“Would you mind if we went?” Sabrina asked.
“Of course not,” I said, and burst into tears. “I’m super hormonal, don’t mind me,” I added.
Sabrina put her arm around me. “Of course we wouldn’t go without you,” she said. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I guess it’s your life changing and I don’t know how to handle it. It’s not like you cut off all your hair and need help making it look good while it grows out. You’re going to have a baby.”
“Speaking of virgin piña coladas,” Lisa said. “How about I make us a batch?”
Lisa came back a few minutes later with a pitcher and margarita glasses, and the three of us talked for hours about womanhood, singlehood and babyhood like we were guests on Oprah.
Whenever I needed to talk to my mother, I went to Katz’s Deli on Houston Street, a few blocks and one avenue from where I grew up. The huge, old-fashioned deli had been like a home away from home for as long as I could remember. My mom, Ally and I had gone every Sunday afternoon for stuffed corned beef and pastrami sandwiches and Dr. Brown’s cream soda, and every day after school I had stopped in for a potato knish.
The three of us would sit at our table and talk about our weeks and school and work and who said and did what, and we’d walk home hand in hand, my mother between us. Katz’s was a tradition, my mother always said, and traditions were important. For a long time after she died I couldn’t bear to go on Sundays, but then one Sunday I did go, and Ally was there, slumped over the table and crying, her head against the Formica as she sobbed, and the long-employed counter clerks let her cry it out and shushed people who tried to ask her what was wrong.
Ally had also avoided Katz’s for years, but had started going once a month or so about five years after our mother’s death. I’d graduated from college in Boston and returned to New York to find a job in publishing, and Ally had graduated from law school in California and came back with a husband, but we started going to Katz’s again regularly, as though it were expected, even though we never discussed it or arranged it. We’d talk about whatever and get into fights, and then we both got busy and one of us would say we couldn’t make it and then we both stopped going altogether, or at least, I did. And then a couple of years ago, when a guy I fell in love with hard and fast broke up with me and I wanted my mother more than anything, I started going to Katz’s to talk to her. I’d sit at a table facing the wall, pick at my pastrami, tears streaming down my face, and eventually, I’d feel her there with me.
Now, as I sat staring at the corned beef on rye and sour pickle that I’d had a craving for a second ago, I wondered what my mother would think of me being pregnant and alone. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for her with a newborn and a six-year-old, no husband and no job skills. My mother had been a winner of local beauty pageants and a sometime catalog model (she was only five foot five and too short to become a fashion model), and she’d been working as the “car and boat girl” at trade shows when she met my father. She’d been a housewife, and then she started drawing amazing portraits of Ally, and when my father left a month after I was born, she got a job as a secretary that paid pretty well, refused what I once overheard her describe as “guilt money” from my father for a better apartment and she made do.
You’ll be fine, she would tell me now. You’re smart, you have a great career going, I raised you to be strong and independent. You’ll be fine and so will your baby.
Strong and independent. I wondered what she would think of me ending up on Daddy’s doorstep.
You do what you have to do, she’d always said. As long as it doesn’t compromise you or make you feel funny about yourself.
Being at my father’s didn’t make me feel funny. I rarely saw my father and Giselle—he was Mr. Meeting and Giselle had study groups—and as much as I tried to play with Madeline, she was often asleep by the time I got home from work. Despite wanting never to share a bedroom with Ally again, I actually liked the close quarters, liked hearing Zoe’s quiet oms during her yoga sessions and Ally’s clicking on her laptop keyboard. Every night, when I turned the key in the door to my father’s apartment and smelled the familiar vanilla potpourri that my father liked so much, and then walked into my room to find my sisters sprawled on their beds, reading or working or thinking or sleeping or not even there at all, but their sweaters or nightgowns on the beds, I would feel safe.
I picked up my pickle and bit into it and started telling my mother, quite silently, of course, that Zoe wasn’t such a bad egg, after all.
11
Ally
For a date with a man who could potentially one day become my husband and the father of my child—my first date in thirteen years—I’d gone mega shopping. A black lacy Miracle bra and matching garter (for me, not him), seamed black Donna Karan hosiery that felt like satin and a killer black suit with a short skirt and a cropped jacket that I’d gotten in Paris last year. Add my three-inch black leather pumps, some red lipstick and a spritz of Chanel No. 5, and I was ready. Ready to sit across from another man, a handsome man, and flirt my ass off.
Not literally, of course.
I’d been thinking the past two weeks about what I’d do if I clicked with someone. I mean, really clicked with someone. The kind of clicking that makes you want to have that third glass of wine, invite him back to your place (or have him invite you back to his place, in my case), listen to some Marvin Gaye and then fool around on the sofa and see where it leads.
Thirteen years ago, when I first met Andrew, you didn’t go home with someone you just met. You didn’t sleep with anyone on the first date or the second or maybe even third. You carried condoms everywhere you went and you worried about catching something. When Sarah told me that she slept with Griffen on their second date, I’d been shocked. And when I found out she didn’t use a condom, I’d lectured her for a half hour. “Diaphragms aren’t one hundred percent effective!” I’d yelled. “And they’re zero percent effective against chlamydia, herpes, AIDS and God knows what else is running around out there!”
For once, Sarah hadn’t defended herself. She’d simply said, “You’re right.”
Sex. Who was having sex so fast, anyway? Not me. At least, I didn’t think so.
Thirteen years I’d been with Andrew. And for the first time in twelve and a half years, Andrew Sharp wasn’t sharing my bed. Two weeks had passed since the hammock incident. Since the vasectomy claim. Two weeks. And I hadn’t heard a word from him.
How was that possible? How did he go from asking my forgiveness and telling me he loved me to apparently being quite happy to have me gone?
“Men don’t always know what they want,” Kristina had said yesterday. “Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis.”
A midlife crisis at thirty-six? And what was he in crisis about? His wife who’d been doing everything she possibly could to keep him happy and interested for eleven years? His work that paid him three hundred grand a year? His friends and family who thought he was the greatest thing since the wireless Web?
I’d finally broken down and confided in Kristina about the breakup of my marriage. I went to work every day, barely able to concentrate and therefore relying on the associates more, and one of them, an idiot with an entitlement complex, the kind of guy who called all women honey (except judges, who could hold him in contempt), made a mistake that had cost me two hours to fix. I’d screamed bloody murder at him. Funwell, the senior partner, had called me into his office to tell me that I seemed on edge lately and was something wrong at home?
The idiot! I wanted to grab him by his veiny, bulgy neck and squeeze!
But I calmly told him no, everything was fine, expressed the appropriate concern for the client and the case, and then fumed to Kristina. I needed to vent to someone, and I wasn’t ready to share the breakdown of my personal life with my family. I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.
Just telling someone had made me feel better. Kristina had shut her office door, pulled
me into her arms for a long, comforting hug, then handed me a Godiva chocolate and insisted on taking me to lunch.
“The best revenge is to go sleep with the hottest guy you can find,” she said over salad niçoises and white wines. “Once you see that there are men out there, men to play with, men to fall for, men to marry, you’ll feel a lot better. Andrew Sharp is not the be-all and end-all.”
“But I thought he was,” I said. “Now I’m at square one again, and it’s scary as hell. That part of my life was settled, and I was hoping to move on to the next chapter—having a baby.”
“You can do that with someone else, Ally. You’re not even thirty-five. My older sister had her first baby at forty-one. You still have time.”
Time. For what? To get over being betrayed, lied to, in terrible ways by the man I loved? The man I thought loved me? How do I get over my marriage and my husband enough to fall in love with someone else?
“No one says you have to fall in love, Ally,” Kristina continued as if reading my mind. “You just want to put yourself out there to see that you are a desirable, lovable woman who any man would be honored to have. You want to feel good about yourself, and it’s very easy to do when a good-looking guy is fawning all over you.”
Kristina thought FindAMate.com was the greatest idea she’d ever heard. After I’d filled out my profile, I’d gone chicken about sending e-mails to the men I liked; it had taken days for me even to compose an e-mail. But thanks to her encouragement, I’d called back eight of the men with whom I’d been corresponding.
I’d begged Kristina to keep the news of my failed marriage to herself.
“Your marriage didn’t fail, Ally. Andrew failed you. And a separation and divorce are nothing to be ashamed about. You do know that, right?”
I did. I did know that. So why did it feel so embarrassing?
And why hadn’t Andrew been calling to beg me to come back? Was he dating Marnie? Other staffers at HotBods? Other women? Was he glad I was gone?
Who the hell cares!
Do not cry. Do not ruin your makeup! Andrew Sharp betrayed you. He is not the man you married. He is not the man you loved. He is a lying bastard.
I’d been repeating those words over and over and over these past two weeks. And FindAMate.com had become like a drug. Lonely? There were hundreds—thousands!—of profiles to read, thousands of men whom you could potentially meet. Feeling unattractive? There were thousands of men who could look at your photo and find you beautiful and exciting.
And instead of feeling awful about my marriage, I felt hopeful. I felt hopeful about the future.
You can get pregnant through your early forties. Can. Maybe…
My sister had her first baby at forty-one….
And now there was every chance I could meet some great new man, have a whirlwind courtship, and find love. Real love. That was what I wanted. Not a fling. Not some guy to make me feel good. I wanted the real thing.
“You don’t think it’s too soon?” I’d asked Kristina. “Shouldn’t I be taking yoga or going to Machu Picchu or something?”
Kristina snorted. “You don’t need to find yourself, Ally. You need to get laid, and good. You need to find what you’re looking for. You already know who you are.”
She was right. I was aware that I was moving a little quickly, but what was I supposed to do? Mope in my father’s living room? Veg and watch Sarah’s belly grow?
Instead, I had eight dates. With eight potential new loves.
How exciting it all sounded! I’d spoken briefly to all eight men by telephone. I’d actually spoken to twelve men, but four sounded like such duds that I’d nipped them in the bud.
I pulled out my Palm and clicked on Thursday, 7:00 p.m. and double-checked that my seven o’clock date’s name was indeed Jeffrey and not Rick, who I thought was my nine-thirty. When you scheduled eight dates for as many days, you tended to mess up the names. Yes, Jeffrey was up first.
He was first for a reason. He was a doctor and also separated. We’d e-mailed back and forth a few times, long, flirty, honest e-mails about what we did for a living, our marital status (which I’d come clean on after he spoke openly about his separation), how hard it was and how wonderful it would be to sit across from an attractive person and feel hopeful. We’d connected.
Last night, I’d dreamed that Jeffrey was delivering our baby. In the dream, he’d morphed into an OB/GYN, my new husband and the father of our six-pound, eight-ounce bundle of joy. I’d woken up smiling, despite Sarah’s snores and Zoe’s ridiculous sunrise yoga routine.
There was indeed something about having eight dates set up in a week’s time that made a person feel proactive. Last night, with tonight’s date waiting in the wings, I’d been actually happy. That Andrew hadn’t called to beg me back barely registered. That I was sharing a room with my sisters barely registered. That I was subjected to yet another question from Giselle about rosebud arrangements barely registered.
I was moving my life forward. I’d been wronged, and I was taking charge! Full of action. Not sitting around crying. Not feeling sorry for myself. I wanted love and a baby, and I was taking good steps toward my goals.
I’d thrown out How To Spice Up Your Marriage and bought How To Find a Good Man: A Three-Month Plan. During those moments when images of Andrew’s ass rising and lowering came to mind, I’d repeat a mantra from How To Find a Good Man and feel comforted.
Number one on the list of what a good man didn’t do: cheat.
Number one on my list of hot prospects: the hot doctor whose wife had cheated on him. Her excuse, Jeffrey had told me during our hour-long conversation, was that he was never home and she’d been driven to cheat with a friend of his. One of the reasons why he was so glad to hear I was a corporate attorney was because I clearly understood a sixty-hour work week. We’d shared horror stories. We’d laughed. We’d connected. I couldn’t wait to meet him.
And if for some strange reason Jeffrey didn’t work out, there were seven more where he came from.
My dating itinerary for the week:
Thursday: 7:00 p.m.: Jeffrey. 35. Doctor (surgeon). Upper West Side. 6' 2'', 190. Dark brown hair. Hazel eyes. Would recognize him by his scrubs. (All right, he could change for a date, for God’s sake, but what did I know about doctors and their clothing? Maybe they all ran around in scrubs.) Enjoyed tennis, ethnic food, antiquing and football.
Friday: 9:30 p.m.: Rick. 39. Stockbroker. Upper East Side. 6',200. Wavy blond hair. Blue eyes. Writing a novel for the past ten years.
Saturday: 12:00 p.m.: Ralph (which according to him was pronounced Rafe, à la Ralph Fiennes. And according to him and his picture, he looked a bit like Ralph Fiennes too). Lived on Long Island and owned a restaurant in Chelsea. Enjoyed gourmet cooking, mountain climbing and “all New York City had to offer.”(Just about every guy’s profile said that.)
Saturday: 6:00 p.m. Bill. 41. Bergen County, New Jersey. Divorced. Bought and sold companies. 5' 11'', 190. Dark hair, slightly receding. Dark brown eyes. Considered very handsome. Enjoyed working out, good conversation and was looking for a woman who knew what she wanted. (I did! I did!)
Monday: 7:00 p.m. Ted. 40. West Village. Divorced. Lawyer. 6' 1'', 200. Light brown hair. Blue eyes. Scandinavian look. Enjoyed films, restaurants, being in love.
Tuesday: 7:00 p.m. Mark.32 (my only younger man—not that he knew that). Upper West Side. Curly dark hair. Dark eyes. Often compared to a cute Al Pacino. Loved Central Park, extreme sports, running.
Wednesday: 7:00 p.m. Jonathan. 37. Hudson Valley. Tall, dark and handsome. Investment banker. Reddish hair, blue eyes. Looked a bit like Kenneth Brannagh. Owned a gallery in Soho.
Thursday: 9:30 p.m. Rafael. 36. Hot, hot, hot.
I smiled. And then I glanced at my watch and frowned. Jeffrey was now fifteen minutes late. I was sitting on an uncomfortable stool in the Oyster Bar of Grand Central Station, albeit a stool that managed to show off my legs the way a table would not. I looked around the huge restaurant. No sig
n of a tall, handsome man in scrubs.
He was now twenty minutes—
Ooh la la.
A very, and I underline very, good-looking man in green scrubs rushed in and surveyed the bar, where I was sitting. Mmm-mmm! Jeffrey was everything his profile and his picture promised he’d be.
I smiled and tried to catch his eye. He glanced at me for half a second, then resumed his perusal of the people sitting at the bar. Looking a bit confused, he eyed a cute redhead who was sitting alone, but her long hair must have assured him that she wasn’t his date because he immediately began his sweep of the bar. There were only three women sitting alone—two redheads and a brunette senior citizen. Why was he having so much trouble finding me?
When he eyed me again, now with the same confusion, I waved at him.
He rushed over. He had the most amazing green eyes. With flecks of gold. Long, dark, silky eyelashes. “You’re not Ally, are you?”
“The very same,” I said in my best Kim Cattrall-Samantha Jones voice.
He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked a bit miffed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Didn’t your profile say you were twenty-nine?” he asked.
Oh. I almost forgot about that.
“And?” I asked, holding any edge from my voice or expression.
Don’t get angry. Maybe he’s about to pay you a compliment.
“Honey, if you’re twenty-nine…” And then he shot me one of those Don’t bullshit the best bullshit artist there ever was looks.
Asswipe!
But you did shave a few years off your age in your profile, I reminded myself.
“I’ve always enjoyed the beach a little too much,” I said, again in my best Samantha Jones voice and accompanying smile. “The sun is a killer on the skin. But I don’t have to tell you that, Doctor.”
He didn’t return the smile. “C’mon, honestly. You’re what—thirty-five, thirty-six?”
The Solomon Sisters Wise Up Page 15
