“It’s morning, and you have a lot to do today,” I tell him. “Aren’t you leaving for Bermuda?”
Eric strokes my hair with one hand and checks his BlackBerry with the other. “Come with me,” he says, as he scrolls through his messages. I appreciate a man who can multitask, but does he have to do it when he’s trying to seduce me? “Come to Bermuda this afternoon. Then I’m going on to London. I think I have a trip to Hong Kong after that. You could follow me wherever you want.”
A knowing smile crosses my face. That’s right. Eric’s already told me that any woman comes second to his work. Two decades ago I wasn’t willing to follow him across the country to graduate school, probably understanding even then that his priorities and mine would never be the same. Maybe my life would have been more exciting if I’d stayed with Eric, but it wouldn’t have been my life. Even at twenty, I knew I didn’t want to live in any man’s shadow.
I stand up and wrap my arms around him. The very early morning sun streaking into the room is getting brighter and I give Eric a long kiss. “I love you,” I tell him exuberantly. “I really love you.”
“So we’re having sex or are you coming to Bermuda?” he asks, slightly unsure of where we stand.
“Neither,” I say. “Definitely neither. But you’re still sexy and funny and gorgeous. Exactly what I remembered.”
“Then why aren’t you sleeping with me?” asks Eric, the man who never lets a deal slip through his fingers.
“Because I remembered a few other things, too.”
Eric shakes his head and then smiles. “You’re going to come back to me, you know. Maybe not tonight. But you’ll come back to me.”
“Awfully confident, aren’t you,” I parry.
“The key to my success,” he says, kissing me one more time.
I slip into my high heels, give him one last hug, and head for the door. I’m a single woman now. I have to be careful how I spend my nickels.
Chapter FOUR
AS I’M LEAVING ERIC’S BUILDING, the doorman who ignored me when I arrived walks me toward the heavy glass door and pulls it open for me.
“I hope you had a marvelous evening,” he says.
“Better than you can imagine,” I tell him, tossing back my head and striding into the now quiet street.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly registering my remark. I don’t mind burnishing Eric’s reputation, and I haven’t lied. It was a marvelous evening, though not the way the doorman thinks. I just had my first date in twenty-one years and everything went the way I wanted. I was charming and sexy, and I left a virgin. I can only hope Emily’s dates end the same way. And just to prove that I’m not sexist, I hope Adam’s do, too.
I stroll into early morning New York, feeling almost heady. The three A.M. revelers have finally gone to bed and the businessmen and store owners haven’t started their day. Six forty to six forty-five may be the only time that New York sleeps.
I’m not ready to go home, so I decide to walk the few blocks over to my office. I’m officially starting back on Monday, but I might as well get a jump on organizing my sure to be overflowing inbox. A hansom cab comes clip-clopping by me, and the driver tips his cap. “Morning, ma’am. Need a ride through the park?”
“No, thank you,” I say automatically. And then I think, why not? All these years in New York, and I’ve never splurged on a horse-drawn carriage. Sure, you’re supposed to take this romantic ride on your first trip to Manhattan or with a man you love, but I’m playing by my own rules now.
“Wait,” I call before he can get too far away. The driver stops again and I climb up into the buggy. I’m just settling into the faux-fur–lined seat when my cell phone rings.
“Hello,” I say cheerfully, for once forgetting to screen the number before I pick up.
“Hi.”
One syllable and my good mood disappears. And I’m not the only one affected. As if on cue, the dappled mare stops dead in her tracks and takes her daily dump. An apt editorial comment. Good horsey.
“Hello, Bill,” I say. How is it that he happened to call me ten minutes after I left Eric? Did he pick up some electricity in the cosmos? A somebody-else-is-interested-in-her vibe?
“Hallie, I’m glad you’re finally talking to me. Want to have breakfast?”
Does “hello” really count as talking to him? Maybe saying “Bill” was a little too intimate.
“Why are you calling me at seven o’clock?” I ask coolly, biding my time.
“I wanted to catch you before you went to the office,” he says.
I pause. It’s Saturday morning and my first day of even thinking about going to the office, and he knew that, too?
“Quick, what color pants am I wearing?” I ask, testing just how far his spousal ESP goes.
“Black,” he says with assurance.
I sigh. That one was much too easy.
“We can get pancakes,” Bill says, as if the lure of soggy, greasy, carbladened fritters can entice me. And I’m hungry, so it does. I should have eaten more caviar at Eric’s. In fact, I should always eat more caviar.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Where should we meet?”
“Breakfast at the Regency,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, shocked that my husband or former husband or soon-to-be-former husband picked the city’s power breakfast spot.
“Just joking. There’s a good diner on Ninth and Fifty-fifth. See you there in ten minutes.”
He clicks off. A diner. What a surprise. I check my face in the compact mirror in my bag and note with satisfaction that my eye makeup is intact and my face is still flushed from Eric’s kisses. I look down and wiggle my toes. Watch out, Bill, because I’m ready. Now I know why I bought these stilettos. Turns out they’re my Fuck-You shoes.
I get to the diner and Bill is already comfortably settled into a red leather booth, filling in The New York Times crossword puzzle. The clues get harder every day, and here it is Saturday, and he’s still doing the damn thing in ink. We used to work on the Sunday puzzle together, and I take some comfort in realizing that he’s going to miss me every weekend. Not a chance Ashlee comes up with the five-letter word for the Swedish port opposite Copenhagen: Malmö.
“Hallie!” he says cheerfully. “Come sit down. I already ordered you a café au lait with skim milk and two Splendas.”
“I only use one now,” I say archly, sliding onto the banquette opposite him.
“You’re looking great,” he says, glancing at me appraisingly. “But isn’t that blouse a little sheer for work?”
“I got dressed last night,” I answer provocatively.
Bill doesn’t seem to know what to make of my remark. “At least your clothes aren’t wrinkled,” he says, clearly not ready to imagine that I may have spent the night with someone else. He reaches over to smooth his fingers across my face. “In fact you’re not wrinkled at all. Anywhere.”
I’m pleased by the compliment—and the success of the QVCORDERED Victoria Principal anti-aging products that I now use daily— but I pull away from his touch. “Sorry, pal. You’ve lost your patting rights.”
“Why? Doesn’t twenty-one years count for anything?”
“Exactly my question,” I say with an edge to my voice.
“Let’s not go there,” Bill says, shaking his head. “I just wanted to see you. I’m not looking for a fight this morning.”
What would Bill and I have to fight about? Surely the fact that he’s shtupping another woman shouldn’t cause any bad blood between us. We don’t even live together anymore. I can’t complain that he set the thermostat too low or that he used up the last roll of Charmin Ultra and forgot to write it on the shopping list. In fact, I just bought a 48-pack all for myself. I’ll never, ever have to worry about toilet paper again.
Oblivious, Bill starts chatting amiably, as if it were any other Saturday morning, telling me about the great movie he saw the other night and his newly improved tennis serve. I yawn audibly. I don’t care if he aced An
dre Agassi and Steffi Graf—and their toddler—all at the same time. If Ashlee’s the one stroking Bill’s body, she can be the one to stroke his goddamn ego, too.
The waiter brings over my Western omelet, which I’d ordered to send Bill the message that he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks: I don’t eat pancakes anymore. But the eggs look disgusting, and I just push them around on my plate.
“So, Bill, why did you want to meet?” I ask, taking a sip of watery café au lait.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you.” And trying to sound matter-of-fact, he adds, “Oh, and by the way, I remember you said that you got season tickets to the Knicks. The first game’s not too far away, so I thought we’d make some plans.”
I stare at him in amazement. “I got those tickets for you and me. For us.”
“Well, ‘us’ is good,” he says jovially. “We can go together. Ashlee won’t mind. She doesn’t even like basketball.”
I take a bite of the disgusting omelet and almost gag. “ ‘Us,’ is not good,” I say.
“Why not?”
I shake my head. Bill’s upended my entire universe and he’s acting like he did nothing more scandalous than move the living room armchair a few inches to the left. Could he possibly not understand that his choice to be with Ashlee has repercussions? Losing courtside seats for the Knicks is the least of it.
“I got those tickets as part of my plan for life-after-the-kids-are-gone. You made a different plan.”
Bill swipes a paper napkin across his lips to wipe away some errant maple syrup. “Hallie, be reasonable. We can still do things together. We’re a family, and the kids being in college doesn’t change that.”
Unexpectedly, I sit back and start to laugh. I’m here at a greasy diner on Ninth Avenue, explaining to my Neanderthal mate why he’s not going to see any three-point shots in person this season. I can only pray that Ashlee doesn’t have premium cable and he won’t get to see the games on TV, either.
“Unfortunately, darling, you did change our family. But one thing hasn’t changed. You can still finish my breakfast.” I stand up and slide my plate of eggs toward Bill.
“Thanks,” he says, picking up his fork to dig in and flashing what he thinks is a charismatic grin. “Will you at least think about those Knicks tickets?”
“I will.” I smile generously because that’s what I typically do. I try to make everything work. I try to be nice. But not today.
“I’ll think about the Knicks tickets and you think about this,” I say sweetly. In one bold motion, I sweep my hand across the table, sending eggs, coffee, and half a glass of orange juice flying into his lap. A big blob of ketchup lands smack-dab in the middle of his white polo shirt. His fault—who uses ketchup on eggs anyway?
“HEY! What are you doing?” Bill screams, jumping up and smashing his knee against the table. I hope it’s the bad one.
I toss back my head in satisfaction and stride toward the door. The websites are right that revenge is sweet. And in this case, it’s also messy.
When I get to my office, I spend ten minutes sifting through papers and then stretch out exhausted on the sofa. But as tired as I am, I can’t sleep, and I stare out the window at the water tower on the next roof. Not exactly the fourteen-million-dollar view from the Time Warner building (south tower), but in this office, my real estate passes for prime. If I stand in just the right spot and crane my head in just the right direction and it’s a particularly clear day, I can even catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building.
A lot’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, but for some reason, one line plays over and over in my head. I keep hearing Eric say, I heard about your little sister. Though she was six years younger than me, I adored Amy and she idolized me. I read her bedtime stories, took her to school for show-and-tell, and helped her learn long division. (Why aren’t fourth graders allowed to use calculators?) Studying in my room on sunny afternoons, I’d peek out my window and see my vivacious little sister turning somersaults in the backyard. After I went to college, Amy visited me often. We giggled together in my dorm room, and I let her meet all my friends.
Something I should never, ever have done.
My sweet sister Amy. Charming, funny, trusting Amy. I can still see her happy face that last day. Amy never dreamt that I couldn’t protect her. I never imagined that I wouldn’t get to laugh with my sister again.
I twist around on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, but I keep thinking of Amy. I can’t let Eric’s comment make me relive that whole awful night. Restless, I head over to my desk to tackle the stacks of papers and messages that have piled up in my absence. After a few hours, my eyes are blurry from reviewing legal briefs and, exhausted, I finally lie down and take a long nap.
When I wake up, my office is dark and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s Saturday night and I have nothing to do. Of course I could be flying to Bermuda with Eric in his private plane, so I guess this is my choice. My stomach is growling and I’m hungry. Dumping the eggs on Bill this morning was satisfying but not very filling. I check my watch, and it’s after eight. I go out to my assistant’s desk and flip through the loose-leaf notebook of take-out menus that she’s so neatly put together: Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Indian, Thai, Cambodian, Lebanese, and Canadian. Canadian cuisine? I’m not in the mood for bacon or elk.
I close the notebook. I don’t really want to sit here alone in an empty office building on Saturday night, anyway. I could go home and check to see if I’ve gotten my new DVDs from Netflix, or I could actually be brave and have dinner in a nice Manhattan restaurant alone. And why not?
I leave my office and stroll the few blocks over to the Brasserie, where I haven’t been in years. A nice-looking crowd of people is milling around the entrance, and I figure I’ll blend right in. The maître d’ whisks the parties in front of me off to their tables, and when it’s my turn, the young, dewy-skinned receptionist smiles distractedly at me.
“Please step to the side while you wait for the rest of your party to arrive,” she says sweetly.
“I am the rest of my party,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
But she doesn’t get it and looks at me wide-eyed. Since she’s miniskirted, beautiful, and about twenty-three, I’m sure it doesn’t occur to her that anybody eats dinner alone.
An aggressive man behind me pushes me slightly and calls out to the young miss, “Excuse me, beautiful. We’re all here. Party of four. Can you seat us?”
“Certainly, sir,” she says, with more courtesy than he deserves, as she passes him on to the maître d’. Then she looks back to me, her problem client.
“Just one? You’re by yourself ?” she asks incredulously.
“Mmm-hmmm,” I mumble, trying not to draw any attention to myself.
“All alone?” she asks. Her voice is loud so I’m sure everyone can hear, and her tone of voice suggests that given my pathetic situation, Sally Struthers might want to adopt me.
I think about explaining that I have a family, was married for a million years, and just canoodled with my ex-boyfriend. But instead I shake my head and sigh deeply.
“You come into this world alone and you die alone,” I say solemnly.
She looks bewildered. Customers vying for tables have come up with a lot of persuasive arguments, but mine’s an original. Who else has elevated getting a plate of steak frites into a metaphysical conundrum?
Amazingly, my ponderous pronouncement works, and a moment later, I’m being escorted to my table. We head to the dining area down a wide, theatrically lit staircase that’s made for dramatic entrances. A wall of videoscreens plays back every arrival, and the restaurant patrons know to glance up every now and then to check out who’s coming. My arrival will really give everyone something to talk about. Celebrities, politicians, and actors walk through all the time, but I’m that great rarity—A Woman Alone.
And for the rest of the meal, nobody will let me forget it.
“Waiting fo
r someone?” asks the server, coming over to fill my water glass.
“Yes,” I say. “Godot.”
He hesitates. “And when will Mr. Godot be arriving?”
“Ah, that’s Beckett’s big theoretical question. Aren’t we all waiting for Godot?”
The waiter shrugs. All he’s waiting for is a good tip, and he’s a little worried that he won’t get one from me.
I’m ravenous and I scan the menu quickly.
“I’ll have a mixed salad and the rack of lamb,” I tell him.
“The lamb is prepared for two people,” he says, pointing to the small print.
That explains the ridiculous price, but I want it anyway, so I just nod and close the menu. The waiter looks uncertainly at the second place setting, but decides to leave it. As he rushes away from the table, I realize that I have nothing to read and nothing to do but look at the animated couples all around me. I call the waiter back and order a glass of Shiraz.
“Nice choice,” he says, and I smile, basking in his approval.
I eat a breadstick and curiously watch the scene unfolding in the restaurant. A mob of well-dressed singles trolls the bar, searching for the perfect mate. The thirtysomething couple on my left are clearly on a first date. He’s flirting hard and trying to impress her, but she’s looking bored and toying with the stem of her martini glass. Eventually he’ll figure out that she’s just not that into him. I shake my head, thinking how I’d hate to be going out with strangers again. I played that game once, and when I married Bill, I thought I’d won. Little did I know.
If somebody had told me that twenty years later I’d end up alone at the Brasserie on a Saturday night, would I still have picked Bill—the double-dealing, self-absorbed Knicks-ticket-demanding idiot who left me for Ashlee with two Es? And if not, who would I have married?
I take a sip of my Shiraz. Not to be too cocky about it, but I certainly had other choices—and not just Eric. I reel through the memories of my major romances and feel a little glow. I wonder where those guys are now. Could one of them be sitting somewhere alone tonight in a restaurant, too?
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 6
