The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken

by Passananti, Mari

  “I’ll be happier starting fresh anyway,” I say, with forced conviction. But my eyes roam the square footage, huge windows and great ceiling height I’ll have to sacrifice and I’m not sure—at all—which is the better course.

  SIX

  “Okay. We’re going to go in, have a glass of champagne, say hello to Carol, and get out in under two hours,” I say, as Kevin and I emerge from the cab.

  He came through, as usual, and showed up at Angela’s at 6:30, looking almost too spiffy for a rent-a-date, his suit dressed up with a blue and green striped tie that makes the most of his eyes. To Angela and Kevin’s great mirth, I’ve stashed my second date clothes here for later, because I’m wearing the black dress from Thursday night to Carol’s party. After Brendan’s intrusion, Angela argued I was entitled to a bit of retail therapy “someplace fun, like MaxMara,” but ugly visions of my looming rent bill and ensuing eviction, initiated by my ex-fiancé and my soon-to-be ex-hairdresser, prevented me from indulging.

  Kevin keeps saying he finds my latest encounter with Brendan unfathomable. As if that’s supposed to make me feel better. Kevin had wanted to keep us both after we called off our engagement, but Brendan made it clear he was starting a new life, one that would include nobody from our old college circle. Which is fine with me, because it annoyed me in the days immediately post break up, when Kevin attempted to provide thorough reports on Brendan’s activities. I was relieved when my ex-fiancé put a stop to that and demoted my closest pals to holiday-greetings-only status.

  Carol must have four hundred guests at this party. I wonder how many of them are filler like me, people the couple barely know, whom she invited to shore up the appearance of social stature. Filler or not, I’m nervous about ducking out early, until Kevin reminds me that if we stick to the plan, by nine tonight, I’ll be back across town, munching hors d’oeuvres with Oscar, and he’ll be in his bed with Lily, munching something else altogether.

  I grudgingly exchange my $200 check for a glass of champagne. When Carol invited the entire office, except for New Girl, to her son’s engagement celebration, Marvin asked if we would be allowed to expense our gifts. His snarky inquiry unleashed a forty-five minute tirade about all Carol does for us and what wretched ingrates we all are. Which I took to mean, no.

  An eighteen-piece orchestra is playing It Had To Be You, white gloved waiters are passing oysters, and Carol is holding court at the far end of the ballroom. She’s sipping champagne, teetering unsteadily on five-inch heels, and she’s corseted her size six self into a black dress that ought to be one size larger. Closer to us, a trim but bald man in his sixties and a blonde, who might not even be old enough to consume the wine she’s drinking legally, preside over a rival receiving line. That must be Carol’s ex. Kevin mumbles that he’s never seen boobs that big in real life before. The happy couple are nowhere in evidence. I scan the room for Marvin, Sybil the receptionist, or even the Town Crier, but can’t find them. Kevin tosses back his champagne, taps his watch, and says, “Let’s get it over with.”

  We snake through the mob of guests, most of whom are jockeying for proximity to the oysters, and find ourselves at the back of a bottleneck of people waiting to see Carol. When it’s finally my turn, I smile broadly and say, “Congratulations. You must be so proud,” to which Carol responds, “Did you see his little whore? How dare he bring her here? On my night.”

  A surprisingly meek voice from her left says, “Mother, technically it’s my night. Well, mine and Vanessa’s. And Dad’s been married to Carissa for over a year. It’s not nice for you to call her a whore to your friends.”

  “Zoë isn’t my friend,” Carol snaps. “She works for me.”

  Carol’s son looks at me apologetically and says, “Mother, I really think it’s terrible that you shake down your staff for gifts. Vanessa and I are so blessed. We don’t need to take from those who are less fortunate.”

  Before I can fully process his back-handed sympathies, Carol’s focus lasers in on Kevin. “Who’s this?” she demands.

  I introduce Kevin and she nods approvingly. “So you’re not the gay fiancé.”

  “No, ma’am.” Kevin sticks out his hand. “Kevin O’Connor.”

  Carol places her hand in his as if she expects Kevin to kiss her rings. Her son turns his attention to an elderly relative, and makes no motion to introduce us to his bride or her parents, who are standing by her side, looking left out. I’m about to extricate Kevin and myself, when Carol barks, “Zoë!”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think I’d look better with double-D breasts?” She’s staring, or actually almost leering, at her ex-husband’s latest wife. Carissa does look stunning in an emerald green gown with a plunging neckline that shows off the work of the city’s finest plastics guy.

  “Uh, no. I don’t think it’s the look you’re going for,” I stammer.

  “How about you, Keith? What do you think?”

  “Um, it’s Kevin, not Keith, and I make it a rule never to comment on my friends’ bosses’ busts.”

  Carol half snorts, half grunts. Maybe we’re about to be excused. More people have trickled in and joined the queue to pay homage to her. She doesn’t need to waste any more time on insignificant me.

  As if reading my mind, Carol smiles her best normally-reserved-for-clients smile and says, “Thank you for coming, Zoë. I’m delighted you could make it.”

  I tell her I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing this party and start to back away. Carol turns to greet some octogenarian named Uncle Albert, but then stops and calls after me, “Oh, Zoë? Go and fetch me a martini, will you? And make sure they put two olives in it.”

  So much for her detox diet. Our missing coffee maker will undoubtedly materialize on Monday morning. I’m guessing her restrictive regimen was motivated solely by her desire to suck herself into that dress.

  I walk past four cocktail waiters, stand in line at the bar for seven minutes, get Carol’s drink, carry it to her and wait patiently for her to acknowledge me. She turns and frowns. “Honestly. Can’t you do anything right? I said I wanted a cosmopolitan.” She rolls her eyes and starts explaining to a man I recognize as the head of one of the city’s biggest laws firms that it’s simply impossible to get good help these days.

  Which is a funny thing for the head of a staffing agency to tell a major client.

  Fortunately one of the previously oblivious waiters overhears and assures Carol that he’ll be back with her cosmo in a minute. Kevin and I begin pushing towards the exit. I notice Marvin across the room, holding a drink in each hand. I smile and wave but decide there’s no time to engage in idle chatter. Oscar will be at Angela’s to pick me up in half an hour. As we wait at the coat check outside the ballroom, I hear Carol’s ex take the microphone. He’s launching into a speech about being a single dad in the city. As Kevin helps me with my coat, Carol’s ex says, “I’d like to thank Evan’s mother for co-hosting this lovely affair, but most importantly, I want to acknowledge Carissa. Without her exquisite taste and tireless attention to detail, we wouldn’t be here tonight.”

  Nervous laughter ensues. For a second I regret leaving before the real fireworks start.

  I study myself in Angela’s full-length mirror, wishing she was here with her expert eye. Of course, since she helped pick my outfit, it’s safe to assume she’d approve. I’m wearing a short, but not too short, black suede skirt with tall boots and a pink sweater. Underneath I’ve got on the most threadbare, worn-out, washed a hundred times cotton underpants I could find in my bureau. Just a little added insurance so things won’t get out of hand.

  I don’t think I look as if I’m trying too hard, but maybe it’s not quite right. Her cats, Ernest and Algernon, watch with amusement as I pull the ensemble off for the third time and change into black pants and a shimmery gold top. I almost fall over, trying to trade my boots for delicate stilettos without sitting, and turn in the mirror again. Algernon yawns sarcastically. I decide to go with the skirt, and consult my w
atch. Almost 8:45. I need to get downstairs before the doorman spills the news that I am only pretending to live here. I touch up my lipstick and rub myself down with one of many prominently positioned lint rollers. Angela once told me she goes through three a week. I guess that’s what she gets for being a couture maven with felines.

  When I emerge from the elevators, Oscar is approaching the door looking relaxed and gorgeous in a roll neck sweater, black corduroys and a Barbour coat. Perfect timing. He gives me a chaste peck on the cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.” I cringe at how hokey I sound.

  He holds the door of a double-parked Mercedes convertible for me. I suppose his driver gets the weekend off.

  “You know, you didn’t have to come pick me up. You could’ve given me your address.”

  “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but I think if I ask a woman out, I should go pick her up. Especially on a Saturday night.” He smiles broadly. And sincerely. The skin around his eyes crinkles.

  As he starts the engine, I realize I’m more nervous now than I was the other night at Nobu. Maybe because I had such low expectations for that date. Seriously. Things like that never work out in real life. But here we are, embarking on date number two, and I might really like him. Right. It’s probably too soon to decide that. At the minimum, I’m incredibly attracted to him.

  Desperate not to let my nerves tie my tongue, I ask the first question that pops into my mind. “So, where do you live?”

  “Central Park West.”

  While I’m not surprised, I can’t help feeling slightly intimidated. It’s more than likely his building makes Angela’s Gramercy digs look common, even with her key to the Park. Thank God I didn’t give him my actual address the other night.

  Traffic’s light, even for a Saturday night. Oscar tells me he went into the office this morning, and then went for a long run before he started messing around in the kitchen. He’s explaining how busy things are at work lately, but I’m too busy trying to find some flaw with him to listen. He’s successful. And gorgeous. And gentlemanly. And he works out and cooks and drives a Mercedes. He is too good to be true.

  I can’t stop my jaw from dropping when he pulls up in front of the Beresford, which even the most jaded New Yorker would have to admit is an imposing structure. “You live here?” I stammer, as a doorman opens my door and extends a hand to help me out of the car.

  “I bought here recently and got a great deal on the place.”

  “My boss lives here.”

  “Really? Which unit?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I’ve never been inside Carol’s apartment, but everyone knows she lives at 211 Central Park West. When she brings it up, Marvin always makes a face and whispers, “She may live in the Beresford, but she’s on a low floor.”

  Oscar says, “I’ll have to look for the famous Carol Broadwick at the next owners’ meeting.” He hands the keys to the doorman, who apparently does double duty as a valet, and we step into the immaculately preserved lobby that’s greeted the building’s visitors since the end of the roaring twenties.

  Dragon-crested elevator doors slide open to admit us, and I wonder whether I should switch from headhunting to advertising. If Oscar, at the tender age of forty-two, can live like this he must be doing something right. And my background in art history would lend itself to the ad business, right? Maybe that’s a stretch. He presses the button for the 20th floor. Two down from the penthouse. Definitely not a low floor.

  I’m somewhat relieved when the elevators deposit us in a common hallway and not inside his apartment. Not that his apartment isn’t intimidating. He’s obviously wealthy enough that he doesn’t consider a cavernous foyer in Manhattan to be wasteful. He takes my coat and hangs it up in a hallway closet that’s three times larger than the one in my bedroom. He’s got an amazing, postcard-worthy view of Central Park through huge glass doors that open onto a private terrace. The living room boasts a real stone fireplace. The kitchen has obviously been redone recently, with black granite everywhere. A small glass door on the far end allows a glimpse of a brick wine cellar. The kitchen opens to a formal dining room with more doors onto the terrace. I’m dazzled. I can’t help it. I wonder if it’s wrong to lust after a man for his real estate.

  It can’t be that wrong. This is New York, after all.

  “What a fantastic place. Your view. It’s amazing. No, it’s enchanting.” I stop myself from gushing further.

  “It looks even more fantastic with you in it.” He smiles broadly at me. “Seriously though, I’m partial to it myself. I wish I had more time to spend here. How about a glass of wine?”

  I follow him to the kitchen and watch as he retrieves a bottle from the wine cellar. I don’t recognize the label, as I’m sure it’s not a selection frequently poured by the glass, but I see it’s fifteen years old.

  He hands me a glass and raises his. “To an utterly enchanting evening.”

  “Don’t be mean,” I say, with mock indignation, but he’s smiling and I am, too. He produces a remote control from one of the drawers and jazz floods the kitchen from surround sound speakers. He adjusts the volume to a background noise level. Maybe my radar should start bleeping trying-too-hard, but because I’ve never dated a real grown up before, I give him a pass. Maybe this is what grown ups do on dates. Not eat in front of the television, like Brendan and I used to do all the time.

  For the next hour I sip my wine and pick at a selection of fancy cheeses while Oscar rolls up his sleeves, chats with me about his work and whips up a three-course meal. He’s almost too comfortable, like this is date twelve and not date two. I, on the other hand, start to feel self-conscious, perched on a stool watching him work. And I start to panic silently as soon as I let myself wonder how on earth I can reciprocate. Macaroni and cheese, even if it’s my mother’s recipe and not from a box, in my shabby kitchen circa 1979 with its view of a dirty brick wall, won’t exactly measure up. And then I start to worry about other things outside my control, such as what I’ll say if I run into Carol in the elevator on the way out of here tonight.

  He waves off my offers to help (I may not be a culinary visionary, but I could certainly produce a salad) and periodically pauses to top off my wine. I pace myself. He’s barely touched his glass, because he’s busy with the food. He sets two places across from each other at the breakfast bar. I notice that he sets fish knives. I’ve never seen those outside of a restaurant. He uses another remote control to dim the lights. He lights a candle and says, “Let’s eat in here, if that’s alright with you. My dining room feels too stuffy.” He ladles out two bowls of lobster bisque and watches while I taste it.

  “Your talents are wasted in advertising. You should have a restaurant.”

  “I’m not interested in working nights, but thank you.” He tastes his creation and looks up at me so intently that I start to feel a little uncomfortable in my skin. It’s sad to admit, but nobody has ever gazed at me with that kind of overt lust. I don’t know how to react, but succumbing to my urge to say that I really, really want him would be a significant mistake. Though it could lead to an unreal night.

  I wimp out and make PG conversation. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

  “I’m self-taught. One night sometime midway through business school I just got sick of eating pizza and frozen dinners. So I started buying cook books. Once I realized I had a knack for the kitchen, I started tweaking some of the recipes and making them my own. I love to eat and it’s the only hobby I can fit into my professional life, unless you count exercise. Pretty sad, right?”

  No, it’s pretty amazing. “It would be sadder for you to serve your dates Ramen noodles or Spaghetti-O’s,” I say, with a big smile.

  He makes a face like the thought makes him gag. I take another spoonful of the to-die-for bisque. No canned goods here. We eat in silence for a moment.

  “Can I ask you something?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “The o
ther night you said you haven’t been married, but you came close. What was that about?”

  I knew that sooner or later he’d ask. I don’t know many divorced people, but the ones I do know seem to relish the opportunity to delve into other people’s romantic misfortunes. I try to think of a positive way to couch my recent history.

  “This soup really is great,” I repeat.

  “Out with it!” he commands with a smile. “It can’t be any worse than what I told you on our first date, and you came back for more.”

  “There’s not so much to tell. I met this guy during our sophomore year at Princeton. We hit it off, became completely inseparable, but didn’t become an official item until our senior year. We both moved to New York after graduation. He went to Columbia Law School, and his father helped me get the gallery job I told you about the other night. Pretty soon after that, we broke up for a year and a half, but stayed friends.”

  I thought stupidly, that our enduring friendship was some kind of sign that we were meant for each other.

  “You must have stayed more than friends if you almost married the guy,” Oscar prods.

  “Yeah, we got back together. By the time he graduated and started working at a law firm, we were more like roommates than anything else. But we got engaged anyway. My friends back home were starting to get married. Maybe I felt like I was on the train, and doing what I was supposed to be doing, or something like that. A few months ago we came to our senses and called it off.”

  I plow my soup around the bowl with the back of my spoon. Everything I just said is true. He doesn’t need the gory details.

  “I don’t get it,” Oscar says finally.

  “Get what?”

  “Get why you’d spend your twenties living with someone who was no more than a nice agreeable roommate. I’m a when-you-know-you-know kind of guy myself. If something feels good but not great, I move on.”

  I wince at this, and he rushes to add, “But that’s just me. Anyway, if this ex of yours was so smart, why didn’t he seal the deal sooner? Before you guys drifted apart?”