23
W
HEN
O
LIVIA MET
Marc again at the bar at the Carlyle, “their place,” this time he was waiting for her at a table in the corner, more private than the one where they had sat the first time; they could now sit side by side. In spite of her good intentions, she felt a little thrill of anticipation that she would be so close to him. Across the room she could see a couple sitting together on the banquette in what had been a seat for one, almost on top of each other because the tables were so small, kissing vigorously. She turned away quickly and handed Marc his tear sheets.
“Well,” he said brightly, smiling at her with the pleasure of seeing her again, his face so unguarded that she was suddenly afraid she could hurt him.
“Well,” she said back. They sat there beaming at each other. Then the waiter came and they ordered white wine.
“I want to know what you’re thinking,” Marc said to her. “Right this minute. Tell me.”
“That you’re even more attractive than I remembered,” Olivia said, and then was embarrassed. It was only a compliment, she told herself; nothing wrong with that. Men loved compliments. And this particular man was probably used to them. She knew that if she weren’t so aware of her infatuation she would be flattering him without a thought.
“What have you been doing?” he asked. He drew a little closer, looking in her eyes in that anticipatory way he had before, as if he was fascinated by her life, as if it was not like anyone else’s. Well, maybe he was really intrigued. She was more than curious to know what he did on a typical day, if only to place him in reality for her fantasies. He would probably think her life was ordinary if he knew, but she didn’t care if his was.
“Working,” she said. “You know what that’s like. And I went to my uncle’s seventy-fifth birthday party.” Why didn’t I say we went? she thought.
“Was it fun?”
“Actually, it was very nice. But I found out one of my cousins was killed in a plane crash. That was quite a shock.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It happened months ago and we weren’t close. But it was still a shock.”
“Of course,” Marc said. “In a big family there are more tragedies. That’s the way it is.”
“I think ours has had more. Maybe not.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “Life is dangerous. You just can’t think about it.”
“But I do.”
“Of course. So do I. So we have to enjoy it.”
“That’s how he got killed,” Olivia said. “Enjoying it.”
He suppressed a smile. “You’re funny.”
“Tell me what you’ve been doing,” she said. And who you did it with, she thought.
“On the weekend I went to a party. Some old friends. Afterward we went downtown to a club. I don’t like that sort of thing as much as I used to. I feel like I’m reliving my life over and over.”
“Already!”
“If you went to clubs, you’d know what I mean.”
“I did,” Olivia said. “I remember.”
“And I worked on my book. Ran in the park. Ate a lot of takeout.”
“Alone?” she asked lightly.
“Were you?”
“No,” she said. “But you know that.”
“I was alone,” he said. “And now you know that.” He gave her his most appealing grin. “Run away with me while I’m still single. I want you.”
“You’re very good for my ego,” Olivia said, and laughed.
“Tell me how you see me,” he said, suddenly serious. “Tell me how I seem to you.”
“As . . .”
“The truth.”
She looked at the line of his neck, both strong and vulnerable, and suddenly, in flashes, she imagined she was seeing him when he was five years old, and as a teenager, and now. This continuum of people was endearing but also rather frightening—it made her feel wistful and soft. She wanted to be kind to that little boy, advise the adolescent and fall into the arms of the grown man she saw before her. She felt guilty, not so much because of Roger, who was not there, but because Marc seemed so real, so
human
when she thought of him this way. The fantasy had been easier.
“Well,” she said slowly, “I see a very sexy man I want to flirt with, and at the same time I see the little boy you used to be. I think it’s because you’re so much younger than I am.”
“I’m not so much younger,” Marc said. “And that’s exactly the way I see you. I see the feisty little girl and the sophisticated, beautiful woman. You’ve read enough to know that the child never really goes away. That hidden child is part of what makes you so interesting.”
“And so nutty,” she said, and laughed.
He reached over and took her hand. His fingers were neither warm nor cool, and his touch jolted her and traveled through her body, leaving her silent with surprise. “Flirt with me,” he said. “I dare you.”
“You dare me?”
“Yes.” His cool eyes looked into hers. Young men do that, she thought, they stare at you, they’re so intense. She felt saved by the waiter, who came over to see if they wanted another drink, but Marc said yes without asking her or releasing her hand, and the waiter went away. “You did want another?” he said.
“I can’t stay very long.”
“You don’t have to drink it. I just don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to either,” she said.
He turned her hand over and looked at her palm. “You have a star in your hand,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“It means you’re very lucky.”
She looked at her palm. There it was, a seven-pointed star. She had never paid attention. “It’s very unusual,” he said. He ran his thumb over it, lightly, and she felt the same electricity. She looked at his mouth.
“Do you read palms?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Someone told me that once.” He showed her his hand. “You see, I have one, too.”
“Do you believe in it?”
“I’ll believe anything that says I’m lucky.”
“I guess I will, too,” Olivia said.
The waiter brought their wine. The room had become crowded and smoky. Now, with all the voices chattering, the piano did not seem so loud. She looked around to make sure there was no one there whom she and Roger knew. She had already decided she wasn’t going to mention meeting Marc, but she didn’t know what she would say if Roger found out and she had to explain it. The couple opposite them who had been kissing disentangled and got up and left. She and Marc watched them go.
“I wonder if they’re going to have dinner or sex,” Olivia said.
“Probably sex first, then dinner,” Marc said.
“Or the other way around. Maybe they’re hungry.”
“But definitely sex.”
Under other circumstances it could have been us, she thought. She imagined what it would be like to be free again and in love with someone when it was all fresh and new. No, not
someone:
Marc Delon.
“Is Roger romantic?” Marc asked.
“Why are you asking something like that?”
“I’m jealous. I want to know.”
“You can’t be jealous.”
“But I am.”
“We’ve been together almost twelve years,” Olivia said.
He looked pleased. “Is that the answer?”
“Of course he’s romantic,” she said. She thought of their shared Jacuzzi, the hot bubbling water, the scented candlelight, the music playing, the food on the rim of the tub, the dogs dozing on the floor, Roger rubbing the tension out of her back . . . Romantic? No, just therapeutic. Our relationship has turned into goddamn Canyon Ranch, she thought.
“But you’re here with me anyway,” he said softly.
“Yes,” she said. She thought about what it would be like to have him at home in the Jacuzzi with her. His body would be so beautiful, and he would be so intense. To dwell on it for even an instant more was unbearable. “But I have to leave now,” she said. “He’ll be waiting.”
“Will you tell him you saw me?”
“I hope it . . . doesn’t come up.”
He smiled, triumphant. “Will you meet me again?”
“Yes,” she said.
“When?”
She thought. “Next week,” she said. A week away seemed safe.
He paid the check, like an old-fashioned date, and they went outside to the street. It was dark. She was deciding that when he moved to kiss her on both cheeks, this time she would turn her head to meet his mouth; but before she could he had kissed her very gently on the lips. It was exactly as she had imagined it. She stood there, stunned.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Wow.”
On the way home there were Halloween decorations in the store windows. Olivia looked at them happily, smiling with joy. She felt like a kid again.
* * *
Safe in their house, with the warm chaos of the welcoming dogs, the last of the nightly news on television, the arrival of Roger, virtuous from the gym, the discussion of what to order sent up for dinner, Olivia knew she was glowing with lust for Marc. She wondered if this was the way Roger had felt with Wendy. She hoped not. It hurt her too much to think of Roger being this alive because of another woman, and she didn’t want to think of it at all. She thought of the duplicity of people, herself included, and of how territorial they were. She wanted both Roger and Marc.
They ate mystery burgers from a vegetarian Indian restaurant on the couch in front of the television set, watched a mindless docudrama, because it was her turn to pick, and discussed their day briefly during the commercials. Roger’s arm was affectionately around her shoulders.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too.”
They were always so kind to one another.
As the week went by she both looked forward to and dreaded her next meeting with Marc. Where could this infatuation go? Each possibility seemed worse. But it didn’t have to go anywhere, she told herself. She should just enjoy it. Roger had finally shaken off the sexual malaise that had hung over him since their reconciliation, and now when they made love, although it was still not frequent, at least he tried to be passionate. As for herself, she thought of Marc and became wild, the way she had in the old days. Roger thought it was for him, and responded. So the result was that they were getting along quite well. Did it matter why? It seemed such a long time ago that she had believed everything to be perfect.
When she called Marc she told him that they should choose a new place, because she didn’t want them to become known as regulars, a couple. He suggested another bar, not so chic or public but pleasant, around the corner from his apartment on the Upper East Side. As before, she could walk there and back from her office and not have to deal with gridlock while Roger was busy at the gym. The fact that their moments together were so rushed and secret made them even more exciting. Never enough, she thought, but never too much either. She was still afraid that all this would disappear.
His neighborhood place had a hail-fellow-well-met look about it: dark wood walls, leather booths, a big television set over the bar with a sports event on it, young men in business suits waving bottles of beer and cheering their team. The women were all in their twenties, suitable for the young men and hoping to find one. Marc led her to a secluded booth in the back, sat across from her and pretended to pull a curtain protecting them from the world. They sat there smiling at each other as if they had been parted for a long time.
“So this is where you hang out,” Olivia said.
“It’s convenient. Do you hate it?”
“No, I like it.”
Her left hand was on the table. He reached over and ran his finger lightly between her fingers. She felt that streak of light again. She was wearing a ring, as she almost always did, and Marc moved his finger over it, stroking it, obviously thinking it was her wedding ring.
“Did you think about me this week?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. She was picking up flirting very fast for someone who was out of practice.
“I thought about you, too.”
When the waiter came over for their order, Marc ordered beer. “I have to warn you,” he said to her, “the wine here isn’t great.”
“Perrier, then.”
The waiter went away. “What did you think about me?” Marc asked.
“You would only be flattered.”
“So would you.”
“You’re not still alone?” she said, hoping he was. I shouldn’t have asked that, she thought. But I want to know.
“I didn’t go out with anyone who overwhelmed me,” he said.
“Just checking.”
So he went on dates. Of course he would; why should he stay home and wish he were with her? He was horny and free. She wanted to know about his private life and yet she didn’t. Reality had to disappoint. He liked that she was taken, he thought he knew just where she was; but she didn’t like that he was available because that meant soon he wouldn’t be. If she didn’t ask, it would be better. She could pretend.
“You’re the woman I really want,” he said.
She smiled.
The waiter brought their drinks and left. “I have some superior wine in my apartment,” Marc said.
“Really!”
“I live practically next door.”
“I know.”
“We can’t do anything so bad in an hour.”
“Oh, yes we could.”
His eyes were glistening; she couldn’t tell if he was still flirting or giving it a real try.
“No, I don’t think so,” Olivia said.
“Just checking,” he said, imitating her.
“You’re outrageous.”
“Now you know what I was thinking all week.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you think I’m terrible?”
“I know you are,” she said, and laughed.
He was playing with her hand again, his touch delicate, almost thoughtful. She wondered if that would be the way his fingers would move over her body. “I’m going away next week,” he said.
“Oh? For how long?”
“Till after Thanksgiving. I have some friends who have a house in the Berkshires, and they’re lending it to me to write. Actually, I’m house-sitting for them, so we’re all happy.”
She felt both disappointed and reprieved. No decisions, no guilt. The safe, sweet longing of separation. “I think I’m going to miss you,” she said.
“I’ll miss you. I wish you could come with me.”
She pictured them making love under a feather comforter, in a room with wooden beams on the ceiling. There would be a window overlooking green and orange hills. She wondered if the leaves would have fallen by then. But this was her fantasy, and so the trees would be forever in full flame. “So do I,” she said.