“Ross?” I tapped him on the shoulder and he startled.
“Anna,” he said, “I didn’t see you.”
“I know. Ross, there’s something I have to ask you.” My voice trembled. Confrontation is not my specialty.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you, first.”
“But—”
“Please, Anna,” he said, taking my hand. “This is important. I don’t want that Newman woman hanging around our house. She’ll be a bad influence on the baby.”
I struggled to hide a grin of pleasure. At least, I thought, I can trust my fiancé if not my friend. “Why?” I asked feigning innocence.
Ross frowned slightly.
He never frowns mightily, I thought. He never smiles broadly. He never laughs loudly. Okay, I’ve seen him cry, but only once. Only once in almost a year.
“She actually had the nerve to hit on me,” he said, letting go of my hand and straightening his tie. Had Michaela literally hit on him? Knocked his tie askew? “Can you believe it? With the mother of my child in the same room. I’m sorry, Anna, I know you two are friends—”
“Not anymore,” I replied firmly. “That bitch is dead to me.”
“Language, honey. Look, try not to get too upset, okay?” Ross’s face took on a practiced expression of mild concern. “It can’t be good for the baby.”
He really could have been a model, I thought. He’s mastered the basic facial expressions. Standard concern. Standard pleasure. Standard interest.
I wondered why I was suddenly so mad at Ross. He’d done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. My feelings were irrational, misplaced. I should have been angry with Michaela, and I was, I was furious with her. But ...
It’s the hormones, I reasoned, although I didn’t quite believe myself.
Ross’s voice penetrated my troubled thoughts.
“Honey? You look like you’re a million miles away. What were you going to ask me?”
I shook my head. “Oh, nothing. Never mind. Ross, I’d like to go home now. I’m feeling kind of tired.”
Ross immediately hurried off to find my jacket and to say goodbye to the hosts.
Maybe, I thought as I watched him go, I should just run away.
After I confronted Michaela.
48
The Premarital Bed
Within minutes of our getting to the loft, Ross was stretched out in bed, sleeping deeply. But two hours later I was still wide awake and resenting him for the ease with which he could tune out the world and its woes.
I should have gone home, I thought grumpily, readjusting the covers for the millionth time. I would have been able to sleep in my own bed. My old, familiar, discount furniture store bed. Not the insanely expensive designer bed that Ross had picked out for its superior ergonomic qualities.
Why am I here? I wondered. It isn’t as if Ross and I are going to have sex. No, I’m too fat and grotesque for that. I’m too precious for that. I’m too much of a mommy.
I turned on my side, hoping a change of scenery would lead to a change in mental obsession. It didn’t.
I wasn’t sorry I’d called Michaela a bitch. Michaela deserved to be called a lot worse. And after I’d opened up to my friends about Ross’s lack of interest in sex! Oh, Michaela must have loved hearing that, I thought, fuming. What’s she after? Ross’s sperm? His money? His hand in marriage?
I looked over at my sleeping fiancé. My sleeping, oblivious fiancé. And then it came to me, just like that, why I was so angry with Ross. Something about his response to Michaela’s attempted pickup was all wrong.
Was Ross really bothered by Michaela’s flirtation or by the fact that I was in the vicinity of her sexual advance? The mother of his child. The vessel in which his precious seed had been deposited. The receptacle in which the fruit of his loins had taken up residence. If the mother of his child hadn’t been in the same room, would Ross have gone off with Michaela Newman for a little on-the-side action?
Of course he would have. Of course he wouldn’t have. It didn’t make a difference. Because I didn’t figure in the equation at all. Not really. It was all about Ross’s baby, and only as the carrier of his baby did I count.
I took a deep breath and wished I knew some calming yoga techniques. Maybe, I thought, I am being oversensitive, a classic trait of the Hormonal Woman. Maybe to preserve my nerves I should stay away from parties and other large groups until after the baby is born.
I glanced at the bedside digital clock. Two-thirty a.m. I knew I should try to get some sleep. But the truth was I was afraid to close my eyes. The dreams would come that night, I just knew it. Choking, blindness, and violence.
Was there any way to avoid them?
49
Connections
Alexandra was more than twelve minutes late. I began to worry. Why doesn’t she call, I wondered. Maybe she can’t. Maybe she’s sick. Or maybe she’s just caught in a meeting. How would I know? She hasn’t called!
In a momentary mood of high dudgeon I thought, I’ll have to speak to her about this annoying habit of making people wait and not calling. But who was I kidding? Alexandra did what she wanted to do for her own unfathomable reasons, and nothing I said was going to make her do differently.
I hadn’t brought along a book to pass the time, and the bar at Le Chat Noir was virtually empty so there was no possibility of people-watching. With nothing to distract it, my mind wandered back to a morning shortly after I’d told Jack that I was marrying Ross. I was in Jack’s studio, where, it seemed, I spent far too much of my time. I must have mentioned the wedding.
“I’m not photographing this thing,” he’d said.
“This thing?” I’d responded. “It isn’t a cockfight, Jack. It’s an elegant wedding. And anyway, I’m not asking you to. I’ve already hired Don Rivers.”
“He’s a hack.”
“No,” I’d replied, trying to control my growing annoyance, “he’s not a hack. Why would I hire a hack to photograph the most important event of my life?”
“He’ll overcharge you.”
“He’ll try, but he won’t get away with it. Are you forgetting what I do for a living?”
I remembered Jack turning away and tossing a stack of prints on the worktable. “Fine. I look forward to seeing his pedestrian documentation of the big day.”
“You don’t have to see the pictures if you don’t want to. You’ll have your own memories to enjoy.”
Then Jack turned back to face me. “What?” he’d snapped. I’d hesitated a moment before answering. Something in his eyes scared me but I didn’t know why. “Well, you’re invited, of course.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“I don’t know why ‘of course.’ ” I’d raised my arms in the air like a cartoon of a frustrated woman. “Okay? Don’t come if you don’t want to. Don’t even send a gift. I wouldn’t want to discomfit you in any way.”
Jack didn’t answer right away. Finally, he said, “I don’t know if I can be there.” His voice sounded different somehow, lower, slightly strained.
And suddenly I felt disoriented. “Well,” I’d said, looking away, “check your schedule. I’ve got to go. I’ve got another meeting. I—”
“Yeah.”
And I went. And that was the last time either of us had mentioned the wedding. Now, sitting at the bar at Le Chat Noir, with only a glass of cranberry juice and seltzer for company, I wondered if I really cared if Jack came to my wedding. On the one hand, Jack was my friend, and my colleague, and it would be nice if all my friends were in attendance. Right? And on the other ... Well, Jack was critical of anything remotely sentimental; if he came to the wedding he just might spend the whole time sneering, thus ruining what was supposed to be a happy occasion. Well, I thought now, taking a sip of my overpriced drink, the official invitations would go out in mid-June and soon after Jack would give me his answer. And I could worry about it then.
I spotted Alexandra making her way through the restaurant.
>
“Finally,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Anna, really.” Alexandra dropped into the chair across from me. “I dropped my cell phone this morning, and I didn’t have one free minute to run to the store and get it replaced. Can you believe it just died? It’s not like it fell from the roof of a skyscraper. What a piece of junk.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Sorry about the phone.”
Alexandra shrugged. “Actually, it was nice not having it ringing in my ear all day. I’m sure I missed some important calls, but on some level I just don’t care.”
“The phone is an evil necessity. It’s an incredibly rude instrument, don’t you think? Yet how could we summon an ambulance without it?”
“Uh, right. Anna, really, you are so grim sometimes. Anyway, I’ve got some interesting news. I’ve been asked to be a godmother.”
“What?” I blurted. “To whom?” Who, I wondered, associates the decidedly not warm and fuzzy Alexandra Ryan Boyd with children?
“To the as yet unborn daughter of Barbara and Mike Nugent, aspiring Internet moguls. You’ve read about them, I’m sure. They manage to get their names mentioned and photos taken almost weekly. They’re quite their own PR machine.”
Alexandra ordered a martini while I tried to place this interesting pair.
“Ah, I know who they are,” I said finally. “She’s a bit—solid—isn’t she? And he has the worst haircut! It’s like there’s a raggedy, dead animal on top of his head. A raggedy, dead, red animal. Ugh. They’ve been at several parties I’ve done, but I’ve never had the dubious pleasure of being introduced. How do you know them?”
Alexandra took a sip of her cocktail before answering.
“I hardly do. We were introduced once. That’s just one of the strange things about this situation.”
“You’re not Catholic.”
“And that’s another strange thing. Apparently, these days you don’t have to be Catholic to be a godparent to a Catholic kid. I mean, officially I should be Catholic, but the Nugents assure me they’ll ‘fix it’ with the priest. By which I assume they mean they’ll write a sizeable check and my documentation will be forged.”
“But what does this mean?” I asked. “What are you going to have to do for this baby?”
“Foster her Catholicism, I suppose. I’m a little hazy on the details. Anyway, I’m assuming I’m off the hook concerning all the religious duties. How can I support a kid’s religious upbringing when I haven’t been inside a Catholic church since I was a kid myself?”
How, indeed?
“Forgive me,” I said, “but, why you? Why not someone Catholic? And who’s the godfather?”
Alexandra smirked. “As for why they chose me, I have an idea. I hate to attribute less than noble motives to anyone, of course—”
“Of course.”
“—but I suspect the Nugents, who have recently purchased a three-bedroom condo on Marlborough Street, would like some free advice from a well-known interior designer.”
“No!”
“Yes. And as for the godfather, I believe he’s Jewish. I’m not sure. But I do know he has some connection to the Patriots, so I’m guessing the Nugents are hoping for free tickets on the ninetieth yard line. Or whatever yard line is a good one. I don’t do sports.”
“How horrible of the Nugents,” I declared. “If your theory is correct.”
“Are my theories ever wrong?”
“Rarely,” I admitted. “Anyway, being a godparent is a big responsibility, isn’t it? Aside from the religious duties, I mean. You’re going to have to send cards for every occasion and attend school plays and ballet recitals and write checks for birthdays.”
Alexandra took a long, meditative sip of her martini before replying. “You know, maybe I should just say no to Barbara and Mike. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
I smiled. How disappointed they’d be when they found out they’d have to pay for an interior designer! “But didn’t you already say yes?”
“Oh, honey, no! I told them I’d think about it and I have and I’ve decided I’m just not the right person for the job.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said. “Okay, you’re not Catholic, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the Nugents, and you’d make a great role model for a little girl.”
“What!” Alexandra laughed heartily. “Oh, please, Anna. You’ve heard the stuff that comes out of my mouth. You’ve agreed I can be a jackass. Besides, it’s too much pressure. Role model, mentor, inspiration? Ugh.”
“You’re intelligent and talented and hardworking and an excellent friend,” I replied. “In spite of an occasional lapse into jerkiness,” I added with a smile. “That makes you a wonderful role model for anyone.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said. “Really. But my mind is made up, if only because I think it’s hypocritical to promise to be a godparent in the Catholic church when I have no intention of doing so.”
“I agree about the hypocrisy. But I want you to promise that when I ask you to be my baby’s godmother—you know, godmother in a broad spiritual sense—you’ll consider accepting.”
Alexandra grinned. “Can I be a goddess mother?” “Certainly.”
“Not that I buy into the Goddess stuff, mind you. But I think I could pull off a toga-like gown better than a long white beard.”
“You can be whatever kind of god-like figure you want to be to my child,” I promised.
“Then I accept. Oh, by the way, I ran into Jack on the way over here.”
“Jack?” I repeated inanely.
“Jack Coltrane. How many Jacks do we both know?”
“Just one, I think. So, what did he have to say?”
Alexandra began to speak but I didn’t hear a word. As if he were right next to me at the bar, I saw Jack as he was that day we’d last talked about the wedding. I saw the oddly frightening look in his eyes and heard that strange, low tone in his voice when he’d said he didn’t know if he could be there. I hadn’t understood exactly what had happened in those few moments but now, suddenly, weeks later, sitting at a bar with Alexandra, remembering now those roses, too, it all came clear.
Jack Coltrane was in love with me. A crazy thought but ... If it were true ... If Jack was in love with me—and hadn’t I suspected before now?—then the issue of whether or not to attend my wedding was huge. A thrill ran through my body at this disturbing thought. Would Jack stay away because he couldn’t bear to see me marry another man? Or would he attend because—because what, Anna? The thrill in my body became a buzzing in my head. Would Jack be there because when the minister asked if anyone had an objection to the wedding he planned to leap from his seat and shout, “Yes, I have an objection. I’m in love with the bride.”
“Anna?” Alexandra was shaking my shoulder. “What’s wrong? You’ve got this awful spacey look on your face. I’ve been talking and you have no idea what I’ve been saying, do you?”
I felt my face flush in embarrassment. “No,” I admitted, wondering if I were losing my mind. Jack Coltrane, in love with me? I didn’t want that. I didn’t want that at all. “I mean, I’m fine but no, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you were saying.”
Alexandra eyed me with curiosity. Or was it really suspicion? “I was saying that Jack had nothing to say. We just exchanged the usual amenities. You’ll remember that I was late and in a hurry.”
“Low blood sugar,” I said. “That’s all it is. Let’s order.”
50
Something New
“It’s too bad your mother couldn’t join us, Anna,” Mrs. Davis said with a cluck of insincere sympathy.
Before I got pregnant, fittings at the Quadri Salon were all about fun; they reminded me of playing dress-up as a little girl, or of playing with Barbie dolls, except that I was now the Barbie in the pretty white veil.
But show up for a scheduled fitting with the news that the dress everyone’s been slaving over is pretty much useless, and the fun rapidly turns to mis
ery. Add your future mother-in-law to the mix and expect the imminent onset of an ulcer.
“Yes, well,” I said, “she feels bad about it, but she just couldn’t get out of—” Out of what? Mrs. Davis was watching me, waiting. “She just couldn’t get out of her volunteer commitment,” I concluded lamely.
I just couldn’t tell my future mother-in-law that my mother had waved off my invitation to lunch and this dressmaker’s appointment with nary a qualm.
“Oh, Anna,” she’d said, “how many times do I have to tell you that I have my poker game on Wednesdays?”
“Oh,” I’d said. “Sorry.”
“What do you need me there for, anyway?”
“Nothing,” I’d assured her. “I don’t need you for anything.”
Maybe it was better that my mother hadn’t joined Mrs. Davis, Tracy, and me. The Italian-born dressmaker was muttering at me, clearly furious that all her marvelous work to date had been in vain.
“I’ll come back when I’m alone,” I promised the sophisticated, also Italian-born owner of the shop. “We’ll work something out.” She nodded curtly; her lips were pursed in annoyance. I smiled apologetically at the dressmaker, who returned the favor with a frightening scowl. “I promise.”
The dressmaker stormed off into the back of the shop, followed by the owner, who seemed to be whispering apologies and placating promises to her resident artist. Either that or she was cursing me. I don’t know; I don’t speak Italian.
“Let’s take inventory,” Tracy said brightly. “Something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue.”
“Okay,” I said, “the something old is my grandmother’s pearl necklace. The something blue is the embroidery on the handkerchief my mother carried on her wedding day. Which doubles as something old, I suppose. And the something borrowed is my handbag, which the designer is lending me for the occasion. It’s free advertising for her and a gorgeous seed pearl bag for me. Now all I need is the something new.”
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