Daisy Dooley Does Divorce

by Anna Pasternak

  That’s what drove it home to me that even though Andy was an old boyfriend, we were actually navigating uncharted territory because a decade’s worth of distance changes everything. In the worn-down comfort of a day-to-day relationship you can say, “Do I have bad breath?” without a moment’s hesitation or remorse. But now I was acutely aware that by nonchalantly chowing down chili prawns for lunch on the day of our meeting, I had over-familiarized things. Andy was both known and a stranger to me, so it was rude of me not to adhere to early intimacy etiquette, which dictates that everything smells sweet and every body surface is depilitated and smooth.

  In the end, tortured by the thought that as we were kissing, he was valiantly trying not to be knocked out by my garlic pong, I plucked up the courage to ask, “Does my breath smell?”

  When he said “a little,” I was mortified but as I got up to go and clean my teeth, he wrestled me back on the bed. He didn’t care, making it feel urgent and alive. Later he whispered, “I’ve got a secret I want to share but I don’t know how to tell you.”

  Lucy asked me to a party as her metaphorical hand-holding date and afterwards we were going for a girlie supper. Her handsome divorce lawyer, Mark, had invited us to the swanky do and as I stood in the middle of the lively throng, I looked at these bright, successful, somewhat dissolute men and thought that while they were convinced that they had it all, they actually had it all wrong. You could tell watching them flirt in that awful, self-congratulatory way that they considered themselves Big Swinging Dicks, yet all I could sense beneath their St. Moritz weekend tans was an unbearable deadness. I wanted to stand on a table in the center of the room and shout, “Don’t worry about being successful. Work toward being significant!” But maybe being spiritually bankrupt is easier in the long run. These macho adrenaline junkies filled their every waking hour with the pursuit of money, power, status, and scarily aggressive sex, never stopping long enough to see that they were running on empty. You could never connect with a man like that, I thought. You could entice him, flatter him, fool him even, but you would never know him. Like wild horses used to the run and freedom of a vast prairie or plain, these men of the boardroom are never caught. They marry, breed, have affairs, and breed some more but they never commit because they don’t know how to—or want to. Their biggest fear is meeting a woman (or worse a man) who might crack open their hearts. Worse than bankruptcy, redundancy, or astronomical alimony is if things get messy, emotionally speaking, and they lose control.

  It was liberating to observe without feeling self-conscious and I was vaguely aware that this made me stand apart. When not at a party like this where they are jostling to flex their competitive muscles, men see the power in lulls, in silence. A quiet room is not threatening to them, so in not talking to anyone, I became quite the magnet. A man past his prime called David approached me and began chatting me up. When I told him I was divorced, he said, “Remarriage is an excellent test of how amicable your divorce was,” and winked.

  I wanted to say, “David, five years ago, when your gut wasn’t straining ever so slightly against your Dunhill waistband and when your wedding band didn’t cut into your pudgy finger, you could have been a dishy date. But you need to update your self-image, old boy, because flashing those yellowing tombstone teeth doesn’t do it for me any more than your wafting stale breath does, even if, wedged against the passport-sized piccys of your missus and kids in your wallet, your Amex card is a reassuringly expensive black.”

  When he said, “May I have your card? I’d like to get in touch,” I was so taken aback that I gave it to him. He put my card in his jacket pocket and patted it as if to say, “It’s your lucky day, sweetheart.” Then a colleague appeared and manhandled him in that proprietorial way and they walked off without a backward glance. Five minutes later I went up to David and tapped him on the back. He swung around, astonished to be interrupted. In front of the colleagues fawning around him, I said, smiling faux-sweetly, “I’m sorry, but in a fit of polite naïveté, when you asked me for my card, I gave it to you. Actually I’ve made a mistake as I feel sullied by the thought of it in your grubby pocket and the porno thoughts you might attach to it. So can I have it back, please?”

  He raised his eyebrow, playing to the stunned group as if to say, “We’ve got a live one here” and laughed nervously. He pulled out my card and I took it. “Well,” he joked, “that’s a first! That’s never happened to me before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” I said and swept off.

  Thrilled, I searched the crowd for Lucy, who was standing in a corner close to the dangerously attractive Mark. Like Edward he had those effortless, confident, public school good looks; the sort of man who had spent decades striding across summer cricket pitches looking dashing in his whites. Only Mark was slicker than Edward. It was as if his brain was keener, his ambition edgier, and his charm more lethal. He was the type who radiated that he knew he was good in bed. I went up and whispered, “He’s married, remember? Time to go.” Seeing her reluctant look, I added incentive. “I’ll dish about my hook up with Andy—he had a little secret that I’ll share with you.”

  Enough said. As she kissed him good-bye and walked away, it was obvious by the way he looked at her that his interest in her was more than professional. Trouble ahead? Please God, no, I thought.

  Afterwards, over dim sum, Lucy said, “It’s so depressing because at our age only married men bored with their wives and too guilty to leave their kids hit on you.”

  “You said it,” I agreed, thinking of the vile David.

  “So?” Lucy said, perking up. “I’m dying to know. What was Andy Benton’s secret?” She poured me another glass of wine.

  “Well, my escapism with Randy Andy was typical,” I said. “Like all perfect things, there’s always something wrong with it.”

  Lucy let out a knowing snort. “Yep, I’m learning to aim low in life. Expectations are resentments waiting to happen.”

  “Luce,” I chided, “we must deal with your cynicism. If there is a lack in your life, there’s a lack in your thoughts.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with believing that in order to find a trustworthy and truthful man you have to have them vetted by a secret agent, is there?”

  I told her what had happened with Andy. “We were entwined, having the most open, unedited, postcoital chat. It was jolly, like being on a sexual sleepover. We lay for hours in the dark, teasing each other and talking, when suddenly Andy pulled me closer to him and lowered his voice. He started stroking my hair and said that he had a secret to share and that he hoped it wouldn’t make me angry. My mind went into turbo-charged panic: He was married? He had a committed girlfriend? A boyfriend? A criminal record? But do you know what he told me—after we had slept together using a condom? That he’d had a vasectomy.”

  Lucy burst out laughing. “God, I bet that was a relief! I thought it was going to be something awful.”

  “In a way it was awful. I was so taken aback, I didn’t know what to say, so Andy said, ‘The reason I didn’t tell you before is that I thought you would be disappointed.’ ‘Disappointed about what?’ I asked feebly. ‘That I can’t get you pregnant.’ ‘Why do you think I’d want that?’ ‘Because I’ve found that women your age who aren’t married often want the baby more than they want the man.’”

  Suddenly I found myself welling up. Lucy reached out and touched my arm. “Oh, Luce, I’m so tired of always being in that place before tears,” I said. “I was grateful Andy and I were lying in the pitch black because while he was talking, I felt tears dribble into my ears.”

  “I didn’t know you were desperate for a baby,” she said softly.

  “Nor me. Yet I was completely thrown by Andy’s revelation. Part of me was mortified that he thought I might be out to trap him, the other part was stunned because in a sense his telling me that closed a door. He was making it clear that this affair couldn’t yield anything, but if we’re honest, we are always looking for a little bi
t more, aren’t we? Or what’s the point?”

  “You’re the one always banging on about living in the now,” said Lucy. “I thought you rated Andy and he was a short-term tonic. Sounds to me that he offers the sort of sexual healing that should be free to despairing divorcées on the National Health System.”

  “Yeah, he makes me want to share myself in a way that feels safe and understood. He’s the sort who debunks the myth that you have to wear mascara in bed to keep a guy.”

  “So go and get laid! Lighten up and let some lovin’ in. Lord knows you deserve it.”

  “I want to be able to but every month that I’m messing around with Andy, I’m reducing my chances of meeting a man who does want to have my child, aren’t I?”

  “What does Andy want?”

  “He wants us to keep seeing each other.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t know what I want. I need to go away and think seriously about the fact that I may never have a baby and decide if that’s going to work for me.”

  “You don’t know how good you’ve got it, Daisy. I wish I could find an Andy.”

  “But you’ve had your daughters, so your emotional landscape is different from mine. Destiny isn’t chance, it is choice, and I’ve got some sober soul searching to do.”

  The next day I met Jess for quick coffee near her surgery. Even though we shared a flat, she’d been working so hard and we kept such different hours that I hadn’t seen her for ages. She usually left for work before I got up and returned long after I was asleep.

  “So how are you?” I asked as she dipped the end of her croissant in her skinny cap.

  “Exhausted,” she groaned.

  “Me too,” I said. “But not from working. From dating. I’ve been out with Max and Andy and all I feel is drained, depressed, and confused.”

  “You’ve probably got PTDS,” said Jess matter-of-factly. “There’s an epidemic among my divorced patients.”

  “I’ve been pretty careful. Ever since Troy, I always use a condom.”

  Jess laughed. “No, it’s not an STD. Post-traumatic date syndrome. It’s a form of chronic mating fatigue, whereby you work yourself into an emotional frenzy before any encounter, then suffer the inevitable letdown of the actual date, followed by mild depression afterwards because you haven’t found The One.”

  “Then I definitely have acute PTDS.”

  I told Jess about Andy’s vasectomy. She merely shrugged and said, “I’ve got just the answer. Have Julius’s love child and let Andy help you raise it.”

  “Are you mad?” I shrieked.

  “Not at all. Hey, it’s unorthodox”—Jess lit a fag—“but at least it’s modern. Isn’t that what contemporary living is all about?”

  “I think I prefer traditional,” I said.

  “You tried that with Jamie, remember?” she said exhaling. “You were bored after two minutes. At least this would pose enough emotional drama to keep you engaged.”

  “It’s true that Andy is devoted to his son. Maybe he’d like being in loco parentis to another man’s child,” I said.

  “It’s all about working out what fits where.” Jess looked at her watch. “Shit, running late. Gotta go.”

  Catching my expression, she said, “Sure, it’s messy, but consider the possibility. Listen, Daise, at our age, hope without action is useless because it puts all the power in the magic wand. Your solutions always lean in favor of the fairy tale. I hate to tell you this but your single, unmarried Prince Charming waiting to breed might not show in this lifetime.” She blew me a kiss. I sat in the coffee shop, stunned. Could I really have a child with Julius but a live-in relationship with Andy? Would that be utterly absurd?

  Dad and I met, at my request, at our Thai dump where, as usual, the steaming, stinking noodles made me want to retch. He was tucking in with gusto. “Sit, Daisy. Eat!” He smiled. When I had helped myself to some steamed rice and vegetables, he asked me how things were going.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s difficult doing everything for myself. I feel so alone.”

  “That’s because you are alone!” he replied matter-of-factly. As always when he hit the bull’s-eye, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Yeah, well, I’m trying to change that. I’m thinking of taking Julius up on his offer to have a child.”

  “Aha, time to breed at last? Excellent news. Good for you. I’ll be interested to see what my grandchild turns out like. Hmm, a Vantonakis-Dooley cross. Not that I like babies much, or even small children of course, but then that’s the joy of grandparenthood. Not too much involvement and you hand them back to their mother.”

  I was tempted to say, “So no different from your version of fatherhood, then?” but Dad continued, “So at last the great Julius has left his wife for you? You did say he was married, didn’t you? To one of the Randolphs, if I’m not mistaken? I knew a Randolph in Boston not long after I met your mother. A queer Brahmin fellow. He kept a white tiger in a cage in the garden. But then the very wealthy, like Randolph Hearst at San Simeon, have always indulged expensive, dangerous pastimes, haven’t they? Yes, this man also kept a collection of . . .”

  “Dad,” I said sharply, “Julius hasn’t left Alice Randolph.”

  Dad looked up at me. “You’re thinking of becoming his mistress?” The way my father mouthed the word “mistress,” as if rolling his tongue around an expensive claret, it didn’t seem totally shocking; more old fashioned, even exotic.

  “No. We wouldn’t have any sort of ongoing relationship, post-conception,” I said, deliberately clinical so that his scientific brain could absorb the facts.

  “I see,” he said, when clearly he didn’t.

  He carried on chewing noisily, staring into his bowl as if the answer lay beneath the layer of grease floating on the surface. After a while, he put his chopsticks aside. “Life is not easy, Daisy, but I’ve never understood your desire to overcomplicate things.”

  “That’s because, sadly, simple solutions seem to elude me,” I sighed. “I know it looks odd but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and often our scripts for life are limited and trip us up because we don’t have the courage or creativity to implement an alternative.”

  “Ah, no one can possibly accuse you of not being resourceful,” said my father. “It is just that what is needed to survive life is a shared sense of suffering. If it is a dark moment, it is a dark moment together and when you come out of it, you are standing in the light together. It worries me to think of you always standing in the dark alone.”

  “What, like you, you mean?” I said.

  Was it the most incredible synchronicity or was it willful—and wishful—thinking? Just as I was working up my courage to contact Julius, I got his text: “Alice had the baby last week. A beautiful boy. I need to see you. Call me. J.”

  I immediately went into a tailspin of despair. Now that he had his own child and the primal bond with his son had been forged, why would he want to procreate with me? Regret piled in. I should have gotten pregnant the minute he suggested it. I shouldn’t have let my disappointment win. I always did this: waited for the perfect scenario, praying for the quick fix of the illuminated moment, and then when it finally dawned that nothing better was on offer, fell to pieces.

  I was in the bookshop writing on the blackboard: “Maybe it’s not our lives we can’t afford but our aspirations.”

  Miles looked up from his stocktake. “Whoa, Dooley, don’t tell me that the notion of compromise is finally entering your repertoire?”

  I told Miles my plight, that I had been thinking of having a child with Julius, while contemplating living with Andy.

  “Do you love Andy?” he asked.

  “Too soon to say,” I said. “I think we could fall in love. It’s a promising union. The signs are there.”

  “You deluded fool,” said Miles. “Look, Daisy, I’ve known you for twenty years and there’s only one man you’ve ever gone gaga over and that was Julius. You fell for him
because he’s always been unattainable and no man will ever match him.”

  “That’s because I’ve never met a man as manly as him.”

  “Do you mean manly or rich?” Miles winked.

  “Miles, any man can be masculine but not many men are manly. Masculinity is the opposite of femininity but manliness is the opposite of male weakness. Julius is never weak because he breathes authority.”

  “Right, because he’s stinking rich and money is power, you mean?” chided Miles, before adding, “My father always told me that the definition of manliness is a man who’s confident in a situation of risk. So if Julius is as manly as you think, just because he’s got one baby with one woman, it isn’t necessarily going to prevent him having another child with you, is it? It would be a badge of potency to him—let’s face it, men in his stratosphere hardly abide by the pedestrian two-point-four-kids-and-a-discreet-bit-on-the-side, do they?”

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “There’s a question of honor and now that Alice is the mother of his child, she probably has a lot more influence.”

  “Get real,” shouted Miles, jumping down from the counter and shaking me by the shoulders. “Do you think a man like Julius, who married a young, malleable trophy, even consults her, let alone gives a damn what she thinks? Masters of the Universe believe they can buy anything they want in life and if that means a compliant wife, they’ll pay for it. No, if Julius wants it, it can happen. The question I’m more interested in is: are you sure you want it?”

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, reaching for my phone. I texted: “Congratulations. When and where do you want to meet?”