Back In the Game (14 page)

Chapter 31

A
compulsion. An urge. A craving.

A thought pops into your head and it won't go away until you acknowledge it, deal with it, or succumb to it.

This is fine if the thought that pops into your head is “I want a chocolate chip cookie.” Eat a chocolate chip cookie and your mind is on to something else.

This is not fine if the thought that pops into your head is “I want to send my ex-husband an e-mail.”

I was at my desk. It was about eleven. And try as I might, I couldn't concentrate on the paper I was trying to outline, at least not once it occurred to me that I could contact Matt in a relatively unobtrusive way.

The people who invented e-mail should be punished. They can't have had any idea what havoc their creation would wreak.

I got up and closed the door to my office, as if what I was about to do constituted a crime. Back at my desk I created a file. I wrote a message, deleted it, wrote another one, tweaked it, deleted again. After twenty minutes of editorial madness I had it.

Hi, Matt. I hope this finds you well. I wish the best for you. Jess.

 

I copied it, then pasted it into the body of an e-mail. And I sent it to Matt's office account.

The moment it was gone I regretted my action. Of course I did; I knew I would. And I wondered: Would I ever be through punishing myself?

 

Two days and there'd been no word from Matt, no return e-mail or phone call or letter. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was anxious.

I wondered if Matt was furious with me for disrupting the new life he was trying to build. I wondered if maybe my e-mail had gotten lost in cyberspace so that Matt had never received it. Then again, maybe he had received my e-mail, but his own reply had gone missing.

Maybe, I thought, Matt is out of town and not checking his e-mail. No. A ridiculous notion. Matt was as attached to his laptop as any other red-blooded American male in a suit and tie.

Finally, it occurred to me that maybe Matt simply had nothing more to say to me. Ever. Somehow, that possibility hurt more than a stream of scathing accusations.

My mind continued to race. I continued to obsess about Matt's possible state of mind. I had to talk to someone or jump off the Tobin Bridge.

I called Grace.

“I did something stupid,” I said.

I could hear her taking a deep breath. “Okay. What?”

“I sent an e-mail to Matt.”

Grace laughed. “Is that all? For a minute I thought you were going to say that you slept with him. And I know what a disaster sleeping with your ex can be.”

I sat heavily on the edge of the couch.

“I know you know,” I said. “I'm sorry, but it's why I can admit this to you. You and Simon had your own unique relationship, nothing like what Matt and I had, but still, I know you understand the need to connect somehow, even when the marriage is officially over.”

“I do,” Grace said. “It's a real need and a real pain in the ass.”

“I'm making no sense these days, Grace. I don't know why I'm doing anything I'm doing. I'm not sleeping well.”

“Jess, what were you hoping to hear from Matt?” Grace asked the question gently.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I guess I'd like to know that he forgives me. Not that I feel I deserve to be forgiven, not entirely.”

“Oh, Jess. What are we going to do with you?”

“Bear with me? I promise I'm trying to get past the negative feelings.”

“Of course we'll bear with you. There's no question of abandonment, Jess.”

I believed that. It was good to trust something, someone.

“I have an idea,” Grace said suddenly. “It won't solve anything, but it might give you a few hours of peace. Let's go for massages tomorrow.”

“The way I feel, I'll probably fall asleep on the table.”

“So? Your body will still benefit from the massage. And the sleep.”

I got up from the couch and stretched. “Okay. What time?”

“Around four? And Jess?”

“Yes?”

Grace paused a moment before saying, “If Matt does e-mail you back, promise me you'll delete the message before reading it. Don't risk more pain.”

I paused a moment before saying, “Okay.”

I didn't say, “I promise.”

Chapter 32

“A
size six should do nicely.”

“Okay,” I said to the saleswoman eyeing me from the waist down.

She walked off to a rack on which hung a variety of leather pants.

I'd never worn leather pants. I wasn't entirely sure I would wear them even if I bought a pair. But Trina had encouraged me to sex up my wardrobe—of course, that's her term. I agreed to do so, but in a classy way. That was my condition. She then suggested I start with a pair of tailored black leather pants.

“Can I call them slacks?” I'd asked.

Trina had laughed. “Whatever makes you comfortable, darling Nell.”

So there I was, in Louis of Boston, shopping for a pair of tailored black leather pants. I mean slacks.

The saleswoman returned with two pairs. I took them into a dressing-room stall and locked the door behind me. And then I stood looking at myself in the mirror, holding the two pairs of pants, and wondered again what sort of woman Nell Keats really was.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I tried on the first pair. I closed my eyes, afraid to look at my transformed reflection.

“Do you need any assistance?” the saleswoman called from just outside the dressing-room stall.

“No,” I almost shouted, startled by her voice. “Thank you.” And then I opened my eyes.

Have you ever caught your passing reflection in a store window and for a split second not recognized yourself? And you wonder if the face in the glass is the face other people see, not the face you see in your own bathroom mirror. It's a strange sensation; it disrupts your assumption of self in some way.

The Nell Keats standing before the full-length mirror in that stall was not the Nell Keats I'd seen in the bathroom mirror that morning. This Nell Keats—can I say it?—looked hot. This Nell Keats looked fabulous.

It was hard to look away, hard to finally take the pants off and try on the second pair. If possible, they fit even better than the first pair. I felt slightly drunk. I felt slightly euphoric.

Can you be slightly euphoric? Or is that like saying you're slightly pregnant?

Reluctantly, I redressed in my Ann Taylor A-line skirt. And then I bought both pairs of black leather pants, and a few fitted blouses, the kind not meant to be tucked in neatly, and an armload of new lingerie, not underwear but lingerie, complete with lace and satin and silk.

And then I went home.

 

Two nights after the shopping expedition that changed my life—I'm being consciously dramatic here—I went out with a man named Oscar Perkins.

Trina had introduced us at a cocktail party she'd given a week earlier. Oscar and I had chatted for a good deal of the evening. We'd talked about Boston politics and the most recent natural disaster in Asia. He'd told me he'd started his own law firm fifteen years earlier, not long after making partner at the firm that had given him his start. From the gorgeous suit he was wearing, I'd assumed his business was a success. I'd told him about my work for the MFA and various local charities. He'd told me he had three children from an early marriage. I'd told him about my own early marriage and children.

Just before I'd left Trina's apartment at a little before eleven, Oscar had asked for my number. I'd given it to him with no hesitation.

Oscar had called the very next day and we'd made plans to meet for dinner at the Flowering Tree. I wore a pair of leather pants.

Again, the conversation was easy and wide ranging. Oscar had a quick wit and regaled me with a few outlandish stories of his rise through the criminal court system. We discovered a shared interest in medieval art and artisanal cheeses. Oscar paid for our meal.

After dinner I invited him back to my apartment for a nightcap. I knew something romantic might happen. I wanted it to and I dreaded it would.

Once inside I poured us each a glass of scotch. Oscar took his neat and he rose in my estimation. We sat next to each other on the couch, turned to face each other. Oscar clinked his glass with mine. We each took a sip.

And then he leaned in and kissed me.

I let him. And then, I began to kiss him back.

“You call the shots,” Oscar said against my lips. “We'll take it slow.”

“Okay,” I said.

Our lips touched again, tentative, soft, and then more sure.

Oh, I'd forgotten what a slippery slope physical desire is! I remember my mother telling me when I was small that “kissing leads to babies.” I had no idea what she meant until years later, of course. But that night with Oscar, I remembered.

 

Later, when Oscar had gone home, I lay in the bed Richard and I had shared for so many years. I could still smell Oscar on my skin. I could still feel his touch. I squirmed with remembered pleasure and wondered if I was becoming debauched.

Yes. Hopefully. Why not? It was far too soon to risk more heartache.

I stretched and grinned and for the first time in ages I felt content and excited and—alive. Maybe someday I'd be ready for love, but now it was time to sow the wild oats I seemed to have been storing for the past twenty years.

Yes, I thought. Sex is good.

Chapter 33

“O
oooh, he's so cute! What's his name?”

The woman stopped and beamed. On the end of the leash she held was absolutely the most adorable golden retriever puppy I have ever seen in my entire life. I mean, ever.

“Frasier,” the woman told me. “After the TV show.”

I bent down and let the puppy sniff my hand. His tail began to wag furiously, rocking his furry little body.

“How old is he?” I asked as Frasier stood up on his hind legs and barked excitedly.

“Just eight weeks,” his mommy trilled. “Isn't he precious!”

“Yes he is! He's the most precious little boy in the whole wide world!”

After a while the woman took Fraiser off for his walk in the Commons. I watched them go.

A puppy, I thought, might be just the thing! I could get a small breed because my apartment wasn't huge and maybe a breed that didn't shed really badly. If he was really tiny, I could carry him around with me like all those stars carry their little doggies and maybe even train him to go on newspaper so I wouldn't have to get up so early in the morning or take him out in bad weather.

Yes, I thought, a puppy would be just the thing.

And then I thought of the money.

I walked on down Newbury Street. Coming toward me was the woman I wanted to be. She wore a sundress with a Pucci-like print and she was pushing a stroller I recognized from an online catalogue. It was outfitted with every imaginable safety feature and sported imported fabric and extra-thick padding for comfort and style. And it cost seven hundred dollars.

Seven hundred dollars! Well, if I had seven hundred dollars to spend on a stroller, I would spend it, but I didn't and I still don't and I'm pretty sure I never will.

The truth is I hadn't really thought through my post-divorce financial status. I know it sounds stupid and maybe it is. Suzy Orman would have a heart attack if she found out about me. Anyway, since Duncan had moved out, I'd been spending an awful lot of money I shouldn't have been spending. I'm not sure why. I do know that after a shocking Visa bill and a depressing bank statement, I promised myself I would make and stick to a strict budget.

I glanced over my shoulder at wealthy mommy and child and walked on. Still, I thought, a puppy would be great. People would stop me on the street to talk. I could carry him almost like I would carry a baby.

And then he'd grow up and be my best friend.

Everyone needs a best friend.

I knew I could get a dog or a cat from the Animal Rescue League of Boston for very little money, and I supposed I could buy generic brand food in bulk, but how would I afford the yearly visits to the vet? And what would happen if the dog or cat got sick between visits and needed medicine or surgery, what then? Would Nell lend me money for my pet's medicine or surgery? Would Jess?

An elderly man passed, walking slowly, his old mixed breed hobbling along by his side. I wondered how long they'd been together. They almost looked alike in that way people and their dogs do after lots of years together.

Some couples look alike after lots of years together, too.

Suddenly, I felt so alone. Alone and poor. But I'd be a little less poor once I'd returned the adorable pink sweater and leggings to Fleur.

I climbed the stairs to the second-floor shop and pushed open the door. I was greeted by their signature lilac fragrance. It's a very calming scent, lilac.

The sales clerk was the same young woman who had sold me the sweater and leggings. The expensive layette was gone from the shelf above the counter.

“I'd like to return this, please,” I said. I put the little bag on the counter and removed the sweater and leggings.

She gave me a funny look. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but we don't accept returns.”

“What?” I pushed the sweater a bit closer to her. “But I don't want these anymore.”

The sales clerk pushed it back. “What's wrong with them?” she asked, her expression bland. “Are they damaged in some way?”

“No, no, it's just that . . .”

Just that I could use the two hundred dollars they cost me because the husband hunting isn't going too well.

The sales clerk's expression remained bland. “Yes?”

“It's just that the person I bought them for doesn't need them anymore. She's . . . She's not having a baby.”

The sales clerk's expression changed instantly to one of practiced sympathy. “I'm sorry to hear that,” she said, “but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. The store's policy is clearly stated on your receipt. No returns. We'd be happy to exchange the merchandise for—”

“But the tags are still on.”

“I'm sorry. Would you care to look around for a similarly priced item?”

“No,” I said. “No, thank you.” I stuffed the little pink sweater and matching leggings into the fancy little shopping bag and hurried out of the shop.

It was Matt.

Matt Fromer, Jess's ex-husband, standing just a few yards away by the white leather sofa and the chrome and glass coffee table.

Boy, was I glad I'd come to the party!

After such a depressing afternoon I really wanted to stay home that night and watch my DVD of
Working Girl
and order a pepperoni pizza and eat every last bite of it. But a bit of the real Laura, the one with a fighting spirit, the one determined to have her baby and a husband too, spoke up and made me get off the couch, dress nicely, and show up at a party given my colleague Betsy and her husband Ryan.

At first glance the other guests seemed all paired up. I looked harder and finally saw a few single men; at least, they were alone at the party. I'd have to be careful. There was a good chance one of them was married and stepping out on his wife!

I went over to the bar—which was really a table covered with a white tablecloth—for a glass of wine. I would have preferred a chocolate martini, but you usually can't get that sort of drink in someone's home. No sooner had I turned away from the bar with my glass than I spotted Matt.

I noted he was drinking a bottle of sparkling water and remembered that Matt rarely ever drank. A sober man was just the kind of man to make a good father.

I choked a little on my wine. Matt as my baby's father. It was a strange thought. I felt weird, kind of guilty for thinking it, but then I said to myself: Why should I feel guilty? As far as I know, Matt is single. I'm single. Doesn't that make us a potential match?

Yes, it did.

I slipped through the throng of partygoers and appeared at his side. I tapped his shoulder.

“Hi, Matt.”

Matt was startled; he visibly tensed. I remembered him as a little stiff, so unlike Jess.

“Oh,” he said. “Hi. Laura. Wow. This is, um—”

I laughed. “I know. This is a bit awkward.”

Matt relaxed a bit. I'd forgotten how cute he was. Kind of boyish, like a younger Tom Cruise.

“Yeah.”

“But it shouldn't be,” I said hurriedly. “Right?”

“Right. I guess.” And then a tall, lanky woman with professionally streaked blond hair slipped her arm through Matt's.

I felt very conscious of my at-home streaking treatment. I'd kind of messed it up the last time and I knew my roots needed a touch-up.

“Laura,” Matt said, “this is Patrice. Laura is—an old friend.”

Patrice smiled lamely. I couldn't fail to notice that Matt hadn't called her his girlfriend.

“Well,” I said, “I'm going to, um, go talk to someone I know over by the bar.”

Patrice made no response. Matt said, “Nice running into you, Laura,” and the two turned away.

For the next hour I sipped a second glass of wine and kept my eye on Matt and his date. The moment I saw her walk off toward the powder room, I slipped through the crowd and appeared again at his side.

“Hi, again,” I said brightly.

“Hey, Laura.” Matt's smile was genuine, easier than it had been earlier.

“So, who do you know here?”

Matt shrugged. “The host. Ryan and I work at the same firm. You?”

“His wife, Betsy. I work with her.”

There was a moment of silence and then Matt blurted: “I'm not really much of a party guy. But Patrice really likes to dress up and go out so . . .”

“Oh, me, too,” I said. “I mean, I don't like parties much either. I'm kind of a homebody, you know. An old-fashioned girl.”

Matt smiled again. “Yeah, I guess I remember that about you.”

“Look,” I said, “I have to run but, well, I was wondering, if, you know, you might want to get together some time for coffee or whatever. Maybe talk. You know, I'm going through a divorce myself and—”

Matt's face instantly took on an expression of sympathy. “Laura, I didn't know. Hey, I'm so sorry.”

I smiled a sad little smile, shrugged, and sighed. “Yes, well, sometimes people aren't who you think they are.”

“Don't I know it!” he said.

I looked up into Matt's eyes and he looked down into mine and at that moment something happened. I knew I had him.

“I should go before your date comes back,” I said softly. Do you see? The words implied that something illicit was about to happen between Matt and me.

Matt's eyes still held mine. “Who?” he said. “Oh, right, Patrice.”

I handed him a slip of paper on which I'd printed my home number. (I'm always prepared!) “Anyway, here's my number if you want to get together. You know, and talk.”

Our fingers touched briefly. Matt slipped the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. His smile was really very nice. I imagined that smile on a little boy of my own.

“Thanks, Laura,” he said. “I'll call you. Take care, okay?”

I lightly touched his forearm. “Thanks,” I said, with a bit of breathiness. “You, too.” And then I left.

Once in the backseat of the cab I took a deep breath. My stomach was fluttering with excitement.

What, I wondered, am I doing? I'd just made a pass at my friend's ex-husband.

My friend's single, eligible ex-husband who just might want to settle down with a sweet, blond, family-oriented woman named Laura Keats.

After all, I thought, all is fair in love and war.