by Bridie Clark
I couldn’t answer the question, because the room—exploding in peach chintz—was suddenly making me very dizzy.
“Randall,” I interrupted a little too loudly, “we ought to keep an eye on the time. Bea and Harry are expecting us at eight.” He just smiled, nodded, and resumed his conversation.
And Lucille kept going, too. “I know I should be a bit more coy about this, my dear,” she whispered conspiratorially at a volume that the men could definitely hear, “but you’re just the kind of girl I’d always hoped Randall would settle down with. As I said, I simply loved your mother. She was always so elegant, so refined and beautiful. She could have had any man in the world, you know. Why, it was no secret that Harrison Westville the Third—heir to the Westville toothpaste fortune—would’ve snapped her up in half a heartbeat.” Lucille made the tiniest clucking sound.
“What are you ladies chatting about over there?” Randall finally interjected. “Mother?”
“Oh, just girl talk.” Lucille giggled. “Listen, darling, can’t we persuade you to stay for dinner? The cook made her famous Cornish hens, and we’d love to spend more time with you two!”
“What do you think, Claire?” he asked. “Would Bea and Harry mind if we made it brunch tomorrow instead and spent the night here?”
What?! The room finally stopped its slow spin and ground to a screeching halt. Bea and Harry had spent the afternoon gathering ingredients for tonight’s menu and getting ready for our visit. We couldn’t possibly cancel at the last minute! Even in my slightly blurry state, that much was clear to me.
“I really wish we could,” I said to Lucille after a pause, “but I’m afraid my friends would be upset. They’ve been looking forward to spending more time with Randall, and this dinner has been planned for a while.”
“Of course. It’s a shame, but we understand,” said Lucille, “Another night. I do hope we’ll see you again soon, Claire. And your mother! You must tell me when she’s next in town. I would be so delighted to see her.” The four of us stood and kissed our good-byes. I focused on staying vertical.
As Randall helped me into the Porsche’s deep bucket seat, I waved at his parents and tried to hold back my scowl. “I can’t believe you did that!” I fumed as soon as he shut the car door.
“Did what?”
“Tried to bag on Bea and Harry? Put me in the position of telling your mom we couldn’t have dinner with them?”
Randall kept his eyes steadily on the road ahead. We drove in heated silence for a minute, snaking down the driveway with a rising moon overhead.
“I’m sorry, babe. I wasn’t thinking,” he said finally, kissing my hand.
But for some reason (likely vodka), his knee-jerk capitulation only fueled the fire. “And what’s the deal with your mother not liking your ex-girlfriend because she wasn’t … to the manor born? Or because she was too focused on her career? That’s really narrow-minded, Randall, and those same things could be said about me!”
“My mother really should not have said that about Coral! She shouldn’t have said anything about Coral!” Randall sounded genuinely pissed. He took a moment to collect himself. “But of course, your background’s not like that. Your mom came from a very good Boston family, and your father was a respected academic. Hardly the trailer park, Claire.”
“That’s not what I’m upset about, Randall!” I slurred in outrage. Why didn’t he understand that it was his mother’s haughtier-than-thou attitude that I objected to? And he sounded as though he’d actually given the question of my “suitability” some thought! And what about the career stuff? “You know my job’s very important to me, right?” I asked, swiveling around in the passenger seat to face him.
He glanced over at me quickly. “Claire, there’s an Evian in the backseat. Why don’t you drink some? I think you’ve been overserved.”
“You know I care a lot about my career?” I repeated. I knew I sounded belligerent, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“Of course I do, Claire. My God! I honestly don’t know what you’re getting so riled up about. If you’ll remember, I was the one who helped you find that job you care so much about in the first place. Drink some water. You’re behaving like a child.”
His words hit me like a slap. A child. First my boss, now my boyfriend.
“Listen,” Randall said in a much calmer voice, resting a hand on my knee, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry Mother upset you. She means well, but sometimes she says things without thinking them through. She definitely shouldn’t have brought up Coral or talked about that career nonsense. I think she was a little nervous about meeting you, and it made her run off. Anyway, I am sorry. And about suggesting that we change our plans. It’s just that I don’t get to see my parents all that often, given my work schedule, and I felt bad that we couldn’t visit with them longer. They’ve been looking forward to meeting you for weeks. It’s all that my mother’s been talking about.”
I felt all my anger deflate. What was I doing? So Lucille had rubbed me the wrong way. Did I really have to unleash that on Randall as soon as our car doors shut? So he’d goofed about the dinner situation. He was just a good son who had a hard time disappointing his parents. Why was I ruining the first full weekend we’d been able to spend together in months?
“I’m sorry, Randall, I don’t know what’s come over me,” I said quietly, feeling ashamed of myself. He handed me the bottle of Evian, and I took a long gulp.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just relax and enjoy the rest of the evening, okay?”
I nodded, taking another gulp of water as Randall’s Porsche hurtled through the starless winter evening. Then I leaned over and kissed his cheek, and he smiled. Handsome, smart, a good son … and forgiving. The perfect guy.
Bea waved excitedly from the house, framed by the warm porch light. I’d honestly never been happier to see her. After weeks of minimal QT and my conversation with Lucille, I was dying for a full, detailed catch-up session with my best friend.
“Hey, guys!” she called, as we got out of the car.
Fortunately, our forty-minute ride to Montauk and the liter of water had brought me back to reasonable sobriety. I’d convinced Randall to let me roll down the windows just a crack—he hated the effect of any wind on his perfectly gelled hair but made an exception—and the cold, clean ocean air had cleared my head.
“Beatrice, you look lovely as always,” Randall said, giving her a kiss and clapping Harry on the back.
“Wow, the house is amazing!” I said when we stepped into the newly renovated kitchen. It had the coziest feeling to it—I loved the wainscoting, the huge antique farm table, the family portraits Bea had expertly arranged on one wall.
“Yeah, didn’t she do a great job?” Harry asked, showing us to the living room.
“It’s beautiful!” seconded Randall, looking around. “Say, Bea, would you be interested in decorating my new place in Nantucket? I think your aesthetic would be just right for the job.”
“Really?” asked Bea, lighting up. “I’d love that! Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll have my secretary get the details to you next week. Oh, I forgot—here you go, sir.” Randall handed Harry a slightly dusty bottle of wine. “Petrus ’85, a great year.”
“Wow!” exclaimed Harry. “This is a phenomenal bottle! Thank you, Randall, it’s too generous of you.”
I felt a warm glow. It was a beautiful sight: my incredible boyfriend getting along so well with my best friends. One big happy family.
“So how’d it go with the parents?” Bea whispered when we’d settled into the couch next to each other and the guys were off dealing with the wine.
“Tell you later. Not a one-word answer.”
“Hey, Claire, I forgot to pass along a little gossip last week,” Harry said, coming into the living room with two wineglasses for us. “You’ll never guess who I saw canoodling at a discreet little hole-in-the-wall diner near my office.”
“Canoodling? You’ve been reading P
age Six again, haven’t you.”
“Just guess.” Harry laughed.
“Okay, give me a hint—celebrity, politician, or blast-from-our-past?”
“Politician and … I don’t know, celebrity, sort of. I recognized her, at least. Holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes like total lovebirds. Give up?” Harry was clearly bursting at the seams to dish this one, so I nodded. “Vivian Grant and the deputy mayor.”
“You saw—wait, who’s the deputy mayor again?”
“Stanley Prizbecki. I think you’d know him if you saw him. Big bruiser with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and bulging biceps … the mayor’s right-hand man?”
“That guy? You saw that guy and Vivian canoodling?” My understanding of the verb was fuzzy, but it sounded way too warm and cuddly for either of the involved parties. Wow, this was scoop.
The mayor—and Prizbecki, his deputy—had won the last election by a landslide with the unlikely slogan “New Yorkers need tough love.” The mayor had lived up to his campaign promises by cracking down hard on organized crime and white-collar corruption—and Prizbecki had apparently been the muscle behind many of those crackdowns—but recently I’d read that the majority of New Yorkers thought they were taking things too far. I hadn’t fully formed an opinion yet about their leadership, but one thing was clear: Stanley Prizbecki looked mean.
“Harry, isn’t Stan married?” asked Bea.
“Yup, with four little kids.”
Ah, okay. Now we were back on familiar ground. Vivian as seductive Other Woman, Vivian as home wrecker … now the world was making sense again.
“I hate men like that—his wife probably helped him build his career, and this is how he repays her,” Bea huffed. “And his poor kids!”
I noticed Randall’s forehead tense up. Ugh, why’d Bea have to go there? Decades ago, Randall had been one of those poor kids—he’d even caught Vivian in the hallway after the act, a memory she’d recounted with callous amusement. I shuddered. Another reason to despise her.
“Um, Bea, do you need a hand with dinner?” I asked, desperate to get off the subject of Vivian’s affairs. “The smells from the kitchen are making my mouth water!”
“Actually, Harry’s the cook tonight. His osso bucco.”
“Osso bucco?” Randall repeated. “You’re quite the Renaissance man, Harry! It smells incredible.”
“And actually, it’s probably ready. Why don’t we head to the dining room?” Harry asked, pointing the way.
“That was a nice weekend,” Randall said as we drove through the Midtown Tunnel on our way back from Long Island. “Bea and Harry are terrific, Claire.”
“I’m glad you and Harry got along so well!” I beamed. They’d split off to play some indoor tennis that morning. Bea and I, on the other hand, had been far less active: We’d made a pot of coffee, stocked a plate with doughnuts, settled into the couch, and talked for hours. I felt so much better. Blue skies, fresh air, great friends … a reminder of how sweet life could be when one wasn’t chained to a desk all the time.
“Oh—sweetie, you don’t need to give me door-to-door service!” I suddenly realized that Randall was heading downtown. I’d just assumed he’d drive straight to his garage on 78th Street and I would take a cab home from there.
“I know I don’t have to, Claire-bear.” He smiled at me, grabbing my hand and kissing it. “I want to, though.”
“Okay, well … um, you take a left up there.” I watched Randall’s eyes widen slightly as we drove down my street. He had never seen where I lived before—we always ended up back at his place, because it was so much nicer and his mornings started ridiculously early—and I felt weirdly nervous about what he’d think. When we got to a red light, he reflexively pressed autolock on all four doors—sealing us in.
A moment later, Randall pulled his Porsche in front of my building’s dilapidated awning. A group of teenagers immediately began to circle the car as if it’d been dropped in from outer space.
“I can’t let you get out of the car with all these hoodlums milling about,” he declared protectively.
“Hood— Oh, these kids? They’re always around. Totally harmless, I promise.” I kissed his cheek and reached into the backseat for my weekend bag.
“Claire-bear, we need to find you a better place to live,” Randall said bluntly as he looked around. I followed his stare—and just like that, the street that had felt like home for years was transformed into a total dump. There was garbage on the curb, shady guys hanging out a few doors down. As I looked at it through Randall’s eyes, my block seemed completely run-down. “I really don’t like the thought of you walking home here alone at night.”
For a moment, I felt a little defensive—but I was also touched by Randall’s genuine concern. “Maybe it is time I moved on,” I agreed. Add moving to the to-do list. Of course, the odds of my actually finding time to look for a new apartment? Slimmer than Lucille.
Randall reached over and took my hand, a serious expression on his face. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Claire. I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks, and my mother actually brought it up when we spoke earlier today. I think it makes sense.”
“What makes sense, Randall?” I asked, the mention of his mother and her opinions making me instantly ill at ease.
“How would you feel about moving into my place? There’s plenty of room, and you wouldn’t have to shuttle your stuff back and forth—”
My heart stopped. Move in? Was he serious? He’d been thinking about it for weeks? That was Lucille’s suggestion?
“I know we’ve been dating for only six months, but it feels right to me. We’d get to see each other more, and it would save you some money, and …” Randall paused, working up steam. “Well, Claire, I love you. I love you, and I’d like us to live together.”
I couldn’t believe it. The L-bomb and moving in together, both dropped in one curbside conversation? Randall Cox loved me? And wanted to live with me? This was the moment Beatrice and I had dreamed of all those years ago—it was finally coming true! I felt like running down my crummy street, cheering at the top of my lungs, and—
“I’ll understand if you need some time to think about it,” Randall said somewhat somberly.
Oops! Sometimes I forgot that men couldn’t mind-read. “I love you, too, Randall!” I said, flinging my arms around his neck and kissing him. “And of course I’d love to live with you.”
Really, what was there to think about? Sure, it had come out of the blue—I certainly hadn’t been expecting him to ask—but I was used to commitment-phobic James, who’d resisted my leaving a stick of deodorant hidden under his bathroom sink. Of course I wanted to live with Randall. If Randall was ready to take this enormous step in our relationship, I was ready, too.
“Good! That’s good.” He nodded happily. “I’ll have Deirdre call you tomorrow to work out the details. This will be great, Claire. There’s plenty of closet space, and there’s a gym on the second floor, and anything you’d like to eat Svetlana can prepare.”
He went on with more details, but the only thing I could hear was a happy echo: He loves me. Randall Cox loves me and wants me to live with him.
“Okay, hop out before my car gets keyed,” Randall finally said, half joking.
I kissed him and opened the car door. “I love you,” I said, leaning back in for one more.
“I love you, too. Get inside!” He pointed at a drunk lurching down the street.
“How will I leave all this splendor behind?” I laughed and slammed the door, then headed up the stairs with my weekend bag. Moving in together. Wow. Major. My head was spinning a little.
Part of me will miss this little place, I admitted, plopping down on my old couch with the Sunday paper. Small and crappy as it was, my studio was home, and it had been for five years. But Randall’s apartment would feel like home after a while, too, I was sure of it.
I walked two steps to the kitchen area and pul
led out some bread to make a sandwich, hitting play on the answering machine as I rummaged through the refrigerator.
“Claire. Vivian,” snarled the first message, the machine picking up all the tense, angry notes in her voice. I froze, kicking myself for not getting around to changing the number. The trauma of Friday night’s massacre sprang up fresh in my mind. “I don’t know where the fuck you are, Claire. I’ve been trying you all day on your cell, but you seem to have turned it off. Making it difficult for me to reach you, which you know I find extremely irksome. Anyway, I had a few things to run down with you, so call me back.”
No. No, no, no, no, no. I couldn’t call Vivian back tonight. It would have to wait until tomorrow. I’d been at her beck and call for months, why couldn’t she give me one measly weekend off … and let me enjoy feeling happy and in love for just a few minutes—
“Claire!” barked the second message. “Vivian! Call me back! I don’t know who you think you are, or why you think you’re entitled to just go AWOL like this, but I demand to speak with you!”
I looked down at the machine. The red light blinked the number 18 back at me—eighteen new messages in less than thirty-six hours. I leaned against the counter, rubbing my forehead hard. I knew the messages were from Vivian—at least, most of them. Should I call her back now? Was it a true catastrophe, or was she just in the mood to verbally disembowel someone?
Eight p.m. on a Sunday evening. I could take my lumps now or in the morning. Either way, my night of relaxation had been tainted. I picked up the phone and called Vivian back.
“Well, it is about fucking time!” she shrieked after answering on the first ring. “I am livid, Claire, l-i-v-i-d!” I heard a voice in the background. “No! I said not to touch my feet, you flaming retard! Just massage my legs, why is that so difficult to understand?! Listen, Claire, we’ll have to talk about this in the morning, now is not a good time. You know, I’m trying to live a life here. I can’t just drop everything because it’s a convenient time for you. Call me when you get to your desk.”
