest. I noticed a roll of fat around her middle. My sister, I thought, had better start watching her weight if she expects to succeed in the brutal world of middle-aged dating.
“Nell,” she said, “I don’t like you spending time with her.”
My little sister, acting like my mother? Laura, it seemed, was practicing her maternal skills. This was new. But after the debacle with Duncan—which Laura had made me swear not to mention to Jess or Grace—her mood had been erratic.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said. “Because I intend to spend a lot more time with Trina Donohue. She’s helping me to wake up. She’s helping me to start over.”
“We don’t help you?” Laura demanded.
I took a sip of my martini before answering. “Not in the same way. Don’t be offended. I’m not abandoning my sister and my closest friends for the popular new girl in school. I’m just adding her to the mix. For now.”
Laura didn’t look too sure.
Trina came tripping back into the living room. “Talking about me, darlings?”
“Yes,” I said. “You make for an interesting conversation.”
“I do, don’t I?” Trina sat next to Laura on the couch and looked her right in the eye. “Now Laura. Nell tells me you’re looking for a man to father your child.”
Laura glared at me. “And to marry me, of course.”
Trina patted Laura’s thigh with her perfectly manicured hand. I made a mental note to ask her about the sapphire chunk on her third finger. A gift from a previous husband or a treat she’d bought for herself?
“Of course, darling,” she said. “Would you like me to give you any pointers? I am awfully good at landing a man.”
“No,” Laura said, jumping up from her seat as if she’d been bitten by a bug. “Nell, I have to go.”
Without saying good-bye to the others, my sister stomped out into the night.
Jess and Grace left soon after, Jess looking slightly glum, Grace expressing hopes of seeing Trina again.
When everyone had gone, Trina sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid your sister doesn’t approve of me.”
I poured a final drink for us both. “Don’t tell me that bothers you.”
“Of course not. But I am bothered by the fact that she seems so unhappy.” Trina fixed me with unusually serious eyes. “Believe it or not, darling Nell, I care a great deal about my fellow females. Especially those who pose no threat to my business.”
“The business of snaring incredibly wealthy men.”
“Yes. And though your sister is pretty, she’s a tad too fat to be competition.”
“Even though she’s probably ten years your junior,” I pointed out.
“Oh, yes. The rules of my world are quite strict. Better an anorexic fifty-year-old than a fat thirty-year old. Fat just doesn’t work with couture.”
No, I thought, I guess it doesn’t.
Chapter 31
Jess
You were wife number four. Why are you surprised that wife number five is giving dinner parties in what used to be your dining room?
—Learn to Read the Warning Signs: How to Avoid the Serial Monogamist
A compulsion. An urge. A craving.
A thought pops into your head and it won’t go away until you acknowledge it, deal with it, or succumb to it.
This is fine if the thought that pops into your head is “I want a chocolate chip cookie.” Eat a chocolate chip cookie and your mind is on to something else.
This is not fine if the thought that pops into your head is “I want to send my ex-husband an e-mail.”
I was at my desk. It was about eleven. And try as I might, I couldn’t concentrate on the paper I was trying to outline, at least not once it occurred to me that I could contact Matt in a relatively unobtrusive way.
The people who invented e-mail should be punished. They can’t have had any idea what havoc their creation would wreak.
I got up and closed the door to my office, as if what I was about to do constituted a crime. Back at my desk I created a file. I wrote a message, deleted it, wrote another one, tweaked it, deleted again. After twenty minutes of editorial madness I had it.
Hi, Matt. I hope this finds you well. I wish the best for you. Jess.
I copied it, then pasted it into the body of an e-mail. And I sent it to Matt’s office account.
The moment it was gone I regretted my action. Of course I did; I knew I would. And I wondered: Would I ever be through punishing myself?
Two days and there’d been no word from Matt, no return e-mail or phone call or letter. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was anxious.
I wondered if Matt was furious with me for disrupting the new life he was trying to build. I wondered if maybe my e-mail had gotten lost in cyberspace so that Matt had never received it. Then again, maybe he had received my e-mail, but his own reply had gone missing.
Maybe, I thought, Matt is out of town and not checking his e-mail. No. A ridiculous notion. Matt was as attached to his laptop as any other red-blooded American male in a suit and tie.
Finally, it occurred to me that maybe Matt simply had nothing more to say to me. Ever. Somehow, that possibility hurt more than a stream of scathing accusations.
My mind continued to race. I continued to obsess about Matt’s possible state of mind. I had to talk to someone or jump off the Tobin Bridge.
I called Grace.
“I did something stupid,” I said.
I could hear her taking a deep breath. “Okay. What?”
“I sent an e-mail to Matt.”
Grace laughed. “Is that all? For a minute I thought you were going to say that you slept with him. And I know what a disaster sleeping with your ex can be.”
I sat heavily on the edge of the couch.
“I know you know,” I said. “I’m sorry, but it’s why I can admit this to you. You and Simon had your own unique relationship, nothing like what Matt and I had, but still, I know you understand the need to connect somehow, even when the marriage is officially over.”
“I do,” Grace said. “It’s a real need and a real pain in the ass.”
“I’m making no sense these days, Grace. I don’t know why I’m doing anything I’m doing. I’m not sleeping well.”
“Jess, what were you hoping to hear from Matt?” Grace asked the question gently.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess I’d like to know that he forgives me. Not that I feel I deserve to be forgiven, not entirely.”
“Bear with me? I promise I’m trying to get past the negative feelings.”
“Of course we’ll bear with you. There’s no question of abandonment, Jess.”
I believed that. It was good to trust something, someone.
“I have an idea,” Grace said suddenly. “It won’t solve anything, but it might give you a few hours of peace. Let’s go for massages tomorrow.”
“The way I feel, I’ll probably fall asleep on the table.”
“So? Your body will still benefit from the massage. And the sleep.”
I got up from the couch and stretched. “Okay. What time?”
“Around four? And Jess?”
“Yes?”
Grace paused a moment before saying, “If Matt does e-mail you back, promise me you’ll delete the message before reading it. Don’t risk more pain.”
I paused a moment before saying, “Okay.”
I didn’t say, “I promise.”
Chapter 32
Nell
Your stepdaughter adored you when you gave her a closetful of designer clothes. Your stepson thought you were awesome when you gave him his own car. So why, now that you’re divorced from their dad, haven’t they returned your calls?
—Blood Is Thicker Than Water: The Thankless Role of Stepparent
“A size six should do nicely.”
“Okay,” I said to the saleswoman eyeing me from the waist down.
She walked off to a rack on which hung a variety of leather pants.
I’d never worn leather pants. I wasn’t entirely sure I would wear them even if I bought a pair. But Trina had encouraged me to sex up my wardrobe—of course, that’s her term. I agreed to do so, but in a classy way. That was my condition. She then suggested I start with a pair of tailored black leather pants.
“Can I call them slacks?” I’d asked.
Trina had laughed. “Whatever makes you comfortable, darling Nell.”
So there I was, in Louis of Boston, shopping for a pair of tailored black leather pants. I mean slacks.
The saleswoman returned with two pairs. I took them into a dressing-room stall and locked the door behind me. And then I stood looking at myself in the mirror, holding the two pairs of pants, and wondered again what sort of woman Nell Keats really was.
Thoroughly embarrassed, I tried on the first pair. I closed my eyes, afraid to look at my transformed reflection.
“Do you need any assistance?” the saleswoman called from just outside the dressing-room stall.
“No,” I almost shouted, startled by her voice. “Thank you.” And then I opened my eyes.
Have you ever caught your passing reflection in a store window and for a split second not recognized yourself? And you wonder if the face in the glass is the face other people see, not the face you see in your own bathroom mirror. It’s a strange sensation; it disrupts your assumption of self in some way.
The Nell Keats standing before the full-length mirror in that stall was not the Nell Keats I’d seen in the bathroom mirror that morning. This Nell Keats—can I say it?—looked hot. This Nell Keats looked fabulous.
It was hard to look away, hard to finally take the pants off and try on the second pair. If possible, they fit even better than the first pair. I felt slightly drunk. I felt slightly euphoric.
Can you be slightly euphoric? Or is that like saying you’re slightly pregnant?
Reluctantly, I redressed in my Ann Taylor A-line skirt. And then I bought both pairs of black leather pants, and a few fitted blouses, the kind not meant to be tucked in neatly, and an armload of new lingerie, not underwear but lingerie, complete with lace and satin and silk.
And then I went home.
Two nights after the shopping expedition that changed my life—I’m being consciously dramatic here—I went out with a man named Oscar Perkins.
Trina had introduced us at a cocktail party she’d given a week earlier. Oscar and I had chatted for a good deal of the evening. We’d talked about Boston politics and the most recent natural disaster in Asia. He’d told me he’d started his own law firm fifteen years earlier, not long after making partner at the firm that had given him his start. From the gorgeous suit he was wearing, I’d assumed his business was a success. I’d told him about my work for the MFA and various local charities. He’d told me he had three children from an early marriage. I’d told him about my own early marriage and children.
Just before I’d left Trina’s apartment at a little before eleven, Oscar had asked for my number. I’d given it to him with no hesitation.
Oscar had called the very next day and we’d made plans to meet for dinner at the Flowering Tree. I wore a pair of leather pants.
Again, the conversation was easy and wide ranging. Oscar had a quick wit and regaled me with a few outlandish stories of his rise through the criminal court system. We discovered a shared interest in medieval art and artisanal cheeses. Oscar paid for our meal.
After dinner I invited him back to my apartment for a nightcap. I knew something romantic might happen. I wanted it to and I dreaded it would.
Once inside I poured us each a glass of scotch. Oscar took his neat and he rose in my estimation. We sat next to each other on the couch, turned to face each other. Oscar clinked his glass with mine. We each took a sip.
And then he leaned in and kissed me.
I let him. And then, I began to kiss him back.
“You call the shots,” Oscar said against my lips. “We’ll take it slow.”
“Okay,” I said.
Our lips touched again, tentative, soft, and then more sure.
Oh, I’d forgotten what a slippery slope physical desire is! I remember my mother telling me when I was small that “kissing leads to babies.” I had no idea what she meant until years later, of course. But that night with Oscar, I remembered.
Later, when Oscar had gone home, I lay in the bed Richard and I had shared for so many years. I could still smell Oscar on my skin. I could still feel his touch. I squirmed with remembered pleasure and wondered if I was becoming debauched.
Yes. Hopefully. Why not? It was far too soon to risk more heartache.
I stretched and grinned and for the first time in ages I felt content and excited and—alive. Maybe someday I’d be ready for love, but now it was time to sow the wild oats I seemed to have been storing for the past twenty years.
Yes, I thought. Sex is good.
Chapter 33
Laura
You love his mother. You adore his father. His sister is like the sister you never had. Is divorcing the convicted criminal worth losing his fabulous family?
—Look Before You Leap: Is Divorce Really Worth It?
“Ooooh, he’s so cute! What’s his name?”
The woman stopped and beamed. On the end of the leash she held was absolutely the most adorable golden retriever puppy I have ever seen in my entire life. I mean, ever.
“Frasier,” the woman told me. “After the TV show.”
I bent down and let the puppy sniff my hand. His tail began to wag furiously, rocking his furry little body.
“How old is he?” I asked as Frasier stood up on his hind legs and barked excitedly.
“Just eight weeks,” his mommy trilled. “Isn’t he precious!”
“Yes he is! He’s the most precious little boy in the whole wide world!”
After a while the woman took Fraiser off for his walk in the Commons. I watched them go.
A puppy, I thought, might be just the thing! I could get a small breed because my apartment wasn’t huge and maybe a breed that didn’t shed really badly. If he was really tiny, I could carry him around with me like all those stars carry their little doggies and maybe even train him to go on newspaper so I wouldn’t have to get up so early in the morning or take him out in bad weather.
Yes, I thought, a puppy would be just the thing.
And then I thought of the money.
I walked on do
wn Newbury Street. Coming toward me was the woman I wanted to be. She wore a sundress with a Pucci-like print and she was pushing a stroller I recognized from an online catalogue. It was outfitted with every imaginable safety feature and sported imported fabric and extra-thick padding for comfort and style. And it cost seven hundred dollars.
Seven hundred dollars! Well, if I had seven hundred dollars to spend on a stroller, I would spend it, but I didn’t and I still don’t and I’m pretty sure I never will.
The truth is I hadn’t really thought through my post-divorce financial status. I know it sounds stupid and maybe it is. Suzy Orman would have a heart attack if she found out about me. Anyway, since Duncan had moved out, I’d been spending an awful lot of money I shouldn’t have been spending. I’m not sure why. I do know that after a shocking Visa bill and a depressing bank statement, I promised myself I would make and stick to a strict budget.
I glanced over my shoulder at wealthy mommy and child and walked on. Still, I thought, a puppy would be great. People would stop me on the street to talk. I could carry him almost like I would carry a baby.
And then he’d grow up and be my best friend.
Everyone needs a best friend.
I knew I could get a dog or a cat from the Animal Rescue League of Boston for very little money, and I supposed I could buy generic brand food in bulk, but how would I afford the yearly visits to the vet? And what would happen if the dog or cat got sick between visits and needed medicine or surgery, what then? Would Nell lend me money for my pet’s medicine or surgery? Would Jess?
An elderly man passed, walking slowly, his old mixed breed hobbling along by his side. I wondered how long they’d been together. They almost looked alike in that way people and their dogs do after lots of years together.
Some couples look alike after lots of years together, too.
Suddenly, I felt so alone. Alone and poor. But I’d be a little less poor once I’d returned the adorable pink sweater and leggings to Fleur.
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