Lucy
I TRY NOT TO FEEL SELF-CONSCIOUS as Camille leads me into the martini bar. It’s surprisingly busy for a Tuesday. At least, it’s surprising to me. I haven’t gone out for mid-week cocktails since the early nineties. By the time I finish work, I’ve always been too guilt-riddled to do anything but rush straight home. But Sam assured me that she was helping with setup for the art show. And obviously, Trent could not care less whether I come rushing home or not.
Camille heads straight to the bar, a dark wood and backlit glass construction. The bartender, all tanned and smooth-chested, approaches.
“Gin and tonic?” Camille asks me over her shoulder. I nod and she orders, plopping her breasts on top of the bar. With an appreciative glance, the bartender sets about making our cocktails.
“God,” I whisper as we wait, “everybody’s so ridiculously good-looking in here.”
“Including us,” Camille says confidently.
“Speak for yourself,” I mumble. I don’t mean to be self-deprecating, but I can’t help but feel old and out of place. A woman my age should be home with her daughter … and her husband.
“Please!” my friend cries. She pretends to address the crowd. “Anyone in here been asked out by this year’s Choice Hottie? What? No one?” She turns to me. “Oh, you have?”
“Okay,” I laugh, gathering the G&T that has materialized on the bar. “I’m soooo good-looking.”
“That’s better.” Camille pays the bartender and indicates two vacant seats in the corner. “Quick!” she says, already making a beeline for the stools near the window.
I follow along, trying to ignore the gaggle of tanned, breastimplanted twenty-somethings in knockoff Pucci prints. Of course, theirs is a phony, L.A. type of attractiveness, but I still feel plain in comparison.
When we’ve perched on the Lucite cubes, Camille says, “Tell me the real reason you said no to Wynn Felker.”
“I already did,” I say, sipping my gin and tonic. “He’s too young.”
“But wouldn’t you at least like to have sex with him? He’s so hot.”
“He’s more like … pretty.”
“Pretty fucking hot!” Camille takes a sip of her drink. “If I were you, I’d at least go for a drink. I hear he rents this gorgeous house right on the water. You could go back to his place and have sex in the pool.”
“Camille!” I say, blushing despite myself. “I barely know the guy!”
“Obviously, you’d use a condom.”
“Obviously. But I’ve said no, so it’s irrelevant now.”
“No it’s not!” she cries. “You could just tell him you changed your mind.”
“I can’t,” I say, staring into my drink. “It’s too soon.”
Surprisingly, Camille agrees. “I know you’re still emotionally fragile. I’m just saying that you should allow yourself to have a little fun. That’s why we’re here.”
“This place is supposed to be fun? Yeah, it’s really fun sitting here comparing myself to a bunch of Jessica Simpson clones.”
Camille laughs. I continue. “Look at this crowd. Do they grow them in a Petri dish or something? Everyone looks the same.”
“Not everyone’s gorgeous,” Camille says, peering into the room. “Look at that guy with the big bald spot over there.”
Through the forest of beautiful bodies, I search for Mr. Bald Spot. It takes me a second to spy him. “Okay, so there’s one guy here who doesn’t—” I stop. “Oh my god. That’s my friend Hope’s husband.”
“Hope the housewife?”
“Yes,” I say, shooting her an admonishing look. Camille has always looked down on women who don’t work outside the home. “What’s he doing here?” I crane my neck to see his companions: a cool blond, a voluptuous girl with a mane of curly hair, and Trent.
The wave of nausea that engulfs me is terrifying. I honestly fear I might puke all over the backlit glass counter. Frantically, I turn away, afraid to see any more. Is he here with that curlyhaired girl? Are they dating? How could he do this to me? Not two weeks ago, he was doing something else to me on the living room sofa. And now … Oh god, I think I might pass out.
Camille notices my pale, shaky demeanor. “What …?” She cranes her neck and spots Trent. “Oh shit. Let’s get you out of here.”
I’m not sure I can stand, but Camille grabs my hand and drags me through the bar. Outside on the uneven bricked sidewalk, I gasp for air. Tears pour from my eyes. I try to speak, but no words will come. I think I’m having some kind of nervous breakdown … or an emotional one.
“Asshole,” Camille growls, taking me into her arms. And this time, as I sob into her shoulder, I don’t contradict her.
Trent
“SORRY ABOUT MIKE,” I had apologized as we drove through the darkened streets back to my hotel. “It’s like he doesn’t know how to act around attractive women. He feels compelled to hit on them.”
Annika laughed. “Leah can handle herself. I’ve seen her put bigger idiots than him in their place.”
I should have defended my friend, I guess, but he was kind of an idiot. And maybe I’d been an idiot for inviting him. But what choice did I have?
“But I’m sure she liked you,” she said, sliding her hand down my inner thigh. I was no longer wondering if I was an idiot. I was too busy trying to keep the car on the road as Annika proceeded to give me a mini hand job through my pants.
The car foreplay worked, though, and I was able to give a fairly impressive performance in the sack. Obviously, that initial disaster was just first-time jitters. It’s to be expected. I hadn’t had a first time since I got together with Lucy. In fact, Annika was so impressed that we’ve spent four of the last six nights together in my hotel room. The sex is so good, I can’t get rid of her!
I’m joking of course. It’s not like I really want to get rid of her. But our relationship has gotten kind of intense, kind of fast. When I left home I hadn’t expected to be spending so much time with Annika. The whole idea was to be alone, to get to know myself as an individual. That’s a little hard to do with an oversexed thirty-two-year-old crawling all over you.
Annika’s not really oversexed. I guess I just got used to the routine with Lucy: sex on Sunday mornings, with an occasional Friday night thrown in if we’d had some wine. When I was younger, I wanted it more often too. I still want it. I mean, Annika is totally hot. But I can’t help feeling a little exhausted by her attentions.
I tear my thoughts from my amorous girlfriend and focus on my wife. It’s been almost a week since I’ve heard from her. I’ve left three voice messages and Lucy still hasn’t called me back. I spoke to Sam on the weekend, and we made plans to see a movie on Wednesday. “How’s your mom?” I’d asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.
“I don’t know. Kind of weird,” Sam mumbled.
“Weird how?”
“She’s been, like, cooking dinner and stuff. It’s weird for her.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I guess one of the positive side effects of my leaving was that Lucy realized she needed to reevaluate her parenting skills. It makes me feel a lot less guilty knowing that she’s finally pulling her weight in that department.
But I still need to talk to her. On one of my voice messages I’d suggested we attend Sam’s art show together. Plus, I get possession of my apartment on the fifteenth, and I want to take the double bed out of the spare room. I could use some kitchen appliances too, and Lucy’s got more than enough for both of us.
Maybe email will be more effective? She’s plugged into her BlackBerry 24/7, so I’m sure she’ll get the message. As I start to type, Annika pops her head into my office.
“Hey hon.”
“Hey.” I shift uncomfortably in my ergonomic chair. We both agreed we’d keep a lid on things in the office, but Annika seems to have a little trouble remembering that.
“Why don’t you come to my place for dinner tonight?” she continues. “You need a home-cooked meal—not that I’m much of a cook.
But I can pick up these really gourmet boil-in-thebag dinners from this little shop near my apartment. Do you like osso buco?”
“I can’t,” I say, before I’ve even thought of an excuse. As tempting as boil-in-the-bag osso buco is, I need to spend the evening alone.
Annika’s face immediately falls. “Why not?” she says, sounding a bit like my daughter when we tell her she can’t stay out past curfew.
“I’ve got to see Sam,” I lie. “She’s having some trouble at school … Math … you know how it is.”
Annika brightens. “Bring her along! I’m great at math. But she probably won’t want osso buco. We can order pizza?”
“Annika,” I say, my voice hushed. “Sam’s not ready to be brought into this … relationship.” The word sounds almost ominous.
“Well, when will she be?” Annika snaps, making no effort to lower her voice.
“I don’t know. One day … maybe.”
“One day maybe?”
Christ! She’s practically yelling. What the hell does she expect? That my daughter would want to meet the woman I’m screwing less than a month after I’ve walked out on her mother? But I calm myself. This is not the time or the place to be having this conversation. “Can we talk about this later?” I grumble.
“When? Tomorrow? At my place?”
“Fine.” Thankfully, she leaves without causing any more of a scene. I’ve always been attracted to fiery women—Lucy being a prime example. But when it starts interfering with my job, well … that’s another story.
With a heavy sigh, I turn back to the email missive to my wife. Perhaps it’s my frustration with Annika, but my words take a harsh tone. Lucy can’t just ignore me this way. Whatever is happening with our marriage, we’re still co-parents, and she’d better start acting like it. Finally satisfied with my note, I hit send. There. Now that ought to get her attention.
Lucy
IN EIGHT YEARS AS A PROPS BUYER, I’ve called in sick only a handful of times. Sam got mono once and the babysitter refused to take her. Another time I had eaten some bad shrimp and couldn’t bear to be away from the toilet. And then there was last week. While I didn’t have the flu or anything clinical, I was absolutely, undeniably sick. I was sickened by Trent’s infidelity, his betrayal, his complete and utter shit-headedness. Worst of all, I was sickened by my own gullibility.
I put on a brave face for Sam’s sake. (The fact that my forehead can no longer relay any sort of emotion has been extremely helpful in these circumstances.) My daughter’s been through so much lately I feared that having her mother fall apart might send her back to the gin bottle. Each morning, I got up and made her toast or oatmeal or some other substantial start to the day that was always rejected in favor of a protein bar or a banana. When she walked out the door to school I would return to my bed, sobbing for hours. Eventually, when I was numb with exhaustion, I’d flick on Dr. Phil.
The show served only to confuse me more: all these complete fuck-ups working tirelessly on their train-wreck marriages. Thirty-two-year-old Tammy had been employed as a call girl behind her husband Merle’s back, and still, he wanted to work on it. “We have a baby and three ferrets together,” Merle said in his southern states twang. “I think our marriage is worth saving.”
So what was wrong with Trent and me? I had never been unfaithful, for money or otherwise. We had a child together. Was it our lack of a pet that made our bond so disposable? Would a guinea pig or a weasel have made all the difference? Or was Trent just a selfish, unfeeling prick as Camille suggested?
Hope had been calling ceaselessly as well. “Just wondering if you’ve got to chapter fourteen yet,” she’d chirp into the answering machine. “It’s about letting go of the indiscretions that happened when you were separated, and starting a brand-new life when you come back together. I’m not sure if you’re ready for it yet, but it really did help when Mike came back home.”
I hadn’t called her back. What was I going to tell her? That her chipper message had prompted me to rip out chapter fourteen and tear it into tiny pieces that were subsequently flushed down the crapper? Same went for chapter four (Trusting Your Bond), chapter nine (Accepting His Humanness), and chapter twelve (Healing the Wound). Based on Hope’s marriage, that book was complete drivel designed to let men cheat on their wives then be welcomed home completely scot-free! Did she know Mike was hanging out at bars, hitting on cool blond businesswomen? Did that goddamn book tell her that was “just something men needed to do”?
But today I’m back in the office. My guilt at leaving Camille in the lurch had propelled me out of bed—not to mention the fact that Sam seemed a little creeped out by my constant presence. Immersing myself in the work build-up is somehow therapeutic. At least it allows me to focus on something other than the sour lump of anger sitting in my stomach. We had our briefing first thing this morning, we’ve compiled the episode’s props list, and now I’ll spend the rest of the week racing around the city in search of Cody’s remote-control model T-Rex and his fifties-flashback leather jacket. While this routine has become increasingly uninspiring of late, it beats sitting at home watching Dr. Phil counsel Tammy and Merle on how to keep their family together.
So I’m deep in the belly of Toys “R” Us when my BlackBerry vibrates. I could ignore it, but what if it’s Bruce with another toy to add to the props list? I don’t want to have to make a second trip out here. Extracting the device from my bag, I check the new message.
From: Trent Vaughn
Subject: Your Attitude
Lucy, I’ve left three messages to which you have not responded. If you’re pissed off for some reason, I wish you’d have the maturity to talk to me about it instead of giving me the silent treatment. This juvenile behavior is not good for Sam. We’re both still her parents, remember.
Also, I get possession of my apartment on the 15th. I need to get the double bed from the spare room.
Call me asap.
Trent
A sour burst of incredulous laughter bubbles up from within me—or is it vomit? He’s got to be kidding! He’s the one out boozing it up on a Tuesday night with some curly-haired slut, and I’m immature? My behavior is affecting Sam? Oh my fricking god!
Obviously, there is only one way I can react to this missive. Okay, there are two ways. One would be to wait outside his office in my idling SUV and then mow him down in front of all his co-workers. This would be deeply satisfying for me, but hard on Sam. And I’m not sure I want her raised by my mother while I languish in the big house for vehicular homicide. Not that I blame my mom for the way my marriage turned out, but if she’d equipped me with the tools I needed to make better choices in men, none of this would have happened. I want more for my daughter. I will choose option two.
When I’m behind the wheel of my Forerunner, it is more than a little tempting to head to Trent’s downtown office. But with an impressive display of will power I turn back toward the Cody’s Way set. As I hurtle through the afternoon traffic, I seem to be having some kind of mild stroke. My heart races and the blood pounds in my ears. My hands are shaking and I’m covered in a thin slick of sweat. Surprisingly, I’m not crying, despite the heavy lump of emotion caught in my chest. I drive aggressively, borderline recklessly. But twenty minutes later I reach the office in one piece.
As I get out of the car, my mini-stroke has turned into a different sort of physical sensation. With my labored breathing, trembling hands, and shaking legs, I’m almost feeling a little turned on. Maybe it’s the friction of these new jeans, but as I storm into the building I feel on the verge of some kind of minimally enjoyable, highly embarrassing orgasm. As I stride past mute Tanya, her widened eyes tell me that even she’s noticed something’s not right with me.
Without stopping at my desk, I move directly toward the set. It takes only a second to spot him. As usual, he’s surrounded by a gaggle of hangers-on, whose purpose in being there is a complete mystery to me. Before nerves can set in, I march up to him.
�
�Wynn, can I talk to you for a sec?”
The hangers-on gape as though I’ve just proposed marriage to him. But Wynn says “Of course,” and touches my forearm in a very intimate way. I know it’s just my forearm, but in my current heightened state, it might as well be my nipple. When we’ve moved a suitable distance from his entourage, he says, “What’s up?”
“I’d like to go out with you—for a drink with you,” I blurt. “If you still want to.”
“Yeah, of course,” he replies smoothly. “If you’re sure you’re not too busy scrapbooking.”
“What?” Then I remember my previous lame-ass excuse. “I don’t even scrapbook,” I admit. “I just didn’t think it was a good idea … you know … before …”
“Before what?”
I know he’s just flirting, but I suddenly feel on the verge of tears. “Before I caught my husband and his fat slut at a bar last week! Before he emailed me and asked for the double bed from the spare room so he and that bitch have somewhere to fuck!” Instead, I shrug, trying to compose myself.
“Are you okay?” his hand massages my shoulder, and it no longer feels sexy. It feels comforting and kind and supportive. Shit! The tears seep out of my eyes before I can stop them.
“No,” I mumble, stifling a sob. “I’m not okay.”
TRENT AND I MET AT A PARTY when I was a twenty-two-year-old college student. He was drinking something pink and slushy that turned out to be rum, ice, and pink lemonade crushed in the blender. By way of introduction, I pointed at his drink and said, “Yum.” He said, “Want one?” I said, “Sure,” and followed him to the kitchen. Three hours and four rum and pink lemonades later, we were making out on a ratty futon mattress in a small bedroom with a Nirvana poster on the wall.
At the risk of sounding like a drunken floozy, most of my dating was done while under the influence of alcohol. I had a boyfriend in high school (I got the nerve to tell him I liked him after I’d had two kiwi coolers before our eleventh-grade Halloween dance). Then there were two one-night stands in college (rye and Cokes were to blame in the first instance, Kokanee beer in the second). In my second year, I made eye contact with a guy in my sociology class for three weeks before we ran into each other at a bar. I was on my fourth Corona when we literally bumped into each other and ended up dating for six months. It turned out he was a pompous know-it-all who wore glasses without a prescription and started smoking a pipe at twenty-three, but for a few months, I’d considered him sophisticated. And then came Trent.
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 8
