The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken

by Passananti, Mari

  “She has you doing her kid’s college applications? Is that even legal?”

  “Probably not.”

  “So why the hell did you agree?”

  “Because I don’t have much of a choice. I need this job. My rent is going up, a lot, as of December first. If I don’t want to tap my already paltry savings, I need to stay in Carol’s good graces. Especially with the way the economy’s been going. It’s not a great time to look around.”

  “I bet you don’t tell your candidates that.”

  “There’s always work for litigators in a down economy. When deals go south, companies sue each other. And demand shoots up for talented corporate regulatory people,” I explain, somewhat impatiently. He already knows the recession economics of my business.

  Kevin shrugs, like he doesn’t agree completely but he doesn’t feel like getting into it, and helps himself to another slice of pizza. “It doesn’t bother you that Carol’s asking you to do something totally unethical?”

  “Sure it does, but she did, and now I need to get these done. There’s a nice bonus for me if Janice gets into Yale, early decision.”

  “But it’s dirty money.”

  “Easy for you to say. Last time I checked, you had a nice little trust fund.”

  “I live within my means,” Kevin says, defensively.

  “No one said you didn’t. It’s just that your means and your salary don’t have anything to do with each other. I can’t afford to go work for some noble cause.”

  “Well, if you ask me, you’d have plenty of time to look for a better job, even in the private sector, if you didn’t have your head in the clouds over Oscar.” He spits out the words “private sector” and “Oscar” with equivalent amounts of disdain.

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean? Besides, who says I want a new job?”

  “You’ve always said what you do lacks social utility.”

  “I haven’t said that in a long time. And it’s not like some do-gooder job is going to pay my bills.”

  “Especially now that you’re trying to keep up with Mister Central Park West.”

  “I’m doing no such thing. I’m having fun and hoping he has long term potential.”

  Kevin smirks smugly and chews his pizza. He’s really starting to irritate me. I’m tired and I don’t feel like having a debate on the moral merits of my various life choices.

  “Of course you’re competing with him. You even lied to him about where you live. That’s twisted.”

  “And it’s also none of your business. Just like it’s none of my business that you’re shagging Lily the Slovenian hottie, even though you think she’s dumber than your parents’ golden retriever.” This was Kevin’s own comparison, after their last date. I see no harm in repeating it back to him.

  “Lily went back to Europe. And I wasn’t getting all wrapped up in some fantasy relationship. It was just sex. Not like you and your trans-Madison fairy tale. Has it even occurred to you that if someone seems too good to be true...”

  I cut him off. He sounds way too preachy and I’m getting a migraine. “I’ve got lots to do tonight. Maybe I should get to it.”

  “Fine.” He gets up and collects his pizza box, but leaves the remaining beers on my counter. My door slams shut behind him. Across the hall, I hear him slam his own door, too. I can’t believe he’s so bent out of shape over this. Why should he suddenly care about the details of my dating and work habits? Not that I’ve had much of a dating life recently. And aside from the odd remark that he wouldn’t want my job, he’s never been too bothered by my accounts of the day to day insanity at Broadwick & Associates. But I can’t waste the evening worrying about this. I have to put in a decent effort with these applications. I’ll worry about Kevin’s way out of character behavior after I’ve made a dent in them.

  I decide one slice of pizza won’t hold me, so I order sushi for delivery and tackle Janice’s folder. She’s included a copy of her transcript and she’s completed her basic background information on just one of the eight applications enclosed. She’s filled out a chart that indicates her teachers have mailed all her recommendations. And on the first page of the Yale application, she’s affixed a pink post-it note: “To Whom It May Concern—For my hobbies and interests, please refer to my Facebook page.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  I rifle through the stack of papers until I find the instructions. My blood pressure spikes when I read that Yale early decision applications are due in four days. Not surprisingly, Yale wants to know, in a 500-word essay, how studying at Yale will help Janice achieve her life and career goals. But that’s not all. After the first question, the admissions committee gets really cute. They want to know, if Janice Broadwick has just finished her 300 page autobiography, what would appear on page 232?

  I groan, even though there’s nobody to hear me. Then I swallow hard and flip to the final essay question: “John Keats said, ‘Even a proverb is no proverb to you until your life has illustrated it.’ Please explain a life experience you have had, which illustrates a proverb that has meaning to you.”

  I think I am going to throw up. I push Keats aside and haul out my laptop. Maybe I’ll start with her hobbies and interests and call in sick tomorrow to figure out the proverb problem. I open Facebook and search for Janice.

  When the page loads, I stare in astonishment. Carol can’t possibly have seen this. A full-color photo shows a bikini- and lei-clad mini-Carol. She’s doing a body shot off the chiseled chest of a man, who appears to be at least of college age, possibly older, and who is wearing nothing but unzipped board shorts.

  My first thought is that maybe Carol should leave the office before 7:30 p.m. once in a while. That way she might have some clue what her kid is doing with her spare time. My next thought is that I hope admissions committees at elite schools don’t monitor Facebook. I put a note on the folder, suggesting to Janice, as gently as possible, that she consider adjusting her privacy settings.

  NINE

  Carol is utterly unsympathetic when I tell her about Yale’s looming early decision deadline. “Honestly, Zoë,” she grunts between exercises, “I can’t imagine why you always call me with problems. Can’t you call me with a solution for once?”

  I start to apologize, but her Pilates trainer drowns me out with instructions for Carol to engage her abdominals.

  “Fine. Stay home and work on Janice’s paperwork if you must, but I want that application postmarked before the last possible day.” Before she hangs up, she tells me to make sure I remember to call in sick. So my fellow cube farmers won’t get suspicious.

  It’s not worth telling Carol that none of my colleagues would wonder too much about my unscheduled absence from the office. Her paranoid mind would never grasp that. I bet she’ll count the sick day against me, too.

  By ten o’clock, I’m making headway on the first, and easiest, essay question, when Oscar calls. “I miss seeing you,” he says.

  “I miss you, too, but I’m not there today. I called in sick.”

  “That’s too bad. I was going to try to ply you with tickets to Il Trovatore.”

  “You mean the Met?”

  “The one and only, but if you’re not feeling up to it...”

  “No! I can rally. I’d love to go.”

  “You do sound a bit hoarse.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I’m not sick. I’m stuck at home, doing my boss’s daughter’s college applications. The Yale one is due in less than a week.”

  “Seriously? She has you writing essays for her kid?”

  “Seriously. The strange thing is, I’m so used to working for an insane person that this latest request didn’t even strike me as odd.”

  “Maybe you should dust off your resume.”

  “You’re not the first person to suggest that. Anyway, by tonight I’ll be desperate for a break.”

  “Fantastic. It opened last week and got great reviews. I’ll swing by and pick you up around seven. Oops. There’s my oth
er line. I’ll see you tonight.”

  He’s gone. The opera. Wow. I must be doing something right this time around if he wants to take me to the opera. It’s not exactly a low-key, probationary kind of date. A guy has to really like you to take you to the Met, right? Maybe I needed someone like Oscar to come along, to lend a more sophisticated and mature element to my stagnated existence. I’m so preoccupied with congratulating myself on this romantic achievement—making a seemingly perfect guy so serious about me—that it takes me several moments to realize that I have nothing to wear. And I have to write at least two of these Yale essays today, if I want to have any hope of making the postmark deadline. And of course Oscar will be at Angela’s promptly at seven. Not here.

  By two o’clock, I have convinced myself, and hopefully the admissions committee, that Janice Broadwick will make a meaningful contribution to campus life in New Haven, and that she plans to put her degree to use as an employee of a high-profile NGO, preferably one that helps orphaned, AIDS-afflicted, starving children in Sub-Saharan Africa. She concludes with a paragraph that explains her deeply ingrained sense of noblesse oblige, and without actually using those words, I promise, on Janice’s behalf, that she will always look at her Yale education as an awesome privilege that will morally compel her to give back to those less fortunate.

  I’ve also emailed Oscar that I will meet him at the Met. Tonight, after the performance, I will come clean about my address. Hopefully, he’ll find the whole thing funny. Or maybe he’ll be flattered by my reasoning. Or else I’ll distract him from my pathetic subterfuge by inviting him up.

  Angela has dispatched a messenger from Vogue to bring me a dress that she promises will be “to die for.” It’s Gucci. It’s a loaner from the store. Angela swears it will fit. And look stunning. But if it gets damaged, she’ll be on the hook for the replacement costs. She says the sales lady knew it wasn’t for the magazine. Angela works in shoes, and even if she needed a dress to accessorize a footwear photo shoot, she would never have hired a “fat” size six model.

  I’m wasting time, playing with my hair in the mirror, arranging it into up-dos I could never pin into place artfully enough, when my cell phone rings. Carol’s assistant, Patricia.

  “Madame wants an update.” We all call the boss lady Madame behind her back. I’m not sure who started it, or even why it’s funny, but it’s a tradition that predates my employment at the firm. “Are you done yet?” she demands.

  Carol rubs off on her people. Within a month on the job, every one of her admins loses the ability to speak civilly to the staff.

  “I’ve finished one essay and I’ve made good progress on the second.” Technically, this is true. In that I have started to ponder how anybody could create a 300-page tome about the life of a privileged, but otherwise ordinary, teenager.

  “Well, just so you know, good progress had better mean done by the time Carol gets back from her waxing appointment, or you’re going to ruin everyone’s week.” Patricia hangs up. I decide to write an essay about how Janice’s teammates elected her as captain of the school tennis team, which meant beating out her best friend, which in turn sorely tested their friendship. Trite? Painfully so. But it’s as good as anything else I can fabricate in under half an hour. I’m certain Janice plays tennis, and I’m about seventy-five per cent sure that Carol bragged about her daughter becoming captain of the team as a junior. As if such an honor had never, in the entire history of the Spence school, been bestowed on one so young.

  Decked out in the loaner gown furnished by Angela, I feel transformed and fabulous. I’ve wrangled my hair into a twist that looks surprisingly elegant, shoved my breasts into a bra that helps make the most of the dress’s plunging neckline, and weighted my ears down with sparkling chandeliers borrowed from the legendary accessories closet at Vogue. I feel half a foot taller, and even the fact that I have to tramp down five flights in my high heels doesn’t dampen my mood. Carol was miraculously pleased with my progress on her daughter’s behalf. I feel justified in taking the evening off.

  I must have cleaned up better than usual because not one, but two cabs, screech to the curb as soon as I raise a gloved hand. When we reach the Met, Oscar’s there, waiting on those famous stairs in his tux, looking incredibly sexy. He’s also carrying his briefcase, which seems incongruous with his evening wear, but maybe he came straight from the office. He smiles broadly when he sees me, and meets me halfway down the steps.

  “You look incredible.”

  “Thanks. Unfortunately it’s just a loaner. Angela came to my rescue. She said she couldn’t have me embarrassing myself at the opera.”

  I feel myself grinning like an idiot over his compliment.

  “Come on. You could never do that.”

  I feel my face flush, and divert my eyes from his gaze flirtatiously. Can he really be as into me as I am into him? Am I that lucky?

  On the way to our box, I catch at least four women swooning over my guy. As soon as we’re seated, a waiter brings a whole bottle of champagne, which appears to be a big seller here, recession or not. The two other seats in the box are unoccupied when we arrive. Oscar says, “We have it all to ourselves tonight. The firm has these seats and no clients could make it.”

  Despite all my years in New York, I’ve only been to the opera once, and that was with a field trip for an art appreciation class in college. We sat in the second to last row of the orchestra, way underneath the first balcony. The music was amazing, but I don’t remember seeing much besides the bald head of the man in front of me. This is totally different. Not only do we have an enviable view of the stage, we can see almost every member of the audience, most of whom are busy checking each other out. From the moment the curtain goes up, I’m riveted, even though I don’t understand Italian. I lean forward against the railing and take it all in. Though part of me feels like a little kid playing dress up, I could get used to living this way. Halfway through the first act, Oscar slides his hand onto my thigh. As his fingers stroke the fabric, little bolts of electricity shoot through me. I can’t wait to be alone with him. It could be the champagne buzz, but I seriously feel like the music is making me want him more. It’s so intense, it’s practically erotic. I cringe inwardly at the clichés my brain has decided to indulge. I need to get a grip. But, God, he does it for me. If he doesn’t come home with me tonight, the frustration might kill me.

  The little voice in my head reminds me, in a patronizing tone, that I ought to want more from Oscar than sex. I am too old to let my hormones run amok in this manner. And of course I do want more. He’s fantastic. Maybe he’s even The One. It’s just that maybe, after the summer I’ve had, I feel the tiniest bit entitled to one of those rare, great shags that leaves you breathless and makes you forget your middle name.

  At intermission, Oscar asks me to order some more champagne from the waiter, then excuses himself. He returns right after the new bubbly arrives, and when he sets his briefcase down, I register that he took it with him. Which seems odd, and even somewhat offensive. Why would he worry about me rifling through his work? But maybe he just assumed I’d want to run to the ladies’ room. Or maybe he has some hyper-vigilant client who made him promise not to let his files out of sight. I should chill.

  By the time the singers come out for their curtain call, it’s all I can do to keep myself from jumping all over Oscar right here. It’s probably a combination of the decadent outing, the Dom Perignon, and the fact that his hand didn’t leave my leg once during the entire second act. After the third or fourth bow, we start to push towards the exits. A couple in their fifties joins the crush from another box and the man smiles at us. “Oscar Thornton,” he says, in a tone that conveys pleasant surprise. He has salt and pepper hair, sharp, fiercely intelligent eyes, framed and magnified by black horn-rimmed glasses, and a slight overbite. We all step to the edge of the corridor to let others pass.

  “It’s been ages!” His wife, a slim specimen with an obvious face lift and a royal blue evening gown d
eclares. She has a teeny hint of a Southern drawl, the commonly encountered variety that’s been cowed into remission by years in New York City.

  “Bradford. So nice to see you.” Oscar shakes hands and kisses Bradford’s wife on the cheek before introducing me. “Bradford and Trudy Bainbridge, this is Zoë Clark.”

  I’m so lost in my thoughts about how much I want Oscar right now, and how little I want to chat with this couple, that I miss the fact that the Bainbridges and Oscar have moved past the obligatory small talk part of the encounter. Trudy Bainbridge is blinking her surgically sculpted eyes at me as if I’m somewhat limited, and I realize she’s asking, for the third time, how Oscar and I met. Oscar is looking at me uncomfortably. After a too-long pause, I tell her, “He works across the street from me, so I suppose we bumped into each other that way.”

  Oscar exhales. I can’t blame him for not wanting these people to know the details of his romantic overture. Once the Bainbridges excuse themselves, he leans into my ear and whispers, “Bradford manages one of the largest hedge funds in the world. He’s got more money than almost anyone in New York, and he’s a super nice guy, in spite of it.”

  “So you believe that wealth and success are incompatible with civility?” I ask playfully, because it seems, based on his apartment, car, and choices of venue for dates, that my guy isn’t exactly hurting for cash.

  He misses the irony. “Yeah. Most guys in Bradford’s position are total jackasses. But Bradford’s still married to his college sweetheart, they’ve got four sons, eight houses, a private jet, two yachts, paintings on loan to the Met, and a family foundation that gives away gazillions of dollars. And he can still talk to anyone without seeming the least bit pretentious.”

  “That’s nice.” I’m having a difficult time being interested in anything but the fastest route to Oscar in bed naked. And I really hope he shares that interest.

  “Enough about them. Let’s get out of here.” He grins conspiratorially and I’m fairly certain he’s thinking along the same lines I am.