Back In the Game (10 page)

Chapter 22

“M
rs. Allard?” The voice on the other end of the line was downright chirpy.

“It's Ms. Keats now,” I corrected.

“Oh, yes, Ms. Keats. You are Colin and Clara Allard's mother, right?”

“Are my children all right?” I demanded. “Who is this?”

The chirpy voice giggled. “Oh, I'm so sorry. This is Ms. York from Colin and Clara's former middle school. Melinda York. Of course you're wondering why I'm calling.”

I glanced at the clock above the hall table. I had an appointment for a facial in twenty minutes.

“I assume it has something to do with the school's scholarship fund. The board wants my help?”

“Oh, no,” Ms. York said, “nothing like that. You know Mrs. Sheridan?”

Nineteen minutes. “Barbara Sheridan?”

“Yes. Well, she still has a son here, little Justin. I was chatting with her the other day when she happened to mention that you and your husband . . . Well, that you're divorced.”

Barbara Sheridan had nothing better to talk about than my divorce. Not surprising. Her own life was sadly distorted; everyone knew her husband had a mistress; he even vacationed with her, back in her native Argentina.

“Yes,” I said, with some annoyance. “I'm divorced.” What did the school want me to do? Give a talk on the evils of homosexuality? No, thanks. The sanctity of marriage? Absolutely no, thanks. How to find a good divorce attorney? That I could do.

“Great!” Ms. York yipped. “Oh, I mean, well, what I mean is that I know an absolutely wonderful man for you. He's an old friend of my husband and gosh, I've known him now for almost eight years. He's just wonderful.”

Fifteen minutes and counting. There was no way I was going to jeopardize my appointment at the spa.

I picked up my purse. “Thank you, Ms. York, but I really don't think I—”

The chirpy voice interrupted. “Oh, just give it a chance. I really do think you and Roger are perfect for each other.”

“Really, I appreciate the thought but—”

“Now, Mrs. Allard—”

“Ms. Keats,” I corrected. Damn good breeding. I should have slammed down the phone right then.

“Yes, of course, Ms. Keats. Certainly. Now, Ms. Keats, I really won't take no for an answer. May I give Roger your number?”

“Yes, yes, fine,” I snapped. “I'm sorry but I have to go.”

Ridiculous, what I had to do to get this annoying woman off the phone. This Roger person had to be easier to put off than the twittering Ms. York.

I made my appointment with only a minute to spare.

 

Roger called that evening and in spite of my firm intentions to disappoint him, I found myself succumbing to a voice that was deep and rich and slow. How awful could the man that belonged to such a sensual voice be? Even when he suggested we meet at a popular restaurant in Waltham, a good hour from downtown Boston, I agreed.

Oh, the stupid things good breeding and hormones make us do.

 

I handed the valet parking attendant my keys and stepped inside the noisy, cavernous restaurant. Roger had said he'd meet me at the bar; he told me he'd be wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and no tie.

He wasn't hard to miss. He was very handsome in a sort of slick, Cary Grant way, tall and well built with thick hair expertly cut. And the suit was beautiful.

Richard would love to know his tailor, I thought.

Richard! No more thoughts of Richard, especially not on a date with a handsome man.

Roger smiled and stood as I approached.

“Nell?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand. “You're even more lovely than Melinda said you were.”

Well, I thought, he certainly knows how to greet a gal.

We were led to our table and an officious waiter took our drink order. A glass of Prosecco for me, a neat bourbon for Roger.

A manly drink, I noted.

“So, Nell,” Roger said, “tell me a bit about yourself.”

I did. And then he told me a bit about himself. And immediately it was clear that we had virtually nothing in common beyond being residents of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

I enjoy watching tennis; Roger thought it was a boring sport. I read a novel a week; Roger reads only nonfiction. I am a Democrat; Roger is a Republican.

Why had the chirpy Ms. York thought Roger and I would click? What was this obsession with matchmaking some women couldn't shake?

Roger put his empty glass on the table with some force. “So,” he said, “what do you think?”

I had no idea what Roger had been saying. “I'm sorry,” I said. “My mind must have wandered. What do I think about what?”

“About coming home with me tonight. My house is only about fifteen minutes from here.”

How convenient for you, I thought. I smiled falsely but politely. “Oh, I'm—”

“You look like the kind of woman who likes it doggie style.” Roger winked, grinned.

“What?” I blurted.

And then he barked. Loud enough for the man at the next table to snicker. Loud enough for me to feel utterly humiliated. And angry.

I stood. “Go to hell,” I said, with a large and lovely smile on my face. And I left Roger there, no doubt already eyeing the bar for another woman who looked like the type who liked to do it while suspended from a bridge.

 

I was starving. I had been looking forward to the swordfish special posted on a chalkboard over the bar.

I took off my dress and heels, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and decided to become a recluse.

Why not? It was becoming increasingly clear that I was not cut out for dating and all its many ugly aspects.

Like sex with someone you hardly know.

Suddenly, I remembered something Laura had said not long before. I'd cut her off but her meaning had been clear enough. Maybe, she'd suggested, if I had been more interested in sex, Richard wouldn't have—left me.

Ridiculous.

I know the facts.

I know you can't make someone gay. I know people are born gay or not gay.

Still, right after finding that note in Richard's pocket, I had wondered if Richard's interest in men was somehow my fault. Not that his interest in men is in any way wrong. But I had wondered about my own role in his emerging life.

What woman in my position wouldn't have wondered?

I finished the sandwich and opened a pint of mint Oreo ice cream. It's my biggest vice, that ice cream.

I dug right in. And I wondered what doggie style would be like.

Chapter 23

I
swore I wouldn't do it.

Five hundred dollars is an awful lot of money.

But I was getting nowhere fast dating men I met in produce and men my colleagues thought were so perfect. Really, what were they thinking?

So I wrote the check and signed up with a dating service called Happy Couples. Their office was really bare and plain. Nothing about the place said romance. There were no flowers in glass vases or photos of couples strolling the beach at sunset.

Maybe, I thought, this is a good thing. Happy Couples is all about business, all about getting men and women out of the singles scene and into a nice ranch house in the suburbs.

Although personally, I'd like a two-story colonial.

A pale, skinny woman in an outfit clearly from Dress Barn sat behind a big metal desk in what at first I thought must be the reception area; eventually I figured out it was the entire office. She introduced herself as Ms. Berber and told me she would be my facilitator. Without meeting my eye she thrust a stack of papers at me and told me to fill out the Happy Couples mandatory questionnaire. I sat on one of the metal folding chairs lining one wall of the room and began to read.

The lengthy questionnaire was totally humiliating, not like the one I'd come up with at all. No, Happy Couples wanted to know if I had a body odor problem; if I used a depilatory cream on my face; and if I had any skin tags. Skin tags! Happy Couples wanted to know my height, weight, and fitness routine. (Well, I lied a bit about my fitness routine because I didn't have one.) Happy Couples also wanted to know if I had any visible scars that would prevent me from wearing a bikini. Sheesh.

When I had answered the two hundred questions, I handed the questionnaire to Ms. Berber. I noticed the diamond ring on her left hand was really big but kind of dull.

“We'll review your chart,” she said, already eyeing my check marks, “and get back to you as soon as an eligible match can be found.”

I nodded and said thank you.

I was at the door, my hand on the knob, when Ms. Berber spoke again.

“And Ms. Keats? One final note. Lose ten pounds. The cabbage diet works quickly.”

 

Four nights later I was out with Match #1. His name was Barry and his profile clearly indicated that he was looking for Ms. Right. Or so that skinny Ms. Berber told me.

Barry suggested we meet at Bar Louis. I hesitated before agreeing. Bar Louis is a hangout for twentysomethings, a notorious pickup joint. But it was supposed to have good mixed drinks and I hadn't had a Fuzzy Navel in ages, so I said okay.

I dressed carefully to make just the right first impression. I wanted Barry to take one look at me and see a serious woman, a woman ready to start a family. I wore a crisp white shirt and a fitted linen skirt that came to the knee. I wore my hair in a neat, sleek ponytail, which took about a pound of product to accomplish. I wore a strand of tiny pearls.

And from the moment I walked through the door of Bar Louis I felt like the biggest frump. Partly it was because every other woman in the place was half-naked; at least half of them wore exposed thongs and flaunted firm brown bellies. Partly it was because not one man looked at me, not even once. But mostly I felt like the biggest frump because Barry could not keep his eyes off the other women, all of whom were younger than me by, like, years.

Ten minutes into our lame conversation I realized I'd gone from frumpy to invisible.

“How was your day?” I asked.

Barry, his eyes following a girl in skintight, low-rise jeans, replied, “Huh?”

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

Barry, salivating over the cocktail waitress's huge breasts, replied, “What?”

“Are you originally from Boston?” I asked.

Barry, tossing his napkin on the table, replied, “I'll be right back.”

And I watched him make his way through the chattering crowd to a tall, slim black girl. I watched him give her a business card.

I sat absolutely still and watched Barry make his way back to our little table.

He sat back down and grinned. “Miss me?”

“You just gave that girl your number.”

His grin remained firmly in place. “What?”

And then the anger just surged through me. “Don't deny it,” I cried, “I saw you! We're on a date. You're supposed to be paying attention to me. How can you even know if you like me if you spend the whole time staring at other women?”

Barry's grin ran away. “Hey, ease down. We're not married, okay?”

“Don't tell me to ease down! I'm reporting you to the agency. You lied. You don't want to have a baby. You want to date a baby!”

I threw my napkin on the table and stormed off. I'm not sure he even noticed I was gone.

The next afternoon during my lunch hour I took the T to the Back Bay. I'd read about a new high-end children's clothing shop called Fleur but hadn't gone because, well, it was high-end.

The shop was cool and scented with fresh lilac. The clothing was handmade in France. The prices were astronomical. I mean, they had this thing called a layette that cost almost as much as my monthly rent!

I fell in love with everything and had a really hard time choosing, but finally I decided on a sweet little set. It was absolutely adorable, a blush pink knit sweater and leggings, just perfect for a bright New England fall day.

It did occur to me that if I had my baby in, say, December, by the next fall she would be too big for the sweater and leggings. And if my baby turned out to be a boy, well, he wouldn't be able to wear the outfit at all.

But it was so sweet.

I know I shouldn't have spent the money.

I know.