He laughs. “Work. My mistress was my job. Takes more time than any woman. And more time than any woman can put up with.” Then he smiles and winks at me. “Besides, my darling, nobody could ever match your charms. Though I will say each of my wives reminded me a little of you.”
“Is that a compliment?” I ask. “Were they five foot five with wavy brown hair? Greenish gray eyes? Or is it that they were all nineteen— like I was when we were together?”
“All of the above,” Eric says, chuckling.
Having a chauffeur is definitely the way to travel. We’re already in Manhattan and I didn’t have to pay for a train ticket or sit next to a beer-swilling businessman on Metro-North. We pull up in front of the entrance to the Time Warner apartments and Eric jumps out before the driver can come around and open the door. I peer out of the car window, craning my neck up at the towering green glass building. Despite the hour, the street is bustling with late-night club-goers, chatting gaily as they hop in and out of taxis.
Eric swings open my door and extends his hand. When I got into the car half an hour ago, I didn’t really focus on where we were headed, but obviously we’re on our way upstairs. It’s almost three in the morning. The restaurants can’t still be open. I take Eric’s hand and stroll with him through the lobby and into the elevator. As we walk by, the doorman, two lobby attendants, a concierge, and the elevator man all nod obsequiously and say, “Good evening, Mr. Richmond. Pleasure to have you back.” Nobody bothers to glance at me. I’m obviously a transient.
Or a tramp. If Emily ever did something like this, I’d kill her. Wouldn’t she realize what it means to a guy if you agree to go up and see his apartment at this hour? But I can easily convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Eric’s single and so, apparently, am I, at least in every way that matters. My wedding ring is off and so is my husband—off with another woman. If Bill can have Ashlee, I can have Eric. He doesn’t even count. I already have that notch on my belt.
We step into his apartment and I gasp. Even before Eric turns on the pinpoint lights hidden in the ceiling, the room is already shimmering with the glow of the city. The glistening views reflected on all sides in the floor-to-ceiling windows provide all the decoration the room really needs. Some interior designer has been smart enough to realize the hard work has already been done and his job was just not to get in the way of the fantastic views. Muted low-slung sofas in soft grays sit on a quietly elegant beige carpet. An undulating glass coffee table almost disappears, except for the slim Giacometti sculpture sitting decorously on its surface. The one wall without a window manages to hold its own with a subtly spectacular Picasso.
Someone must have known we were coming, because the sleek steel table in the dining room is set for two. The tapered candles are already lit, and a generous dish of caviar is sitting inside a silver bowl filled with ice. Eric goes over to the waiting magnum of Dom Perignon, pops the cork, and fills two glasses, leaning over to hand me one.
I grab the glass and take a big gulp.
“Wait a minute. We need a toast,” says Eric coming closer. He raises his glass and clicks it against mine. “To you. To us. To first love.”
Now I bring the glass to my lips, but I can hardly swallow. The whole apartment could be out of a movie, and so could this scene. Is all this just a fantasy? Remember, Hallie, you haven’t seen this man in twenty years.
“You know, you were my first love,” Eric says as we sit down on a deep-cushioned sofa and he scoops some of the caviar onto a plate. He holds out a little spoon of beluga for me. “And you were my first lover. I’ve gotten even better in bed since then.”
“I don’t know if I have. I’ve been with the same guy all this time.” I’m not sure if that’s a selling point or not.
He puffs up, clearly pleased with himself. “You’ve just been with me and Bill?”
“Not just. But almost just,” I say, skirting the issue. Men don’t want to know the exact number, anyway. If they did, what would be the ideal answer? More than two (you have experience) but less than five (you’re not a . . . well, you know)? And who’s going to admit the truth, especially if it’s double digits?
I lean forward to take a taste from Eric’s spoon. Mmm, that’s good caviar. I run my tongue over my now-salty lips and make a sucking noise trying to get the wayward black roe out from between my teeth. Very attractive. When will God or General Mills invent a food that you can safely eat in front of a man? Everything either drips, crunches, or sticks to your molars.
Champagne seems pretty safe. When Eric takes a tray of thinly sliced chateaubriand from a side table, I decide to stick with the bubbly. He refills my glass for the second time. Or is it the third? What am I trying to do—be like one of those college girls who downs a bottle of tequila so she can claim “I didn’t know what I was doing” when she ends up sleeping with the guy?
More food keeps appearing, although I never see anybody bringing it in. Eric must be so rich he doesn’t just have a staff, he has elves.
Eric is as charming as I remembered him, and as the evening—or morning—goes on, I begin to relax. And not just from the champagne. I feel that magical mix of new excitement and easygoing comfort. The conversation veers from Eric’s brand-new business stories to old memories and we laugh as we catch up on almost-forgotten friends. Eric tells me that the party-loving wrestler who lived downstairs in his freshman dorm is now a missionary in Southeast Asia. I offer that the guy who won the college beer-chugging contest (fifteen cans in fifty-seven minutes) is now a pilot for United Airlines.
“But he doesn’t fly any major routes,” I quip.
Eric laughs and pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. “People change, don’t they,” he says. Then he looks at me seriously for a minute. “I heard about your little sister, by the way. All those years ago. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” He’s touched a nerve, but I swallow hard and decide to let it pass. Determined to change the subject, I quickly ask, “How’s your mom?”
“Doing fine. She just sold another one of her paintings. I’ve never figured out who hangs her stuff, but in Boca Raton, she’s hot. By the way, she still asks about you. She never forgave me for not marrying you.”
“A woman of fine taste,” I say, feeling comfortable again. So this is the advantage of an old boyfriend. I feel that first-date sexual tingle but I’m cozy enough to kick off my shoes and curl my bare toes up on the sofa. I snuggle a little closer and rest my head on Eric’s shoulder, taking in his subtle, rich scent.
“You’ve switched colognes. I miss the Old Spice,” I say, teasing. “Remember? You used to come back from crew practice and instead of taking a shower, you’d douse yourself with the stuff.”
Eric makes a face. “Not fair,” he says defending his way-back-when frat-boy hygiene. “I always put on deodorant first.”
“I know. A smell I’ll never forget.” I wrinkle my nose in mock horror. “Ban has been banished from my house ever since.”
“Now I use L’Occitane, imported from France. I hope you approve,” he says putting an arm around me and moving closer.
I don’t know if it’s the allure of the moment (and the hundred-dollar skin lotion) or the appeal of the past (and the remembered Old Spice), but I lift my chin toward Eric. And in case he doesn’t know what I’m angling for, I slide closer and kiss him.
The kiss seems to have an immediate effect because I feel a pounding vibration between us. Eric reaches down, sliding his hand over my hip and toward his own. The vibrating intensifies.
“Cell phone,” Eric explains, pulling back and grabbing the Motorola from his pocket. He glances at the number. “Got to take this.”
I sit back, slightly embarrassed. I know my sex life with Bill had slowed down lately, but can I really not tell the difference between a pulsating phone and a throbbing man?
Eric has jumped up and is pacing around the room, barking orders to whoever’s on the other end of the line. He’s not happy about something in, as far as I can tell, a deal for orange juice futures. I personally think the future belongs to papaya, but Eric’s not asking my advice.
He slams shut his phone and comes back to the couch. He starts to stroke my face, and runs a finger through my hair. But then he jumps up again. “I’m sorry, Hallie, but I’d better follow through on this problem or it’s going to keep bothering me.”
Well, I’m not going to let it bother me. I reach for some more caviar while he arranges a four-way conference call covering three continents. Given all of Eric’s attention, the future of orange juice seems secure.
Eric finally comes back to the couch again, but he still seems tense.
“Want a massage?” I ask, rubbing his shoulders.
“I have a better idea. I could use another kiss,” he says, taking my face in his hands and pressing his lips against mine.
We embrace for a long time. His kisses are soft and warm, and his hands caressing me feel both familiar and new. I lean into his firm chest and pull him tight as both the space and the years between us dissolve. Time in all its essence disappears and when I finally open my eyes, I see the first whispers of light breaking into the dark sky outside.
Eric breathes softly into my ear, and when my whole body responds, he asks tenderly, “Will you come into my bedroom?”
I hesitate, and over my shoulder, I see him glance at his watch.
“Short on time?” I ask.
“Always,” he admits. “But I don’t want to lose this chance.”
The phone doesn’t ring, but the doorbell does. Eric groans and gets up. “It’s just my assistant Hamilton. We always start early.”
He lets in a nerdy-looking thirty-year-old who’s holding a heavy briefcase. “Good morning, Mr. Richmond. I have those papers and we can . . .” Hamilton pauses, noticing me, and looks slightly abashed, though I’m probably not the first woman he’s found lolling around Eric’s apartment at the crack of dawn. But now he stammers, “Am I interrupting something?”
Eric glances at me with a little smile. “I don’t know yet. We were just negotiating.”
Hamilton disappears discreetly to a back room as yet unseen by me and Eric glances seductively at me and takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s go put another nickel in the piggy bank.”
I smile coyly. “Not on the first date. You know me.”
Eric shakes his head. “I do, but you’re not going to make me wait six months again, are you? This isn’t really a first date.”
All of a sudden, I feel hesitant. The night has been wonderful, but maybe it’s gone as far as it should. Eric’s a busy man now. I don’t know that I want to take the next step.
“It’s morning, and you have a lot to do today,” I tell him. “Aren’t you leaving for Bermuda?”
Eric strokes my hair with one hand and checks his BlackBerry with the other. “Come with me,” he says, as he scrolls through his messages. I appreciate a man who can multitask, but does he have to do it when he’s trying to seduce me? “Come to Bermuda this afternoon. Then I’m going on to London. I think I have a trip to Hong Kong after that. You could follow me wherever you want.”
A knowing smile crosses my face. That’s right. Eric’s already told me that any woman comes second to his work. Two decades ago I wasn’t willing to follow him across the country to graduate school, probably understanding even then that his priorities and mine would never be the same. Maybe my life would have been more exciting if I’d stayed with Eric, but it wouldn’t have been my life. Even at twenty, I knew I didn’t want to live in any man’s shadow.
I stand up and wrap my arms around him. The very early morning sun streaking into the room is getting brighter and I give Eric a long kiss. “I love you,” I tell him exuberantly. “I really love you.”
“So we’re having sex or are you coming to Bermuda?” he asks, slightly unsure of where we stand.
“Neither,” I say. “Definitely neither. But you’re still sexy and funny and gorgeous. Exactly what I remembered.”
“Then why aren’t you sleeping with me?” asks Eric, the man who never lets a deal slip through his fingers.
“Because I remembered a few other things, too.”
Eric shakes his head and then smiles. “You’re going to come back to me, you know. Maybe not tonight. But you’ll come back to me.”
“Awfully confident, aren’t you,” I parry.
“The key to my success,” he says, kissing me one more time.
I slip into my high heels, give him one last hug, and head for the door. I’m a single woman now. I have to be careful how I spend my nickels.
Chapter FOUR
AS I’M LEAVING ERIC’S BUILDING, the doorman who ignored me when I arrived walks me toward the heavy glass door and pulls it open for me.
“I hope you had a marvelous evening,” he says.
“Better than you can imagine,” I tell him, tossing back my head and striding into the now quiet street.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly registering my remark. I don’t mind burnishing Eric’s reputation, and I haven’t lied. It was a marvelous evening, though not the way the doorman thinks. I just had my first date in twenty-one years and everything went the way I wanted. I was charming and sexy, and I left a virgin. I can only hope Emily’s dates end the same way. And just to prove that I’m not sexist, I hope Adam’s do, too.
I stroll into early morning New York, feeling almost heady. The three A.M. revelers have finally gone to bed and the businessmen and store owners haven’t started their day. Six forty to six forty-five may be the only time that New York sleeps.
I’m not ready to go home, so I decide to walk the few blocks over to my office. I’m officially starting back on Monday, but I might as well get a jump on organizing my sure to be overflowing inbox. A hansom cab comes clip-clopping by me, and the driver tips his cap. “Morning, ma’am. Need a ride through the park?”
“No, thank you,” I say automatically. And then I think, why not? All these years in New York, and I’ve never splurged on a horse-drawn carriage. Sure, you’re supposed to take this romantic ride on your first trip to Manhattan or with a man you love, but I’m playing by my own rules now.
“Wait,” I call before he can get too far away. The driver stops again and I climb up into the buggy. I’m just settling into the faux-fur–lined seat when my cell phone rings.
“Hello,” I say cheerfully, for once forgetting to screen the number before I pick up.
“Hi.”
One syllable and my good mood disappears. And I’m not the only one affected. As if on cue, the dappled mare stops dead in her tracks and takes her daily dump. An apt editorial comment. Good horsey.
“Hello, Bill,” I say. How is it that he happened to call me ten minutes after I left Eric? Did he pick up some electricity in the cosmos? A somebody-else-is-interested-in-her vibe?
“Hallie, I’m glad you’re finally talking to me. Want to have breakfast?”
Does “hello” really count as talking to him? Maybe saying “Bill” was a little too intimate.
“Why are you calling me at seven o’clock?” I ask coolly, biding my time.
“I wanted to catch you before you went to the office,” he says.
I pause. It’s Saturday morning and my first day of even thinking about going to the office, and he knew that, too?
“Quick, what color pants am I wearing?” I ask, testing just how far his spousal ESP goes.
“Black,” he says with assurance.
I sigh. That one was much too easy.
“We can get pancakes,” Bill says, as if the lure of soggy, greasy, carbladened fritters can entice me. And I’m hungry, so it does. I should have eaten more caviar at Eric’s. In fact, I should always eat more caviar.
“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “Where should we meet?”
“Breakfast at the Regency,” he says.
“Really?” I ask, shocked that my husband or former husband or soon-to-be-former husband picked the city’s power breakfast spot.
“Just joking. There’s a good diner on Ninth and Fifty-fifth. See you there in ten minutes.”
He clicks off. A diner. What a surprise. I check my face in the compact mirror in my bag and note with satisfaction that my eye makeup is intact and my face is still flushed from Eric’s kisses. I look down and wiggle my toes. Watch out, Bill, because I’m ready. Now I know why I bought these stilettos. Turns out they’re my Fuck-You shoes.
I get to the diner and Bill is already comfortably settled into a red leather booth, filling in
The New York Times
crossword puzzle. The clues get harder every day, and here it is Saturday, and he’s still doing the damn thing in ink. We used to work on the Sunday puzzle together, and I take some comfort in realizing that he’s going to miss me every weekend. Not a chance Ashlee comes up with the five-letter word for the Swedish port opposite Copenhagen: Malmö.
“Hallie!” he says cheerfully. “Come sit down. I already ordered you a café au lait with skim milk and two Splendas.”
“I only use one now,” I say archly, sliding onto the banquette opposite him.
“You’re looking great,” he says, glancing at me appraisingly. “But isn’t that blouse a little sheer for work?”
“I got dressed last night,” I answer provocatively.
Bill doesn’t seem to know what to make of my remark. “At least your clothes aren’t wrinkled,” he says, clearly not ready to imagine that I may have spent the night with someone else. He reaches over to smooth his fingers across my face. “In fact you’re not wrinkled at all. Anywhere.”
I’m pleased by the compliment—and the success of the QVCORDERED Victoria Principal anti-aging products that I now use daily— but I pull away from his touch. “Sorry, pal. You’ve lost your patting rights.”
“Why? Doesn’t twenty-one years count for anything?”
“Exactly my question,” I say with an edge to my voice.
“Let’s not go there,” Bill says, shaking his head. “I just wanted to see you. I’m not looking for a fight this morning.”
What would Bill and I have to fight about? Surely the fact that he’s shtupping another woman shouldn’t cause any bad blood between us. We don’t even live together anymore. I can’t complain that he set the thermostat too low or that he used up the last roll of Charmin Ultra and forgot to write it on the shopping list. In fact, I just bought a 48-pack all for myself. I’ll never, ever have to worry about toilet paper again.
Oblivious, Bill starts chatting amiably, as if it were any other Saturday morning, telling me about the great movie he saw the other night and his newly improved tennis serve. I yawn audibly. I don’t care if he aced Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf—and their toddler—all at the same time. If Ashlee’s the one stroking Bill’s body, she can be the one to stroke his goddamn ego, too.
The waiter brings over my Western omelet, which I’d ordered to send Bill the message that he doesn’t know me as well as he thinks: I don’t eat pancakes anymore. But the eggs look disgusting, and I just push them around on my plate.
“So, Bill, why did you want to meet?” I ask, taking a sip of watery café au lait.
“I don’t want to lose touch with you.” And trying to sound matter-of-fact, he adds, “Oh, and by the way, I remember you said that you got season tickets to the Knicks. The first game’s not too far away, so I thought we’d make some plans.”
I stare at him in amazement. “I got those tickets for you and me. For us.”
“Well, ‘us’ is good,” he says jovially. “We can go together. Ashlee won’t mind. She doesn’t even like basketball.”
I take a bite of the disgusting omelet and almost gag. “ ‘Us,’ is not good,” I say.
“Why not?”
I shake my head. Bill’s upended my entire universe and he’s acting like he did nothing more scandalous than move the living room armchair a few inches to the left. Could he possibly not understand that his choice to be with Ashlee has repercussions? Losing courtside seats for the Knicks is the least of it.
“I got those tickets as part of my plan for life-after-the-kids-are-gone. You made a different plan.”
Bill swipes a paper napkin across his lips to wipe away some errant maple syrup. “Hallie, be reasonable. We can still do things together. We’re a family, and the kids being in college doesn’t change that.”
Unexpectedly, I sit back and start to laugh. I’m here at a greasy diner on Ninth Avenue, explaining to my Neanderthal mate why he’s not going to see any three-point shots in person this season. I can only pray that Ashlee doesn’t have premium cable and he won’t get to see the games on TV, either.
“Unfortunately, darling, you did change our family. But one thing hasn’t changed. You can still finish my breakfast.” I stand up and slide my plate of eggs toward Bill.
“Thanks,” he says, picking up his fork to dig in and flashing what he thinks is a charismatic grin. “Will you at least think about those Knicks tickets?”
“I will.” I smile generously because that’s what I typically do. I try to make everything work. I try to be nice. But not today.
“I’ll think about the Knicks tickets and you think about this,” I say sweetly. In one bold motion, I sweep my hand across the table, sending eggs, coffee, and half a glass of orange juice flying into his lap. A big blob of ketchup lands smack-dab in the middle of his white polo shirt. His fault—who uses ketchup on eggs anyway?
“HEY! What are you doing?” Bill screams, jumping up and smashing his knee against the table. I hope it’s the bad one.
I toss back my head in satisfaction and stride toward the door. The websites are right that revenge is sweet. And in this case, it’s also messy.
When I get to my office, I spend ten minutes sifting through papers and then stretch out exhausted on the sofa. But as tired as I am, I can’t sleep, and I stare out the window at the water tower on the next roof. Not exactly the fourteen-million-dollar view from the Time Warner building (south tower), but in this office, my real estate passes for prime. If I stand in just the right spot and crane my head in just the right direction and it’s a particularly clear day, I can even catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building.
A lot’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, but for some reason, one line plays over and over in my head. I keep hearing Eric say,
I
heard about your little sister
. Though she was six years younger than me, I adored Amy and she idolized me. I read her bedtime stories, took her to school for show-and-tell, and helped her learn long division. (Why aren’t fourth graders allowed to use calculators?) Studying in my room on sunny afternoons, I’d peek out my window and see my vivacious little sister turning somersaults in the backyard. After I went to college, Amy visited me often. We giggled together in my dorm room, and I let her meet all my friends.
Something I should never, ever have done.
My sweet sister Amy. Charming, funny, trusting Amy. I can still see her happy face that last day. Amy never dreamt that I couldn’t protect her. I never imagined that I wouldn’t get to laugh with my sister again.
I twist around on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, but I keep thinking of Amy. I can’t let Eric’s comment make me relive that whole awful night. Restless, I head over to my desk to tackle the stacks of papers and messages that have piled up in my absence. After a few hours, my eyes are blurry from reviewing legal briefs and, exhausted, I finally lie down and take a long nap.
When I wake up, my office is dark and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s Saturday night and I have nothing to do. Of course I could be flying to Bermuda with Eric in his private plane, so I guess this is my choice. My stomach is growling and I’m hungry. Dumping the eggs on Bill this morning was satisfying but not very filling. I check my watch, and it’s after eight. I go out to my assistant’s desk and flip through the loose-leaf notebook of take-out menus that she’s so neatly put together: Mexican, Chinese, Italian, Indian, Thai, Cambodian, Lebanese, and Canadian. Canadian cuisine? I’m not in the mood for bacon or elk.
I close the notebook. I don’t really want to sit here alone in an empty office building on Saturday night, anyway. I could go home and check to see if I’ve gotten my new DVDs from Netflix, or I could actually be brave and have dinner in a nice Manhattan restaurant alone. And why not?
I leave my office and stroll the few blocks over to the Brasserie, where I haven’t been in years. A nice-looking crowd of people is milling around the entrance, and I figure I’ll blend right in. The maître d’ whisks the parties in front of me off to their tables, and when it’s my turn, the young, dewy-skinned receptionist smiles distractedly at me.
“Please step to the side while you wait for the rest of your party to arrive,” she says sweetly.
“I am the rest of my party,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
But she doesn’t get it and looks at me wide-eyed. Since she’s miniskirted, beautiful, and about twenty-three, I’m sure it doesn’t occur to her that anybody eats dinner alone.
An aggressive man behind me pushes me slightly and calls out to the young miss, “Excuse me, beautiful. We’re all here. Party of four. Can you seat us?”
“Certainly, sir,” she says, with more courtesy than he deserves, as she passes him on to the maître d’. Then she looks back to me, her problem client.
“Just
one
? You’re by yourself ?” she asks incredulously.
“Mmm-hmmm,” I mumble, trying not to draw any attention to myself.
“All alone?” she asks. Her voice is loud so I’m sure everyone can hear, and her tone of voice suggests that given my pathetic situation, Sally Struthers might want to adopt me.
I think about explaining that I have a family, was married for a million years, and just canoodled with my ex-boyfriend. But instead I shake my head and sigh deeply.
“You come into this world alone and you die alone,” I say solemnly.
She looks bewildered. Customers vying for tables have come up with a lot of persuasive arguments, but mine’s an original. Who else has elevated getting a plate of steak frites into a metaphysical conundrum?
Amazingly, my ponderous pronouncement works, and a moment later, I’m being escorted to my table. We head to the dining area down a wide, theatrically lit staircase that’s made for dramatic entrances. A wall of videoscreens plays back every arrival, and the restaurant patrons know to glance up every now and then to check out who’s coming. My arrival will really give everyone something to talk about. Celebrities, politicians, and actors walk through all the time, but I’m that great rarity—A Woman Alone.
And for the rest of the meal, nobody will let me forget it.
“Waiting for someone?” asks the server, coming over to fill my water glass.
“Yes,” I say. “Godot.”