The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating

by Carole Radziwill

  “Hurry up, get in here, dear. For God’s sake, what are you doing?” A voice, gravelly with carcinogens, scratched out the order.

  Jack had brought a box of French macaroons, her favorite. She took two out and gave the rest of the box to Alfred. She turned her cheek for Jack to kiss but didn’t stand. Her eyes were on Claire.

  “I like her already.”

  Ann Holloway smiled slow and wide, like a wolf.

  “Make us a drink.”

  Jack looked at Claire.

  “Okay, but be nice, Annie.” Jack bent down to kiss Claire and whispered, “You’re going to love her,” then left the room.

  “So, let’s not be coy. I already know all about you.”

  She did? Claire’s stomach took a giddy little hop.

  “He tells me you’re a writer. What do you write?”

  This meeting had been discussed, at least a little bit. Claire had been talked about. It caught her off guard.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She stumbled a little. “I’m working on a book now. I sometimes write articles for magazines.”

  “I knew your husband.” Ann Holloway took a drag on her cigarette.

  “My late husband.” Claire said.

  “Dead or not, I knew him. I knew him when he was still earnest. Once he got some fame, the academics mocked him, but I always liked his work.”

  Claire, without warning, blushed, a small, unexpected pride. “Well. That’s very nice. Thank you for saying it.”

  “You should write about me sometime. You’d make a fortune. They’ve have been trying to get my memoirs for years.”

  A woman brought in a tray with two martinis. It was eleven forty-five in the morning.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Claire stammered. The martini glass turned her stomach. “Would you mind, could I just have iced tea?”

  Ann Holloway looked amused.

  “I would imagine Jack’s on his way with one.” She knew everything. “You know, Claire, there’s a story—it’s a famous one in Hollywood—that I once fucked a producer to get a client. Because the client, it’s said, wouldn’t sign with me unless I guaranteed him a certain part.” Ann laughed and took another long drag of her cigarette.

  “A little twist to the casting couch fable. It’s been going around for years, and like most good stories, it isn’t true. But you could write it. It’s the truth, about me. Had I ever been presented with that option?” She took another long drag and exhaled slowly, in four large rings. “It’s exactly what I would do.”

  Claire took a sip of the martini and coughed.

  Jack Huxley reentered, on cue, with iced tea. “I’ve got to make a call but I’ll be quick. I’ll be right back.” He laughed. “Promise.”

  “We’re just getting to you, dear. Take your time.” She turned to Claire and leaned forward holding a slim cigarette. “Would you like one?”

  “Oh no, I’m trying to quit.” Claire had no idea why she said this except that she had wanted to impress this woman.

  “Me, too, for the past twenty years.” Then Ann Holloway’s face turned serious. “That man is just about the worst thing you can do with your life. You know this, don’t you?” Before Claire could answer, Ann went on, her face soft, her eyes on the ceiling, “Oh my, and at the same time, he’s the very best, you know that, too, of course. It’s why you’re here. But the worst of him will kill you before you get the best.”

  Ann Holloway put her cigarette out and pressed a button, and the woman who’d delivered the martinis came in again with an ornate box on a small silver tray. Ann opened the box and took out a slim and perfectly rolled joint. She lit it with a large glass lighter and took a long drag. The sweet lazy smell made its way slowly to Claire and she took a deep breath, and Ann passed her the lit piece. “Here, then. In lieu of vodka.” They took deep drags, passing the thing back and forth. The little hand on the big clock on the wall had moved two places. When had that happened? Where was Jack?

  “Why does the worst have to come first?” Claire asked.

  “It’s survival, Claire. It’s nothing more. People are very simple, it turns out, for all the nonstop analysis. You can uncover every mystery of human beings, everything you need to know, by watching rats.”

  Claire’s eyes were closed, her head fell back. She was sleepy in the big velvet chair.

  “We’re like lab rats in a maze,” Ann said. “If you move the cheese, we run different routes to find it. If you introduce a pleasure sensation when we take a certain route to the cheese, we’ll remember and run that same route again. If you introduce pain when we take a certain path, the next time we’ll avoid it. But here’s what is fascinating.” Ann Holloway leaned in. “What is fascinating to me is when the pleasure sensation is induced repeatedly, in disproportion to the pain. Do you understand what I mean?”

  The pot had made Claire dramatic; her eyes got big and round.

  “No, I don’t think I do. What happens?” Claire asked.

  “The rat,” Ann said, “loses perspective. An overload of pleasure mitigates the need for food. The pleasure satisfies the rat’s hunger. If you keep stimulating the rats with a pleasure sensation on a certain route,”—it was clear that Ann enjoyed this—“then move the cheese so that they have to take a path around the cheese to get to the pleasure. Do you know what happens then?”

  “No,” Claire said, her eyes still big. “I don’t.”

  Ann sat back in her chair. “The food is right there, they know where to find it, but they run right past it. They starve to death, for the pleasure.”

  “Of course, people aren’t rats.” Claire laughed nervously.

  “Don’t kid yourself, honey.” Ann took a long drag of the joint and held it in, quietly let it out. Claire was picking at her shirtsleeve, pulling it down past her sweater.

  “I like you. And I’d like it if you would come back to lunch with me sometime. I’d enjoy it very much. All of that is why I’m going to tell you, Claire: he’s ruined for women.”

  Claire didn’t look up, and Ann went on.

  “He’s fucking two other girls right now, for instance, just this week.”

  Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The warm pot feeling was starting to ebb.

  “It doesn’t matter, Claire, it’s only sex after all, and he’s careful. He won’t put anyone at risk. It’s not that, it’s that he gives a little piece of himself away to each of you every time. He doesn’t know how not to. He can’t just fuck, he has to give something. He doesn’t protect himself, in that way. He does like you. He holds you in high esteem. But protect yourself.”

  She picked up her drink and tinkled the ice cubes around—Claire hadn’t noticed that the martinis had been cleared and replaced by something else. Ann Holloway started to laugh. “If you can accept that we’re all rats, Claire, then you might have a little fun.”

  Claire thought she might burst into tears. Suddenly there was Jack.

  “Claire, Ann has this back room I want you to see.”

  Claire gasped at his voice, right behind her, his head lowered to her level on the chair. How long had he been here? At some point music had been turned on; they were listening to Sarah Vaughan. Ann Holloway’s words pounded in her head like the background to some sick Hollywood thriller sound track. Jack Huxley’s character would lead her to another room now, lay her down on a cold marble table, and the two of them would drink her blood.

  “I don’t think so,” Claire said.

  Jack’s head jerked back just slightly. “All right.” He stood up.

  She tried a smile, but Claire Byrne was no actress.

  “Is anything wrong?” he asked.

  “No, nothing. It’s fine. I just have a headache. The martini.” They both looked at her barely touched drink. “Maybe I could just go—”

  “Go?”

  “Maybe we could just go back to the house, if that’s all right. I get headaches. Sometimes. I just need to lie down.”

  They were in the car ten minutes before eithe
r one of them spoke.

  “Listen. Claire, I’m sorry. For whatever she said in there. She’s a bit unfiltered.”

  “No, she’s not. She’s just honest.”

  Jack pulled over and stopped the car. He took a deep breath.

  “There was another girl, Claire. I’m sure you already know that. There are papers, television shows, magazines, I don’t kid myself, I know. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

  Claire’s heart pounded. She wanted him to stop talking and she didn’t know how to ask him to without sounding pathetic.

  “She’s not in the picture now.”

  “In the picture? One girl?” Claire wanted to start laughing. It was so absurd. And Ann Holloway was right—it’s not about the sex. Charlie was right. Love and sex can’t coexist. Jack Huxley was never going to get that, any of it.

  There was one more day before she was to leave. Jack had left early in the morning, with some vague detail to take care of. Claire’s small body coiled up beneath his goose feather comforter, eight-hundred-thread-count sheets. Still she shivered.

  There was a book face down on the pillow next to her. Claire turned it over. The Razor’s Edge, first edition. Signed by Somerset Maugham. She couldn’t imagine where Jack had found it. Was this his own personal copy? Now given to her? Inside was a note:

  C—

  Our book. Now yours.

  —Jack

  He gives a little piece of himself away to each of you, every time. Ann Holloway’s words rang in her ears.

  RULE #16: Relationships are like writing; the hardest part is knowing when to stop.

  40

  After Claire got back to New York, she got her period. So much for that. She relaxed, then obsessed, then met Sasha and Ethan at Bar Pitti for post-Jack analysis.

  Claire handed Ethan her coat. She told them about the visit to Ann Holloway and their awkward last day. She didn’t tell them about the book. They wouldn’t understand.

  “I don’t have an exit strategy,” she said.

  “Oh my God, it’s not love, honey,” Ethan said.

  “How do you know?” Claire asked.

  “At best, it’s oxytocin,” Sasha said. “It’s the bonding hormone. Women release it during sex and childbirth. Dr. Riva says it can take up to two years to detox from high levels of it.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I might be, but I’m not the one claiming to love a hologram.”

  “A hologram?”

  “Yes, you see him in front of you but when you reach out to touch him he’s not really there. I hadn’t wanted to tell you, but this whole thing you’re doing is not you and it’s not good for you either.”

  “Don’t preach, Sash. Last week you said you wished Thom was dead.”

  “What?” Ethan said. “Did I miss something?”

  Sasha glared at Claire.

  “Never mind,” Claire said.

  Panderer and seducer, flatterer and alchemist—the embodiment of everyone Dante bumped into on his zippy little foray into hell. That was Jack Huxley.

  “You should sue him for breach of affection. He’s squandering affections you should be investing somewhere else. He’s sabotaging your future potential. He should pay you restitution.”

  “That’s not very helpful, Sasha,” Claire said. “I’ll just forget any of it ever happened. Who cares? My husband died. I’m thirty-two and I don’t have a clue about life or love or men.”

  “Clarabelle, sweetie. Take advantage of your freedom. Go out with me tonight. Maybe you’ll meet someone normal—a ballet dancer.”

  Claire pouted. “‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.’”

  “That’s a song lyric.” Ethan said.

  “Song lyrics are true. Joan Baez was a poet.” Claire took a sip of her wine and distracted herself with her menu.

  “You didn’t just say that.” Ethan pulled Claire’s menu down from in front of her.

  “Janis Joplin!” Claire said and laughed. “Just testing you.”

  41

  It was the middle of Claire’s discontent. She woke up at three minutes past nine in the morning. There was a phone call from Richard.

  “Claire. Sorry to wake you. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Knopf is asking for the first one hundred pages of Charlie’s book. If you stall, they’ll lose interest and then we’re back at square one. Do you have something?”

  “Hmm. I guess.”

  “Something I can give them?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, first fifty.”

  “By when?”

  “As soon as you can. If you give me something reasonable, I’ll tell them and they’ll be okay if they have a date. The catch is, you can’t miss it.”

  “Tell them a year. Maxwell Perkins used to—”

  “I know about Maxwell Perkins,” Richard said. “But you haven’t written For Whom the Bell Tolls yet. So until then, they want to know how much of the book is going to be Charlie and how much you. They want to know they’re going to be able to sell the booksellers on it.”

  “I need more time, Richard.”

  “I’ll tell them first few chapters and a synopsis by June. They’ll take that. Stick to a schedule. Get up and eat some fruit and get to work. I want to see some finished pages next month.”

  Claire was tired of Charlie’s book. She had been taking up space at the National Arts Club, going every day, staring at walls, watching Don DeLillo come and go, counting down the remaining days of Charlie’s membership, and e-mailing people she hadn’t talked to in five years. She had not, technically, done much work on Charlie’s book at all.

  * * *

  THE CITY, AS if to shame her, felt unnaturally upbeat. Unapologetically happy. It rolled right over her. Ethan invited her to a cocktail party on Thursday, and Jonathan Rochet was there. Claire made it a point to overdrink. She choked down the house bar’s signature margaritas in big gulps. She made a terrible insult to Ethan’s friend, then excused herself to wobble back home.

  Another week down. Three million to go.

  The first day of spring, Claire took a taxi to the Empire State Building and bought an all-day pass to Big Apple Tours—a double-decker bus that drove up and down the city, over and over, like a giant narrative taxi, infusing its passengers with useless bits of island legend and gossip and lore.

  She took the first bus in the line and handed her ticket to Derek. Yes, Derek. Claire’s griot. Islands are small.

  He began in a quiet, conspiratorial murmur. “Right now you are six blocks from where Thomas Paine died. Paine, the infidel, the author of Common Sense and The Crisis, two of the most political pamphlets of American history. Both written during the American Revolutionary War. Thomas Paine returned to fifty-nine Grove Street to die somewhat disgraced soon after being imprisoned by Robespierre in Paris during the French Revolution.”

  He made no suggestion of knowing Claire, and she was glad. There was no awkwardness. She sank back in a seat and watched. The griot was animated. His arms gesticulated in one direction, then—swoop, whoosh—in the other.

  She sat and listened, and at the first stop she stayed on. She stayed on through the Village, through Chinatown and Soho, up to Times Square and Museum Mile.

  By late afternoon Claire was hungry and considering getting off when the tour bus slowed at Sixty-Fourth Street as it made its way up Madison Avenue.

  “Here,” the griot began. He was solemn. Claire sat up straight.

  “Here is where just last year one of the city’s finest minds was felled by one of its most expensive works of art.”

  He didn’t say Charlie’s name. He didn’t mention the fake. No one asked any questions. But he did catch Claire’s eye.

  She stood up as the bus approached the stop at Grant’s Tomb, 122nd Street and Riverside Drive. He was in the middle of a story about the number of times Grant proposed to his wife before she finally agreed to marry him. Claire left with her heart warm a
nd walked the long, long, long way back downtown.

  At the corner of Broadway and Fifty-Ninth, at Columbus Circle, she stopped to catch her breath. There was a newsstand on the corner. In the same way that Michael Corleone didn’t look but still sensed the headline that said his father had been shot, Claire sensed it.

  She did not want to turn her head, but she did.

  Jack Huxley was on the cover of People, OK!, Us, the National Enquirer, and, of course, the New York Post.

  “Preggers!”

  Claire walked up to the newsstand under the pretense of buying gum. She pretended to dig through her wallet. She tried inconspicuously to read the magazine.

  “Right,” she said softly.

  “You want the paper?” the brown-haired man asked impatiently.

  “Just gum. Doublemint.”

  She looked up and down Eighth Avenue. She looked across at the park where couples where swinging small children between them, lifting them up off the ground and letting them back down.

  No one in the city could possibly register the Richter measurement that had just rocked Claire Byrne.

  Preggers!

  RULE #17: Once you have non-monogamously dated a man, step aside for other women to non-monogamously date him.

  She left a dollar bill on the counter, snatched up the Post, and walked fast and angry the rest of the way home. Then she called Sasha.

  “Someone’s pregnant.”

  “What? Who is? Wait, hold on a second.”

  Claire took the phone into her bathroom and examined herself in the small mirror. Charlie’s bathrobe was still hanging on the door. Her hair looked too long, too brown, too old. Her face looked too plain. She had very small breasts. Charlie had liked her. Hadn’t he? No one is ever going to like me again, she thought.

  “Honey, I have a situation going on,” Sasha said. “I’ll call you right back.”

  Instead of calling, though, Sasha came through the door thirty minutes later. She walked in with wine bottles.