“That may be, but you know how often she detects come-ons. What about you? Were any knees pressed against your thighs?”
Tom stepped into his dressing room. “Several limp hands were offered to me in greeting, but there was a distinct lack of lower body contact.”
Could Kate trust him to tell the truth? Probably. But when he came out in his pajamas, she said, “I think I’d better go with you next time.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged, but why?”
“So I can witness the soap opera going on over there up close.”
On the one night that Alice had the whole bed to herself, with no threat of Lavinia coming in to sleep sideways across the mattress with her feet pressed against Alice’s back, the one night when she had a chance at an entire block of uninterrupted slumber, she couldn’t fall asleep. She looked out the window, found no solace in the nighttime gloom. She started to count backwards from one thousand and stopped, bored, at nine hundred and ninety-two. She tensed and relaxed her toes, her feet, her calves — and almost gave herself a cramp. How had she lulled herself to sleep pre-motherhood, when she wasn’t always tired?
Ah, yes. Alcohol. Drinking had been a good route to oblivion now and then. Except that she’d drunk her share of wine at the dinner club, and the wine mixed with the rich food had made her stomach feel unsettled, which was having the opposite of a somnolent effect.
What else? There were times she’d sent herself to dreamland with visions of career fame in her head — remember those? She’d fantasized about news-making discoveries, about finding a well-preserved temple hidden in an underground cave, perhaps. How naive and deluded she’d been. And now the only finds she handled were from twentieth century lost-and-found boxes.
She rolled over. There must be another technique she could use. There had to be an alternative to her usual bedtime routine, which called for her to fall asleep in Lavinia’s bed around nine, get up at midnight disoriented and stiff, stumble around the apartment turning off lights, drop into her own bed, and wake up again a few hours later to find Lavinia nestled in beside her.
What did normal people do at bedtime to send themselves off? Sex was a good soporific, she recalled. When she’d had any. She buried her face in the pillow, let her mind venture into the locked room where she kept her sexual memories, opened the creaky door with the rusty key, and relived a few of her archived good sex moments. Like the dirty weekend she’d spent with a Scottish student named Will, when she was nineteen. They’d fucked themselves silly in his flat during a winter holiday break. He was into giving oral sex, and fond of getting on his knees on the carpet and going to work on her while she reclined in a leather easy chair, her legs bent at the knee like she was having a pelvic exam.
Going on. To Thierry, the digger she’d had outdoor sex with in a field in Brittany at high noon — the sun in her eyes, blades of grass under her head and in her hair, insects buzzing around while he described, in French, exactly what he was doing to her. My, my.
Then there was Lawrence, the married Canadian banker she’d met in London. Her afternoon guy, she’d called him, her hotel lover. He liked her to wear a dress or a skirt when they met, with no underpants on, and meet him in the hotel bar before their trysts. They’d sit in a booth, have a drink, discuss current events, and he’d use his well-manicured, nimble fingers — he had years of piano training — on her under the table, get her so hot she’d be tearing his clothes off in the elevator on the way up to the room.
She hadn’t thought about any of them, or about any kind of sex, in ages. It was forever since she’d even … oh, hell. She reached inside her underwear, gingerly felt around. Now look what she’d gone and done.
She took matters in hand — quietly — though she barely remembered how. And she felt better afterwards, tired and loose. She curled up in bed, yawned, closed her eyes, and told herself this wasn’t a slippery slope situation, a marijuana leads to crack progression. She was not becoming sex-obsessed like Mary Ann, and tomorrow she would return to her regular celibate routine and forget about this whole self-indulgent episode.
She fell asleep very fast.
11
October 2010
Sam had worked on (and procrastinated about working on) his mystery novel for three years and he was only at page 121 of his first draft. That is, he was stalled at page 121. His current excuse for his low rate of production was that he was having trouble with the main female character in his novel, his hero’s romantic interest, a young woman he’d named Celeste.
He’d thought of making Celeste a librarian instead of a medical resident, but that seemed too much a cliché of the spectacled lonely spinster, unless he turned the convention around and made her a funky librarian with piercings and blue hair, which seemed like a reverse cliché.
If he could just get Celeste settled, finalize what she looked like, what her job was, then he would know what she would and wouldn’t say or do. Having a specific mental picture had helped him with the other characters — the hero Simon resembled Sam, only taller and thinner and younger and more muscular. And the dead body that triggered the mystery was a ringer for the plumber who fixed the taps that sprung leaks on some sort of relay system at Sam’s house, one every few months.
But all Sam knew about Celeste was that she was in her early thirties, single, and smart, she enjoyed sex but wasn’t addicted to it or into anything too kinky, and she liked pancetta and avocado sandwiches with lemon mayo, Sam’s current lunch of choice. Celeste liked food, in general. She wasn’t leery of spice or afraid of fat on a piece of meat, not like some people. He’d already written a scene in which Celeste waxes poetic about the grilled octopus Sam had eaten on the Greek island of Hydra when he was a student. And so impassioned is Celeste’s description of the octopus that the usually silent Simon character spins his own yarn about eating chapatis in Mumbai and reveals in the process that he’s a good guy. Since only a good guy would remember chapatis so fondly, Sam figured.
But what if, instead of a medical student, Celeste was a computer expert? Like Mary Ann Gray. Mary Ann had mentioned at a soccer game that she used to be a computer person and was now doing similar work — project management of some kind — for Tom Gagliardi’s Main Street development. Sam could easily imagine Mary Ann sitting at a computer, surrounded by blueprints and spreadsheets or whatever the job required. Maybe he should use her as a model for Celeste. Celeste was younger, and single, and not a mother, but Mary Ann did have a warm smile and a flattering way of making bright-eyed contact with him, paying attention to what he said, and laughing in the right places. Once or twice, he thought he’d seen her face light up with genuine gladness when she’d caught sight of him. Though maybe she was just that way with everyone, warm and friendly by nature.
Sam could make Celeste warm and friendly by nature, too. But if he wanted her to be proficient with computers, he’d have to learn a little about the field, get some terms down, do some research, see how he could work Celeste’s skills into the story. He’d want to use her occupation to help solve the mystery of the ashram. Which might have to do with Alexander the Great, he thought. Possibly.
For now, he could ask Mary Ann for help with some jargon. The next time he saw her at school, he’d suggest they grab a coffee so he could interview her, make notes. That would be an easy way to get a better handle on Mary Ann, find out more about her. About Celeste, he meant. It would be a good way to learn more about Celeste.
On a Thursday evening, an hour after Lavinia had fallen asleep, Alice was sitting at home, reading, when Mary Ann, dressed in running gear, knocked on her front door.
“You busy?” Mary Ann said when Alice came to the door. “Can I come in?”
“Please do.” Alice motioned her inside. “You all right?”
“I’m fine. I had to get out of the house.”
“Who’s with the kids?”
“Bob.”
“Do you want tea?”
“No thanks. I just want to sit for
a minute and yammer. May I?”
Alice led the way inside, sank into her reading chair. “Yammer away.”
Mary Ann opened her eyes wide. “Get this: Drew said at work today that he broke up with his girlfriend. He’s single.”
“Is that good news?”
“Of course it is. He’s more available now.”
“So when do you make your intentions known?”
“I’m taking it slow. I don’t want to get him on the rebound.”
“Why not, if it’s just an affair you’re after?”
“Good point.”
“So Drew’s the one? I’m happy to hear it isn’t Tom Gagliardi. Or the husband of that Hallie woman. What’s his name again?”
“Sam. And I didn’t say I’d ruled anyone out.”
Alice rearranged some books on the coffee table. “So, if Drew were the man you were after, what would you do to signal your interest in him?”
“Why?”
Because Alice was thinking about herself and Jake Stewart. And the vague, most likely insincere suggestion he’d made that they have lunch. “I’m curious. I haven’t engaged in North American dating rituals for twenty years. How do I know what people do?”
“I haven’t got the faintest idea. Lately I’ve tried to come up with lines to use on Drew. Or Sam, or Tom. But when we’re alone in the office, and Drew leans over my shoulder and takes hold of the mouse to show me something on my computer, and I inhale his woodsy scent, and he’s kind and patient and thorough, and I could just turn my head and kiss him — I don’t know. I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
Mary Ann sighed. “I guess I need him to make the first move.”
“That does it. I’m having a cigarette.”
“You’ve started smoking again?”
“Occasionally. After Lavinia’s gone to sleep, I sit outside on the porch and listen to the night noises and puff away. Want one?”
“No thanks.”
Alice brought out her smoking materials from their hiding place behind an atlas on her bookshelf, lit a cigarette, and opened the porch door a crack, held the cigarette outside. “What if you were to send him a clear message about being available and interested? Without saying the words.”
“Go for the suggestive conversational topics and the expressive body language, you mean?”
“If only you could get him on a dance floor.”
“I can just see him at one of the country club oldies dances. Boy, would he not fit in.”
“Have you considered getting him drunk?”
“How? Pull a bottle of scotch out of my desk drawer and offer him a drink?”
“Maybe the real problem is that you don’t see him in the evening. It’s much easier to be romantic when it’s dark out, and you stumble, he catches you, your body brushes against his, electric currents of desire run through you both — stop me before I get into this.”
Mary Ann gave her an appraising eye. “What about you, Alice? How’s your sex life?”
“What sex life?”
“What’s the story?”
“There is no story.”
“Since when?”
“Since I don’t remember what sex is like.”
“Come on. You’ve been back in Oakdale what, four years now? You can’t tell me there’s been no one all that time.”
“Why would I lie?”
“No callow student in one of your courses? No baby-food-stained single dad from the daycare? No fellow faculty member with hair coming out of his nose?”
“Describe the men I meet that way, and no wonder.”
“You haven’t met anyone who’s capable of yearning, is that it?”
Had she? “I don’t know. I’m so tired all the time.”
“God, Alice, what happened? You were such a ... you were so active in that area.”
“I used to travel, too. Do interesting archeological work. Go out at night. Wear jewellery. I haven’t worn earrings since Lavinia almost severed my earlobe pulling on one when she was a baby.”
“You can’t use Lavinia as an excuse for not doing things.”
“Why not?”
“Because I could take her overnight anytime. My mom could watch her. Or your parents. Or a babysitter.”
“Even if Lavinia were not the major complication that she is, there are other reasons not to enter the arena.”
“Name one.”
“Relationships are so draining.”
“I must know someone who would be right for you. You still prefer guys who aren’t good-looking, right? That should widen the field.”
“I tell you what, I might — repeat might — try to line up my own someone if you promise not to matchmake me. I have a possible person in mind. A remote possible.” Better not to mention that the possible was Jake Stewart.
“You get yourself rolling with someone new, and I’ll do my best to engineer some action with one of my three guys. Any of them. Or all of them. Deal?”
“Maybe.”
“I pledge that over the next few weeks, I will take a step toward seduction of each one of my candidates.”
“How?”
“I’ll approach Tom at work.”
“Poor Tom.”
“As for Drew, I think we’re going to need a second dinner club meeting, go for the evening angle you suggested. I’ll ask Lisa if she can host it. She just had her kitchen redone. She’ll want to show it off.”
“What about the third guy?”
“Sam? I’ll make sure he comes to the dinner club next time, instead of Hallie. And I’ll continue to turn on the charm with him at school. But he seems like the slow-burn type. A longer-term project.”
“I don’t know where you find the energy.”
“Just remember I’ll only be resolute about this if you keep up your end of the bargain and find yourself a guy.”
Alice said, “What’s in this for me, again?”
“Getting laid.”
“Oh yeah.”
Mary Ann was working at her computer in the office supply room, revising a schedule, and Phoebe was making photocopies nearby, when Drew stuck his head in the doorway. “I’m going out,” he said.
Phoebe said, “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know.”
Mary Ann and Phoebe heard his heavy tread down the stairs, the squeak of the front door opening, the thud of its close. “Didn’t he just get here ten minutes ago?” Phoebe said.
Mary Ann didn’t answer, went back to work. The only sounds in the room for a few minutes were the hums and flaps of the photocopier until Phoebe said, “Drew seems to go out on these mysterious errands a lot lately.”
“Does he?”
“You’re here every day. You should know.”
“Maybe he has been busier than usual the last couple of weeks.”
The photocopier stopped. Phoebe collected her copies and straightened them out on the countertop. “Since he broke it off with Krista,” she said, “I find he’s gone all quiet. Has he clammed up with you, too?”
“Sort of.”
“He was the one who did the dumping, you know.”
Mary Ann looked up from her screen. “He told you that?”
“No, but I know because Krista left him a voicemail message to say she’d moved the last of her stuff out of their apartment. Her closing line was, ‘I hope you’re happy with whoever she is, you creep.’”
“He’s seeing someone else?” Mary Ann had a queasy, passed-over feeling that felt all too familiar.
“I thought you might know who it is.”
“Why’d you listen to his message, anyway?”
“She left it in the general office voicemail box. Drew always said she wasn’t technically proficient.” Phoebe came over to Mary Ann’s desk. “And now he disappears all the time. Never says where he’s going. If you ask me, I think he’s sneaking out to meet his new hookup.”
“But if he’s broken it off with Krista, why would he need to sneak around?�
�
“Because his new girl is married, of course. Or spoken for.”
“Oh.” Another flare of nausea.
Phoebe said, “There were a couple of days when you and he went out around the same time, and I thought maybe you two had something going on.”
Too quickly, Mary Ann said, “What an imagination you have, Phoebe.”
“But twice now, you’ve been here when he goes out, and you’re still here when he comes back, reeking of cologne. So I guess he’s bonking some other girl.”
Mary Ann couldn’t keep a plaintive note out of her voice. “Do you really think so?”
Alice sat in her office, pretended to review her lecture notes, and fought off sleep. She’d been up at three a.m. the night before, trying to convince Lavinia to spend the night in her own bed. And now, with the sunlight streaming in her window, and her notes on the desk in front of her, it would be so easy to drop off in her chair. She wouldn’t even need to lie down; all she’d have to do is close her eyes.
The ringing of her cell woke her.
Alice jumped, picked up the phone, said her name, and heard a male voice claiming to be Jake Stewart say hi and ask how she was doing. She wiped some saliva off her face, pulled her voice up to a more alert-sounding pitch, and said, “Fine, thanks. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m calling to set up that lunch we talked about, if you’d still like to go.”
“Yes, I would, very much. Like to go. I was going to call you, suggest the same thing. Let me get my book. When were you thinking of?”
“I only work till noon on Fridays when I’m in the office. So Friday could be good.”
Alice stared at her appointment book. Today appeared to be Monday. “This Friday?”
“Sure. I know a nice restaurant in the West Village with a Mediterranean vibe, if you’d be into that.”
Alice rubbed sleep from her eye. Had Mary Ann infected her mind, or was this sounding like an actual date? “That would be lovely.”
Mary Ann found an opportunity to announce the next dinner club meeting when Phoebe, Drew, and Tom were all in the office. “It’s October 23rd,” she said, “at Lisa Carsten’s place. Do you remember her from the last time? She was the tall woman with short auburn hair.”
The Oakdale Dinner Club Page 10
