by Jill Kargman
“Yes, I guess I am. I’m all for burning bridges,” Eden said matter-of-factly. “If a bridge is rickety and wobbly and can hurt people, burn that shit down! You’ll build another with someone else. But as for me, I’m thumbing it to the next one.”
47
About the only thing that comes to us without effort is old age.
—Anonymous
It was over lunch at Swifty’s that Eden realized she had gone from art world and gossip sensation to full-blown celeb. She had arrived five minutes early to meet Allison, who had just finished parent-teacher conferences at Carnegie. While she waited at the teeny bar area, she first heard the general whispers she had long grown accustomed to: “ . . . Otto Clyde’s girlfriend . . . split . . . muse,” and the like, but then she heard bits and pieces of words like “Brooke DuPree . . . suicidal . . . what is Chase thinking . . . trouble.” Self-conscious, Eden pulled her soft scarf closer to her neck as if to insulate her not only from the draft coming from the vent above but also the raised silver forks ready to stab her.
“Sorry I’m late.” Allison sighed, bursting in, shawl aflutter, heels clacking. She double-kissed Eden, oblivious to the scores of mascara’d eyes upon them. “Apparently Kate has H.R.”
“What’s that?” Eden asked, noticing a Hitchcock blonde with a crisp pale bob staring at her over a glass of Chardonnay.
“Homework Resistance. Like it’s a syndrome now. Uh, hell yeah, I resisted homework, who doesn’t?”
Eden looked to the maître’d. “Hi, we’re both here now,” she said, glancing back at the table of ladies whose eyes were Krazy Glued to them. “Is there anything in the back?”
As the two followed the man to their table, Allison walked up alongside Eden.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just these women are all staring at me.”
“Yeah, well, big shocker, Brooke Lydon is like the Kevin Bacon of the Upper East Side. Except everyone is only two degrees away from her, not six. Ignore these wrinkly hags! They’re jealous, trust me! You think they really want to bang their crusty old billionaire husbands? You think they would put up with their gnarled asses if they didn’t have a trill in the bank? Fuck no. They’re not in love like you and Chase are. It’s all acting! They play the Penthouse Pet to get the penthouse! Got it?”
“I guess,” said Eden, putting down her wine.
“Speaking of which, I just saw that collector who has, like, four of your paintings, the one who lost everything with that Ponzi schemer guy? Anyway, that fab duplex we partied in a few years ago? On the market. Naturally the fuckers at Brown Harris wouldn’t print for how much. So annoying! You know my three least favorite words in the English language? Price Upon Request.”
Eden smiled weakly, sipping her water. Allison knew all was not well.
“I’m curious, Eden. Since when the hell did you ever care what anyone thought, anyway?” asked Allison. “I feel like in your old age you’re starting to obsess. It’s like you’re going through now what most women dealt with during adolescence and their twenties.”
“I know. It’s not like me. I’m so . . . off.”
“Well, of course you are! You and Otto were together for—”
“It’s not that,” Eden said, shaking her head.
“What, then?” Allison probed.
“The big you-know-what,” Eden said, arching her brows as she looked at the tablecloth.
“No. What?”
“Four-oh.”
“Not this garbage again. Please. I’m forty! I told you, I was freaking and then it came and went and it was, like, who the fuck cares?” Allison laughed. “It’s because all your life you were praised for your looks and you feel all that slipping away. But that’s all bullshit! It’s sexier in a way, to be older. Experience is hot!”
“Oh, come on, Alli. That’s ridiculous. What man leaves his wife for an older woman?”
“I can’t think of one, but I’m sure it’s been done.”
“Yeah, once. Somewhere. Think about it, when a woman actually still looks good, they say she looks good ‘for her age.’ But implicit in that so-called compliment is that a younger, firmer, fresher woman is still hotter.”
“That’s not true. Sometimes older woman are gorgeous without qualification of her age. Rene Russo in Thomas Crown. En fuego!”
“I don’t know. I’m used to . . . being—”
“Young and perfect and the muse,” Allison finished. “So get over it! Welcome to planet Earth, looks don’t matter that much! And hey, if you’re still obsessing and being vain, well, at least you know you’re still foxy enough that Gotham’s most eligible bachelor wants you. Thirty-nine is the new twenty-nine.”
“I feel like I have parentheses around my mouth,” Eden lamented, ashamed of her sudden vanity. “My nasolabial folds are getting worse.”
“Are you talking about your vagina or your face?” Allison teased.
“Shut up.”
“Listen to me, Eden. I’m your best friend and I’m starting to get annoyed with you: Stop being crazy.”
“You know, I see those guys on the subway who wear their vintage Clash tees and suspenders and hipster pants and messenger bags. And they’re my age but they’re—”
“Rejuveniles.” Allison nodded. “I read about them in New York magazine.”
“Exactly,” said Eden. “And I read that article and thought, no, no, that’s not me because I have a kid. But I think I’m both. I’m this mature mom but I’m also the wild child, like the people in that article. I think a big step is leaving Otto, like for real,” Eden said.
“I think that’s healthy. It’s time. A clean break is much better for both of you.”
“We talked for a long time and I know it’s sad but for the best. I just feel like under Otto’s watchful and judgmental eye, I’ll always doubt myself. Especially my relationship with Chase.”
“You just need to take one day at a time, E. Don’t overanalyze this; just enjoy what you guys have in your bubble. Forget these matrons or Otto or ‘the future.’”
“Well, that’s hard! Especially given my age. I mean what am I doing? Do I want to marry this guy? What am I searching for?”
“Why do you need the answers now?” Allison asked. “Fuck all these losers; just live your life! Give yourself a break.”
“I’m so confused. I have zero clarity about my life.”
“Hey, I’ve got news for you: You’re in the deli line at Zabar’s—take a number. Everyone hates getting older, but guess what?”
“What?”
“It sure is better than the alternative.”
48
For all the advances in medicine, there is still no cure for the common birthday.
—John Glenn
“Hey, man, it’s Wills.” Chase heard his (former) best friend’s voice, slow and cautious over the phone. He had run to grab it after entering his apartment, hoping it was Eden, and instantly regretted his fourth-ring dash when it wasn’t her.
“Hey,” replied Chase, surprised. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”
“Yeah, it has, man. It’s actually really good to hear your voice . . . ,” Wills trailed off.
Chase was happy to hear from him as well, realizing only in that second how much he had moved on from his past life since he’d been seeing Eden.
“Yeah, you, too.”
“Look, Chase, I feel really bad about how everything went down. I’m sorry, you know, for everything—”
“Don’t even worry. It’s all in the past. I’m happy. You’re happy and I’m happy, and I’m glad everything worked out this way,” Chase said in all sincerity.
“I’m, uh, also calling to tell you something,” Wills said sheepishly. “I, uh, we have some news.”
Eden came home to find Chase outside her door with a dozen peonies.
“Well, you are a terrific sight this chilly night,” she said, beaming, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him. “Let’s go up!”
<
br /> They walked in through the double doors and up the stairs. “You’re awfully quiet. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just . . . ,” his voice trailed off. “I actually just heard from my friend Wills. He and Liesel are getting married.”
Eden stopped in her tracks and turned to him.
“What? Are you joking? It’s been what, four or five months?”
“Well, I guess they were so close as friends already—through me—that they just got out the gate pretty quickly. It’s kind of surprising.”
They walked into Eden’s apartment and flicked on the lights.
“Are you okay?” she asked, taking his hand.
“Completely. Honestly, it’s strange, but I don’t feel anything other than total happiness for them. I think because I’m happy for myself, being with you.”
“Why is everyone getting married so young? I read the Styles section and I feel like they are getting younger and younger!”
“Life is short.” Chase shrugged. “Why not settle down? My parents got married at twenty-five.”
“Well, that’s totally different. That was another generation,” Eden said, rolling her eyes.
“Why?” Chase asked, confused. “In the scope of thousands and thousands of years, why should we get married later all of a sudden? It worked for millennia to marry young. Relative to the history of man, we practically just started marrying older two seconds ago.”
“Yeah, because they used to croak at forty!” Eden explained. “And if they didn’t, they were fucking miserable, at least most of them were. Wake up, Chase, it was about the dowry, not the pitter-patter of their beating hearts! It was about finding someone who had the most cattle and sheep or allowance per year, not the most in common.”
“You really think that?” Chase’s innocent cerulean eyes looked crushed.
Boy, was he ever young. Eden started to casually straighten up the living room, fluffing pillows and picking up wineglasses and bringing them to the kitchenette as Chase stood in the small foyer, waiting for an answer.
“It’s not my opinion, Chase. It’s fact.” Eden shrugged as she flurried around the house. “Marriages throughout history, across cultures, were often created by matchmakers, not chemistry. It wasn’t about love with angels singing and trumpets and shit. People were torn apart all the time because of what was advantageous. And they did what people do: They move on with their lives.”
Chase suddenly felt very far away from her, seeing up close Eden’s jaded side. While she was so loving and affectionate in bed, doting on and taking care of him, there was a side that seemed to fear real tenderness or emotion. Perhaps it was because she was scarred by Otto, or maybe she always just had to look out for herself and could never get too attached? Chase wasn’t sure what propelled her, or even what she wanted from life, but he knew one thing for certain: He was falling more and more madly in love with her.
Chase knew deep down he could get any girl he wanted, but he wanted Eden. In her he chose someone more sophisticated, more eloquent, sexier, worldlier. Not just a pretty girl looking to snag a husband, get prego, and push their blond tot up Madison in a Bugaboo. Chase knew that a life beside Eden was his dream—her sass, her edge, her independence, her badassness, all made her more alluring to him.
Chase watched her cut the stems of the flowers and arrange them in a vintage vase. The chasm between them, he realized, was far more than just years. Sadly, he sensed that her mind was beginning to wander to other places. In that moment, watching her fill her red teakettle with water, Chase began to worry that she would one day slip away from him, traveling away somewhere in that head of hers to a tableau far away. He wondered what she saw for herself, what future paintings of her life would look like. And if he would be in them beside her.
49
The older the fiddler, the sweeter the tune.
—English proverb
Eden hardly fixated on Chase the way he did on her, but when they weren’t together for a night or two, she missed him. She missed his companionship, his passion for her, and the way he lovingly helped put the Humpty Dumpty of her shattered ego back together again. The truth was, while he made her feel more confident than ever, she also wondered what the fuck he was doing with her. During their days apart, she felt like an old aging hag, and when she saw him across a packed restaurant or theater or park path, Eden was struck all over again by his young skin, his smile, the charm that captivated every debutante up Fifth Avenue. He made her feel young again.
“Hi, gorgeous,” she said to him across the glowing hurricane lamp in an intimate café.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, kissing her cheek. “I was so excited to come and see you, I ran out of the office without my briefcase and had to go back.”
She reached over and took his hand in hers, tracing the tops of his fingers delicately.
“Chase, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this hand not clutching that tan case.”
“I know. It’s been intense lately,” he said, taking a breath, shaking his head. “Maybe I need a vacation. I mean, I go away with my family, but that’s not . . . really a break, you know? In a way it’s harder than work! I realized the other day that I haven’t taken a real vacation in forever.”
“What’s forever?” she wondered.
“Oh gosh, I don’t know. About four years.”
“Are you kidding me?” Eden asked, aghast.
“No, I wish I were,” he said, shrugging. He watched delightedly as Eden delved into her food with relish. “So many girls I’ve met are so self-conscious, they push around some sad salad and nurse a Diet Coke. You just dig right in and I love it,” Chase said lovingly, watching as she snarfed a generous plate of gnocchi. “You can tell just by watching you eat how much you love life.”
“Yeah, all that celery stick bullshit is for the rich,” she said, grinning as she stabbed a soft potato dumpling. “If you saw what I grew up eating, you’d get it. All these people? They have private chefs. I had Chef Boyardee.”
Chase looked at her across the hurricane-lamplit table.
“You know what I love about you? You appreciate everything,” he observed. “You’re not like these jaded women who’ve done it all, seen it all. You could have gotten sucked into your life with Otto but you’re still so grounded.”
“What’s not to appreciate? I mean, look at this! Delicious wine, delicious food—can you try this gnocchi, by the way? I swear, I’m ruined for this dish anywhere else. They may as well serve up a pile of pebbles with tomato sauce. These are so light and fluffy!”
Chase smiled to himself; her enthusiasm was almost childlike.
He stared at her starry-eyed and held her hand across the table. “Eden, I am crazy about you,” he said slowly.
Eden shifted in her seat. “I can’t thank you enough for catching me when I jumped ship from Otto,” she said, trying to steer away from the intensity in his gaze. “Really. You have saved me, in a way.”
“I have never felt like this before,” he said, ratcheting it up a notch.
The truth was, while she wanted to reciprocate his enthusiasm in that romantic moment, she really couldn’t say the same thing back. But she didn’t want to complicate the situation by thinking about her past or her future, so she simply put her hands on the table and pushed herself up to kiss him over the wine bottle and bread basket, as people looked on, charmed and jealous. She remembered Allison’s instructions to her. Be happy right now.
The glittering duo lived in a glorious ménage à trois with New York City: restaurants, operas, theater, indie film houses, out-of-the-way galleries. Chase showed Eden more of his New York, taking her to the Botanical Garden Ball, antiques shows on Park Avenue. And she took Chase to photo exhibits in Brooklyn, hole-i n-the-wall theaters with unknown playwright friends, and dinner parties hosted by downtown actors who had collected Otto’s work and known her for years. Rolodexes shuffled like Vegas cards: Eden met Philippe de Montebello and Lee Radziwill and Chase met Liv Tyler an
d Sarah Jessica. Eden heard the philharmonic for the first time, and Chase heard the Scissor Sisters. She dined at Le Cirque, he at a dumpy hibachi Japanese restaurant where you sit on the floor next to NYU students doing sake bombs (Brooke would die). It was a thrilling time, for both, with months full of adventure and new discoveries and cinematic film-still moments. But Eden tried not to think of the future; she wanted to just stay in the moment.
One night, the pair stood in the freezing cold after dinner, deciding whether to hail a cab home or go for a drink. The night was so beautiful, it felt a shame to retire so early.
“I have a random idea,” Chase said. “Would you ever want to get some coffee or hot chocolate and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge? I haven’t done that since I was a kid and it looks so cool tonight with the lights and the moon like that.”
“Okay, sure, great idea!” Eden responded, happy he was so spontaneous; she didn’t know he had it in him. “Look at the moon! It looks so orange tonight, it’s almost like Mars.”
“I’ve never seen it like that,” Chase marveled, transfixed. “Though, honestly, nothing shocks me when I’m with you.”
They started walking under the patterned cables and crosshatched steel web that felt grander than any portal she had ever walked through. They clutched coffee cups with their outside hands and held the inside ones, fingers interlaced. But while Eden was fully relishing the moment with Chase, she slowed down, the brakes put on her feet by a sudden flood of crystal clear memories that charged forth like rushing, whitecapped waves washing over her brain. It was déjà vu times ten.
The scenic image she beheld felt so close and recent to her, she could almost see Wes on that very bridge, when she had looked forever in the face and so callously dismissed it. Half a lifetime ago. A chill rushed through her body and Chase held her close, thinking mistakenly that it was the night wind that made her shudder. But in fact it was the sudden and overwhelming recollection that she had walked this bridge before, also in the throes of young love, on the same chilly kind of night, under the same bright stars, on the same exact path, but in an altogether radically different place.
