The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  Fingers trembling, she reached for the box. She nearly dropped it, sending it plunking into the East River below, but she scrambled to catch it. She laughed nervously at the slapstick, and then, slowly, she opened the bubbly lid. The sun was just setting. The sky behind her was pink, with a nice streak of orange over the refineries in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

  The lid open, she stared at the box’s contents and very nearly cried. “A brooch!” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s made of jade,” he said.

  “I see that. And what kind of flower is this? I’m not sure I…”

  Earl said, “It’s in the shape of a forget-me-not.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Blue jade, yes.”

  She leaned forward to give him a kiss, aiming for the lips, and landing, somehow, on his bony cheek. He said, “I wanted to give you a gift so you’ll always remember me and what we accomplished together. When I first met you, you were horrible, Betty. Fat. Bitchy. A slob. And now, you’re slim, neat, nice. You’ve completely changed. You’re so much better now. You’ll probably get a raise. You’ll definitely get a boyfriend.”

  She said, “I have a boyfriend.”

  Earl shook his head. “Betty, you knew I was going to be a temporary thing. I told them in December, my work in New York wasn’t done. Well, now it is, and I can leave with a sense of accomplishment.”

  “Your work?” she asked.

  “You!” he said. “I told them it was about the booths. But I was thinking of you. My project. I couldn’t leave you half-baked. I had to stay. I’m glad I did. But now, I’m moving on.”

  Betty said, “To do it again. With another woman.”

  “If the opportunity arises.”

  “Like you’ve done before?” she asked, a sudden chill in her bones.

  He nodded. “Each time presents unique challenges,” he said.

  “What was the challenge with me?” she had to ask.

  He said, “It took a while to break through your anxieties about sex.”

  A blow below the belt. She said, “You realize this bridge is famous for jumpers.”

  He laughed. “You would never.”

  “People get pushed off, too,” she said.

  Losing patience, Earl said, “Look Betty, you can’t deny that you’ve had a good time. You can either remember me fondly for what we had, or hate me for leaving. But I’m going, regardless.”

  “So go,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “I mean now,” she said.

  He took the subtle hint, and started walking back toward Manhattan, leaving her without a kiss goodbye, holding a piece-of-shit fake-jade ugly brooch, for fuck’s sake.

  She hated him. From that moment forward, she despised Earl Long with all her heart, soul, kidneys, and lungs. With God as her witness, she vowed to get even with that man before she died, in some viscous, under-handed way. Betty might be slim. She might be neat. But she would never be nice.

  With all the muster of her newly developed biceps, Betty heaved the jewelry box, brooch and all, as far as she could in the westerly direction of the Statue of Liberty.

  Then she cried all the way to Frieda’s house.

  Chapter 22

  Saturday, June 7

  7:34 P.M.

  Peter hadn’t been to Aux-On-Arles since his five-year-anniversary dinner with Ilene. The French restaurant served the ultimate in haute cuisine, the prix fixe sampling menu costing a $150 per person. The crepe de chine curtains— off-white, eggshell or ecru, he wasn’t sure, nor did he care—reminded him of that long-ago night when he and his wife rearranged their chairs so they could hold hands under the table.

  He looked across his table tonight, way across, miles outside of handholding range, at his dinner companion. She was pretty. Her curly brown hair shined with megadoses of vitamin A, the tawny bare arms glowed from adequate lutein consumption, her eyes sparkled with high-concentrate beta-carotene. He’d never felt less attracted to a woman in his life.

  Peter said, “Explain it again. I have to pay for dinner, plus your standard session fee?”

  “That’s right,” said Peggy McFarthing.

  “Since you’re eating, shouldn’t you pay for your own food?”

  Peggy rearranged her napkin on her lap and said, “Peter, I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t working. This is your graduation session. It’s both a celebration and a lesson on how to put your eating plan to practical use. Remember the adage: Humans used to have to hunt for food; nowadays, food hunts us. French cuisine is a particular challenge because of the sauces. And you were the one to suggest this restaurant. I’ve taken other clients to a Greek diner for the final session.”

  Therefore, he’d stewed himself in his own pot au feu. Yes, he’d suggested the restaurant. But for a specific purpose: Peter planned on bringing Ilene back here to celebrate his forty-five-pound weight loss, their upcoming eleventh wedding anniversary, and her raise of $10,000 a year (not much, considering that he’d spent $6,000 on nutritional counseling in the past seven months, at a rate of about $140 per lost pound). Peter never thought Peggy would expect him to pick up her tab. He would order a la carte, cheaper, by far, than the sampling menu. If she tried to get the prix fixe, he’d object. He corrected his posture in the high, straight-back chair with the thin cushion (all cushions felt thin to him these days), and contemplated making a run for it. Did he really need Peggy to instruct him on how to order a French meal? He eyed the breadbasket. The baguette was particularly tempting.

  Peggy said, “I’m very proud of you, Peter.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it,” she said, draping a napkin over the bread, hiding it. “When you first came into my office, I didn’t think you’d have the discipline—or the support system—to lose the weight.”

  He resented that remark, as he resented so much of Peggy’s assumptions about his weakness (the napkin over the breadbasket, case in point).

  “You thought I’d fail but you took the money anyway,” he said.

  “Perhaps spending the money was the motivation you needed to succeed.”

  He hadn’t thought of it that way. The money was certainly a motivation not to gain it back. He couldn’t stand to spend one more dollar on his vanity (don’t think “vanity”; think “health,” he reminded himself). He would have spent any amount of money to impress Ilene, but Peter hadn’t gotten the feedback from her he’d hoped for; incredibly, his weight loss—dramatic, steady—was observed but uncommented upon by Ilene. He knew she noticed. How could she not notice? He’d had to buy an entire new wardrobe (that was another $5,000 right there), and he knew he looked sharp in his Hugo Boss summer-weight suits and his ironed Levi’s. He’d taken to walking around in the nude, just to make sure she could see the difference. Her expression, upon sight of him, didn’t waver. It was confounding to him that she kept her mouth shut about his weight loss, when she had not been able to stop harping on his gain.

  He wanted to ask Peggy about all this, if she’d noticed, in her other clients, whether a drastic change in one spouse’s appearance affected a marriage adversely. But there was that sticky point in his dealings with Peggy. Discussing his marriage would cast light on her own—and whatever tensions existed there, in part, because Peter had fired Bruce, her husband, all those months ago. Therefore, his marriage was a taboo subject. Overtly, anyway. She alluded to it occasionally. That comment about his “support system,” for example.

  Peggy said, “Let’s look at the menu.”

  Peter had been fingering the wine list. Alcohol was off limits, a “stop” class of beverage. The only kind of booze that could be consumed without offsetting his carefully calibrated carbohydrate intake was tequila. Mysteriously to him, the Mexican panacea was low-carb. And there was that piss-smelling low-carb beer from Michelob that was offensive in taste and sensibility. But they’d never serve that here, he thought mournfully.

  He said, “Appetizer-wise, the goat cheese salad seems to be th
e way to go.” He dearly craved the paté de fois gras with crisp toast wedges and pickles.

  Peggy said, “Actually, it’s a good standard policy to skip appetizers—and dessert, of course.”

  “So, then, we’re looking at entrées,” he said, happily envisioning a smaller bill. Two entrées only without cocktails, wouldn’t cost more than a hundred bucks. He could live with that.

  “I will get the prix fixe,” she said. “And a few drinks.”

  God damn it. “It takes over two hours to get through the sampling menu,” he said. “And it wouldn’t be fair to me, to have to watch you eat all those courses, and dessert.”

  Peggy said, “In the real world, your dinner companions will order things that are ‘stop’ foods. Part of the lesson here is learning to handle the restaurant environment, including what we call ‘plate envy.’ ”

  Grinding his teeth, Peter felt his blood pressure rising, the thundering palpitations of his heartbeat. He turned his eyes back to the menu and said, “Plate envy.”

  “Plate envy leads to what we call ‘the wandering fork,’ ” she said. “When you take a forkful of your companion’s rich, butter-laden selection, just to taste it. One bite of heavy fat and carbohydrates can lower resistance to the point of a breakdown. The restaurant environment itself severely lowers resistance: the idea that the meal is a special treat, that what you eat outside the home doesn’t count. It’s important to test your willpower, Peter. I intend to take only a bite of each course, leaving the food just sitting on the plate, to see if you can resist it.”

  When the waiter came, in a black tux, Peggy ordered the sampling menu as threatened, and a martini. Peter ordered roast squab, hold the l’orange sauce and wild rice. Peggy nodded with approval and actually patted his hand like a school marm. For his carcass of pigeon that would take him all of thirty seconds to inhale, he’d fork over $30, plus tax and tip. His non-carbonated water went for $8 a bottle.

  The agony of ordering over, and their drinks having arrived, Peter said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Peggy.”

  She smiled and sipped her martini, which he could have grabbed out of her hand and poured down his throat.

  They spoke about some of the social changes Peter would enjoy as a slim person. The attention from strangers. Increased respect from colleagues. Better treatment in stores and gas stations. Peter listened with half an ear. He’d heard it all before from Peggy. It was motivational speech number six.

  He had to cut it off—the speech, or his head. “I am a changed man,” he said when she paused to draw breath.

  “You’re half the man you once were,” she said.

  “The better half.”

  “Certainly healthier,” she said, daintily nipping at the martini (“make it dry,” she’d said to the waiter. “Ask the bartender to just think Vermouth while he pours the vodka”).

  Her first course arrived. An oyster stew. As she dipped in her spoon, perfectly oval nuggets of oyster flesh bobbed to the surface, glistening with cream, dotted with pepper. She took her first taste and said, “Ahhhh, ohhhh, my God this is good.” Then she put down her spoon, dabbed the corners of her mouth, and placed her hands in her lap.

  “Peggy, I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said. “You are a lucky woman. You love your work.”

  “I do,” she said, smiling.

  “I can tell. It’s obvious. You take a real personal pleasure in torture. You’re a genuine sadist. You exist to inflict pain. Your eyes are glowing right now, do you realize? Watching me watching you eat is making you squirm in your seat. You’re grinding your ass into that chair. You’re getting off on this. My pain is sex for you.”

  Peggy listened to his speech without flinching. “I’ve heard worse,” she said. “I’m tough because I care, Peter.”

  “You care about being tough,” he said. “What amazes me is that you can be a dominatrix dragon-lady ball-breaker to your clients, and yet you expect practically nothing from your dilettante husband. He turns you into oatmeal. That day I spoke to you in Grand Central, you were a weepy little mouse. But in your office, you’re the Calorie Nazi.”

  “Not calorie. Nutrition,” she corrected. “The Nutrition Nazi.”

  A cheese-doodle smile sat on Peggy’s face for the duration of Peter’s venom spewing. She was holding back, he knew it, and even as he lashed out, he was bracing himself for her retaliation. He’d crossed the line, opened the door to a discussion of her marriage—and therefore, his.

  She said, “I think all this is very healthy.”

  “All what?” he asked.

  “Your venting,” she said. “I’ve always believed you are an emotional eater, shoveling food into your mouth, swallowing your pain, instead of letting your negative thoughts and feelings out of your body. Venting at me is an excellent sign that you’ve learned how to express yourself. Let me ask you this, Peter. Since you started telling me what kind of sadist I am, have you thought of food? Have you looked at this bowl of stew? Are you in the least bit hungry?”

  The shocking sideline stopped him cold. She was right, absolutely. But he couldn’t admit it to her.

  She drained her martini, reached across the table, and took his hand. “The truth is, I have been hard on you. I do have lingering resentment about Bruce’s firing. And that’s why I charged you significantly more than my usual rate per session. It was unprofessional of me, but not illegal. I’ve checked.”

  “How much more?” he squeaked out.

  “That’s all in the past,” she said, waving it off. “We have to focus on the future.”

  From nearby, Peter heard a familiar voice—shrill, loud, and accusatory—blurting, “Did you hear that? She said, ‘We have to focus on the future.’ Their future!”

  Peter spun around, but there was no need. Ilene was upon them, dragging a man through the restaurant. Bruce McFarthing. He hadn’t seen Bruce since the day he was fired.

  Ilene said to Peter, “I have been tracking you and this woman for months! I know everything, and I finally convinced her husband to follow you with me tonight.”

  Peggy laughed. Burst out laughing. She was a small woman. It was a large martini. Peter said, “You think we’re having an affair?”

  Bruce picked up Peter by his collar and tie, and punched him on the jaw. Peter flew back against his chair. The chair toppled over. Peter landed flat on his back, but not before grabbing the tablecloth with flailing hands. From the hard-wood floor, Peter watched the rain of spoons, forks, stem-ware and stew. And bread.

  Ilene screamed.

  Peggy hiccuped.

  Bruce cried. He actually cried. Peter stood up and said, “Bruce, this is ridiculous. I’m not having an affair with your wife. She’s my nutritionist. I’m her client. We’re eating together as part of my training.”

  Bruce wiped his eyes, and stared hard at Peter. He said, “Vermillion? Is that you?”

  Ilene said, “Am I to understand that you…”

  “I can’t believe it!” shouted Bruce. “Peter Vermillion! You must have dropped, what, a thousand pounds? I wouldn’t have recognized you if you’d sat on me.”

  Peter massaged his jaw and looked at the mess he’d made. And at the wait staff, nervously gathering to watch. And the other diners, both horrified and enthralled by the entertainment.

  “Jesus, Peg,” extolled Bruce, examining Peter. “You’re good!”

  “You actually thought I was sleeping with Peter Vermillion?” asked Peggy, a bit more serious now that the hilarity of her husband’s violence had ended.

  “If I’d known this was about Vermillion, I never would have suspected a thing. But this woman has been calling me for weeks, insisting you were having an affair. I blew it off, but she showed up at the apartment tonight, demanding that I come with her to catch the two of you in the act.”

  Peter said, “She never identified herself by name?”

  “She did. Schast.”

  “She never identified me by name?” he asked.

>   Ilene said, “Your first name.”

  Peter said to his wife, “You didn’t recognize his name?”

  She said, “Why on earth would I recognize his name?”

  “Because he worked for me for a year. Because I told you at great length how hard it was for me to fire him. I’ve mentioned his name many times to you.”

  Peggy said, “Maybe the source of your emotional eating is that, when you do vent, you’re rarely heard.”

  “Please shut up, Peggy, thank you.”

  Ilene said, “It does make sense now. You were seeing a nutritionist to diet. I thought you were seeing this woman, romantically, who happened to be a nutritionist, and the weight loss was for her. And I saw all those cash withdrawals from our checking account. I thought they were to pay for trysts.”

  “The withdrawals wouldn’t have been as noticeable had I not been overcharged.”

  Bruce to Peggy: “You overcharged him? Sweet!”

  Peter said, “And I wasn’t dieting for her. I was doing it for you. For you. Always for you. Everything for you and your approval. Which I never fucking get. Instead of love and appreciation, instead of acknowledgment that I’ve done well or suffered to please you, I get accusations and humiliation. Plus, I’m sure, I have to pay for all these broken dishes.” Peter glanced at the maître d’, who nodded discreetly. “They cost a fortune, right? From France. Rare china.” The maître d’ frowned and lowered his eyes.

  Peter could have started groaning and not stopped until Tuesday. He watched several waiters pile broken pieces of plates and glasses in the hammocks of their aprons. They worked quickly and quietly. The other patrons stopped staring and returned to their own meals with a story to dine out on here or elsewhere for months.

  Bruce helped Peggy out of her chair—miraculously untouched in the fray. He gave her a tight, loving squeeze, and she returned it. Bruce smiled meekly at his wife, his face a palate of vulnerability that even Peter would have succumbed to. That famous McFarthing charm, at work again. Peggy smiled back up at him like she’d struck gold.