Yes. Of course.
“Why?” I said. “Why him? Why not some other average, decent single guy?”
“I like him.”
Yeah, you like him. And you weren’t doing too well in the dating game so why not poach your friend’s ex-husband?
“How long has this been going on?” I asked.
Laura took a gulp of water before answering. “About a month,” she said hurriedly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before now!” I took a deep breath. There was no point in getting thrown out of one of my favorite bistros for bad behavior. “Who else knows?” I asked.
“Nell.”
I felt like I’d been hit in the stomach with a very large fist.
“But I swore her to secrecy,” Laura said urgently, “and she’s only known for a few days, I swear! It’s just that I wanted to tell you myself. Please, Jess, don’t blame Nell. She was really angry with me for not talking to you right away. She made me promise to tell you soon, and I just did.”
I imagined Nell’s reaction to the interesting news. I almost smiled at the thought. Almost. And then Laura said, “Grace knows, too.”
I closed my eyes. I don’t know why. I opened them after a moment to see Laura with her shoulders hunched and her face scrunched into that “please don’t hate me” look.
“You told Grace,” I said.
“She asked me. I mean, after dinner the other night, when we walked home, she asked me if I was seeing Matt. She guessed, Jess. I tried to lie but she wormed it out of me.”
I doubted that worming was Grace’s style, but I didn’t argue with Laura’s version of what had happened between them.
“Give me a minute with this,” I said.
Laura picked at her hamburger. My own lunch was long abandoned.
“Were you attracted to Matt when I was married to him?” I asked finally.
“Oh, no! I had Duncan. I thought Matt was nice and all, but I really didn’t give him much thought.”
And then something occurred to me, just like that. “Until Duncan wouldn’t take you back. Until you were desperate.”
Laura paled. “How did you know about Duncan?”
“I didn’t.” I almost felt like grinning. “It was a good guess.”
“Anyway,” Laura said huffily, “I’m not desperate. That’s not why I’m with Matt.”
Yes. And I’m a three-hundred-pound pro-football tackle.
“Now I know why we’re in a restaurant,” I said. “You know I won’t make a scene in public.”
“Yes,” Laura said. “I was scared you’d really explode.”
“Oh, I’m exploding. Except it’s all inside and if I don’t leave this lunch with an ulcer, it will be with a migraine.”
Laura winced. “I’m sorry, Jess. Really.”
And right then I remembered once thinking that someone like Laura would be more of a fit with Matt than someone like me. Maybe I did know a little about human beings, after all.
“What are you sorry for?” I said. “You’re right; Matt isn’t my property anymore.”
“Well, he’s not really mine yet, either. I mean, we’re not engaged or anything. We haven’t even, you know, had sex.”
This was way too much information.
“I don’t know,” I said, “if I want to hear the answer to the question I’m about to ask, but I’m going to ask it anyway. Does Matt talk about me?”
Laura shook her head. “No. We agreed we wouldn’t talk about you.”
“That’s something.”
“I’m not a complete monster, Jess. I wouldn’t stay with him if he said bad things about you.”
I didn’t quite believe her. “You know he’s obsessed with football.”
“I remember your telling me. I’m sure I can handle it.”
I realized I didn’t really know what Laura was capable of handling.
“Yes,” I said, “you probably can. You don’t want much from Matt, do you? You don’t want a soul mate.”
Suddenly, Laura looked pained, sad, old. She looked me right in the eye. “I want him to marry me,” she said with deliberation. “I want him to make me pregnant. And I want him to support me and my child.”
I had expected to hear some such statement. Still, it felt like big news.
“So,” I said, “Matt’s changed his mind about having a family?”
“Yes.”
“And in return for his sperm,” I said, “what will you offer him?”
Laura’s shoulders hunched just a bit under the blow. “The opportunity to be a father,” she said. “My loyalty.”
“What about your love?”
“People grow to love each other,” Laura said. It sounded as if she’d rehearsed the line for just such situations. “Matt and I really like each other right now. We’ll be fine.”
No, I thought, they won’t.
“I hope so. Matt doesn’t need his heart broken a second time.”
“I won’t break his heart,” Laura said, leaning over her half-eaten lunch toward me. “I’ll try my best not to. Anyway,” she said, sitting back, “I don’t think I can go through another divorce. I feel I’ve aged ten years in the last few months.”
“Yes,” I said drily, “divorce can be murder on the appearance. Let’s get the check.”
I was very happy to get home that night and lock the door behind me. It had been hard to concentrate all afternoon after Laura’s surprising and unsettling news.
I checked my machine—no calls—poured a glass of wine and sank into the comfy chair I’d bought on sale at Macy’s when Matt took most of the living-room furniture for his new place.
Just when I’d begun the process of forgiving myself, this strange news from Laura. But what, really, did it mean for me?
There was no more need for guilt, was there? Matt had moved on, he would probably get married, and though I knew Laura wasn’t in love with him, I thought he just might be in love with her. Matt needed to have a woman in his life; he needed to believe that he was in love.
And what did this one-sided relationship portend? It seemed likely that one day Matt would find himself suffering through another divorce.
Matt was one of the good guys, in spite of his flaws. He hadn’t deserved me. I wasn’t sure he deserved Laura.
But Matt’s life was his own as was mine; our lives were no longer intertwined. He would fend for himself, as would I.
Suddenly, I felt very hungry. Laura had ruined my appetite for lunch but now, hours later, perspective had revived appetite. I reached for the phone, dialed the number of a local pizza place, and ordered a large pie with mushrooms.
One of the best things about living alone is that you don’t have to share your junk food.
Chapter 42
Nell
Start poisoning your ex-husband’s character as soon as he walks out the door. Make sure his kids know what a lying, cheating bum their mother had been duped into marrying. Only in this way will you be sure to have the kids on all major holidays.
—Getting What You Want: The Post-Divorce Woman
They were sitting at a table near the back of the room, Richard and Bob.
I took a deep breath and headed toward them.
I had been surprised when Richard suggested the three of us have lunch. It was the first time he’d ever suggested a meeting, at least to me. Maybe Richard and Bob had talked about it many times. What did I know about their relationship?
Nothing. And what I knew about Bob could fill a small Post-it. I knew that Colin thought Bob was “okay.” I knew that Clara thought he was a “dreamboat.”
And I knew that he had stolen my husband’s heart.
Richard saw me coming and stood. He always was a gentleman. “Nell,” he said, “it’s good to see you.”
“Hi,” I said, and my voice sounded odd, a bit too high.
Richard and I took our seats. “Nell,” he said, “this is Bob Landry. Bob, this is Nell Keats.”
The man dir
ectly across from me extended his hand. I thought I saw it shake just a little.
“It’s very good to meet you,” he said, quite seriously.
I shook his hand. “Hello,” I said.
Bob cleared his throat. He straightened his knife. He was nervous and that made me feel a bit more in control of my own nervousness. Which, of course, made me feel superior. Ridiculous, I know, but I can’t always be noble.
We made small talk and ordered, though I wasn’t at all sure I could eat.
“So,” Richard said when the waiter had gone off. “I thought it would be nice for you and Bob to get to know each other a bit.”
I smiled wanly. “Yes.”
Bob said, “Sure,” and nodded. Clearly, the lunch was all Richard’s idea.
“Bob is an electrician, an independent contractor.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
Richard took a sip of water. “Oh. Yes,” he said, “I suppose I told you that already.”
“Richard tells me you’re involved with the MFA and various charities around Boston.” Poor earnest Bob, coming to Richard’s rescue.
“Yes,” I said. And then, “Have you ever been married? I mean, like Richard was.”
Bob didn’t flinch. My abrupt question seemed to have broken the ice.
“No,” he said easily. “I came out in college. I did take a girl to our high school prom, but she was just a friend. And she knew that I was gay.”
“So you didn’t lie to her.”
Bob shot a look at Richard. Richard blanched.
“I’m sorry.” I shook my head, ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
Richard smiled a wan smile. “It’s okay, Nellie. I know this is hard for all of us.”
Our lunch was served and while I picked at my salad, Bob told me he was thirty-five and that he’d grown up just outside of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He’d gone to Clark University in Worcester. He had a brother and a sister, two nephews, and his parents had moved to Florida.
“That’s really pretty much it,” he said with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not a very exciting person.”
Richard squeezed Bob’s hand. “I think you’re an exciting person.”
Bob squeezed back. “Well,” he said, gazing into Richard’s eyes, “I guess that’s all that matters.”
I’ve never been keen on public displays of affection, whether verbal or physical. And to watch my ex-husband engage in a romantic moment with his lover . . . It was a terribly uncomfortable moment for me. If Bob had been a woman, I don’t think it would have been any easier.
At that moment, as the third person at the table, a barely touched salad before me, I felt my loss more keenly than I’d ever had. There was no one in my life telling me that I was an exciting person, no one to greet me at the end of the day. There was no one to make coffee for in the morning except me.
We kept the conversation light for the rest of the meal. It was hard to find topics that felt entirely safe, and by the time the check was paid, I was exhausted.
The three of us emerged into the high midafternoon sun. I felt as if I could drop to the sidewalk and sleep. Bob extended his hand. This time, it was steady.
“It really was nice to meet you, Nell,” he said. “Thank you again for joining us.”
For joining us. The invited guest. Not part of the couple.
I took his hand. “It was nice to meet you, too, Bob,” I said. I turned to Richard. In the bright sun I saw a weariness in his eyes. None of this, not the years of secrecy, not the divorce, not the coming out had been easy for him.
“And it was good to see you, Richard,” I said.
Would he kiss my cheek or shake my hand or give me a hug?
“Thank you, Nell,” he said, from a distance. “Thank you.”
And then Richard and Bob left me there, alone.
Chapter 43
Laura
There’s no reason for you not to send an anonymous note to your ex-husband’s home-wrecking girlfriend in which you cite, in minute and graphic detail, every time he picked his nose in public, farted at the dinner table, fell down drunk, or couldn’t get it up. He’s got everything to lose; you have nothing.
—Fighting Dirty: How to Beat the Cheater at His Own Game
“I have got to get some new clothes!”
I threw a pair of jeans on the bed. Absolutely nothing in my closet made me look pregnant. And I really wanted to show up at the Mommy In Training class looking at least a few months pregnant.
Because I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed to stay if someone found out I wasn’t pregnant!
I stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself from the side. Nell had oh, so helpfully pointed out that I’d gained some weight. I stuck out my stomach. I poked it with my forefinger. Well, I guess she was right; I had put on a few pounds, but not enough to make me look pregnant or anything.
In the end I wore an old pair of Duncan’s sweats he’d left behind and the biggest T-shirt I could find. I was kind of hot by the time I got to the church basement where the class was being held, but I figured sweating was probably something a pregnant woman would do on a warm day in June.
I was also wearing my old wedding ring. It felt odd on my finger, too tight, as if my finger had already plumped up to match the size of the other fingers. By the way, lots of pregnant women get swollen fingers.
The room was large and painted an icky yellow. Crayon drawings were tacked to a corkboard along the left wall. Folding chairs were arranged in about six lines of six seats across. Not very comfortable for the pregnant woman! Only a few seats were open and I took one near the back.
A minute later an African-American woman in a sexy yoga outfit sat next to me. Her belly was as flat as a pancake.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Roberta.”
“Hi. I’m Laura.”
“First baby?” she asked, looking at my midriff.
I nodded and put my hand to my stomach as I’d seen a few of the other women do.
“So, when are you due?” Roberta asked.
“In—”
And then I panicked. I’d worked out the calendar just that morning, but now my mind was an absolute blank.
“Um, well, it’s kind of unclear,” I mumbled. “The doctor is . . .”
“Okay, mommies, listen up!”
Saved by the drill sergeant of an instructor!
I murmured “Sorry” and focused on the woman who stood before us. She introduced herself as Mrs. Beaker. She was squat, like a frog woman. Her hair was a sort of halo of very tiny, tight gray curls. She had a booming voice and a big smile. I thought she must be a grandma. I thought she probably made really yummy casseroles. I decided to get a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch.
Mrs. Beaker was a pretty good teacher. We learned about the importance of prenatal care. It didn’t sound so bad, eating all those vegetables and fruit—you could make smoothies out of the fruit, at least—but I wasn’t thrilled about the exercise thing. Maybe, I thought, I could try yoga for mommies-to-be; that didn’t sound too sweaty and you got to sit a lot.
We learned about the importance of regular visits to the ob-gyn. Well, duh, I thought, of course. Okay, I hadn’t gone to the gynecologist in a few years, but there was no big reason to go. I hadn’t had any infections or anything. But I would go once I got pregnant!
Mrs. Beaker told us that there were a whole bunch of vitamins and minerals you had to get enough of, especially folic acid, whatever that is.
And then she outlined what sort of things we could expect to happen to our bodies and when. A lot of it sounded really awful, like diarrhea and nausea and swollen hands and feet. I shuddered from head to toe when she talked about sex during the last trimester. Nell says I’m squeamish and I guess I am. But what’s wrong with being grossed out by the thought of a penis poking your unborn child? No way. Not for me. My new husband would just have to hold out.
Roberta had brought a pen and a notebook. She scribbled d
own every word Mrs. Beaker spoke; at least, from the way she was flipping pages it looked like it. I guess I should have thought to bring a notebook, too. But I just didn’t know there’d be so much information!
Finally, finally, the class was over.
“Okay, ladies,” Mrs. Beaker boomed, “next time I need you to bring—”
I scooted out of the room before Roberta could ask me more questions. And as soon as I got home, I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and started working on the calendar again.
“See, what he doesn’t understand is that I know what he’s thinking. I know . . .”
I nodded and tuned out and Matt talked on. He talked for fifteen minutes—I discreetly timed him—about something going on in his office, something to do with some guy who wants Matt’s job but who’s really naive if he thinks he’s going to get it and just last month he got off probation for—something or other.
I nodded a lot and made some sympathetic sounds and when Matt was finished, I said, “Wow. Your job sounds so important,” and he kind of beamed.
“So,” he said, “how was your day?”
I was on the verge of telling Matt about going to the Mommies In Training class that morning but decided he might think I was trying to pressure him. And we all know that men do not like to be pressured!
“It was very nice, thanks,” I said brightly.
Men also don’t like their mood spoiled over dinner.
“Good. You know, my buddy Greg got a line on tickets to the entire season and I’m thinking—”
Nod encouragingly and make sounds of sympathy or surprise. That was how to handle Matt. That was how to handle most men.
It wasn’t, I suddenly remembered, how I’d handled Duncan. He hadn’t needed handling. We just had a good time together.
I shifted in the seat as if to shake off the memory of my marriage. My happy marriage.
Jess and Matt hadn’t had a happy marriage, I reminded myself. Which is why Matt is single and sitting across the table, carving steak and talking to me about football.
For the life of me I couldn’t understand why Jess had married him. He was so not her type. I don’t really know what Jess’s type is, but I know that Matt certainly isn’t it.
Back In the Game Page 19
