The Hazards of Sleeping Alone (38 page)

Bea holds her half-eaten Milano aloft in one hand. She places the other over the red Friendly's insignia on her left breast. “Charlotte,” she proclaims, gold nails glowing against the faded blue of her shirt. “I swear to you on my mother's head. Howie is a great great guy. I would not stick you with somebody who wasn't. Besides,” she says, dropping the hand and taking a bite, “what's the worst that can happen?”

Charlotte pauses. The worst that can happen is: Howie and she have nothing to talk about. The worst that can happen is: Howie makes an excuse to leave early. The worst that can happen is: Howie thinks she's bland. Boring. Not spontaneous. Not mysterious.

“I don't know,” Charlotte says.

“Well, I do. Nothing. If the sparks don't fly, the sparks don't fly.”

Charlotte doesn't want to admit how far removed she feels from the concept of “sparks flying,” but an image pops in her head of two rocks rubbed together, grinding for hours for a hint of a reaction.

“I know it must be weird,” Bea says, and Charlotte cringes, watching her dunk the crumby, bitten end of her cookie in her teacup. “With Joe, and how that all ended. I know it's been a while since you did the dating game thing.”

This is more than an understatement. Charlotte's experience with Joe hardly counts as the “dating game thing.” He saw her, was intrigued by her, and proposed to her; she barely had to say a word.

“But I can't think of a better guy to ease back in with than
Howie.” Bea extracts the dripping cookie. “He won't curse. He won't get trashed. He won't grill you with questions, then pass out on your porch.”

She cocks an eyebrow, and Charlotte feels a prickle of guilt, remembering the night Bea is referring to. She pictures Joe's long leg stretched across this very kitchen, loafer dangling from his toe, wineglass tipping in his hand.

“He was asking all kinds of questions about you.”

Joe's foot disappears. “He was?”

“Yup.”

“Like what?”

Bea shrugs. “What you're like, what you like to do, what your status is.”

“What's my status?”

“I told him you're divorced. But not recently.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Not a deal-breaker,” Bea says, chewing. “But the less fresh the baggage, the better.”

Charlotte stares at the wet crumbs floating on the surface of Bea's tea.

“I told him you have a daughter who's very cool. I said she's a teacher, and she was having a baby with a great guy. And let's see …” She taps one fingernail on the table. “I said you do some writing on the side.”

Charlotte winces.

“And you're the only person in this whole building cool enough to hang out with.”

The distinction makes Charlotte feel oddly touched. Privileged, even.

Bea picks up her cup and takes a swig, crumbs and all, then plunks it down with finality. “Worse comes to worst, Char, you
have a nice conversation with a nice man.” Her shoulders and eyebrows rise and fall in one synchronized shrug. “What do you have to lose?”

Charlotte glances around at her new house. The drawn curtains in the living room. The spotless kitchen counters. The rubber place mats carefully positioned to conceal three red drops of spilled wine. The moving announcements still stifled in their tight cellophane. “Nothing.”

“Atta girl.” Bea starts rooting in the pocket of her money belt. “So I'll give him the number when I see him Friday night. In the meantime—” She pushes a small, slightly crumpled business card across the table. “Here.”

Howard Janson
Sales Representative
Pharmaceuticals

“This doesn't mean you have to call him,” Bea clarifies before Charlotte can articulate her alarm. In the top left corner of the card is a blue ribbon and the words “25 Years of Service.” “He'll call you. He just gave me it to give you. As a, you know, gesture.” She presses both palms flat on the table and scrapes her chair back. “Well, I better get going.” Then her voice rises in an endearingly awful British accent. “Thanks for the spot of tea!”

Charlotte can't help but smile. “Anytime.”

Bea talks over her shoulder as she walks toward the door. “I'm glad you're taking a chance on Howie. I really think you two might hit it off. I mean, no pressure if you don't, but”—with one hand on the knob, she smiles her lopsided smile—“I hope you do.”

Charlotte returns the smile, faintly.

“And I'm glad you had a good weekend,” Bea says, then adds, “You deserved one,” before shutting the door.

Alone again, Charlotte washes the teacups. She repackages the uneaten cookies. Unpacks her suitcase, puts her dirty clothes in the hamper. Gets into her nightgown, brushes, flosses, washes her face. Still, she isn't close to being tired. Standing in the middle of the bathroom, she considers the tub. She yanks back the curtain and looks down at the square of Ivory perched on the soap ledge, the sandpapery blue footsteps welded to the porcelain to prevent slipping. Tentatively, she reaches for the diamond-shaped knob and cranks it toward H. The pipes sing out, as if in surprise. As the tub begins filling, she locates the lavender bubbles she bought for Emily. “L'essence de Lavande,” the label says. “Pour le bain.” On the back, the dramatic text promises in both French and English: “Prepare for the powers of lavender to relax your mind, body and spirit in this soothing, blissful, harmonic bathing experience.”

Charlotte empties some potion under the spigot, watching it turn to foam, then keeps pouring much more than is necessary. As she lowers herself into the water, the suds shift to accommodate her body. Bubbles rise up around her in great celebratory gulps, lavender slopes, an extravagant coat of icing. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on nothing but the sensation of her face warming. Her skin softening. She listens to the whisper of the bubbles, a gentle sound, like the rustling of crinolines. Later, when the tub is drained and her eyelids heavy, the hallway cloudy with scented steam, Charlotte pads out to the kitchen. She turns on the tiny light above the stove. From the table, she retrieves the business card of “Howard Janson, Sales Representative,” and secures it under a magnet on the refrigerator door.

Four-fifteen on Friday afternoon, towel-bound, hair wet, Charlotte consults her bedroom mirror. Despite the countless times she's paced this floor, stared into this mirror, pulse thumping, mind racing, she doesn't think she's ever looked or felt more terrified. She picks up the cordless. Luckily, Emily answers on the third ring.

“Everything okay?”

“No.” Charlotte stares at her ghost-white reflection. “I have a date.”

Emily promises to guide her through every step of the predate preparations. Howie isn't picking her up until seven, but Bea had advised leaving a solid three hours to get ready—what she will do for the next two hours and forty-five minutes, Charlotte has no idea. After a quick but thorough inventory of her mother, however, Emily concludes that the only thing not requiring attention are her fingernails (thanks to the Friday-afternoon manicure). She instructs Charlotte to start by moisturizing her face. Waits while she runs a blow-dryer through her damp hair. Agrees, reluctantly, to the outfit she'd planned on wearing: khakis, gray sweater. (“The color of pantyhose,” Emily groans. “But you're nervous, so you should wear what makes you comfortable. Just throw a
little
color on—a scarf or a necklace or something. That blue silk scarf. That looks pretty. Go get it. Got it? Good.”) Emily's makeup regimen is minimal: light dusting of powder, one coat mascara, subtle lipstick. She okays Charlotte's gold drop earrings but forbids her flat brown shoes (“They scream librarian”) and advises forgoing the control-top pantyhose (“Better to have a little gut than be so uncomfortable you're not any fun, right?”). Charlotte imagines Bea's advice would have been along slightly different lines.

“What's the weather like?”

“Raining.” Of course.

Emily prescribes a little olive oil to keep the hair from frizzing, and reverses her decision on the mascara when Charlotte reports it isn't waterproof.

“And last but not least,” Emily says, “the underwear situation.”

“What situation?”

“You should decide now how far you want to let things go, then plan your underwear accordingly. Just in case.”

Charlotte lowers herself to the bed, phone pinched between chin and shoulder.

“If you don't want him under your shirt, wear an old scummy bra. But if you want to fool around, wear nice underwear. And shave your legs.”

“I don't think I have to worry about that.”

“You never know,” Emily sings. Her smile is audibly bursting. “Personally, I'm hoping you get a little action. But”—and here her voice turns serious—“don't feel obligated to do anything you don't want to do. Just because he pays doesn't mean you owe him anything.”

Now it is Charlotte's turn to smile, at her daughter's protectiveness. She might just be ready for motherhood after all.

“And listen,” Emily goes on, “later, if you're feeling stressed, just go in the ladies' room and take some deep breaths. And if you start to feel nauseous, try massaging the skin between your thumb and forefinger.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says dubiously.

“And when the check comes, offer to pay for half.”

“Really?” This is news to Charlotte.

“But you won't have to. He'll pay. Or he should, anyway. Not because he's the man, just because he's the one who initiated.”

“Right.”

“Where's he taking you to eat, anyway? Someplace romantic?”

“He hadn't decided.”

“A surprise. Cool.” Emily hesitates. “As long as it's not—”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte leaps in. “Not Friendly's. At least, I don't think … I can't imagine he would. Would he?”

“Let's hope not.” Emily's tongue ring clicks. “If he does, let him pay.”

By 6:55
P.M.,
Charlotte thinks she may have legitimately come down with something. Flu, maybe. Self-induced flu, but flu nonetheless. She is perched on the edge of the living room couch, listening to the smattering of rain, prodding madly at the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. She feels acutely uncomfortable. She imagines her body in layers, a series of onion skins, one fragile tissue unpeeling to reveal the next. On the top layer: the pressure of a scarf around her neck, twin weights of earrings in her lobes, waxy taste of lipstick on her mouth. Next: belly soft and spreading under non-control-top pantyhose, neutral white bra, noncommittal cotton underwear. And beneath that: stomach gurgling, mind reeling, heart flipping like a deranged jack-in-the-box.

Charlotte has spoken to Howie just once—Saturday, the day after Bea gave him the number—and they had a brief, polite conversation. She had worried it was a bad sign, too forward, too desperate, his calling less than twenty-four hours after he got her number, but when she intercepted Bea on her way to work, she disagreed.

“It isn't needy,” Bea diagnosed. “It's mature. Real men don't screw around waiting the correct number of days to call, Char. He wanted to call, he called. That's what mature men do.” She
fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “So what's the plan?”

“He's taking me to dinner. On Friday.”

Bea's eyebrows shot up. “That's his Friendly's night.”

“I know.” Charlotte had already invested considerable time realizing this and worrying about its implications. “Do you think
that's
a bad sign?”

“Not at all.” Bea lit a cigarette. “It's about time he stopped spending Friday nights doing crosswords. As a matter of fact, I think it's kind of—” She inhaled, and a beam spread across her face. “Gallant.”

Now, Charlotte feels a strange fluttering in the deepest layer of herself. She had liked that word:
gallant.
It reminded her of old-fashioned courting, an era of modesty and ponies. As the hour hand grazes the hook of the seven, she prods her hand harder, wondering at what point she's allowed to call the date off due to illness. It wouldn't be a lie. She didn't sleep the night before, she's been nauseous all day. On top of which, she's hosting the book group the next afternoon. It had seemed like a good idea earlier in the week when she suggested it—a step in the direction of “getting a life,” and a way to show everyone the condo. But since triggering the phone chain, she hadn't done a thing to prepare. She hadn't bought snacks. She hadn't even read the book! Really, she should cancel the date and spend tonight cleaning. Besides, what are the chances this will really go anywhere? Why put herself through it? Deep breathing, leg shaving, anxiety so acute it makes her sick. It isn't worth it. When it comes down to it, the only real reason she's still going is to avoid the fallout from Bea and Emily if she backs out.