Single in the City

by Unknown

  ‘Huh?’ He’s a good-looking guy, better-looking than Barry. I feel a pang of guilt at the thought.

  ‘When you were kids. Barry told me about the time he put your tooth through your lip.’

  ‘What is this?’ Mrs Kaplan is charging across the room. ‘My Barry never hit anybody.’

  ‘Barry never hit me.’

  ‘Oh, ah, uh, sorry, I must have been thinking of someone else.’ Poor Barry, he looks like I’ve just caught him in the bathroom with the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Why would he make something like that up? ‘Anyway, when are you due?’ I say to Eliza’s belly. Jeez, I hope she’s not just fat.

  ‘October.’

  ‘Excellent. Is it a boy or a girl?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘That makes it tough to buy the right colour clothes, doesn’t it? Nobody really looks good in yellow.’ Hah, hah, hah. As I say this, my eyes are drawn to Mrs Kaplan’s blouse. To be fair, she’s proving my point.

  ‘Ah, Hannah,’ Barry says, kissing me on the forehead, ‘Jews don’t buy gifts for the baby before it’s born. It’s a silly superstition we have. I don’t know why we still have it, really, since you’re absolutely right, yellow’s an awful colour.’ Mrs Kaplan’s flush is now nicely offsetting her blouse.

  ‘Oh.’ I’m making friends left and right. I may as well just pull some pork chops from my handbag and pass them around.

  Barry notices that I’m quiet on the ride back because, let’s face it, I rarely am. He has his hand on my leg. I wish he’d remove it. It’s hot and his hand is sweating. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I didn’t exactly fit in with your family.’ The first half-hour was my least offensive performance of the afternoon. Barry made our excuses not long after I talked myself down a blind alley challenging whether wine could really be kosher. You’d think I’d goose-stepped through their living room.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. They liked you.’

  ‘No, they didn’t.’

  ‘No. They didn’t. But that doesn’t matter. I like you.’

  How does he always know the right thing to say? ‘So, was that a big thing?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me meeting your parents?’

  …‘Yeah, it was.’

  ‘And I failed.’

  ‘No, Hannah, they failed. You’re perfect. If they don’t like you just because you’re not Jewish, that’s their problem…’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I’ve always done it their way, dating nice Jewish girls, and it’s come to nothing –’

  ‘I thought you said you’ve dated, er, out of the faith before?’

  ‘I have. A few dates. But girlfriends have always been Jewish.’

  ‘So I’m really the first.’

  …‘Yes. I’m sorry, I should have told you.’

  ‘A little warning would have been nice.’

  ‘I know. I just, I guess I wanted to be sure…I’ve been stupid. I don’t know what I was waiting for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s go to my place.’

  Can he mean what I think he means?

  He does! We’re tearing each other’s clothes off before he closes the front door. This is not the Barry I know. Maybe he’s drunk on Israel’s finest. Mazel tov! As he slides my dress over my head, I remember I’m wearing slightly big pants. They’re not terrible, but also not my first choice for seduction. Frankly, after so many non-starter dates, I’ve given up wearing spicy lingerie. Why suffer the wedgie only to go home alone? At least I shaved my legs yesterday.

  He’s whispering how beautiful I am, as if each body part exposed is a never-before-seen Rembrandt revealed. Flattery will get you everywhere, sir. Mmm. Remember when I said Barry was a slow kisser? While slightly boring on the lips, it’s delightful on the body. He obviously paid attention in foreplay class. Why, Mr Kaplan, what a beautifully circumcised hunk of manhood! Chloe and Stacy had me worried that I’d either have to comfort Barry after a barely-there encounter or go to the hospital for stitches. Neither will be necessary. Like the third bowl of porridge in Goldilocks and the Three Bears, he’s just right. And he’s not lying on me either, as some rather more lazy men have done. It’s hard to get into the moment with only a quarter of your lung capacity.

  I’m definitely in the moment. I’d never have guessed someone so conservative could be this sexy. He’s a Dr Jekyll and erotic Mr Hyde. I like having sex with this man. Surely that, and friendship, are good bases for a relationship.

  All of a sudden Barry yells, ‘I love you!’, grunts and collapses on top of me.

  Oh dear. What does one say to a proclamation of love that’s tangled up in orgasm? Perhaps he didn’t mean to say it. Maybe he has sex-induced Tourette’s. But what if he did mean it? Am I supposed to say it back? If I do, and he didn’t mean it, then that puts him in an awkward position. If I don’t, and he meant it, then he’s going to feel bad.

  The bigger question is: do I love Barry? The answer hits me square in the pit of my stomach. No, I don’t. No matter how many perfect dates we have, despite his constant compliments and the sex, I don’t love him. Despite his apparent perfection, he isn’t the man for me. I should have paid more attention to the signs instead of trying to convince myself that he was Mr Right. You don’t have to study for dates with Mr Right. I’m ashamed to admit it but I’ve started reading the newspaper. Not that reading is cause for embarrassment. The motive is. After our second date, I started stocking up on little anecdotes, just to keep our conversations moving along. It’s been exhausting. As I lie here next to my perfect-man-on-paper, it occurs to me that one shouldn’t have to cram for a date.

  ‘Thank you, Barry.’ I can’t break up with him naked, obviously. This is a bit awkward. What’s the appropriate time frame after having sex for dumping someone? I don’t think Miss Manners has covered that but I’m sure it’s more than seven minutes. All I can hope is that Barry’s English code of silence keeps him from saying anything more about it.

  ‘Thanks, Barry, for, er, a great, you know. But I have to go, I promised I’d call my parents at’–I check Piaget–‘six-thirty.’

  ‘Do you want to call from here?’

  ‘Uh, thanks, no…It’s going to be a long call. It’s my mom…woman troubles.’ This deadly weapon against further male enquiry works as well on boyfriends as it does on bosses.

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Okay, so, thanks. I’ll, um, talk to you tomorrow.’

  ‘Sure, okay.’

  When he kisses me goodbye, he lingers a little, but doesn’t say anything.

  I do want to call my parents. Suddenly I miss them. There’s a certain permanence to Mom and Dad, and even the things that drive me crazy are comforting in their predictability.

  ‘How’re you doing, kid?’

  ‘Just great, Dad, thanks. How’re you? Did you find a suit for Mrs Callahan’s daughter’s wedding?’

  ‘I think so. You’ll have to ask your mother.’

  ‘Right. Any fun plans for the weekend?’

  ‘I’m getting a new lawnmower.’

  ‘That’s super. A ride-on one?’ My parents’ yard is about a quarter-acre but all the neighbours have riders and I know my dad envies them.

  ‘No, your mother says it’s a silly extravagance.’

  ‘Well, it is only a little yard.’

  ‘You don’t have to mow it every week.’

  ‘That’s true, but she let you get the snow blower last year.’ Dad and I have very little to say that doesn’t revolve around machines of one kind or another. My Nissan Sentra sometimes occupied us for up to ten minutes.

  ‘Hi, honey.’ It’s Mom on the extension. ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘Well, the fares are really expensive now. Maybe later in the year.’

  ‘Your sister is trying to have a baby.’

  ‘There’s not much I can help with there, Mom.’

  ‘I know. I’m just saying. How’s Barry?’

  I kne
w she’d ask. Like I said, sometimes predictability is a good thing.

  ‘He’s okay. I met his parents today.’

  ‘Well! That sounds serious.’ This doesn’t make her happy. She’ll never forgive him for being born 3,000 miles away from Connecticut.

  ‘Yeah, maybe too serious. It seems a little early to be meeting parents, don’t you think? It’s only been a few weeks.’

  ‘Well, if you really like him, then that shouldn’t be a concern.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I don’t like him the way he likes me.’

  ‘Well then, honey, I think you should tell him that, don’t you?’ She can hardly keep the excitement out of her voice.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any way I can just not call him again?’

  ‘Have you had sexual relations with him?’

  No daughter wants to hear those words from a parent. ‘Once,’ I say in a very small voice.

  ‘Then I’m sorry, but you have to talk to him.’

  ‘I know.’

  It’s no good hoping his feelings will simply wear off. Dragging things out is just going to make it harder. I have to be an adult. It’s not fair to Barry either, letting things go on. Because I know deep down why I don’t love him.

  It’s Sam. It’s been Sam all along. I don’t know a lot about a lot of things, but I know this. He may be seeing someone, and I really hardly know him, but I know exactly how I feel about him.

  Okay, I’m going to do it. I’ll dial the number. Maybe I should make a cup of peppermint tea first. My stomach is a little queasy.

  ‘Hi, it’s me.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d call.’ And there is hope in his voice. Sweet Barry.

  ‘Well, I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Look, if it’s about what I said, please just forget it. I was caught up in the moment.’

  ‘Then you didn’t mean it?’

  ‘Did you want me to mean it?’

  I feel like such a bitch. ‘No.’

  ‘Then I didn’t.’

  ‘But you did.’

  …‘Yeah.’

  ‘Barry, I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel the same way.’

  ‘I know. But maybe you could eventually.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘That’s not definite.’

  I can tell by his tone that he’s hoping again. ‘I know I won’t.’

  ‘That’s pretty definite, then.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say. You’re, like, the perfect man, and I should be madly in love with you. You do and say all the right things. Really, Barry, you are perfect.’

  ‘I’m just not perfect for you.’

  ‘You know how you get that feeling sometimes, and it just hits you over the head?’

  ‘Yeah, huh, actually I do.’

  Ironically, so do I now. ‘I didn’t get that feeling.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s better to know now.’

  ‘Instead of waiting two years.’

  He chuckles sadly. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Does it sound too clichéd to say that I really want to be your friend?’

  ‘Not if you mean it.’

  ‘I really do.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Barry, you’re being so great. It makes me…it makes me wish things were different.’

  ‘Well, there’s no accounting for love. It’s either there or it’s not.’

  ‘You’re going to make somebody very happy one day.’

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

  ‘I guess I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Okay. Hey, Hannah? Thanks for being so honest. That takes guts.’

  ‘No problem. Talk to you soon.’

  I couldn’t feel guiltier if I’d just clubbed a seal pup. It’s a guilt compounded by the fact that I’m so relieved.

  Barry hasn’t called for two weeks. I’d be lying if I said I’ve thought about him constantly. He pops into my head at odd moments during the course of my day when something happens that I’d normally tell him about. But I forfeited the privilege of open communication when I broke up with him. Technically, I could call him. But that wouldn’t be fair, knowing that he’s probably hurting. I hate to cause him pain. And I hate that I’m feeling this guilty. At least when I get dumped I can take righteous comfort in being wronged. It takes the pressure off to know there’s nothing I can do to change it. Que sera, sera, as Barry might even say. But here I can do something to take Barry’s hurt away. I’m just choosing not to. Maybe I’m being harsh on myself, but technically it’s true. I don’t like having this power. If this is what it feels like to be the breaker-upper, thanks, I’ll pass.

  When he does finally call, I find my heart racing. ‘Barry! How are you?’

  ‘Still a little sad but don’t worry, that’s not why I’m calling. I was wondering if you, and maybe Chloe, were interested in a charity event tonight at Burberry. It’s for Breast Cancer Research. Kate Moss is supposed to be there. I, uh, it’s not a date or anything, of course, it’s just that I found out about it through work and thought you might like to go. It’s no big deal if not.’

  He’s forgiven me. No hard feelings. Isn’t that what he’s saying? This is an olive branch, a champagne-canapé-goody-bag-studded olive branch. Of course I’ll accept it. But wait. I don’t want to send him mixed signals. What if this isn’t a peace offering, but an attempt to get back together? That’ll make me a real bitch for leading him on. On the other hand, he did say he wanted to be friends, and this is well within the range of friendly activities. It’s not like he’s asked me to a candlelit dinner. And if Chloe is there, it definitely can’t be construed as a date. ‘Let me just check with Chloe. Can I call you right back?’

  ‘Sure, I understand. Let me know.’

  Chloe claims to have dinner plans. I know it’s not just an excuse. She’s not mad at me or anything. In fact, she was super-understanding about Stacy’s assault on the royal family. I think she’s come to expect a certain ballsiness from Americans, and she likes it. Just last week she had me return a dress (one of the few that she hasn’t lost in her flat) to a store that claimed to have a ‘no returns’ policy. I was more than happy to bully my way into her refund. It’s important to leverage our natural abilities in the name of friendship.

  ‘But you have to come with me!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you don’t go, then I can’t go, and I really want to go.’

  ‘Well, I really want to snog Peter.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Peter. The guy I’m going out with tonight.’

  ‘Come with us first, then go and meet Peter. Pleeeeease?’ I don’t know why she’s making a big deal out of this Peter guy. She never seems to really like the men she dates, though she always has a string of them. She had a serious relationship all through college but she doesn’t talk about it much. I gather that he ditched her for her room-mate. I think he broke her heart. It’d be such a shame if he scarred her for life, because she’ll make an excellent girlfriend for the right guy. She’s practically perfect, aside from her tendency to lock herself out of the house and lose her shoes.

  ‘Fine. But you owe me one.’

  Plus she’s very loyal.

  ‘Where are you?’ It’s Chloe, a couple hours later. I can hardly hear her over the din of the rush hour.

  ‘Outside the Tube station.’

  ‘Which exit?’

  ‘Nike. Where are you?’

  ‘Benetton. Walk over.’ As I cross the street, my phone rings again.

  ‘Hey, Barry.’

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Good. Where are you?’

  ‘Outside the station.’

  ‘Which exit?’

  ‘H&M.’

  ‘I’m meeting Chloe at Benetton.’

  ‘I’ll walk over.’ We’re within fifty yards of each other but there are at least a thousand people, dozens of taxis and a wall of buses between us. If ever a city’s residents needed
mobile phones, London’s do. You could be fifteen feet away from your friends and never find them in the crush of people. There’s Barry now, loping across the intersection. From a purely platonic point of view, he looks good. He kisses me on the cheek. Does that feel weird? Other than the night we met, contact has always been lip to lip. Yes, definitely weird. A little nostalgia-inducing.

  Two clipboard Nazis are stationed at Burberry’s entrance. I loathe them on principle. In one disdainful look, they always dismiss me as a phoney. I should have known that Barry would make everything easy. He gives them our names. There’s no disbelieving scan of the list or insistence that we’re not on it. The girls smile as much as their Botox will allow and let us pass. He’s Moses, parting the Rude Sea.

  The whole room is pink (Breast Cancer Research’s signature colour). A couple photographers are scrimmaging over the beautiful people. ‘Drink?’ Barry asks, gathering three champagne flutes from the waiter. ‘So,’ he says, ‘I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do now that we’re here.’

  ‘Eat and drink?’ Chloe snatches a tiny hamburger from a passing tray and pops it in her mouth, bun and all. I truly love her steadfast determination to eat exactly what she wants, muffin be damned.

  ‘And shop?’ Barry suggests. ‘I think the invitation said that some portion of the proceeds goes to the charity.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Charity-schmarity. ‘Is there a discount?’ To tell the truth, I’ve never been a plaid36 fan, even cut-rate plaid. You can only cover so many items in your signature cloth before crossing the borders of good taste.

  Still, the food’s good, though the waiters have the evasion skills of secret agents. In the middle of stalking those carrying goat’s-cheese tartlets, I notice an intriguing scene playing out across the room. Barry and Chloe are engrossed in an animated discussion. I don’t mean that Chloe is animated and Barry is listening. He’s waving his arms and laughing. Remember when I first met him? He was so deadpan that I doubted his sense of humour. He’s a different person with Chloe. And she’s acting like she thinks he’s Billy Connolly. Am I jealous? Whether boyfriends or handbags, you know I covet things I don’t have. Even when it was I who gave them away. Case in point: I always have pangs of doubt after donating clothes to the charity shop. But I’m not jealous. Not one iota, despite my good friend clearly telling me she thinks Barry’s the catch of the day. Reel away, Cap’n Ahab. You won’t be sorry.