Single in the City

by Unknown

  ‘Except for the husband!’ I contribute.

  Jade shrugs. I guess husbands aren’t an impediment to singledom in her circle.

  ‘We may as well be single now anyway. I’m virtually a single father. I never see Glenda. Occasionally at weekends.’

  Jade lowers her voice, smirking. ‘You’re unhappy about that?’

  I can’t believe she’s being so mean. Okay, Glenda’s no Kate Moss but Nigel is married to her. He must love her for some reason.

  ‘Heh, heh, not altogether unhappy.’

  She turns to me. ‘A piece of advice. As long as the bank balance is healthy, the marriage is healthy. It’s not a bad set-up. You should try it.’ She nods towards Barry, who catches her eye and raises his glass.

  ‘Cheers to that!’ They toast their good fortune at having snagged their workaholic sugar daddy (and mommy).

  I don’t like Jade any more. I’ve heard about these women who are only with their men for the money, but I imagined they’d look like Anna Nicole Smith and be married to wheelchair-bound octogenarians. I wonder if this is what bankers’ wives wither into from lack of attention. Or maybe they’re warped to begin with and gravitate towards rich, absent men. It’s the age-old nature versus nurture question. Either way, I don’t want to be one, thank you very much. Now I’m in a bad mood. This isn’t fun and I’m doing it for a man that I’m not even having sex with. At least Sam wouldn’t take this long to close the deal, to use banker parlance. Well, obviously he didn’t take this long, as evidenced by his cosy relationship with Janey. The lucky bitch. What if all of Barry’s friends are like Jade and Nigel? Is that what I’m signing up for? Am I doomed to be surrounded by women who do nothing but complain about their lives while spending their husbands’ money? What a sad way to live. There’s no way I’d want Cartier and Harry Winston to replace my husband…though I wouldn’t say no to a Cartier screw-motif gold cuff and a loving spouse.

  At least the food looks good and sitting next to Barry gives me someone to talk to. Mmm, asparagus. I love it, bad pee smell be damned.

  ‘Do you know,’ Glenda says as the last little plate of green spears is set before us, ‘that asparagus is one of only two foods that one should eat with one’s fingers?’ She looks pointedly at me, sawing away with my knife, as she picks up a spear. I hate her. It’s bad enough that one has had to learn how to eat like the English to keep them from thinking one is a barbarian (Chloe counselled that ‘civilized people’, by which she means everyone outside America, use their fork in their left hand and their knife in their right–no shifting back and forth to cut). There’s no need to point out my culinary faux pas. And I don’t have to take crap from a woman who looks like a badly ageing prime minister.

  ‘Really?’ I ask, batting my eyes. ‘What’s the other?’

  ‘Artichokes.’

  ‘Hmm, what about bananas?’

  ‘No, we use a fruit knife and fork.’

  Now there’re utensils for someone with more money than sense. ‘How about bread?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’

  ‘Sandwiches?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Oreo cookies? Mars Bars? Popsicles? What about potato chips?’ I’m certainly not above winning my point with trailer-park favourites.

  ‘Yes, well, the rules weren’t designed for your American food.’

  Barry asks, ‘For whom were they designed, then?’

  Pretentious women with overbites.

  Glenda at least has the good manners to look like she wishes she’d never introduced the topic. ‘Our tastes,’ she mumbles. I catch Jade roll her eyes.

  Barry laughs. ‘I prefer it when people follow their own rules, don’t you think?’

  My boyfriend is doing battle for me over asparagus–touché. He is a good man.

  Anticipation is running high outside in the stands. For people who know anything about tennis, this is probably quite an event. ‘It must be especially exciting for you that Roddick is here,’ Barry says as we take our seats on the sunny side of the court after lunch.

  Roddick, Roddick, is he a movie star I should know? Or a fashion designer? Surely I’d have heard of any designer that a thirty-year-old English banker knows about. He must be a movie star. ‘It is exciting,’ I murmur.

  ‘You’re cheering for him, then?’

  Cheering for him? I’m certainly not going to make that big an ass of myself in public. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Nigel breaks in. ‘You’re not supporting your own countryman?’

  Now I see a few American flags being waved. Fans wouldn’t do that for a movie star. Understanding dawns. ‘Oh. Well, of course I’m cheering for Roddick, what I mean is I’m not cheering for him, if you see what I mean.’ His ingrained fear of looking stupid in public should prevent any more probing questions. Now, how to know which one is Roddick? It’s not like they wear their names on their shirts. Two girls in front of us have flags. I’ll just clap when they do. This’ll be a piece of cake.

  Tennis, like golf, has never struck me as a spectator sport. It’s silly to watch a little yellow ball bounce back and forth over a net. Heads left, heads right, left, right, left. But to my surprise, it’s gripping. I’m totally sucked into the game. There’s not a sound except the strike of racket on ball and the occasional grunt from one of the players. It’s as quiet as a classical music concert or a play, without even the distracting noise of the performers onstage. When I say quiet, I mean qui-et.

  Except for that cellphone. I’ve been in theatres when they’ve gone off, and once an actor actually stopped his performance while the poor guy scrambled to silence the offensive ringing. Talk about humiliating. A voice booms over the loudspeaker after one of the players (mine, I think) misses the ball. ‘Please ensure that all mobile phones are switched off.’

  ‘Uh, Hannah?’ Barry whispers. ‘Is that yours?’

  No, that’s not my ring tone. But my handbag does seem to be vibrating. I peek inside and, sure enough, my phone’s little face is lit up, trying to get my attention. It’s Stacy.

  ‘Hello?’ I whisper.

  ‘Hannah, I had to call you! I just booked a ticket to come visit!’

  ‘You’re kidding?! When?’

  ‘Thursday! I got the most amazing deal out of JFK. The ticket is, like, five hundred bucks. I’m flying Air India but it must be safe or the FAA wouldn’t let them fly into the US, right? Do you think they serve curries and poppadoms on the flight? I’m so excited! What should I pack?’

  Barry whispers, ‘Um, Hannah, you’re not really supposed to be on the phone.’ I look up. The guy sitting in the high chair at the net is glaring at me.

  ‘Stacy, I’ve gotta go. I’m at Wimbledon.’

  ‘Wimbledon! Hang on a sec –’

  ‘No, Stacy –’

  ‘Oh my god, I see you! On TV! You’re on Breakfast at Wimbledon! Wave to me!’

  ‘Stacy, I have to –’

  ‘Come on, wave! Is that Barry next to you? He’s cute!’

  I give a little wave. ‘I’ll call you later.’ I hang up.

  Okay, on the embarrassment scale that goes from forgetting someone’s name to congratulating a fat woman on her pregnancy, this is equivalent to getting your period in white pants and not noticing until the end of the day, after giving a presentation on a raised stage, with no podium.

  ‘Barry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize the ring tone. Chloe must have changed it by accident when she was fiddling with my phone. And I don’t know how to turn my phone off.’ I don’t blame him if he dumps me now. After today’s performance, it’s safe to say I wouldn’t make a suitable banker’s wife anyway.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. Here’s the off button.’

  ‘You’re not mad?’

  ‘I think it’s kind of funny, actually. And I think you’re adorable.’ He kisses me and squeezes my hand, which he’s been holding since I got off the phone. ‘Besides, it could happen to anyone.’

  That might be true, but ‘anyon
e’ always seems to be me. I know it’s completely unfair, but I’m starting to wonder about Barry’s frame of mind. I mean, if he constantly thinks I’m funny and adorable when I know for a fact that I’m screwed up and weird, what does that say about him? Maybe he’s hiding a horrible dark secret and that’s the only reason he’s so accepting of my faults. Maybe it’s the secret he discloses to his girlfriends on their second anniversary. Nobody is really this nice, are they?

  20

  We’ve turned into women whose squeals can be heard by dogs as far away as China. Do I care that we’re confirming every stereotype about our homeland’s lack of volume control? I do not. Not when Stacy is standing right in front of me!

  ‘Ohmygod, I’m so happy to –’

  ‘Couldn’t wait to –’

  ‘– see you, I’m so excited –’

  ‘– get here, the flight was like –’

  ‘– that you’re –’

  ‘– six days long but I’m –’

  ‘HERE! YOU LOOK GREAT!’ we scream at each other. Of course, having best-friend vision means I’d think she looks great in a sack. Not that she is. She’s working pure airport glamour, complete with sunglasses in her hair, ready to whip on in case of paparazzi. You’d think she just finished a spa and make-up day at Elizabeth Arden. This is where having shiny straight hair that’s immune to humidity comes in handy. When I landed, I looked like I’d been in bed with the flu for three days. And I smelled like a goat. It’s the unglamorous side of long-distance travel that you don’t read about in Condé Nast; the whiff of confinement doesn’t come through in those paparazzi snaps of Kate Moss in Terminal 5.

  Stacy smells…‘Lovely?’

  ‘Isn’t it great? SJP is incredible.’ So my friend has landed glossy and clean, smelling as sweet as freshly baked bread. She’s going for an Elle Macpherson vibe with a skinny blazer and button-down shirt. And what are those? Stilettos? My feet puffed into mini soufflés on the way over. I’m so happy to see her. And yet. Tiny feelings of inadequacy are snapping at my heels. I’d almost forgotten the feeling. Surprising, given how often it plagued me in Hartford. Am I? Am I jealous? Come on. Haven’t I grown? Haven’t I proven I can do anything Stacy can? We’re equals. Still, I wish I’d worn heels.

  ‘Do you want to take a nap or anything?’ I’m just being polite. Stacy is happiest on four hours of sleep a night.

  ‘No way, I want to see London!’

  ‘Thought so. Put on comfy shoes and I’ll take you over to Hyde Park, then we can walk to Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Is the Queen there? Or William?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Stacy is convinced the heir apparent would pop the question if only they met. The fact that he’d also be her monarch simply sweetens the deal. ‘We’ll know from the flag.’

  ‘The flag?’

  ‘They fly the Royal Standard when she’s home.’ I’m proud to be able to impart this bit of trivia about my city. My city. I do think of it as my city, and it’s such a nice feeling.

  ‘Or –’

  ‘Then –’

  ‘– WE CAN GO –’

  ‘– shopping!’

  ‘– to Harvey Nicks and Harrods.’

  Of course. When Stacy told me she was only coming for a few days, I briefly worried that it wasn’t enough time. The museums alone here would take a couple weeks to get through. Then I remembered that my friend takes an anthropological view of culture. She can piece together a view of an entire country based on what she finds in its department stores.

  ‘I have an idea,’ she says as we’re wandering through Harrods’ handbag hall. It’s as if we’ve stepped inside an Egyptian tomb, assuming mummies carried Dior into the next world. It’s the most sumptuously tacky public interior in London, possibly in the world. Black and tan marble covers the walls and floor. Everything is painted in gold, with flower arrangements taller than me. Imagine the penthouse apartment of a very old, very famous socialite, the Mafia Don(na) of the upper crusties. Then add about a million fabulous handbags.

  ‘Let’s go to Europe,’ she says.

  ‘We’re in Europe.’

  ‘No, I mean the real Europe. France, Germany…Belgium.’

  Belgium? I’m surprised Stace knows where Belgium is. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Why not all of them? We could fly into a town near the border, rent a car and drive all through.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’

  ‘So I can see Europe.’

  ‘But you’re in Europe now. Why not see London?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ve already got the stamp here.’

  Now I get it. She wants inky credit for her travels. ‘It’s too much, Stace.’ There are times when I don’t appreciate her sense of adventure.

  ‘Kaiser Wilhelm did it.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kaiser Wilhelm in World War I.’

  ‘Have you been watching the History Channel again?’

  ‘My point is that we could fly into a city close to the border in, I don’t know, Germany, have a beer and a bratwurst, drive into Belgium, have some mussels, then go to France for absinthe and steak.’

  ‘A culinary re-enactment of World War I?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The shopping’s not great in Germany, you know.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Nope. Think about it. What’s it ever given to the fashion world? Dirndls? Sandals with socks? Karl Lagerfeld? He lives in Paris.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can see she’s mentally recalculating her credit-card bill.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty to buy here. We’re going to have a great time in London!’

  Tell me again why I thought it would be such a good idea to bring my oldest friend and my newest friend together? We’re in a very cool bar that welcomes ladies in need of a refuelling glass of wine before continuing their retail assault. It’s been an hour. Stacy and Chloe are barely speaking to each other. I assumed they’d love one another because they love me, that affection was somehow transferable. Apparently it doesn’t work that way. Stacy’s being surprisingly hostile, and Chloe’s being very aloof (not that I blame her; I’d be cold too in the face of this much aggression). This isn’t like Stacy. She’s usually very friendly and outgoing. I hope she’s just jet-lagged. I’ve been bragging to Chloe about how great my best friend is. She must be questioning my judgement at this point.

  I suspect there’s only one way to unite them. ‘So. Barry,’ I say. Now they’re eyeing me like I’m a single spoon in the chocolate fondant. Talk about throwing myself on the proverbial grenade, taking one in the gut for friendship.

  ‘Yes, Barry,’ Stacy sighs.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ Chloe orders.

  ‘The thing is, he’s perfect. He does everything right.’

  ‘Except have sex with you.’

  ‘I’ll get to that. He does all the right things. He takes me on perfect dates. He says the most complimentary things. Do you know how nice it is to be told all the time that you’re wonderful?’

  ‘Is he interesting?’ Chloe wants to know.

  ‘Does he make you laugh?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Not usually?’ Stacy asks.

  ‘Or all the time?’

  If this is their idea of a good-cop-bad-cop routine, one of them really ought to start playing the good cop. ‘I’m not looking for a comedian, girls, I’m looking for a good boyfriend.’

  ‘Why can’t he be both?’ Stacy asks.

  ‘Don’t you want our opinion?’

  ‘Of course not, I want your approval.’

  ‘We can’t approve of someone who won’t have sex with you.’

  ‘Right. It’s unnatural.’

  Sure, now they agree on something. ‘Maybe he’s just taking it slow.’

  ‘How long’s it been?’ Stacy knows the answer. She knows all these answers by heart. She’s just making me say it out loud as some twisted form of therapy.

  ‘Six weeks. No, seven.’
>
  ‘How many dates?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Are you sure his tackle’s in good working order?’ Chloe asks.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Maybe he can’t get it up.’

  ‘No, he’s definitely got it, up, whenever we’re together.’

  ‘Maybe he’s so big he’s self-conscious.’

  Ah, Chloe, you’re truly a great friend.

  ‘Wishful thinking. Maybe he’s too small.’ Stacy’s a realist.

  ‘Stop focusing on the physical! Can’t he be the perfect boyfriend that I just haven’t slept with yet?’

  ‘Sure he can. Only that’s called being your friend. Look, I’m just concerned that there’s something weird going on here. Don’t get mad, I’m only watching out for you.’

  ‘Stacy’s right, Hannah. Are you sure this is what you want?’

  I must have needed an intervention. It feels good to talk. ‘I just don’t get it. Aside from the sex, or lack of, everything is perfect. He even wants me to meet his parents next weekend. It’s their wedding anniversary…What’s that look for?’ Chloe’s eyebrows are nearly touching her hairline.

  ‘Uh, Hannah, are you sure he’s not gay?’

  ‘Oh my god, I can’t believe I didn’t see that!’ Stacy yells. ‘Of course, that’s it, he’s gay! He’s using you as a decoy!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. He’s not gay.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, for one thing he has a hard-on the whole time I’m with him.’

  ‘That is rather strong evidence.’

  ‘Fine. Then how do you explain his reluctance?’

  ‘I can’t. And I’m not sure about meeting his parents. I mean, isn’t that a big step?’ So maybe it’s me. I’m giving off don’t-sleep-with-me vibes. I’m so scared of a real relationship that I’m subconsciously sabotaging it. Maybe I don’t think I deserve someone who treats me so well. ‘Do you think it’s me?’

  Chloe is staring at me. ‘Hannah, listen to me. Too often we blame ourselves for our boyfriends’ shortcomings. Trust me, it’s not you, it’s him.’

  ‘Maybe you’re just not that into him,’ Stacy suggests.