THE UP AND COMER

by Howard Roughan

  When you're dripping wet it's tough to maintain an out-of-body experience. Embarrassment set in. After looking around to see the entire symphony audience, not to mention every bartender and usher, staring at me, I accepted the handkerchief of a bearded man standing nearby. "Keep it," he said with a hand on my shoulder. "You strike me as a guy who may need it again."

  That was the last time I was at Lincoln Center.

  * * *

  Encore. It had been more than four years, but Philip Randall was finally setting foot back in Philip Johnson's Lincoln Center Plaza. It was my fervent hope that the turnover rate among the staff was such that no one would have cause to remember me. Worst-case scenario: Hey, look, there's the guy who made that poor girl feel like a prostitute!

  The evening was to be a benefit concert followed by a three-hundred-dollar-a-plate reception with all proceeds going to breast cancer research. It didn't get any more PC than that. When Tracy had first told me that Jessica's mother was providing the tickets for the four of us, I assumed that the whole shindig would be gratis. Not until I was putting on my tuxedo did Tracy clarify that the tickets were merely for the concert. The reception was our financial responsibility. The way she said it, I could tell she was thinking that I'd be mad. Not about the money. Rather, Tracy knew that nothing got my goat more than the notion of a "gift" that required you to reach into your own wallet. If it wasn't for the fact that I was finally having my chance to reconcile with Jessica (albeit with our spouses in tow), I probably would've been a jerk about it. Instead, I simply smiled and made a lame joke. Something about how we shouldn't think of it as six hundred dollars for the two of us, but more like three hundred bucks a breast. Though I wasn't exactly sure why that was funny, Tracy managed to get a chuckle out of it. She was in a good mood.

  I wasn't so bad off myself.

  For as quickly as it had all started, it had all stopped.

  There were no more pictures in my briefcase. No more e-mails, no more faxes, no more hanging up on Tracy. No more free movie rentals showing up on our doorstep. In short, there was no more Tyler.

  I tried not to kid myself. Maybe all he was doing was taking a breather. His kind of vexation, when you thought about it, wasn't easy. It was hard work. A few days off and he'd be right back at it again. Good as new. This was simply the calm before the next storm.

  But a big part of me couldn't help thinking that there would be no next storm, that Tyler had given it his best shot and I had weathered it. He had now grown bored of me, as I'd initially thought he might, perhaps moving on to his next victim. For his sake, someone without the same backbone construction as Philip Randall.

  Yes, that's what a big part of me couldn't help thinking.

  The part of me otherwise known as my ego.

  The concert began at seven. The arrangement was to meet Connor and Jessica out front by the fountain at six-forty-five. Tracy and I were a few minutes early. As we stood there waiting, I couldn't get over the fact that I was a bit nervous. I took a nickel out of my pants pocket and tossed it into the water. Some inconspicuous time alone with Jessica that evening. That's what I wished for.

  "Do we clean up nice or what?" came Connor's voice from about twenty feet away. I turned to see him and Jessica heading toward us.

  "Shit, you almost border on handsome," I called out to him in response.

  The girls kissed, the guys shook, and we switched. Like I always did in these situations, I gave Jessica a peck on the cheek. As my lips touched her flesh, I was afforded a brief glimpse into the world of necrophilia. She couldn't have been any further removed from me.

  Tracy and Jessica immediately paired off and told each other how great they looked. Neither one was lying. Meanwhile, Connor and I talked guy stuff. Our jobs, the market, when the Knicks would be eliminated from the play-offs. Before we knew it, it was a minute before the concert was to start. We rushed inside.

  Whisking through the lobby and hurriedly walking down the aisle, I jockeyed for position. A seat next to Jessica. It was like being back in gym class when you had to line up and count off by fours to make teams. All you'd be trying to do was rig it so you could end up together with your best buddy. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

  Reaching our row first, I stepped back for Tracy as if politely to say, after you. She was about to take me up on it when she stopped. Wait, I want to sit next to Jessica, she informed me. That makes two of us, darling. I nodded indifferently and went in before her. Damn. It didn't work.

  The concert featured a collection of renowned musicians and vocalists, with Kiri Te Kanawa making a special appearance near the end. Although she'd always had a loyal and enthusiastic following among the opera set, it was interesting to me that Ms. Te Kanawa hadn't gained any real mass notoriety until her rendition of Puccini's "O Mio Babbino Caro" was used in a sparkling-wine commercial some years back. Given that it was for Ernest & Julio, I could only assume, as well as hope, that she got paid a boatload.

  After about an hour and a half, we all stood and applauded. The lights came up, and the four of us agreed that we'd definitely been entertained. Shuffling out to the reception area, the girls went to find a bathroom. Connor and I went to find the bar.

  I ordered and was handed my vodka tonic, after which Connor ordered a Newbury martini. By the time he had explained to the blank face of the rented bartender that it consisted of "a lot of gin, a little vermouth, and a splash of triple sec," I was ready for a refill. I kidded Connor. There's a place to do simple and a place to do complex, I told him. Here's a hint: any bar that has wheels on it is a sure sign to keep it simple. He laughed and took a sip of what was supposed to be a Newbury martini. Not even close, he said.

  I decided that with the girls taking their time in the bathroom I would casually bring up the topic of him and Jessica. Curiosity had gotten the better of me. "How are things going?" I asked.

  "I think you were right," he said, sounding a bit relieved. "Whatever was going on with her, I think it blew over. She seems fine… we're fine."

  "Happy to hear it," I said.

  We both took sips of our drinks, glancing around at the crowd in the process. It was amazing to see that there remained a few grown men in the world unaware that strictly circus clowns should wear red bow ties.

  Said Connor a moment later, tacking on a word of thanks, "I appreciated the help, by the way… your advice and everything that night."

  "Don't mention it — it was nothing."

  "No, I'm serious, there aren't many friends I could've had that conversation with."

  Ugh. That there was actually one fewer friend than he thought made my stomach turn. Guilt and nausea, it seemed, were starting to emanate from the same part of my brain.

  I was spared having to respond as Tracy and Jessica returned from the bathroom. With them were Jessica's mother and brother, whom they had bumped into. While it made total sense, it hadn't occurred to me that they'd be there.

  Jessica's mother, Mrs. Emily Levine, suffered from what was commonly referred to as Widow's Surrender, meaning that after the death of her husband, she had lost any real interest in maintaining her personal appearance. It wasn't as if she'd let herself go completely. In fact, with a box of Clairol, a month of SlimFast, and a day at Escada, she would pretty much have been back in the ball game.

  "I think you'll agree with me, gentlemen," she said right away to Connor and me, "that I've got the best-looking escort in the entire place."

  Another symptom of Widow's Surrender: dragging your son to social functions as your date.

  We heartily agreed with her escort assessment as Jessica's brother, Zachary, rolled his eyes. He was twenty-eight, unmarried, and essentially unmotivated when it came to anything that remotely resembled a job. Jessica called it laziness. Her mother feared that it was a by-product of the boy's not having had a father figure while growing up. Certainly she didn't blame herself for it, though as she made clear to Jessica when they would discuss and often argue about it, she didn'
t want to blame Zachary either. Consequently, the boy was given more slack by his mother than he knew what to do with. The fact that he still lived at home with her at his age pretty much said it all.

  "How did you enjoy the music?" Mrs. Levine asked the group of us.

  "It was wonderful," I quickly answered, allowing me to segue into thanking her for the tickets. Her so-called gift. "It was awfully kind of you to think of us," I told her. "We must figure out a way to return the favor." Only Tracy could detect the hint of sarcasm in my voice and in doing so she gave me a fixed glare. I simply beamed a smile back at her.

  The conversation turned to politics. Then movies. Then gossip. As a member of the committee responsible for the evening's festivities, Jessica's mother was in the know on many of the more recognizable guests in attendance. As she lowered her voice a few decibels, it was clear that she possessed little if any reluctance to revealing some of their secrets. A walking, talking version of Page Six in the Post, she was. I listened to who was "shtupping" who and which corporate executive was about to be unceremoniously ousted while intermittently stealing fast looks at Jessica. She seemed to be as amused as she was mortified by her mother's behavior. I can't believe I came out of this woman, I pictured Jessica thinking. As for me, all I was thinking about was when the hell I was going to be able to talk to her alone.

  The time eventually came, though not until late into the night. It was right after dessert. We were at a table for eight, six of whom had seen fit to disappear for one reason or another. The two important chair vacancies, Connor and Tracy, had gone, respectively, to wait in line at the bar and to say hello to a friend she recognized from a previous freelance job. With but the space of an empty seat between us, the time was perfect. Especially because Jessica had passed on the chance to make an excuse to leave. It was as if she knew our conversation was inevitable. It didn't make sense for her to avoid it any longer.

  "I've missed you," I told her.

  Her reply surprised me. "I've missed you too."

  "Then why did you keep hanging up on me when I called?"

  "Because whether or not I missed you doesn't make it all better."

  "What would?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure, to be honest with you. All I know is that when you told me about Connor's suspicions, I nearly lost it."

  "Yes, I know, I was there."

  "You didn't exactly help the situation."

  "You're right; I apologize. The whole thing had me pretty wound up as well," I said. "If it's any consolation, Connor seems to be in a much better frame of mind."

  "The two of you talked about it again?"

  "Briefly. Earlier tonight, as a matter of fact. I didn't want to dwell on it, as you might imagine. At the same time, I didn't want to pretend we never had the initial conversation."

  "What'd he say?"

  "That whatever was going on with you appeared to have blown over."

  "I suppose that's a relief. It wasn't easy," she said.

  "If you don't mind, I'd just as soon not hear about your efforts."

  "I was merely taking your advice."

  "That you were. Which reminds me… the butterfly?"

  She laughed. "Read about it in Cosmo. Did it bother you?"

  "Like you wouldn't believe."

  We sat there for a bit without any words. There was a six-piece band playing, and I listened as they finished Billy Strayhorn's "Take the A Train" and immediately launched into Louis Prima's "Sing, Sing, Sing." Apparently it was big band night. That or a tribute to dead composers.

  Jessica turned to me. "Have you ever had a defining moment?" she asked.

  "That depends. What do you mean?"

  "Something that alters your entire outlook on life."

  I thought for a second. "Does being born count?"

  "I'm serious," she said.

  "In that case, the answer is no, I don't think so. I take it you have?"

  "Yes," she said. "It was the day after my wedding."

  "What happened?"

  "Our limo to the airport didn't show up."

  "That changed your life?"

  "No. But the cab ride we had to hail instead did."

  "How so?"

  "It was something the driver said. He was this older guy, superfriendly, and in the middle of the ride he was asking us where we were flying to. Connor tells him about St. Bart's and explains that it's our honeymoon. The driver congratulates us and starts to gush about his own honeymoon and how much he loves his wife. It was really sweet.

  "So we continue to talk, and at one point the driver asks if we'd like to hear his definition of love. Sure, we tell him, why not? He straightens up in his seat and says, 'Love is when you care about someone more than you care about yourself.' With that, he glances back at us for our reaction. Connor looks at me and says to the guy, 'That's very well put; I think you're absolutely right.' Meanwhile, I'm looking back at Connor, and do you know what I'm saying? I'm saying to myself, 'I think I've just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.'"

  It was probably a shut-up moment, but I spoke anyway. "Okay, so you realized that you didn't love Connor," I said calmly.

  "Worse," said Jessica. "It was as if Connor had nothing to do with it. What I realized was that according to this guy, I was incapable of loving anyone."

  I looked straight at her. "Forgive me for saying this, Jessica, but we're talking about a cab driver here. At best, one man's opinion."

  "Yeah, but the problem was I didn't think he was wrong, and for sure Connor didn't either. There were the three of us in the cab, and people in cars all around us, and yet, at that moment I never felt more alone in my life."

  "So let me guess — you had an affair," I said.

  "No, what I had was a tremendous desire to stop feeling alone," said Jessica. "Which brings me to you, or should I say, brought me. Because on that first night when you rode back with me in, of all things, another cab, for the first time in a long time, I no longer felt alone."

  "I'd be flattered if I didn't know better," I said. "What you're saying is that misery loves company. Or is it narcissism loves company?"

  "I prefer the expression 'two peas in a pod,' myself. It's not as condemning."

  "What makes you so sure I'm incapable of loving someone?"

  "Call it a hunch." She shrugged. "You're the lawyer, though. Feel free to prove me wrong if you want."

  "The thing is, you never would've told me all this if you thought for one minute that I could."

  "Funny how that works, huh?"

  "Hilarious," I said. "Anything else you want to get out into the open?"

  "No, that's it," she answered. "You can only hold a mirror up to a relationship for so long."

  "So now what?"

  "Haven't thought that far ahead. I'll need a little more time to think things over. Maybe you should do the same."

  "Don't need to," I told her.

  "Then I'll try not to keep you waiting too long."

  Soon thereafter, Tracy returned to the table. Connor wasn't far behind. He had long since given up on his Newbury martini, opting instead for gin and tonics. The four of us sat for a few minutes and chatted. The band began to play "April in Paris," and we all got up to dance. Midsong, Tracy reminded me of her idea of the two of us going there.

  "This is fate," she said. "We should go next April. We can send my mother a postcard telling her about all our PMFs."

  I didn't get it right away.

  "Paris-Made Friends, silly," she explained.

  "Of course," I told her. "Though they'll definitely have to live within the Paris city limits. None of those poseurs from Versailles."

  "Definitely not," she said, playing along. "We do have our reputations to think of, you know."

  We both laughed and, going with the moment, I stepped back and twirled Tracy around. In doing so I happened to catch Jessica peering at me over Connor's shoulder. She was too smart, too collected, to be jealous, and had there been any question about that before the ev
ening started, our conversation had certainly put it to rest.

  Nonetheless, it couldn't have hurt my cause.

  SEVENTEEN

  That Wednesday in my office, four days later. It was a couple of minutes past noon. My direct phone line rang and I picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

  "Room three-eleven."

  "Okay," I said. I was about to say more when I heard an all-too-familiar click on the other end. This one, however, I didn't mind.

  The moratorium on Philip had ended.

  I dusted off my gym bag, had Gwen reschedule a conflicting appointment, and within minutes I was on my way back to the Doral Court hotel, a measurable spring in my step. I walked into the lobby and hopped onto a waiting elevator. Third floor. When I arrived at the room, the door was open about an inch. Walking in, I didn't say a word. I simply peeked around the corner at the bed. There, lying atop the covers, was Jessica. Completely naked.

  There were no hellos. No rehashing of our last conversation. Just sex. Colossal sex. It was one of those sessions where we had to check each other for scratches and bite marks when we finished. Not that that was anytime soon. Once on the bed. Once on the chair near the bed. Once in the shower, a previously never-before-tried location for the two of us. "If I'm the one paying for the room," said Jessica, whispering in my ear at one point, "I want to be sure to take full advantage of all the amenities."