The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  Frieda said, “I wouldn’t say that Sam Hill is inappropriate marriage material.”

  “Of course he is,” said Ilene. She laughed. “You can’t honestly say that you have high hopes for a lasting relationship with him. Just enjoy the hell out of it for what it is. And when you’re ready for more, I’ll set you up.”

  Betty watched the frown appear on Frieda’s face. Clearly, Frieda was smitten, regardless of Sam Hill’s marriage worthiness. That must have been some kiss.

  Betty said, “You don’t know what’s going to happen, Ilene. I’m sure Frieda isn’t thinking about Sam Hill’s future prospects. She’s living in the moment.”

  “Exactly,” said Frieda. “I’m focused on right now. Six months down the road, who knows? That was the amount of time between Gregg’s diagnosis and death. None of us has any idea where we’ll be in six months, who we’ll be with, what we’ll be doing. But right now, all I want is to see Sam Hill again.”

  Betty said, “When will that be?”

  Frieda answered, “Next week. He has performances every night.”

  Betty said, “That seems like a long time to wait.”

  Ilene said, “Waiting is the downside of living in the moment.”

  “I can do it. I’ve waited over a year for someone to make my heart beat faster. I can go for one more week. I do worry, though. He might get a load of me naked and think, ‘Am I fucking my mother?’ ”

  “You’re seven years apart, not seventeen,” said Betty.

  Ilene added, “A penniless itinerant actor? He’s lucky to stand next to you on line for the bus. Besides which, if you’re old, what does that make me?”

  Betty said, “Older.”

  Ilene said, “Let’s drink to that.”

  The women drank. They refilled the glasses, killing the bottle—and they hadn’t even ordered their entrees. This happened every time. Frieda offered to run to the wine store a half block away. She grabbed her purse and hurried to the door.

  The oldest and youngest sisters remained. As soon as Frieda was out of earshot, Ilene said, “You know Sam Hill isn’t going to last. He’s nothing like Gregg. Where’s the compatibility?”

  Betty dipped another crust of bread into the olive oil. She knew Ilene was watching her soak up the golden puddle of fat and calories. Betty said, “The whole stepfather thing. I don’t see this twenty-eight-year-old filling Gregg’s shoes there. He’s just too young to deal with that kind of responsibility.”

  “Exactly,” said Ilene. “So you agree with me.”

  Betty nodded. “I agree that Sam Hill won’t be around in a year. But we disagree about…”

  “We’d have to disagree about something.”

  “Let this run its course,” warned Betty. “If you try to steer Frieda away from Sam Hill, she’ll cling even tighter to him. It’s all premature anyway. She hasn’t had a date with him yet.”

  “But she’s set on him,” said Ilene. “She wants him, so she’ll have to have him. But I know enough to be discreet. There are ways to dissuade her without overt criticism. Planting seeds, that kind of thing.”

  “Evil gardening?” asked Betty.

  “How’s your love life?” asked Ilene.

  Frieda had rushed back in, bottle in a brown bag, able to catch that last part. “How is your love life, Betty?” she asked.

  The conversation now focused on her, Betty drained her glass before speaking. “Okay. Here’s the thing.”

  “The thing is…” prompted Frieda.

  “The thing is,” said Betty, “I like a guy.”

  Ilene and Frieda pounced on the morsel of candor. “Who is he?” asked Frieda.

  “His name is Earl Long,” she started. “He works at Burton & Notham, but only temporarily. He’s setting up audio-books booths. I guess he’s in his mid-thirties. I have no clue about his religion, background, status, financial standing.”

  Betty tried to sound casual about it, even though she was obsessed with Earl Long. Her thoughts chased him around Burton & Notham like a panting dog. If he stepped into the bathroom at work, she imagined following him in, locking the stall door, and assaulting him. If he sat down at the café for a sandwich or coffee, Betty pictured joining him, sneaking her fingers onto his thigh for a squeeze.

  Frieda asked, “Does he know you like him?”

  Betty nearly laughed. “No way.” She avoided him whenever possible. Their conversations were terse, businesslike. Betty’s attraction overwhelmed her, and she couldn’t muster a degree of warmth in his presence. She’d been aware of the tendency since high school: Out of fear, she treated the boys she liked with disdain. In return, they hated her. Their rejection emptied her of confidence, a void she filled with Ring Dings. She had put on five pounds since Earl appeared in her office. Despite the mini-chats she had with herself (e.g., “You know you’re eating this Big Mac because Earl Long pays more attention to Starr, the eighteen-year-old cashier, than he does to you), Betty was powerless to stop herself.

  “Does he like you?” Ilene asked.

  “How should I know?” In the two weeks he’d been on site, Earl had touched her once, to get her attention. She’d been supervising a delivery at the store’s 17th-Street rear entrance, clipboard in hand. His touch on her shoulder had surprised her so much that she dropped the clipboard, alarming the delivery man, who asked if she was having a seizure. She couldn’t meet Earl’s eyes afterward. He apologized five times for surprising her, forgetting, in his embarrassment for her, what he’d wanted in the first place. And he hadn’t dared touch her again.

  Ilene said, “Are you set on him?”

  Betty was afraid to say yes. If she admitted it to her sisters, the risk of failure and rejection tripled, quadrupled in a mere second. Frieda could plunge into a relationship with Sam because she had an excellent track record with boyfriends. She seemed unafraid. Then again, after what she’d been through with Gregg, what could be worse? Betty had a long history of failure. But only experience could change that.

  She would take inspiration from Frieda. Betty said, “Yes. I’m set on him.”

  Ilene slammed her hand on the table and declared, “Then you’ll have to have him. Do you have a plan?”

  God, no. “My plan,” said Betty, “is to do absolutely nothing.”

  Ilene shook her head. “That won’t work.”

  Frieda said, “Have you considered asking him out?”

  Betty choked on her wine at the question.

  At that moment, the waiter appeared, dragging the chalkboard menu with him. He described the night’s fare, and the sisters placed their orders: Frieda asked for the salmon steak; Ilene, grilled chicken with rosemary; Betty, filet mignon with pepper cream sauce and mashed sweet potatoes on the side.

  Once the waiter was gone, Ilene said, “If you truly want this man, you should rethink your order.” Betty felt the blow in her solar plexus. After laying herself belly-up and vulnerable, Betty couldn’t believe Ilene would give her shit. Then again, when it came to the subject of weight, Ilene was relentless.

  “Ilene, don’t,” said Frieda.

  The oldest sister said, “Isn’t the whole point of these dinners to help each other? To lay out our problems and work as a team to solve them?”

  Frieda said, “It’s been the unspoken objective, but now that you’ve described it like that, the whole idea seems contrived.”

  Betty said, “We haven’t dissected your problems, Ilene. What can we help you with? How’s Peter? Your marriage? Any luck getting him to lose weight?”

  Ilene said, “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you, Betty. But if you would stop being so defensive and sensitive and just listen to me, you’ll be glad you did. It’s nearly impossible to look at your own life objectively.”

  “What makes you think you’re being objective when you look at my life, or Frieda’s?” asked Betty.

  “Can we please change the subject?” asked Frieda, playing referee.

  “And, thanks for asking, my marriage is perfect,” s
aid Ilene. “Peter is perfect. He’s working very hard on his diet and appreciates my support.”

  “Objectively speaking,” said Betty, “bullshit.”

  Chapter 11

  Saturday, October 19

  11 A.M.

  Ilene turned on the shower full blast. Hot. Hotter than Peter could take. He’d asked if he could join her. She said, “I’m not sure you can stand the heat.”

  He glared at her and said, “Is that your way of telling me to stay out of the kitchen?”

  “Not at all,” she replied, and then hopped into the steaming stream of water, effectively ending conversation.

  Ilene had been awake since nine. She bounded out of the bed to make herself breakfast, read the paper, and checked any after-the-bell financial news on FNN. She was eager to get started with her Saturday. First, she’d head over to David Isen’s new bachelor pad at noon to help him unpack until fourish, then go to the gym and pound the treadmill into submission for an hour. Steam, sauna, and then she’d get her six o’clock Swedish massage at the club spa from Renaldo. After which she’d come home, make herself a giant salad, and watch at least three hours of the BBC six-hour production of The Singing Detective. Ilene wasn’t sure what Peter had planned. She should have checked before she’d scheduled her day. But then again, Saturday had long been the one day of the week they both reserved for personal use.

  She stepped out of the shower, towel dried her long, straight hair, and walked into their bedroom in her silk robe.

  “Surprise,” said Peter.

  Curtains down, the room was dark. Peter lay nude beneath the sheets. Candles lit the room, around the perimeter of the bed, the mantel, the bookshelves, the dresser, and night tables. Some were fat, some thin, a spectrum of colors. The scents were a bit much. Ilene nearly recoiled from the commingled fragrances.

  “Did you buy up the entire candle department at Pier One?” she asked. Her eyes and nose fully occupied, the music took a moment to register. “Is that Ravel?”

  Peter, grinning, patted the space next to him on the bed.

  Ilene stood, frozen, at the threshold of the bathroom.

  He said, “Come, wife.”

  “You lit all these candles while I was in the shower?” asked Ilene.

  “Obviously,” he said. “Are you coming over here or not?”

  Ilene was touched he’d go to such effort—not much; in fact, hardly any—but she was running late. She was expected at David’s in a half hour. How to get out of this without hurting Peter’s feelings?

  She cinched her robe more tightly around her waist and walked over to him. She sat on the very edge of the bed. He scooted toward her, keeping himself fairly well covered, and put his arms around her waist.

  Ilene let him touch her, but she didn’t allow him to pull her down. She said, “Sweetie, this is so nice of you.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I have other surprises in mind.”

  That’s when her eyes lit on the small tin on his night table. It was black with a gold ribbon wrapped around it. “What’s that?” she asked.

  Peter was kissing her wrist. Between smacks, he said, “It’s chocolate body paint. I thought I’d smear some on you and, you know. Lick it off.”

  She laughed. “Only you could turn sex into a high-calorie act.”

  He stopped kissing her. But then started again, speaking between smacks. “I thought we could spend the day together, in bed. It is Saturday, after all.”

  “Sweetheart, we haven’t spent a Saturday in bed since2001.” They used to, every week, each choosing to use their personal time to administer to the other’s personal needs. It had been a ritual. Sex, breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, snack, sleep. Now that she thought of it, maybe it was all those Saturdays of indulging themselves that had instigated Peter’s post-marital weight gain.

  He said, “Then we’re long past due.”

  She said, “You’re very sweet, Peter. Really.”

  He dropped her forearm. Her hand hit the bed and bounced gently on the down-covered mattress. “ ‘Sweetie, sweetheart, sweet Peter, really,’ ” he said mockingly. “You obviously want to leave. So get dressed and go.”

  She felt terrible. But she did have to get dressed. “I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

  He said, “Glad I went to all this trouble. I want it on record that I tried.”

  “Noted,” she said, standing.

  “And that you are not meeting me halfway.”

  She was starting to feel annoyed. He’d sprung his little seduction at the worst possible time. Why couldn’t he have waited until tonight? Besides which, as she suddenly felt compelled to say, “What trouble? You lit a bunch of cheap candles, put on a CD, and bought some stupid condiment. If you really want to interest me, you could go to the honest effort of getting in shape. That would mean something. Not this unoriginal, low-rent, porn-inspired crap.” She flung open her closet door and added, “Every time we have sex, I’m half-convinced you’re going to have a heart attack. Not exactly fun for me.”

  He wasn’t listening. He’d already bunched up the covers, wrapped them around his body and gone into the bathroom. She dressed quickly and left.

  “David, it’s gorgeous!” said Ilene. The apartment was lovely. David, himself, looked pretty good, too. In the six weeks since he’d left his wife, he’d taken off ten years. Separation was like all-natural Botox. David could appear in an advertisement for breakups: “In no time, you’ll have healthier, younger-looking skin. Guaranteed!”

  “Come look at the kitchen,” he said. “I can fit a decent-size table in here. These cabinets will have to go. I don’t need the shelf space anyway. I tell you, living alone has been liberating. Much less stuff.”

  They walked in circles, admiring David’s EIK in the sprawling West Village apartment he bought yesterday. Ilene had been getting daily updates on his apartment search over the last few weeks. He’d looked at dozens of properties before deciding to buy this “modest charmer” on Minetta Lane, near Sixth Avenue. Modest indeed. It was at least sixteen hundred square feet, probably in the seven-figure neighborhood. The actual neighborhood was noisy and crowded. Full of head shops, tattoo parlors, leather emporiums—and the legion of tourists who came to shop at them. David said he’d always wanted to live in the Village. Ilene could not fathom why.

  Ilene was dying to ask about the financial details. He and his estranged wife hadn’t sold their duplex yet (they’d make a huge profit on that sale, enough for Georgia to buy a twenty-acre farm in Vermont if she wanted to). Did David have $200,000 lying around for the down payment, as well as enough liquid to pay two mortgages concurrently? Plus alimony and child support?

  “Your third move in a month,” she said. “You seem unfazed.”

  He said, “I’m fazed. I miss seeing Stephanie every day. But I have a good feeling about this apartment. I’m relieved to get out of the Roosevelt.”

  David had been living in the East-Side luxury hotel. Must have cost a fortune, thought Ilene. David had to have family money. Working at Cash would give him a middle-class income in New York. Nowhere near enough to handle his expenses. And look at him! His was not the face of a man who was worried about paying the bills.

  She said, “I wouldn’t mind living in a hotel. Room service, housekeeping.”

  He shrugged. “That goes old fast.”

  “You missed the comforts of home,” she said.

  “My home hadn’t been comfortable for a while,” he said. “You have such a great marriage, you probably can’t understand.”

  Ilene’s turn to shrug. “All marriages have ups and downs.”

  “My marriage fell down and it couldn’t get up,” he said. “Let me show you the master bedroom.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the back of the apartment, through the large living room, past the bathroom off the hallway. His fingers burned on the same skin Peter had kissed an hour before. Only then, she’d been ice cold.

  “This is it,” David said. �
�Are you okay? Your face is bright red.”

  “I’m fine.” She coughed. “Something caught in my throat.”

  “What?”

  “My throat.”

  “What got caught in your throat?” he asked.

  Her thudding heart? “I swallowed my gum,” she said.

  “You chew gum?” he asked as if he could more easily imagine her gutting a trout. He swung the bedroom door open and said, “What do you think?”

  She approved. The space was nearly bare, just a platform bed with navy sheets, shams, and duvet, some stacked moving boxes, a nightstand with an alarm clock. The door to the closet was open. Ilene saw the suits on hangers, arranged by color, exactly as she ordered her closet.

  “It’s bright,” she said. “If you need help shopping for furniture, I’d love to join you. Really. It’s the next best thing to shopping for myself.” He nodded noncommittally. She added, “Once you’ve settled here, you should go out. Have some fun. You must let me take you to dinner. With Peter. I’ll ask my sister Frieda to come, too.”

  “Frieda the widow.”

  Why did he insist on calling her that? “Frieda’s really much better now. She’s never looked more beautiful. She’s a devoted mother. She owns a gallery in Brooklyn Heights,” pitched Ilene. She didn’t want to push too hard. She carefully turned the soil, keeping it moist. Planting seeds.

  “You have two sisters, don’t you?” he asked.

  Ilene said, “Betty is the youngest.”

  “I met her once,” he said.

  Ilene didn’t remember that meeting. She said, “I don’t think Betty’s ever come to the office.”

  David said, “We ran into her on the street. We’d had a lunch at the Blue Water Grill and ran into her in Union Square afterwards. She was wearing a huge down coat. It looked like she’d wrapped a comforter around her body.” Ilene was drawing a complete blank. “Less than a year ago,” he prompted.