Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

  Sugar eyed Leo. “She sucked you into that?”

  “She caught me in a moment of weakness.” He glanced down at the rink. “Are we going to skate or what? I skipped the gym this morning and I could use the exercise, but . . .” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not hearing a word I’m saying, are you?”

  I looked at him over Sugar’s shoulder. “It’s just that I’m a little busy feeling sorry for myself here.”

  “Well, while you two finish the pity party, I’m going down to check out the price of skate rentals,” Leo said, disappearing down the stairs.

  I pulled away from Sugar and pressed my leather-gloved hands to my face, trying to pull myself together. “Am I a big baby, or what?”

  “No! Not at all,” Sugar insisted. “We just did a segment on the show about how so many people take an emotional dip during the holidays.” As a morning deejay, Sugar has learned an abundance of self-help psychology. “Expectations are high,” she went on, “and all the advertising and books and movies make us feel like we should all be having happy, candy-coated Christmases, though in reality we all encounter our fair share of holiday hurdles.”

  “It’s not just Christmas,” I admitted. “It’s where I am in life. Over thirty. Unmarried. Not even dating. My ovaries are going to dry up like prunes if I don’t do something soon.”

  “Maddy, please, one problem at a time. Much as I love you, I am so not into talking about ovaries.”

  “I can’t help it.” I tightened the plaid Pendleton scarf around my neck. “It bothers me.”

  Sugar linked her arm through mine. “We have fun, don’t we? Really, sweetums, being single can be a hoot sometimes.”

  I nodded in spite of myself.

  “You know, my mama used to tell me this: When the elephants are stampeding, ignore the monkeys throwing coconuts.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” I squeaked. Sometimes Sugar spoke in Southern hieroglyphs.

  Sugar smiled, her perfectly capped teeth gleaming against her gorgeous brown skin. “Honey, you are obsessing on the monkeys.”

  “You think I’m being silly.” Down on the ice, Leo was already skating, surprisingly well. He bent low and swung his arms like a speed skater. “I mean, lots of people have worse problems than being without a guy for Christmas.”

  Sugar nodded. “Mmm. I have to say, much as I love a good man, I never quite saw them as Christmas ornaments. But it’s about more than that. You’re upset because you want a lasting relationship—God knows why.”

  “Do you think so?” I had my doubts. When I examined the relationships I’d had over the last few Christmases, there wasn’t much substance under the trappings. “Oh, God.” I pressed a warm hand to one frozen cheek. “Am I a Christmas slut?”

  Sugar folded her arms. “You know I never use that ‘S’ word. There’re too many people walking around without a clue about how sex is supposed to be an integral part of our lives. Did you know that sexual activity is quite good for the cardiovascular system?”

  I frowned at the sexual image . . . another Sugar tactic. When losing an argument, she changed the topic. But to be fair to myself, relationships weren’t all about sex for me, and I didn’t always have a boyfriend at Christmastime. There were those horrible years in college when I’d suffered a terrible dry spell. I’d leaped from San Francisco society to the cool underground at Columbia University, and for some reason New York boys didn’t know what to make of me.

  I was a dateless wonder that first year after graduation when I headed home to San Francisco. Lucky for me, the Christmas elves worked their magic and changed my fortunes.

  Looking down on the skating rink, I was reminded of the ornament Leo had given me as a gift that year. It was a tiny snow globe of Rockefeller Center, the rectangular buildings surrounding the skating rink and the majestic tree, similar to the scene before me.

  That was the Christmas when Leo and I had bonded. Yes, that was a fabulous Christmas.

  Part One

  I’ll Be Home for Christmas

  San Francisco, 1993

  1

  As our plane touched down in San Francisco, I nudged my bud Leo. He was tuned into his Walkman, tuned out from the roar of the reverse thrust engines, probably trying to escape the fact that he was headed off for a family vacation with his straight friend.

  I leaned closer and pulled one earphone away from his ear to see what he was listening to. The low groan of the singer from Crash Test Dummies told me it was the “Mmm Song.”

  “Cut it out, nosey,” Leo said, slapping my hand away.

  “You know, before we get back we have to make a decision on the roommate thing.”

  “I’ve already decided,” Leo said. “We’ll run an ad while we’re gone and start interviewing when you get back in January.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a control freak?”

  “No. Never. Shut up and restore your tray table to its upright position.”

  “But what about Sugar?” I said. “I thought we were going to talk about how she might fit in.” Sugar was one of my best friends, and it just so happened that she needed a place while Leo and I were looking to fill the third bedroom of our new apartment.

  “Ebony‘s answer to Scarlett O’Hara?” Leo frowned. “Not sure I can stand all that Southern charm dripping over the kitchen counter.”

  “Sugar is my friend.”

  “That’s your right, but I don’t have to live with her.”

  We’ll see about that, I thought, letting the subject drop. One thing about Leo, you don’t want him to dig his heels in on something. He can be so stubborn. I’d have to give him time, and it wouldn’t hurt to soften his resolve with a little of the traditional Greenwood Christmas cheer. “This is going to be a blast,” I said. “My mom really knows how to do Christmas.”

  “Stop, you’re scaring me.” He adjusted the earphones and closed his eyes. “Not to burst your bubble, Madison, but has anyone ever told you there is no Santa Claus? No elves to fill your stocking? And since we’ll be in San Francisco, there will be no snow for Christmas, thank God.”

  “Do you get off on being a deconstructionalist?” I asked him, wowing him with what I’d learned in Philosophy 201, one of the few things I’d learned in that class. I wasn’t the best student Columbia had ever enrolled, and now I could thank my lucky stars that school days were behind me.

  “Bah humbug.”

  “Go on, be a Scrooge,” I said. “Mom and I will win you over.”

  “Just don’t ask me to do midnight mass,” he said. “And promise me you won’t even put me in the same room with that wretched fruitcake.”

  I wasn’t sure if the fruitcake referred to my mother, the Christmas Freak, or the actual candied cake, but either way, I wasn’t going to push him. I had worked hard to get Leo here, and I figured it was best to just let him settle in and enjoy. He’d spent the last month mooning over his old boyfriend, Jordan, who had stuck with Leo through college only to leave him on graduation day for an older man with a fabulous job and a big apartment on Riverside Drive. That’s the thing about men; they’re always quick to trade you in for a flashier model, and that’s something a woman does so rarely. A girl hangs on to her guy through thick and thin, defending him when his boss disses him and when his buds argue with him and when his mother keeps buying him those tight Fruit-of-the-Loom grundies he used to wear in junior high. Damn it, we go to the mat for our men, and for what? So that they can use us as a stepping stone to the next gorgeous woman? Don’t get me started!

  Okay, maybe I was in a semi-rant because I’d been suffering a dry spell. Ever since I’d started at Columbia my luck with men had gone bad. I kept telling myself it was New York guys, with their dark hair and dry humor and self-absorption, bumping past you on the street without an apology and flipping open their New York Times in a restaurant without caring who they offended. Rude boys. Back in California I’d encountered guys who were lacking in the manners department, but none wh
o offended with such a brazen sense of entitlement.

  Maybe that’s why I fell for Hugh Paddington. Yes, the Hugh Paddington, legendary poet and Editor-at-Large for Skyscraper magazine. I’ve been working there as an assistant editor since I finished my course work, and although it is probably the coolest magazine to ever hit the east coast, my job is distinctly uncool. Photocopying, answering phones, redirecting calls to our subscription service. Occasionally an editor will throw me a bone and give me some fact checking. Big whoop.

  It’s a totally stupid job, and the biggest irony of all is that it’s considered to be a plum position for journalism students. I mean, you need an Ivy League degree or a reference from a big shot (both of which I had) to get this job. And for what? For Drucie-the-giant from production to tell you that you’re a slow reader and you missed a syntax error?

  But don’t get me started on the hierarchy of suppression in publishing. Even though I’d majored in humanities, it was totally the wrong job for me. I mean, I didn’t even graduate with my class because I couldn’t finish writing the goddamned senior thesis, that fierce, festering editorial canker that oozed new errors and became riddled with warty queries every time I handed it in to my advisor. But don’t get me started on the sore spot of my overdue thesis, which I’d finally turned in two weeks ago. Writing that thing nearly killed me, and yet somehow I was working for a magazine, being groomed for a position as an editor/writer. How could I have landed in such an ill-suited position?

  Parents. Robin and Dr. G. were going to make sure their little darling lapped up all their juicy connections. Thousands of miles away, and still they meddled. Thank God for my friends. Like Leo.

  Anyway, I’d spent the past month bugging Leo about coming home with me. “You can’t be alone for Christmas!” I had insisted over and over again. “That would be so wrong! Come back to San Francisco with me. My parents have a huge house we can knock around in, and it’s a fabulous city.”

  He just kept making noises about how he couldn’t imagine Christmas without Jordan, and how he couldn’t face his bossy dysfunctional mother, and how the turkey special at the diner would be just fine. Pulllease! I wasn’t about to let him play the martyr. I finally got Leo to commit at my company Christmas party. Leo was my escort that night since I needed a date so that I didn’t look incredibly hopeless, and I needed a date to ward off Hugh, who was still making noises about getting together even though I kept assuring him that we had no chemistry.

  The party was held at Top of the Sixes, a posh bar at 666 Fifth Avenue, and Christmas spirit was flowing nearly as fast as the champagne, courtesy of Skyscraper magazine, my employer. It was the only way I could currently afford coldies at a place like this, being twenty-one, working for slave wages, and in the process of finishing my senior thesis. Did I mention how relieved I was to be through with school?

  Anyway, Leo and I stood by the windows, having a Nick and Nora moment as we gazed out at the handsome buildings that filled the majestic grid, finally giving way to the trees and browning grass of Central Park. Leo looked totally suave in his dark jacket and red silk tie. I knew the other girls from the office were salivating over him, if they weren’t picking up on the undercurrent of gayness. Leo is tall and lean, with thoughtful green eyes that make you want to swell up and spill your life story to him.

  “Have you decided what you’re doing for the holidays?” I asked him.

  “I will carefully avoid all familial events, and certainly drink heavily.”

  “I think you should go with me,” I prodded.

  “I think you should have another martini, darling.”

  “I’m having a whiskey sour,” I said.

  “A beginner’s drink,” he said. “Leave out the lemonade, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. I’m not backing off, Leo. Not until you promise to spend Christmas with my parents and me.”

  “I don’t do parents well,” Leo said. “They always have issues. They either want to undo my body piercings or marry me off to their daughters.”

  “My parents aren’t like that,” I insisted, hoping it was true. Well, I knew that my mother wasn’t that way, and my father, a surgeon, always spent so much time at the hospital that he wouldn’t be a factor. “Oh, come with me, Leo. We’ll have a blast! We’ll bake cookies and have lots of coldies in cool West Coast bars. You can’t spend the holidays moping about Jordan.”

  “I’m not moping,” he insisted sternly. “I’m having the time of my life, darling.”

  I noticed the way his brow creased, which always happened when he was lying. We’d been together all through college, and we knew each other well. He was my best friend, especially since we didn’t have to deal with issues of sex or competition. “Just say yes,” I prodded.

  “You just don’t get it, Dr. Ruth. I want to be alone, to wallow in self-pity, to rent videos of pathetic old movies. Cry in my microwave popcorn. This is my Christmas of mourning.”

  “Oh, pulllease. Jordan isn’t dead. He’s probably peering through opera glasses in a box at the Met with his big daddy, even as we speak.”

  Leo winced. “You are ruthless.”

  I nodded. “Totally ruthless. I have to confirm my flight reservations tomorrow, and you know what? I’m going to book you a seat.”

  He smiled at me. “You are not.”

  “Dare me?”

  He lifted the little sword of olives out of his glass. “Like that would stop you.”

  “Good. Consider it done, then.” I lifted my whiskey sour in a toast. “Here’s to a great Christmas in San Fran.”

  “I hate you,” he said, toasting me back.

  “You so do not!” I said joyously, realizing that people were admiring us—and why not? We really were a striking couple, silhouetted by the glass windows and darkening sky. And who was watching? The girls from copywriting? The gang from layout? My boss, Ms. Macy Gramble, the beautiful bottle-blonde pasted together by Valium and bountiful compliments of gentleman callers?

  Or Hugh. Where was he, anyway? I shot a glance over at the bar and located him in a cloud of people. Hugh could be a total pip at a party. He was the quintessential storyteller, and he knew tons of celebrities and prestigious writers. That was the good Hugh, the Hugh I would have loved to be with tonight, posing as his arm candy.

  Yes, I wasn’t beyond selling myself short to be in his entourage. When you’re with Hugh, celebrities come up to you and talk to you as if you really matter. And then you become a celebrity by association.

  Hell’s bells, I even thought I was going to get a promotion out of him. I mean, he sort of alluded to it. “You have much to learn if you want to get ahead in this business,” he used to say. Other times, he would look at me and sigh. “I see I have my work cut out with you, Madison. Youth is a gift wasted on the young.” I know it sounds schoolmarmish, but Hugh has a way of delivering lines like a Shakespearean actor. Witty, funny, self-deprecating ... Hugh Paddington is the man you want to be with.

  Until the lights are out.

  That’s when I was reminded, in most graphic details, that I was dating a man who is, like, forty years older than I am. I mean, I’m twenty-one and he’s like . . . I don’t even know, but his body sags in places you can’t even imagine, and despite all his whimsical talk and charisma, he has zero magic under the sheets.

  “I can tell you’re thinking about him,” Leo said. “Is he here? Where? Tell me.”

  I raised my head and cocked an eyebrow at the bar, trying to appear regal. “He’s at the bar with his posse.”

  Leo gracefully sipped his martini as he eyed the party crowd. “Tweedy blazer and bow tie? You know, he could be my type.”

  “No, no, the one in the dark suit. Dark suit, silver hair.”

  “Très petit.” Leo seemed perplexed. “How could such a little man cause you such major concern?”

  “Just promise me you won’t let me out of your sight tonight,” I said. “No matter how m
any coldies I consume.”

  “Sure thing. Which reminds me, we need a refill.” He took my glass, still staring toward the bar. “But refresh my memory, how bad was the sex? I mean, you’d think that with that much life experience, the guy should know a few tricks.”

  “The sex was lacking,” I said, trying to sum up without having to revisit the whole, ugly affair. “He . . . I don’t know if the sex was really the problem. He’s so damned persuasive, he had a way of making me go for it. Plus he helped me with a pitch. He backed me up in front of everyone in the editorial meeting.”

  “And you thought a round of nookie would pay him back for his editorial services?”

  “I hate you,” I told Leo. “And him. Why am I looking at him?” I turned away from the bar.

  Leo lifted his drink, assessing Hugh over my shoulder. “He’s not so bad.”

  I lowered my voice. “But his body is so old. Once you’ve seen a flabby ass puddling like vanilla pudding on your office desk, you’re happy to do a few extra minutes on the Stairmaster.”

  “Okay, then, why don’t I get those drinks.” He headed toward the bar, turning back to me to murmur, “That’s enough to put me off pudding for a long time.”

  Leo’s exit left me thinking of the one person I was trying to banish from my mind. I’m still trying to forget that first night, when he took me out to dinner and invited me in for coffee at his apartment. He had poured two glasses of brandy, which I hate, and told me to follow him as he led the way into the bedroom. Hugh isn’t a bad kisser, and before I could say “Oh, you old perv!” my shirt was unbuttoned and I’d tugged off my camisole. “You’re so beautiful,” he told me as he ran a hand over my bare shoulder and down, down over my breasts. He stroked my chest and tummy, which wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation, but then he plucked at my nipples, causing me to let out a yelp.