“OK, yes,” sniffed Olivier. “We all need mentors—so important. Ilze is my mentor, for this evening—aren’t you, chérie? Help me learn from this party! She’s from Estonia.”
Ilze was adjusting the strap of her dress, as Olivier spoke. Once it was sorted she refocused her attention.
“I saw your Dolce ad in the current issue,” Will said to her. “It’s beautiful.”
The model smiled in apparent thanks, but it wasn’t clear to Will whether she even spoke English.
“A boyfriend, then . . . ,” said Olivier. “Why isn’t he with you tonight?”
“He’s busy,” said Will.
“We all want to know who is lucky enough to have this man,” said Olivier.
Luz was trying to think of a response, since the remark was nominally directed at her, but then—“Have fun! Ciao-ciao!”—Olivier had to fly over with Ilze to greet a young Hollywood star he’d just spotted.
“That was his way of saying he’s interested in me,” said Will, after they’d gone.
“He’s . . . handsome,” ventured Luz.
“He’s pretty,” said Will, “which is great, but not for me.”
“There is a bit of fey going on there.”
“And his cock, darling, when hard, barely peeks above the pubic hair.”
Luz burst out in a laugh.
“Shut up!” she said. “You don’t know that!”
“I have a reliable source,” he said.
“Stop!”
“Enrico once said Olivier has vicuña sweaters instead of orgasms.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” giggled Luz. “How many drinks have we had?”
“I had one when I was getting dressed,” sang Will.
“Thought so!” she said.
“We’re outta here.”
“So your ‘boyfriend’ is busy tonight?” said Luz, when they were outside, on the sidewalk, standing in front of the party residence, deciding what to do.
“What can I tell you?” said Will, shaking his head. “I never asked for a fucking eighty-seven-year-old boyfriend—I never asked for any boyfriend—but there it is.”
“He’s a good guy, Will,” said Luz. “Very solid.”
“I know,” said Will. “He makes me laugh, he makes me think, I like his cooking. And, Luz, his cock . . .” He used both hands to make a descriptive gesture.
“Shut up!”
“Those guys in there—they live in a world where everyone has to be a model. They wouldn’t admit it, but they’re governed by that phony lifestyle. And they measure me by it, ’cause they think I’m cute or whatever, and think that’s what I’m looking for. And maybe I was looking for it, once. . . .”
“And then you met just-plain-Peter.”
“He’s not plain at all, but yeah. I guess his looks have grown on me. Can I tell you? I love looking at that face.”
Luz’s expression combined concern with excitement over what she hoped she was going to hear next.
“Yeah,” said Will, “I’m kinda in love.”
“You are, baby?!” said Luz.
Guests continued arriving at the party. They stepped up to check in with the clipboard girls, while others exited or stood by smoking or making calls.
“Anyway, it’s chemical,” said Will.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you say it,” said Luz.
“To think how close I came to editing him right out of my life, because he was so different and I was so . . . ,” said Will. “Of course, there’s still a lot to work out.”
“Which you will do, in therapy.”
“No, I mean with him. Wanna hear something? He thinks he can be monogamous for the first time in his life, and says he wants to be, or would be—which I think is awesome. But he said he wondered if that kind of arrangement would be limiting for me—as if I should be doing all this fucking around, at this stage of my life. . . .”
“Hmm.”
“Yeah. It was totally different, back in his day, and I think he’s working that out. Fuck—I want monogamy, if we’re really going to be boyfriends.”
“If?”
“No if—we are. We are, yeah!”
Will started hopping around and cackling gleefully, which because he was well dressed and not particularly drunk didn’t alarm any of the clipboard girls or the security guys standing nearby.
“Holy shit,” said Luz. “Should I be thinking about a wedding? Am I gonna be a best man?”
“We have a long way to go before that, Luz of my life,” said Will, calming down and putting his arm around her waist, with a kiss to her forehead. “Yeah, I feel pretty lucky. But pray for me, OK? You’re religious, aren’t you? I’m gonna need some help.”
“I’ll ask my grandmother. She prays for the things I want.”
“Thank you, abuela! ‘Please ask God to smooth the way for my gay roommate and his fifty-nine-year-old boyfriend.’ ”
“She will!”
“So should we go grab some dinner? Those steaky things were ridiculously tiny. Did you even get any more of the coconut shrimp?”
As they began to step away from the door in search of a cab, one of the clipboard girls bade them a chirpy good night, and because they all had their party parts to play that night Will and Luz said good night back to the girl as sweetly as they could. Their part was to be zillionairish and feel sorry for the girl, all dressed up and stuck at her post.
And then, a little while after that, McCaw repeated Will’s simple-but-complicated line on TV, during a newscast one night on Fox. Peter heard about it early the next morning, from Tyler, who said it was all over the Internet.
“Why?” implored Peter. “Why is he so attached to it? It’s just a little thought. No big deal.”
“It was weird, boss,” said Tyler. They were standing in Peter’s office. “Then they asked him to explain it, which he did, and . . . you know how he gets. The spot is suddenly white-hot—all the stuff we saw the other day.”
“Christ.”
“Did we give him that material?”
“No, we did not,” said Peter.
“I was gonna say. The ‘simple’ kind of rubs up against the purity thing we’re trying to do, right? Though he delivers it well, and it certainly seems to inspire him. . . .”
“Damn.”
“So where did he get it?”
Peter laughed. “You don’t think he just made it up?” he said.
“Well . . . maybe,” said Tyler. “Did he?”
“Nooo. It’s something Will said, that night we had dinner over there.”
“Really?”
“Word for word, Ty. It’s a line from one of Will’s articles—a quote, actually, from a Senegalese artist he interviewed.”
“So how did McCaw get hold of it?”
“We were talking over dinner, we had a few glasses of wine—you know how it is. . . .”
“You were talking about Senegal?”
“Will was adding to the conversation. He was being a good guest.”
“So, I mean . . . is this part of the work now? Are we supposed to retrofit it into our little process here?”
Peter plunked himself down on his desk chair and slumped into it.
“I don’t know,” he said.
A glorious opportunity for strategic creative direction—the kind of thing that could cap a career and possibly even make history, as Laura kept suggesting—was morphing quickly into a damage control maneuver. Peter would have to tell Will about the incident and fix things on that level if he could. But he was also losing his enchantment with the part of McCaw that had initially attracted him to the project: the man’s intellect.
CHAPTER 23
“So—‘love,’ ” said the therapist. “That’s a word you haven’t used before.”
“I know,” said Will.
“Big word.”
“I know.”
“Tell me what’s happening with you guys.”
“I told you last week—we had se
x. Remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“I’m still trying to figure out what happened.”
“How so?”
There was no answer at first. The session had only just started, ten minutes before. Will checked in with some thoughts about work and his parents, and the therapist brought up Peter, in view of recent developments.
“Will?” said the therapist.
“OK, here’s the thing,” said Will, sunk low in his chair and stretched out. “It’s so weird. I realized this thing about love only recently. What is it—only a week after we had sex? Or maybe I should call it ‘these feelings that I think I’m perhaps willing to call love, though I have no idea what the fuck is actually going on.’ But whatever. I think I had some kind of feelings before sex—ya know?—only I didn’t exactly feel them, or know what they were. I think I had the feelings, but didn’t feel them, but they were in there and maybe they were the thing that allowed me to take that step.... Or something.”
“And that’s a big change for you, isn’t it? Having sex with someone in that way.”
“Is that it—I’m changing?”
“It sounds like something is happening.”
“I don’t know—I guess so. Because, like I said, this was the first time it was . . . like this for me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I mean, usually I cruise for a six-pack and then wind up with, you know, a six-pack.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I wasn’t using any of my tricks, and I don’t think he was using any of his tricks. . . .”
“Yeah.”
Will thought about this for a second. “This time . . . it’s good, right?” he said.
“You tell me,” said the therapist.
“It’s all pretty new. Yaack! Yeah, I guess it’s good.”
“Sure. Sure it is. So what happens now?”
Will sat up a bit straighter.
“With Peter and me?” he said. “Oh, you know: a summer wedding, a vine-covered cottage, a white picket fence. Isn’t that the way it happens?”
The therapist chuckled.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“No way! Absolutely not,” bellowed Will.
He and Peter were at dinner, sharing an assiette anglaise at a tiny chef-owned restaurant in Boerum Hill specializing in house-cured meats. Peter had told Will about the McCaw incident and mentioned a few options, including issuing Will an honorarium. Will was irate.
“That would add insult to injury,” he said. “Don’t you see? I already feel stupid enough for opening my big mouth that night.”
“There wasn’t anything wrong with that,” said Peter.
“I know. I was trying to hold my own—fine. But this is actually embarrassing. What if Assetou finds out? I’m probably going to have to tell her, just to be up front.”
“Mmm, you wouldn’t necessarily have to. It was in print, after all. I’m just saying.”
“Well . . . maybe. But the idea of accepting money . . .”
“I only meant that people on my staff who come up with taglines. . . .”
“I’m not on your staff, Peter. ‘Taglines’—Christ! As we’re speaking, I realize that the deeper issue for me is the fact that you’re involved in this monkey business in the first place. . . .”
“Advertising?”
“No, McCaw! And you wouldn’t be doing it except for the money.”
“This again?” said Peter.
“Yes, this again,” said Will. “It hasn’t gone anywhere. Using your skills to brand up a guy like this is more than slightly sketchy. I know that advertising involves compromises—so does editorial—but there’s always a line you don’t wanna cross.”
“And you feel I’m crossing it.”
“Yeah. I keep asking myself how you can do it. And I have to be honest, Peter: It concerns me.”
Peter sighed.
“OK,” he said.
“You make such a big deal out of not being like the men of your generation,” continued Will. “ ‘They sold out their principles for middle-class sameness!’—OK, fine, but here you are making this huge compromise for a huge amount of money. And it’s gotta be for the money—that’s the only thing I can think of. It’s not like you believe so passionately in the vision.”
“No, but I believe in the work, Will. It’s pride. I don’t believe in butter substitutes, either, but I can figure out an amazing way to sell them. And when they do sell, I feel proud that I’ve served my client well and that maybe I’ve connected with this thing that not everybody can connect with, the collective unconscious.”
“Oh, boy . . .”
“No, c’mon—really, Will. This is what I do. . . .”
“OK, I’m sorry. I respect that, Peter. I didn’t mean to impugn your abilities.”
“And with McCaw, I mean—for my company to have such an important client, for the job to be difficult in precisely this way, yet for us to make a success of it. . . .”
“Sure. But that’s just the part that sounds a little prostitute-y to me,” said Will. “And I should know.”
It was an indication of how defensive Peter was becoming that Will’s phrase did not register in his brain.
“We talk about these issues all the time, in the office,” said Peter.
“You and your disciples?” said Will. “Come on, they’re totally School of Peter. What do you think they’re going to say?”
“I think we know what we’re doing,” mumbled Peter.
Will shook his head. He stopped fiddling with the butter knife he’d been tapping nervously on the table and placed it neatly across the rim of his bread-and-butter plate.
“You know,” said Will, “I keep flashing on your friend Arnie, upstate.” He was making it a point to keep his voice low, as Peter was doing. “We can make fun of him, for sure, but I happen to admire the fact that he’s so attached to his principles.”
“Will . . .”
“He might be a little out of touch, but he’s got pride, too—you know? Right now, Peter, I’m trying to look at myself very honestly in therapy. I’m trying to be open to my better self, and you’ve been a big part of that process. You mean a lot to me. All I’m saying is that I would hope you could bring a similar commitment to the table—being open to your own stuff. For us. Though I’m sure you’ve already had all the therapy in the world. . . .”
He was right, Peter realized—which was as uncomfortable as it ever was when Harold or Nick was right.
I remember this feeling, thought Peter. It comes with the territory. Somehow the memory of those moments of vulnerability, resulting from completely reasonable challenges by the two men whom Peter had loved and trusted most, had gone mute over the years. Now it was back. But what was he supposed to do—quit the McCaw job?
The plan for after dinner had been to walk back to Peter’s place and spend the night. They’d been sleeping together once or twice a week now, and falling into a semi-cohabitational rhythm that worked for both of them, given jobs and the need for fresh clothing. Yet after their charcuterie, as they stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Will confessed he didn’t feel like going home with Peter, and Peter thought it best to accept this without protest. After a perfunctory peck on the cheek, Will headed off toward the subway.
The sky was threatening rain, yet the mood in the Heights wasn’t especially foreboding, as Peter walked home. Along State and Henry Streets, a leafy canopy of half-century-old trees sheltered sidewalks where neighbors stood talking and children played near their front stoops. The front doors of several brownstones were propped open, to catch an evening breeze. A pair of cute, skinny men with messenger bags—obviously tourists but maybe not boyfriends—stood on a corner, consulting a guidebook.
Peter cracked a smile, thinking how unaccustomed he was to the state of mind he was in.
“I’m confused,” he said to himself, as he walked. Was it the child in him who had been so heedless about the implications of the McCaw j
ob? The parent who’d found no way of saying no to such money and supposed prestige? Reflexively, he checked his phone for a text, since he and Will often texted each other right after leaving each other’s company. This time, nothing. And he could think of nothing to text to Will that wouldn’t sound cute or manipulative.
He proceeded up Henry Street and tried not to feel sad. How nice the simple pleasure of ambulation! How quaint the slate sidewalks and historic façades, how silly the plantings in some people’s window boxes! Harold always made fun of silly window boxes. A child’s chalk drawings on the sidewalk. A Dumpster full of construction debris. A dead pigeon in the gutter.
Oh, boy, he thought. But thank God to have no foot issues that would make walking difficult—or hip issues, or weight issues, as some his age did. Thank God, in fact, to be his age and not dead, as literally all the people he called friends in 1985 were.
Therapy might be a smart move, he thought. Since ending the ten-year stint of garden-variety gestalt he began shortly after arriving in New York, during which he unpacked what seemed like the entire contents of his psyche, he’d been living on the plateau of functional-enough, though he knew he wasn’t done with or cured of anything. And indeed life had kept coming. His father had died, his mother had grown old, many friends had died, and he’d gotten older, too, which meant there was plenty of terrain to survey in preparation for the next sixty years of his life—perhaps breakthroughs as transformative as those initial ones....
What a mess.
By the time he reached his house, he’d decided he needed help of some kind. It was a big question to explore: whether the pinnacle of his middle age was going to be defined by the job of a lifetime or a dream-come-true boyfriend.
At least the prospect of therapy isn’t as scary as it once was, said one voice in his head.
Yeah, and you can always consult the collective unconscious, too, mocked another.
Days went by and they didn’t speak. A few sparse texts informed Peter that Will wanted some “space,” but that no, he didn’t want to break up, exactly. Peter was both relieved and nervous, and asked Luz if she would have a drink with him. They met early one evening at the bar on the cove at the World Financial Center.
Now and Yesterday Page 43
