“Great place, huh?” Bill asks, ushering me in. “One of the partners in my office has had this pied-à-terre for years. Told me to use it as long as I want.”
“And you bought a new TV?”
“A man’s got to live,” he says expansively.
I look around, wondering if a man can really live on scotch, beer, a store-bought container of guacamole and a ripped open bag of Tostitos, which seem to be the only edibles in the apartment. Oh, no, I underestimated him. Bill proudly brings out a plastic grocery platter of greasy spicy chicken wings, blue cheese dressing, and a few anemic stalks of carrots and celery thrown in for decoration. So this is who buys the $24.99 Superbowl Special. If Bill can’t eat every meal at a diner, he’s going to turn his apartment into one.
Bill sits down and motions for me to join him on the leather sofa. We’re both mesmerized by the almost life-size football players crashing around on his big-screen TV. I know we’re nowhere near kickoff, but there are forty years of Super Bowl highlights to catch up on, not to mention the really interesting part of the games, the commercials. I understand why advertisers use half-naked women to hawk products to men, but what’s with the Budweiser frogs, the Clydesdale horses, and the Monster.com monkeys? Talk about appealing to animal instincts.
“Adam called a little while ago,” Bill says, dipping a Tostito into the blue cheese. “We reminisced about those father-son Super Bowl parties we used to have.”
“You miss him, don’t you,” I say, realizing how close Bill has always been to the kids.
“Yeah,” he says wistfully. “Those were great times we used to have.”
“We were a great family,” I agree.
“Sounds like Adam and that new girlfriend, Evahi, are having fun,” says Bill.
“She’s a very sweet girl,” I say.
“No, I mean fun,” says Bill with a sly grin.
“That’s your child you’re talking about!”
“Fun’s what college is all about,” says Bill cheerfully, the casual father of a son.
“Emily would agree with you on that. Did she tell you about the ski instructor?”
“I’m sure they’re just friends,” says Bill, suddenly the protective father of a daughter. “Emily’s still my sweet little girl. I’m sure she spends every second studying.”
I just laugh. “Yes, that’s what we women do.”
Bill looks at me. “Right. You already told me about that old boyfriend. Which one was it?”
“Nobody you’d know,” I say. “A guy named Kevin.”
Bill lowers the sound, more interested in my commentary than Terry Bradshaw’s. “Kevin from high school?” he asks curiously.
“Yes,” I say, but I’m momentarily taken aback, realizing just how much Bill knows about me. Over the years, we’ve shared all of our stories with each other.
“Wasn’t that the slimeball with the leather jacket who made you skip class?” Bill asks.
“He wasn’t a slimeball,” I say, trying not to smile.
“If you were going to look for an old boyfriend, I would have thought it would be that rich Eric guy,” Bill says, shaking his head.
“I saw him, too,” I say.
“So you slept with two people?” Bill asks, raising two fingers in the air and inadvertently making the victory sign.
“I didn’t sleep with Eric,” I say, grabbing the victory right back. “All I did was go to his apartment and eat caviar.”
“Anyone else I should know about?” asks Bill.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but Barry Stern.”
“The romantic intellectual you met in Europe who took you to museums,” says Bill, proving that he had been listening to me for twenty years. “Whatever became of him?”
“Long story.”
“Sex, yes or no?”
“No. Not with his boyfriend around.”
Bill raises an eyebrow. “Your old boyfriend has a boyfriend?”
“Life gets complicated.”
“Tell me about it,” says Bill.
We’re both silent and after our banter, a slight melancholy sets in. I look distractedly at the television, where barely clad cheerleaders are enthusiastically shaking their pom-poms at the team’s slack-stomached, fiftysomething coach. The nubile girls adoringly drape themselves over him and cameras snap. No wonder middle-aged men are confused. If they don’t want to grow up, nobody ever makes them.
I reach into my bag and hand Bill a manila envelope.
“Separation papers,” I say, shakily handing them over to him. “Makes things easier down the road. It’ll get everything started.”
“Not started. It’ll get everything ended.” Bill opens the envelope and takes out a pen, then puts it back down. “I’m going to be sorry about this after a while, aren’t I?”
“Probably,” I say, thinking that someday he’ll realize what a good life he walked away from. And it’s even nice that he vaguely understands that now.
“A lot to be sorry about.” But because he’s Bill and would always prefer not to dwell on anything that makes him uncomfortable, he just shakes his head, grabs for the remote, and turns the sound back up just in time for the opening kickoff.
“Game’s going to be a blowout,” he says. “We don’t have to watch if you don’t want to. Everybody already knows how it’s going to end.”
I take a carrot stick and dip it into the blue cheese dressing. “You never know how it’ll end. That’s why you keep playing.”
Chapter TWENTY
BILL AND I are both determined to keep things civil, and Emily and Adam seem relieved that there’s not going to be a War of the Roses. We have no problems splitting our assets—until it comes to dividing the old records we’d stashed in the attic. We agree that we’ll each just keep whatever we brought to the marriage, since they all have sentimental value. I take a whole afternoon putting my records in two big white crates and Bill’s in two blue ones. When he comes to pick them up, his eyes brighten when he sees an old Bob Dylan album.
“Wow, I’m glad to get that one back,” he says. “It’ll always be a favorite. Track two was playing the first time a girl gave me a blow job.”
I clear my throat. What can an ex-wife-to-be say? “I only hope the record brings you much more listening . . . um, pleasure.”
“Thanks,” Bill says heartily. He eagerly pulls Cream from the crate. “And this one. I’ll never forget. Track five was . . .”
“That story I remember,” I say, holding up my hands. In fact, that particular tale of high school groping I heard at least five or six times. And now that we’re not married, I’m not obligated to listen again.
Bill glances over at my crate and a shadow of suspicion crosses his face. “Why’s the White Album on your side?”
“Because it’s mine,” I say.
He picks it up and holds it tightly. “No, the White Album was mine. Black Sabbath was yours.”
“You’re confused. Black Sabbath was yours and Purple Rain was mine.”
“I bought Purple Rain. You were Pink Floyd.”
Maybe we’re not having a War of the Roses, but we’re definitely having a color war. Before Bill starts frantically thumbing through the crate looking for Yellow Submarine, Green Day, or Maroon 5, I decide to use the White Album as a white flag.
“Take it. Take whatever you want. I don’t want to fight,” I say.
In the karmic category of getting back what you give, Bill adopts my generous spirit. He looks longingly at the record in his hands, then offers it to me.
“Nah, it’s okay. Keep the White Album. These days, I prefer the White Stripes anyway.”
“With lead singer Jack White, as opposed to comedian Jack Black,” I say, and at the silliness of it all, we both laugh.
Bill looks relieved that this final separation is going so smoothly.
“It’s good to laugh with you again,” he says.
“It is,” I say. “We can get divorced without making each other miser
able.”
“We can get divorced and still make each other happy,” Bill says. He comes over and puts his hands on my shoulders. “How about a little sex to prove we’re still friends?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? One last roll in the hay for old time’s sake. Come on. It won’t take very long.”
“I remember.” I pat his cheek. “Little lesson to improve your social life. It’s supposed to take a long time.”
Bill looks at me uncertainly, and I take his hands off my shoulder. I’m grateful for the proposition because for one thing, it’s always nice to be asked. And for another, getting divorced is easier when Bill keeps reminding me what a fool he is.
But I’m no fool. I’m planning to go to the best party in town. Bendel’s is throwing a bash to celebrate its exclusive new jewelry line featuring the creations of Inka, a hip new designer who works with a rare red stone found only in Peru. His wildly expensive heart-shaped pendants are the hit of the season.
“Whole hearts, chipped hearts, broken hearts—and half hearts for people who could use a little more enthusiasm,” says Bellini, who, as the store’s accessories guru, inked the contract with Inka.
“Sounds like the man’s a genius. He takes the cracked stones anyone else would throw out and charges extra for them.”
“People are even snapping up the broken-heart pendants as wedding gifts. Women’s Wear Daily calls them brilliantly post-ironic.”
I’d guess that most women would still prefer an un-ironic perfectly cut five-carat diamond, but what do I know.
“Wait until you hear what we’re doing for the launch party at Chelsea Piers,” Bellini says excitedly. “We have a light show, acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, the coolest d.j. in New York, and two dozen celebrities who’ve already said they’re coming. Plus the best part: it’s going to be BYOB.”
“Bring your own bottle? Given what Inka charges, Bendel’s should be able to spring for a few cases of Cabernet.”
“This BYOB is bring your old boyfriend. Isn’t that fabulous? You show up with an ex—and then we can all trade. I got the idea from the clothes swap party at your house.”
“Come on, ’fess up,” I tease. “You got the idea because I’ve been visiting all my old boyfriends.”
“Well, both,” admits Bellini. “But think about it. If someone could want that cast-off red dress of yours, just imagine what they could do with a cast-off old flame.”
“Toast marshmallows?”
Bellini laughs. “I was figuring those old flames might light some fires, ignite some new romances. Think of the possibilities. A roomful of men who’ve already been vetted.”
“And just which one of my old boyfriends am I supposed to bring?” I ask.
“Any one you want,” she says.
Bellini’s being a little optimistic. I could show up with Barry, the gay swami, as easily as with Eric, the unmarried billionaire. But I have to admire her: Bellini’s always cooking up creative ways to meet men. And this time she’s getting Bendel’s to foot the bill.
I think about it for a couple of days and decide that if I’m going to the party, my only possible date is Eric. Kevin’s working on his movie, Barry’s busy being a guru, Dick’s out of the question. I hesitate because I don’t want Eric to get the wrong idea. After that night I spent at his apartment, he predicted I’d come back, but now I’m trying to recycle him, not rekindle anything romantic. Finally, I go to my computer to e-mail Eric, asking if he’d like to come to a party as my old beau.
Not that you’re old! I write, then quickly delete it because that sounds too fawning. I had many choices! disappears because I don’t want to appear vain, and even the innocuous It should be fun! gets cut because what if Eric misunderstands the kind of fun I want? Twenty minutes later I’m still battling to compose the two-line message that should have taken two minutes. I revise every sentence more often than Hemingway. Who said e-mail would make our lives easier?
Apparently, it’s made Eric’s life easier, because barely a minute after I hit “Send,” I get the message back from his BlackBerry: “Sure. Hot.”
Okay, that requires another twenty minutes on my side for interpretation. Am I hot or has he read Page Six and knows that Bellini’s party is already the hottest invitation in New York? Possibly he’s just reporting on the heat wave in Arizona.
The party starts generating so much buzz that all my Chaddick pals ask me to snag them invitations, and I do. Men around town stop boasting about the size of their bonuses and start bragging about how many different women have invited them to appear as their official Old Boyfriend.
“I’ve heard Jude Law got four invitations but two of them were from nannies,” Bellini tells me in one of our many conversations.
“And let me guess. Charlie Sheen got six calls, but four were hookers,” I suggest.
“I hadn’t heard that,” says Bellini, making a note. “But I’ll see if Cindy Adams would like to run with it.”
The gossip columnists are also excited that Inka’s fans include the Jennifers—Aniston, Lopez, and Garner. It’s not surprising that the actresses have the same taste in jewelry since at least two of them have the same taste in men.
“We told Ben Affleck he can’t come with his wife, Jennifer Garner. But if he wants to come as the man J. Lo didn’t marry, that’s another story,” Bellini reports. “It’s going to be some night.”
The day of the night isn’t bad either. I arrive at Bellini’s East Side apartment at about noon to be fussed over by the hair and makeup artists who arrive courtesy of Bendel’s beauty department and to get dressed in the elaborate gowns Bellini arranged for us to borrow, calling in favors from her favorite designers. I twirl in front of the mirror, admiring myself in the Badgley Mischka satin-and-chiffon gown with embellished hem.
“Don’t you dare sweat tonight,” Bellini warns me as I preen. “These dresses go back tomorrow.”
“Maybe I should have had my underarms Botoxed,” I say, having read about the miracle drug’s latest use as an antiperspirant.
“If you’re going for Botox, I’d do that line on your forehead first,” Bellini says, and when I look worriedly in the mirror, she chirps, “Gotcha. No lines yet. Just joking.”
“Very funny. Scare me like that again and I’ll need an emergency face-lift.”
Our jewelry, of course, is by Inka. I fasten the clasp on a pendant heart that’s chipped, not broken, since I seem to be on the mend. The heart on Bellini’s necklace is whole, but has gold barbed wire wrapped around it. Way too post-ironic for me to understand, but maybe she and Jon Stewart could start dating.
We’re almost ready to leave when Eric calls my cell phone.
“What’d he say?” Bellini asks, when I hang up.
“He’s jetting back from Moldova, and he’ll be a little late for the party. He’ll meet me there.”
Bellini nods. “The barista is auditioning for a show in which he actually gets to wear clothes, so he’s not even going to make it.”
We head, unescorted, to a cab. “I know it’s hard to get a boyfriend, but who knew it would be this hard to get an old boyfriend,” laughs Bellini, as we slip into the backseat. The driver notices us in our glamorous getups and tosses us appreciative glances in the rearview mirror.
“I bet you’re not going to shoot hoops tonight,” he says, as he pulls off the West Side Highway and wends his way through Chelsea Piers, the massive complex strung along the Hudson River that includes ball-rooms and TV production studios, not to mention climbing walls, bowling alleys, putting greens, skating rinks, and basketball courts. There’s space for every sport a New Yorker could ever want to play—at least the legal ones.
“The party’s at Pier 60. Just follow the limousines,” directs Bellini.
The cabbie falls in line behind two black limos with tinted windows. A white stretch Hummer comes up next to us with a lone woman lounging in the backseat. Maybe she needs an armored tank big enough for a battalion
to make her entrance, but I think she should repaint the damn thing and send it to the U.S. Army.
When we pull up to the entrance, I reach for my jeweled evening purse. I spent a half-hour this afternoon performing pocketbook triage, choosing what to bring along in this teeny-tiny bag. I managed to squish in a lip gloss, three Listerine breath strips, half of a folding hair-brush (I had to break it in two), and my house key—just the one for the front door, not the back. I was sure I’d put in two twenty-dollar bills, but now I can’t find them.
“Do you have any cash?” I ask Bellini.
“Are you kidding? I didn’t even have room for a spare false eyelash,” she replies, holding out her borrowed minaudière, which being half the size of mine cost twice as much. In the world of fashion, less is definitely more.
I ponder our predicament for a moment and then explain it to the driver, asking him for his address.
“I’m so sorry, but I’ll send you cash the minute I get home tonight,” I promise apologetically.
“Yeah, sure. I’m not falling for that line.” He turns off the motor and as we get out of the cab, he does, too. He’s about two hundred and fifty pounds with a scraggly black beard and torn sneakers.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m going in with you. If you don’t have money, someone around this snazzy place should be good for my twelve-fifty plus tip.”
“Stay here. I’ll find someone myself,” I say, panicked that the driver might actually go in and create a commotion.
“No way. You’re trying to stiff me. You’ll never come back,” he roars as he storms toward the door.
“Wait a minute!” I call out, but he barrels forward. Clearly he’s a man who’s been left before, but now’s not the time to deal with his abandonment issues.
The cab driver steps inside where the party is already under way. The music blares and waiters pass by with glasses of Dom Perignon. Three hundred of New York’s choicest and perhaps choosiest women circulate through the room, talking and flirting as they flaunt their expensive dresses and desirable exes.
Before I can stop him, the cabbie plants himself at the edge of the crowd. “Who’s got fifteen bucks to lend these rich ladies?” he hollers.
The Men I Didn't Marry Page 29
