Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

  25

  Making my way through the misty streets of London on Christmas Eve, I felt like a lone woman of mystery. Independent and aloof. I knew it was a temporary disguise, a brief illusion, but for the moment, it worked for me.

  As promised, Sugar had left me a key at the desk at the Kensington Park Thistle, and I dashed up to her room to stow my stuff. When I’d called to tell her I was coming back, she’d told me to get my butt back to London pronto. I could share her room until I managed to get my own. “Though I want you to know, it will definitely be cramping my style,” she’d told me. “I met this fabulous guy . . .”

  Upstairs, there was a note on the bed.

  We’re at Bunch of Grapes on Brompton Road. Glad you’re back. Sorry he was a prick.

  Feeling a little sick to my stomach, I checked the clock. Ten-fifteen. Maybe I should just put my pj’s on and crawl under the covers. My friends were probably drinking champagne by now, riding ethereal clouds of intoxication that would sail out of earshot of my sob story. I sank onto the bed and sighed. Should I stay or should I go? The plush duvet embraced me, tempting.

  But it was Christmas Eve. How pathetic would it be to curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep on the most magical night of the year? Again, it was still tempting.

  But I couldn’t let Ian ruin Christmas for me. If I caved tonight, his cruelty would cast a pall over my favorite holiday, and it would take years to shake it off.

  “Enough buts,” I said aloud, pulling myself off the bed. I unzipped my suitcase and changed into a goth black lace blouse to match my dark mood. With any luck, I could spend the evening hiding under this woman-of-mystery mystique. I spilled the contents of my makeup bag onto the bed. Tapping into some little-used makeup, I filled in my eyelids and painted a swirl from the edge of my lashes, fanning out to my temples. I borrowed some of Sugar’s dark red lipstick and slathered it on thickly.

  When I was done I stared into the mirror in wonder. “I am fucking Cleopatra,” I whispered. “Either that or some odd cousin of the Addams Family.”

  As I grabbed my long black coat, I realized it didn’t matter who I masqueraded as tonight. Just as long as I didn’t have to be myself.

  Bunch of Grapes was a Victorian pub in a chic, high-spirited section of Knighstbridge. When I stepped into the dark, smoky entryway, I sensed that the party had been going on around me for a long time. Sucking in a breath, I wondered if I would have to down a few pints immediately to catch up. That and a few tequila shooters. As I was unbuttoning my coat, someone emerged from behind an etched glass partition and stepped right up to me.

  Sugar.

  “Hey, girlfriend.” Her soft brown eyes were wary, as if I were a wild horse that might bolt. “I’ve been watching for you. Merry Christmas Eve.” She reached around me and pulled me into a hug.

  Tears stung my eyes. I tried to sniff them back at first, then I just let go. I rested my head on the soft, dark cashmere of Sugar’s shoulder and cried it out.

  “I know,” she said softly, rubbing my back between the shoulder blades. “Believe me, I know.”

  I sucked in a ragged breath. “I feel like such an idiot. He’s married. All along, he was going home to his wife, this mousy thing who’s so oblivious, I can’t even hate her.”

  “Christ, men are such pigs.”

  “I feel like such an idiot.”

  “Why? Because he lied to you?” She leaned back slightly so that she could look in my face. “Because you trusted him? You were in love with him, Madison, and he took advantage of that. He concocted a ruse about his life because he knew you wouldn’t stick around if you knew the truth, and he didn’t want to lose you. It’s not your fault that you believed him.”

  It made sense. Everything she said made total sense, but I still felt like an idiot.

  “I can’t believe he was such a smooth liar.”

  “Men are big, fat liars,” she agreed.

  “I’m so embarrassed. Am I that naive? Twenty-six, and I get sucked into falling in love with a married man.”

  Sugar dropped one hand onto my shoulder. “Honey lamb, not to diminish your pain, but, as my granny used to say, shit happens. Most of the time, the best you can hope is that you don’t step in it.” She shrugged. “You stepped in it, all right. And you deserve a good cry. But just not right now, okay? It’s Christmas Eve and all your buds are here, and right now you need to have a good time. And look at your fabulous makeup job. A little bit of the black is running.” She reached over the bar for a napkin, then dabbed gently under my eyes. “There. You’re not melting anymore.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I mean it. Thank God you and Jenna are here. If I had to sit on a transatlantic flight with this weight on my head, I’d totally implode.”

  “You know, there’s another thing my granny used to say.” Sugar’s eyes widened, as if she’d summoned an important memory. “She used to tell me: ‘Sugar Plum, everything in life can be put into one of two categories. There’s the temporary category, where you can file away things that come and go. That’s where you put your jobs, your homes, your men, and your bad times. Then there’s the permanent category. That’s the important one. That’s where you put your family and friends. They’re the permanent fixtures in your life. Your friends will always be there for you.’ ”

  I smiled. “Your granny was a smart lady.”

  “Damn straight.” She linked her arm through mine. “Come on, pumpkin. Let’s get you a drink. By the way, I didn’t tell anyone your news. Figured they’d enjoy the surprise.”

  On the other side of the etched glass screen I spotted Jenna talking, her arms flying as she told a story with her usual animation. When she spotted me, she gasped and ran over to give me a big hug.

  “Madison! How great is this? You guys are in town for Christmas.”

  “She’s here solo,” Sugar explained.

  “Oh. Okay,” Jenna bounced back as we continued toward the bar. Something struck me as we approached the guys gathered there . . . something familiar about the bald man in the black leather jacket and the dark-haired man beside him...

  I gasped. “Leo and Wolf?”

  Leo turned on his bar stool and threw out his arms in amazement. “Is this a celestial vision that appears to intoxicated travelers on Christmas Eve, or is Madison here?”

  “Madison?” Wolf came over and kissed me on both cheeks. “Or Elvira?”

  “What the hell are you guys doing here?” Shock and thrill chewed away at my pain for a moment. “You’re supposed to be in Portugal. Dammit, Leo, I stayed up all night so that I could dump you on that flight. Don’t tell me you missed it!”

  “No, he arrived on time,” Wolf said. “But we decided that the real party was here in London.” He lifted his glass to me and smiled.

  “Actually,” Leo cut in, “Wolf and Jorge had a huge fight! I mean, Jorge was so mad he was spitting. Well, not intentionally, but when he talks he has this saliva thing going on.”

  “Sounds like a dysfunctional family Christmas,” Jenna said.

  Wolf nodded, peering at me through a lock of shiny dark hair that fell seductively over his forehead. Although Wolf had cut off his ponytail a few years ago, the guy had it going on in the hair department. “My family during holidays? Not a pretty sight,” he admitted.

  “The whole scene did not make for the merriest of Christmases,” Leo went on, “so we dashed to the airport and jumped on a plane. Let me tell you, I felt like James Bond, boarding the plane just minutes before takeoff, and traveling with Wolf. You should see the looks on people’s faces when this guy flashes his passport. It’s got this gold royal seal on it, and it totally knocks the airport people on their asses.”

  “Ooh, I want to see it!” Sugar shouted.

  “Show us!” Jenna chimed in, hopping off her bar stool.

  We all gathered close to watch as Wolf reached inside his jacket.

  “Whip it out, baby!” Sugar teased.

  The passport was navy blue, with a
gold-embossed seal stamped on the bottom. Grinning, he held it up beside his face, posing like Vanna White.

  We whistled and cooed.

  “Very nice,” I said. “You know, Wolf, all these years we’ve been friends and you never whipped it out for me before.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I have to get drunk first,” Wolf told me as he tucked the passport back into his jacket.

  I laughed again. Funny how it eased the pain. For a moment there, I almost forgot about Ian.

  “It’s your turn, you woman of mystery,” Leo said, looking at me. “The lipstick is a bit much, but I do like the goth eyes. So tell us, what brings you back to London so soon?”

  I took a deep breath, looking to Sugar for support. She leaned on the bar, her hand under her chin, giving me full rein.

  “Well, it’s awkward,” I admitted, “but the sad truth is, Ian has no dick.”

  “What?” Jenna shrieked. The rest of the group burst into laughter.

  “Yes, I know, sad but true,” I went on. “He’s been swinging something around all these months, but today when I looked, it was quite a shock to see that, alas, there was nothing dangling between his legs.”

  “The man has no dick?” Wolf repeated, giddy with laughter.

  Leo was nodding. “A dickless wonder.”

  “I’ve met a few of those,” Sugar said.

  “Actually, it’s more common than you think,” Wolf said studiously. “I used to work with a man with no dick. He had to pee sitting down.”

  “And I’ll bet he had no brain function, either,” Sugar added.

  “Okay, guys, that’s enough,” Jenna said. “If I were a Freudian, which I’m not, I’d have to say that you all suffer from penis envy.”

  I swiped at the tears at the corners of my eyes. It was great to be back.

  “So what really happened?” Leo asked me. “Really?”

  I took a deep breath and let it roll. “I discovered that Ian was a lying slimeball with a wife stashed away.” There, I’d said it.

  Leo narrowed his eyes, taking it in slowly. “You were right. He has no dick.”

  I looked around the group, meeting each person’s gaze. Jenna looked sympathetic. Wolf, stunned. Leo, a bit devastated on my behalf. Sugar seemed to be subconsciously coaching me to stay positive.

  “So, I’ve decided that I’m putting him behind me and moving on,” I said. “But it seemed important to get my butt back here so that I could spend Christmas with the people who matter most.” I curled my fingers around my pint of ale. “Good people, people with dicks. My friends.”

  Sugar had tears in her eyes as she turned to me. “That’s it. To the people with dicks! They’re the ones who will be there for you when the walls come tumbling down.” She held up her glass in a toast. “To us!”

  We reached for our glasses and clinked them together.

  “To dicks! Very stiff Richards!” Wolf laughed. “Oh, but my brother’s ears must be burning.”

  “To dicks!” Jenna sang bravely.

  “To my good friends,” I said.

  Leo raised his glass and crowed: “ ‘God bless us, every one.’”

  Part Four

  Merry Christmas! Well, I Guess I’ll Miss This One This Year

  New York City

  26

  December 8, 2003

  The metal heels of my Chanels clicked on the shiny floors of Park View Hospital as I raced to rescue my friend in need. Not that I could do anything to improve his medical condition, but let’s face it, everyone needs an advocate when they become an admissions number in the healthcare system. I’ve read the stories of patients checking into hospitals and going through countless sonograms and MRIs before someone finally figured out who they were and where they needed to be. And they’re the lucky ones who don’t end up missing a healthy gallbladder or having the wrong lung removed because some bozo screwed up the paperwork. Trust me, I know these things; my father was a doctor! But don’t get me started on the state of healthcare in the United States. . . .

  I ran up to the Emergency Room desk and leaned in beside the menorah, determined to find Leo. To my surprise, the woman seated there looked me in the eye, and she knew exactly who Leo was. “Yes, he’s here. Are you next of kin?”

  I frowned. “About as close as you can get.”

  She nodded toward an area behind the desk. “You can go see him. He’s in curtain three, just beyond that crash cart.”

  I scurried behind the counter, sideswiping a nurse in pink scrubs who seemed to be power walking through the ward. Leo lay with his leg propped up on the paper-covered bed, looking forlorn and washed out in a tacky print medical gown.

  “Madison, my angel of light!” Leo called to me from the bed in curtain three.

  “What happened to you?” I asked, looking him over. “Tell me you stashed your Prada shoes in a safe spot.”

  “My shoes! They’re still at the skating rink! Oh, no, Madison, you have to promise to go and pick them up first thing in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, patting his hand. “You need to focus on getting yourself put back together. What’s the prognosis?”

  Leo winced. “I don’t know yet.” He called out to a nurse passing his bed. “What’s my prognosis?”

  “We need to hear from the orthopedic surgeon,” she said, pausing to check the ice pack on his knee. She turned to me. “You from Portugal? He put down someone in Portugal as his next of kin.”

  “No, I’m from the Upper West Side.”

  She shook her head. “Like this hospital is going to spring for a phone call to Portugal.”

  Leo shrugged. “I figured it was worth a try. Wolf should know.”

  “I’ll call him,” I said. “He’s probably better off getting the news from me than from a total stranger. He’ll be so upset.” It was so hot in the room, I had to take my coat off. I slung it over the bed behind Leo. “So what’s the story here? You really fell on the ice?”

  “Oh, please.” He lifted a hand over his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear to look. “I am mortified. Well, I would have been if anyone had seen me go down like a broken windmill. The rink was just closing, can you believe it? My last lap.”

  As he spoke, a nurse wheeled a chair in and bent over it to put the brakes on. “Leo Vespucci?” she asked in a deadpan voice.

  “Yes, that’s me,” he said. “Am I being moved to a room?”

  “I’m going to take you to X ray.”

  “But I’ve already had my leg x-rayed,” Leo said.

  “They want another picture.”

  Leo sighed, grasping my hand as he eased himself off the bed onto his good leg. “Really, nurse, how long is this whole thing going to take?”

  “I’m not a nurse,” she said. “I’m a people mover. Move people from one ward to the other.”

  “Can you believe this place?” Gingerly, Leo hopped back and sat in the chair. “You come in for a broken leg, and they need a million pictures.”

  “Take your things,” the people mover said. “Don’t know where you’ll end up after this.”

  “Exactly what I’m afraid of,” Leo told me, turning to the woman. “You don’t move people to the morgue, do you?”

  When she didn’t answer, he bit his hand.

  “I’ll take your stuff,” I volunteered.

  Leo pointed to a fat plastic bag leaning against the bed. “And promise me you won’t leave me.”

  “I’ll go call Wolfie, then I’ll camp out in the waiting room,” I said, walking alongside his rolling chair.

  “Just don’t leave me!” Leo turned in the wheelchair and stretched his hand out toward me as the people mover rolled him away.

  “You’re so fucking dramatic,” I called.

  “I know!” he called back.

  I spent most of that night in the waiting room, combing through December issues of Good Housekeeping and Family Circle, which had some crafts Mom would definitely want to try this year.

  For the f
irst time ever, she was throwing the Greenwood Christmas party and I wouldn’t be there. It was weird to think of her collecting ornaments and assembling decorations on her own. Or maybe Clay was helping her. I could picture it: Mom supervising while he methodically hot-glued cranberries to a Styrofoam ball or dipped pine cones in glitter. Yes, they made a great team. I was glad that Mom had found someone to fulfill her life.

  I wish I had a scintilla of her luck. Having abandoned the youthful dreams of fabulously frosted wedding cakes, Vera Wang gowns, and chapels strewn with flowers and ribbons, I still wanted a man. Screw the wedding, give me someone to build a life with. My friends were still the best pick-me-up a girl could want, but when it came to a snuggle on a cold December night . . . well, I was on my own.

  From the waiting room I could see the workings of the ER, with doctors and nurses and technicians and aides. One of the younger residents was a real heartthrob, with beautifully chiseled cheekbones and dark hair that fell artfully into his eyes. If Sugar were here, she’d definitely make a play for him. Me, I’d spent half my life living with a doctor; I’d given up enough to support the medical profession.

  Between the visits to X ray and the wait to consult the orthopedic surgeon on call, it took us five hours to learn that Leo had a “severe sprain” and would need to rest his knee and maneuver on crutches for a while. The gorgeous young resident helped us call a cab, and we were off by three-thirty. By the time I got Leo tucked away and headed home, it was obscenely late—after four A.M. I hadn’t even partied this late for years.

  The front door of my building was locked, and I had to buzz the doorman to let me in. He waved, bleary-eyed, as I decided to treat myself to an elevator ride.

  The door whooshed open on my floor, and as I stepped onto the diamond-patterned carpeting, the emptiness creeped me out.

  The building was eerily still, with everyone sleeping. As my Chanels moved smartly down the hall, I carefully tried to avoid looking at Mrs. Endicott’s door. Apartment 302. Somehow I worried that her spirit still lingered there—and probably in the recyling room, too, where she always complained that the city should still be accepting glass. The doorman had told me a lovely young couple just closed on the place, though I hadn’t seen them yet. I still thought of the apartment as belonging to Mrs. Endicott, a bold, horsey seventyish New Yorker who rode the subways and shopped at Balducci’s. A cheerful woman, though she had no family, no children.