By the time they went in to dinner, he had told a series of lewd jokes, most of which were inappropriate in mixed company, and some of which were actually funny. Even Paris laughed heartily at one of them, but when he sat down next to her at the dinner table, he stepped up the volume. He had had two more scotches by then, and he was starting to slur before he got to the soup course.
“Christ, don't you hate soup at a dinner party?” he said to her, more loudly than he was aware of. “I always get it all over myself, used to get it on my tie, that's why I don't wear them.” And she could only assume that he didn't want to get it on his blazer either, since he tucked his napkin into his turtleneck, and asked Fred where the wine was. “Must be a dry state here. You still in AA, Fred? Where's the wine, boy?” Fred hastened to pour him the first glass, while Natalie looked as though she wanted to kill him. She was all too aware of how fragile Paris had been, and the fact that this was the first time she had gone out to dinner. She had wanted to be subtle about introducing her to this man. And he was about as subtle as a flood in a farmhouse, and considerably less attractive. He had a habit of taking his glasses on and off, and in doing so, messed up his hair. The drunker he got, the wilder he looked, and the lewder his jokes got. He had mentioned every possible body part by the end of the first course, every possible sexual position by the end of the second, and by the time dessert came, he was pounding the table and laughing so loudly at his own jokes that Paris couldn't keep a straight face when she looked across the table at Virginia. It was awful.
And as they got up from dinner, Natalie took Paris aside and apologized profusely.
“I'm so sorry. Fred swore he was a nice guy, and I thought you might like to meet him.”
“It's fine,” Paris said graciously. “He's actually kind of funny. You don't have to introduce me to anyone, you know. I'm perfectly happy being on my own among good friends. I'm not interested in dating.”
“You should,” Natalie said sternly. “You can't be by yourself in that house for the rest of your life. We have to find you someone.” But their first attempt had certainly been disastrous. The lone wolf had settled onto the couch by then, and was swilling brandy. He looked as though he was about to pass out, and Paris commented to Virginia that they were going to have to let him stay the night, or drive him back to wherever he came from. He was in no condition to drive, particularly in a snowstorm. It was snowing much harder than at the beginning of the evening, and even Paris was feeling cautious about driving home, but she wouldn't have admitted it. She was determined to be self-sufficient, and not a burden.
“I really think you should be a good sport, and put him up in your guest room,” Virginia said to Paris with a rueful grin. It had been quite an evening. And she was glad that Paris was still smiling. She was sure she wouldn't have been, and she and Jim had exchanged cryptic looks several times during the evening. The stockbroker was definitely not what the doctor would have ordered. And as the stockbroker patted her behind as Paris walked past the couch, her heart sank. It had reached a point where it was no longer funny. And her friends' sympathy, however well meant, was somehow degrading, as though she couldn't take care of herself, and they had to do it for her. She had to have a consort at any price, under any circumstances, so they wouldn't feel sorry for her. He was, without a doubt, the perfect nightmare escort.
“Hi, sweetie. Come and sit next to me, and let's get to know each other.” He leered at her.
Paris smiled wanly at him, and went to say good-night to her hostess. She told her she wanted to slip out quietly, so as not to break up the party. And after looking at her carefully, Natalie didn't argue with her. Paris had taken good sportsmanship to new heights that evening.
“I'm really sorry about Ralph. If you like, I'll just shoot him, before he drinks any more of the brandy. And after that, I'm going to shoot Fred when everyone goes home. I promise, we'll do better next time.”
“Next time, just invite me on my own. I'd much prefer it,” Paris said softly.
“I promise,” Natalie said, giving her a hug, and watching her as she put her boots on. She was so damn beautiful, and she looked so incredibly lonely. It broke Natalie's heart to see it. “Are you going to be all right, driving in the snow?” Natalie asked, looking worried.
“I'll be fine,” she said with a wide smile and a confidence she didn't feel. She would have walked home in the snow rather than spend another minute in their living room, with Revolting Ralph, and her friends who obviously felt sorry for her. She knew their intentions were good, but the reality of the situation was enough to bring tears to her eyes. This was what she had been reduced to. Men like Ralph, who wore plaid pants, told crude jokes, and drank enough to qualify for an AA meeting. She just couldn't stand it a minute longer. “I'll talk to you tomorrow, and thank you!” She waved as she flew out the door, praying her car would start. She would have hitchhiked rather than stick around. All she wanted to do was go home now, and take off her clothes. She had had more than enough of the evening.
And as Natalie walked back into the living room with a defeated air, Ralph looked around expectantly for Paris.
“Where's London…or Milan…or Frankfurt…or whatever her name is?”
“Her name is Paris, and she went home. I think she had a headache,” she said pointedly, looking daggers at her husband, and he retreated looking sheepish. The evening had definitely not turned out as they'd hoped.
“Too bad. I like her. She's a real looker,” Ralph said, taking another swig of brandy. “That reminds me of the story about …” And by the time he had finished, Paris was halfway home, driving faster than she should have in a snowstorm, but all she wanted was to run into her house and lock the door, and forget the evening. It had been a nightmare. She knew that whatever else happened in her life, she would remember Ralph forever. She was playing the evening out in her head, as she rounded a bend, and the car skidded. She stepped on the brake, which made it worse, as she hit a patch of ice, and slipped right off the road before she could stop. And the back end of the car got lodged firmly into a snowbank. She tried to gently ease herself out of it, but everything she did made it worse, and she sat there, feeling frustrated and helpless. She waited, and tried again, but there was no moving the car. Even her snow tires didn't help her. She needed to be towed out.
“Shit,” she said out loud, and then sat back against the seat, wondering if she had brought her AAA card with her. She looked in her purse and all she had brought was a five-dollar bill, her house keys, her driv-er's license, and a lipstick. She looked in the glove compartment then, and almost shouted with glee when she saw the AAA card. Peter had always been meticulous about things like that. And she would have been grateful, if she hadn't been so angry at him. It was his fault that she had just spent the evening she had. It was thanks to him that she was being used as fodder for men like Ralph, while he spent his honeymoon in St. Bart's with Rachel. This was all his fault.
She found the emergency number in the glove compartment too, called, and told them what had happened. They told her they would be there as soon as they could, somewhere between half an hour and an hour. And then she sat there. She thought about calling Meg to pass the time, but she didn't want to worry her by telling her she was stuck in a snowbank at midnight. So she just sat there and waited, and the tow truck showed up forty-five minutes later.
She got out of the car, while they lifted it out of the ditch, and got her on the road again. And she was home an hour and a half after she had left the dinner party. It was nearly one-thirty, and she was exhausted. She walked into her house and closed the door, and leaned heavily against it. And for the first time since Peter had left she knew that she was angry. She was so angry she wanted to kill someone. Ralph. Natalie. Fred. Peter. Rachel. Any and all of them. She dropped her coat on the hall floor, kicked off her boots, stomped up the stairs, and took off her clothes. She left them strewn on her bedroom floor, and it didn't matter anymore. There was no one to see it. No one to s
hovel the driveway or drive her home, or keep her from skidding in her car, or sliding into the ditch, or from assholes like Ralph. She hated all of them, but more than anyone, she hated Peter. And when she went to bed that night, she lay there and looked at the ceiling, hating him almost as much as she had once loved him. And she knew just exactly what she was going to do about it. It was time.
Chapter 11
Paris stormed into Anne's office Monday, and looked at her in amazement. “I'm leaving.”
“Leaving where? Therapy?” It was obvious that Paris was angry.
“No. Yes. Well, eventually. I'm leaving Greenwich.”
“What brought that on?”
“I went to that damn dinner party Saturday night, and they fixed me up with a total jerk, without even asking me how I felt about it. You wouldn't believe what it was like. First, I had to shovel my driveway, then he showed up in plaid pants and told filthy jokes. He got blind drunk, and patted my ass after dinner.”
“And that's why you're leaving?” Anne wasn't sure if Paris was serious or not.
“No. I got stuck in a snowbank after dinner. My car skidded off the road, because Peter always drove in the snow and I don't know how to. And I had to call AAA to drag me out of the ditch at midnight. I got home at one-thirty. That's why I'm leaving.”
“Because of the snowbank or the jerk?” Anne had never seen her look better. There was color in her face, and her eyes were blazing. She looked very healthy, and finally alive. She was back in control of her own life, as never before.
“No. Because of Peter. I hate him. This is all his fault. This is what he left me to. He left me for that little shit, and now I have jerks like Ralph to contend with, and my stupid goddamned friends who feel so sorry for me they think they're doing me a favor. I'm moving to California.”
“Why?” Anne narrowed her eyes as she watched her.
“Because I have no life here.”
“And you will in California?” She wanted her to leave for the right reasons, not just to escape what she wasn't doing in Greenwich. If that was the case, she would take all her troubles with her. A geographic cure was not the answer, unless she did it for the right reasons.
“At least I won't get caught in a snowbank on the way home from dinner.”
“And will you go out to dinner?”
“I don't know anyone to invite me,” Paris said, slowing down a little. But she was serious about moving. She had made her mind up. “But I could get a job, and meet new people. I can always come back here later. I just don't want to be around friends who feel sorry for me. It makes it all worse. Everyone here knows about Peter. I want to meet people who don't know anything about him, or what happened.”
“That sounds reasonable. What are you going to do about it?”
“I'm flying out to San Francisco tomorrow. I've already booked a reservation. I called a realtor this morning. I'm going to see some houses and apartments. I called Wim and he sounds pretty busy, but he said he could see me for dinner. I don't know how long I'll be out there. It depends if I find something or not. But I'm going to try at least. I can't go to another one of those dinners.” That had done it. But Anne thought she was ready, she had thought so for months, but the impetus to do it had to come from Paris. And it had now. She was ready to move on.
“Well, it sounds like we've turned a corner, doesn't it?” Anne looked pleased with her patient, although she was going to miss her. They had worked well together, but this was the end result she wanted. Paris on her feet again, and up and running. It had taken her eight months to get there, but she was there now.
“Do you think I'm crazy?” Paris asked, looking worried.
“No. I think you're extremely sane. And I think you're doing the right thing. I hope you find something you like.”
“So do I,” Paris said, sounding sad again for a minute. “I hate to leave. I have so many memories here.”
“Are you going to sell the house?”
“No. Just rent it.”
“You can always come back then. You're not doing anything that can't be reversed if you don't like it in California. Give it a chance, Paris. There's a whole world out there for you to discover. You can do anything you want, go anywhere you want. The door is wide open.”
“That's pretty scary.”
“And exciting. I'm very proud of you.” She told Anne then that she had decided not to tell her friends yet. She wanted to find a house first. She didn't want anyone trying to talk her out of it. The only ones she had told were Anne and her children, and all three were pleased with Paris's decision to move.
She left Anne half an hour later, and went home to pack, and Natalie called to apologize again about dinner.
“Don't worry about it,” Paris said breezily, “it was fine.”
“Do you want to have lunch this week?”
“I can't. I'm going out to see Wim in San Francisco.”
“Well, that'll be fun for you.” Natalie was relieved to hear that she was moving around at least. She knew how tough the last months had been, and she didn't see a solution for her, unless she found another husband. And with candidates like Ralph afoot, it was beginning to look less than likely. But there had to be someone. She and Virginia had made a solemn vow to find a man for her, whatever it took.
“I'll call you when I get back,” Paris promised, and then finished packing.
The next morning she was on the plane to San Francisco. She was flying first class, and there was an attractive businessman sitting beside her. He was wearing a suit, working on a computer, and looked about fifty. And after glancing at him, she read a book, ate lunch, and then watched the movie. They were only an hour out of San Francisco by the time it was over, and by then her seatmate had put away his computer. He glanced over at her with a smile as the flight attendant offered them cheese and fruit or milk and cookies. Paris took a piece of fruit, and he asked for a cup of coffee, and the flight attendant seemed to know him as she filled his cup.
“Do you go to San Francisco often?” Paris asked him benignly. He was a good-looking man.
“Two or three times a month. We work with a venture capital firm out there, on biotech investments in Silicon Valley.” It sounded fairly impressive, and he looked prosperous and solid. “What about you? Are you going out for business or pleasure?” he inquired.
“I'm going to visit my son in Berkeley. He goes to school there.” She had seen him glance at her left hand, and she was no longer wearing her wedding ring. She had worn it until the divorce came, and taking it off had nearly killed her. But there was no point wearing it anymore. Peter was married to someone else. But she still felt naked without it. She had never taken it off since the day they were married, she'd been both sentimental and superstitious about it. She noticed that her seatmate wasn't wearing a wedding band either. Perhaps a good sign.
“How long will you be staying?” he inquired with growing interest.
“I don't know. I'm going to look for a house or an apartment. I'm thinking of moving out.”
“From New York?” He looked intrigued. She was a very good-looking woman. And he guessed her to be around forty. She looked young to have a son in college.
“From Greenwich.”
“Divorced?” He seemed practiced at this.
“Yes,” she said cautiously. “How did you know?”
“There aren't a lot of single women in Greenwich, and if you're thinking of moving, it sounds like you're on your own.” She nodded, but didn't ask him any of the same questions. She wasn't sure she wanted to know, and she didn't want to look anxious. And when the pilot announced that it was their last chance to get up and move around, she left her seat and waited for the bathroom. She was standing right outside the galley, as the flight attendant looked at her. It was the one who had just served them, and she smiled at Paris and approached to speak in a subdued voice.
“It's none of my business, but you may want to know. He's married, and has a wife and four kids in Stamfor
d. Two of the women on this flight have gone out with him and he doesn't share that information. He commutes out here. I saw him talking to you, and we girls have to stick together. Of course, maybe it doesn't bother you. But it's good to know anyway. He won't tell you himself that he's married, at least he never tells us. We found out from another regular on the flight, who knows his wife.”
“Thank you,” Paris said, looking stunned as the bathroom became vacant. “Thanks a lot,” and then went in to wash her hands and comb her hair, and as she did, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was a big bad world out there full of creeps and jerks and cheaters. The likelihood of finding a good one seemed about as great as finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. Nothing was impossible, but to Paris at least, it seemed extremely unlikely, and she didn't want a man anyway. The last thing she wanted was to get involved with anyone. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would never remarry. Peter had cured her. All she could do now, in her opinion, was get used to being alone.
She went back to her seat with freshly combed hair, neatly done in a braid down her back, and carefully applied lipstick, and her seatmate looked at her appreciatively. A moment later he handed her his business card, and she took it from him and held it in her hand.
“I'm staying at the Four Seasons. Call me if you have time for dinner. Where are you staying?” he asked pleasantly.
“With my son,” she lied. But after what she'd just heard, she wasn't planning to give him any information. She knew more than enough about him. “I think we'll be pretty busy,” she said casually as she put the card in her purse.
“Call me in New York when you go back,” he said, and as he did, they landed with a thump and taxied down the runway at SFO. “Do you need a ride into town?” he asked helpfully, and she smiled, thinking with empathy about his wife.
Dating Game Page 12
