Crazy in Love (16 page)

“Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“What? That’s okay. Is anything wrong?” Nick asked, sounding perfectly awake, but I could envision him struggling up from sleep, his hair tousled, his pajamas half-unbuttoned.

“Nothing much. I can’t sleep. I miss you. I had dinner with John and Helen, and we talked about their mother.”

“Their mother.”

“She was murdered when they were children. It was very sad.”

“That’s terrible.” Long pause. “No wonder you can’t sleep.” Another long pause. I could see him lying in his hotel bed, holding the telephone, not really able to wake up. The image made me sleepy, and I smiled. “I’m going to hypnotize you to sleep, okay?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“Lie back. Put your head on the pillow and close your eyes. Now think of the Point. It’s a warm summer night, and we’re taking a swim.”

“You and me?” I asked, my eyes closed.

“Mmmm. We’re treading water. It’s nice and warm, but cool at the same time. Just listen to the waves. Whoosh, whoosh,” he said, and I nearly laughed at Nick trying to sound like a wave. He must have been sleeping deeply.

He was silent for so long, I knew he had fallen asleep again. I loved the idea of drifting off myself, holding the receiver that connected me to Nick in London, but I couldn’t bear the thought of the phone bill. “Nick?” I said, and when there was no answer, I said, “Sweet dreams,” and hung up the phone.

I did get some sleep that night, but the next morning I had a headache and felt confused. The phone call had reminded me of the old days with Nick: we were sweet and loving, always available for each other. Sipping coffee in my room, I felt anger building at the thought that one of us had played a trick on the other. Would he have been as kind if he hadn’t been asleep? Had he acted loving simply out of habit? I realized that I was doing what he disliked, questioning all of his motives; I didn’t want to do it, but that morning in New York, I had no choice. As if to drive away all the hope inspired by our sleepy phone call, every evil thought about Jean, about Nick’s despair, about our sad destiny, came back to jeer at me.

My sole appointment that day was with a photographer. He was scheduled to take pictures of me to accompany an excerpt from my second quarterly report in
Vanguard Magazine
. I had felt comfortable during the interviews, but photographs made me nervous. I looked through my clothes, trying to decide what to wear. After a while I called Clare for advice, and she suggested I wear red, because it would look good with my dark hair. Honora was sitting at Clare’s kitchen table, and although I didn’t want to talk to her, she insisted.

“Wear lots of makeup, honey,” she said. “I know you’re not used to it, but believe me—you’ll be glad you did. Years of experience has taught me that without lipstick, the camera makes you look like a washout.”

“Thanks,” I said, wanting to end the conversation before she started asking me about Nick. I could imagine the two of them speculating on what was happening between us. Of course they cared about me; I had no doubt of that, but their concern rattled me.

God, I felt angry at them, sitting on Bennison Point, lamenting my marriage’s change of course. Honora didn’t know romance. Neither did Clare. Did she care whether Donald came home or not? She considered his late hours inevitable, assumed that he would be home when he could. To Clare and Honora, husbands were breadwinners. You had to make allowances for them; after all, they were only men. I thought of Nick’s bare back, tan and muscled, and felt something so thrilling I had to cross my legs.

As my photo session grew nearer, I began to try on clothes. I had brought two outfits from home, and I tried each one three times. Each looked fine the first time, not quite perfect the second. By the third time, I wondered how I could ever have bought any of them. I ran to Bergdorf Goodman and took the elevator to the dress department. But did I want to wear a dress? Maybe I wanted to project a different image, something more intellectual and sophisticated. Slacks. In fact, Bergdorf’s was the wrong store. I hurried down to street level, out the door, around the corner to Bendel’s. But everything I saw seemed to come from animals: leopard spots, tiger stripes, belts of snakeskin, and alligator shoes. Alligator shoes would look great with Chanel. If I hurried to Saks, maybe I could find a Chanel suit. Did they carry Chanel? Did I really want to spend all that money on a suit for one set of pictures? I imagined Nick picking up the magazine, seeing me on the page. I wanted to look beautiful, but a little mysterious, dressed perfectly. My photographic image would woo him. Makeup, I thought. Honora had said to wear makeup. I stopped at Bendel’s ground floor makeup department and bought some lipstick called “Poppy Field.”

Back at the hotel I dressed in the first outfit I had tried on that morning: tight black skirt with a full white silk blouse, Grampa’s gold watch chain as a necklace, earrings made from my father’s gold cuff links. They were monogrammed “TS,” and had brought me luck before. I checked the time; I had forty minutes until the photographer arrived. I went through notes for my current report, checked myself in the mirror a few times, then decided to tempt fate. I called Nick again. Although it was only seven o’clock at night in London, he was in his hotel room.

“Hi, baby,” I said.

“Thanks for my wake-up call,” he said.

“I’m sorry about that. I hope you got enough sleep.”

“Plenty. How are you? Did you finally fall asleep?”

“Sort of. Right now I’m waiting for the photographer. I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t be—you’ll look beautiful. Did you see your interview in the
Times
?”

“I think he said it would be out tomorrow,” I said. “I’m surprised you’re home already. Light day of work?”

“Not really, but things are stalled for the moment. We thought we’d go to the theater tonight.”

I clenched my teeth to keep from saying “We?” Instead I said “Oh?”

“Yes. I thought I’d like the Lorca play with Judi Dench, but Jean’s in the mood for a musical.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Anyway, she got us tickets to
Walking Shoes
.” He laughed. “She claims she bought them from a scalper on the Underground. You know how hard it is to get tickets to that show? It’s about to open in New York, and every American is rushing to see it here, so they can tell all their friends they saw it in London.”

It would always be a fun little story, I thought, how Nick and Jean saw
Walking Shoes
in London the week it opened on Broadway. I felt very sad.

“I hope you enjoy it,” I said.

“Well, I have my doubts, but you know I love the theater. I’d much rather be seeing the Lorca with you.”

But you’re not, I thought, and that seemed to be the important thing.

“Georgie, you’re not saying anything,” he said.

“I know. I’m mulling.”

“Mull if you want, but don’t worry. That call last night was really nice. I liked being your lullaby.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling blocked, listening to him say the nice words.

We said goodbye. We each said “I love you,” but I felt too depressed to remark on that. The words meant a lot to me. They were anything but hollow, but they didn’t make up for the hateful fact that Nick was on his way to the West End with Jean Snizort.

10

THE PHOTOGRAPHER ARRIVED A LITTLE LATE.
I’d been so nervous, anticipating his arrival, I kept hopping out of my seat every few seconds—combing my hair again, looking in the mirror, deciding the whole thing was a mistake, trying to get over my talk with Nick. Flushed and sweaty, I answered the doorbell; the photographer stood there holding two square camera cases. Everything about him was square: stocky, with the body of a wrestler, he had pale green eyes and hair the color of a palomino’s mane. We shook hands. His name was Mark Constable.

“Do you need a minute?” he asked, obviously a reference to my disheveled state.

“Oh,” I said, blushing. I touched my cheeks. “I look terrible, I know. Is there anything I can do? I mean, can you give me some advice? I’m not used to having my picture taken . . .”

He stood there watching me, expressionless. “No, you look pretty,” he said, and for some reason that made me feel happy. “Let me fix up my cameras, and we can go out,” he said.

I gestured at the living room, and he placed his cases on a low glass table. He began removing an astonishing assortment of cameras and lenses, screwing them together, holding his light meter in the air and making it flash. I watched him. His smallest movements seemed full of intensity. The way he removed a lens cap and placed it in one of the many pockets of his big khaki coat seemed deliberate, part of a great and elaborate plan. A glance at my reflection in the glass cabinet showed me my lipstick had worn off, but I didn’t reapply it. I felt a peculiar mix of exhilaration and exhaustion; having my picture taken seemed like a fun thing to do, but I wished I could lie down on the sofa and defer it to another day.

“Where are you going to take my picture?” I asked, wondering why he needed six cameras.

“I thought we’d walk around the city a little. My editor didn’t know what you looked like—you might have been seventy, for all he knew. If you were, I’d have gone with a more sedate shoot—in the library, say. But you’re young and pretty, so maybe we’ll try the park.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, thinking it was the second time he had said I was pretty. I was keeping track.

Traffic outside was crazy. We stood on the curb, waiting to cross Central Park South, but taxis and trucks whizzed by with barely a space in between. When two taxis nearly collided, we grabbed our chance. “Come on,” Mark said, holding my elbow. I ran beside him, but he stopped me in the middle of the street. He stared at me for an instant, frowning, as though he were concentrating very hard. Suddenly traffic was streaming past us on both sides; I stood perfectly still and prayed I wouldn’t die.

“Fantastic,” Mark said, focusing one of the cameras on me.

“Not here!” I gasped, feeling the hot wind of a speeding bus in my face.

“It’s great, you look so pretty with those skyscrapers in the background and the yellow cabs going by.” Three “pretties.” I began to relax a little. We’d been standing there thirty seconds and weren’t dead yet. “It’s dynamic, vibrant,” he called over the traffic’s roar. “Think of your work. Think of what these pictures will say about the Swift Observatory—you’re in the fray.”

I began to strike poses, like a fashion model. The velocity of passing traffic acted like a wind machine; my hair whipped around my face and I started to imitate Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley, then, what the hell—Tina Turner and Madonna.

“Beautiful,” Mark said, coming close enough to my face that I could hear his camera’s clicks and whirs. His cameras dangled on straps around his neck. Dropping one camera, he took up another. Cars slowed down, their occupants craning to see whether I was someone famous. Mark stood inches away; beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I smelled the faint scent of aftershave. I was smiling at him and he was smiling back. We were having fun in the middle of the street.

From there we went into the subway; he took my picture on the platform, beneath the mosaic sign saying “Columbus Circle.” We watched two new trains go by before one covered with grafitti came along. “Come on!” Mark called, and I jumped aboard. He snapped me hanging on the strap, studying the nearly obliterated map, sitting on the bench seat. We stepped off a few minutes later in the middle of Times Square. “Come on!” Mark said, running up the stairs.

“I thought you said we were going into the park,” I said.

“No, you’re a city girl,” he said. “You look so pretty in your black-and-white outfit, we need some color to set you off.”

My memory of that photo session fills me with excitement and danger; the music of screeching brakes and blaring horns plays in the background. After two hours Mark looked at his watch and said he was hungry. “Do you have time for a bite?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. We started walking uptown, toward my hotel. The sun had already gone behind the tall buildings along Sixth Avenue, and I shivered slightly.

We stopped at a brasserie that reminded me of Paris. Tables lined the sidewalk. Mark glanced at me, saw I was chilly, said “Let’s go inside.” Mistaking us for a married couple or lovers, the maître d’ seated us side by side on a banquette. We each ordered a glass of red wine; Mark ordered a hamburger.

“Tell me more about the Swift Observatory,” he said, and I did while he ate. Then I asked him about his work.

“I’m mainly freelance, and I usually do news stories. An assignment like this is unusual for me.” He sat erect, looking straight ahead, though his voice sounded relaxed and his eyes occasionally slid to look at me.

“What sort of news stories?”

“Well, I used to be based in the Middle East. I took a lot of pictures of fighting. Rubble and injuries, military installations. A lot of hurt people.”

I imagined his pictures, the sort you see in news magazines. Bloody faces, bewildered children, bodies in open graves, holes in the sides of concrete buildings. For a second I flashed to our position in the midst of traffic, and the risks we had taken. Did he seek these risks, or was he simply used to them?

“What are you doing in New York?” I asked.

“I wanted to come back to the States for a while. I was getting numb over there. My editor would call, tell me about fifteen people dying in a bus explosion. The next day it would be seven people killed by land mines. The events lost their distinction. My friend asked me if the child in one picture was a boy or a girl, and I didn’t know. I hadn’t bothered to notice.”

We sat quietly; I studied his face for signs that he was remembering sad, ugly things, but it remained impassive.

“It’s nice being back,” he went on. “I see my family quite a bit—they live in New Jersey. And the work here is different, nice. I didn’t get many specific assignments taking pictures of interesting women over there.”

Interesting, not pretty, I thought.

“Are you married?” I asked.

He laughed. “No. I’m not sure it would be possible for me to get married. I had a girlfriend—we were serious. But I travel all the time, and there’s no predicting the next assignment.”

“Did your girlfriend travel with you?” I asked, leaning forward to see his face, really wanting to hear his answer.

“When she could. She’s a reporter, and sometimes we had the same assignment.”

What a bond that must have been, I thought, sharing the feeling of danger, the memories of death and destruction. I wondered why the relationship hadn’t worked, if one had wanted more from it than the other, but I didn’t feel like asking.

“Are you married?” he asked, though of course he had already seen my wedding ring.

“Yes.”

“Is your husband here with you? He must be really proud.”

“Oh, he is. Proud, not here, I mean. I mean, he’s proud of me, but he’s in London. He’s working there.”

“Really?” Mark asked, and I thought I detected disbelief in his voice. I imagined he was wondering how any husband could leave me, a woman he had called “pretty” four times, alone in New York. The thought made me smile.

“He’s a lawyer,” I said, and I betrayed Nick by thinking how much closer Mark’s work was to my heart. I thought of Nick, of his deals, of the millions and billions that existed for him on paper and for me not at all except to indicate how busy Nick would be, and I suddenly felt sad for Nick, for all he was missing by living out his days amid papers and numbers.

“The pictures of you will be wonderful,” Mark said. “Those shots of you in the middle of the street really fit the work you do. You’re like a reporter. Everyone thinks reporters do desk work, but that’s the least of it—they’re always taking risks. They get very involved. I read those pieces you did on the women in Chicago. You really entered their lives, and that came across.”

“You read my pieces?”

“Yes. They’re good. You didn’t interpret, or try to make the story more dramatic than it naturally was. You just gave the facts. That’s what I try to do in my news pictures.” He grinned. “Shooting you was more fun. I wanted to make the surroundings complement the subject, which was easy. Still, I acted as editor more than I usually do.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering what that meant.

“We should go,” Mark said, looking at his watch. “I have to take pictures of two prizewinning architects.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed it was over already.

“I have to stop by your hotel, to pick up my camera cases.”

We walked a few blocks along the park, through the dark canyon of trees and tall buildings. On the street it felt like evening, but from my high room we could see the sun was an hour away from setting. Mark peered out the window. I saw that he wasn’t simply enjoying the view: he was assessing the light, distances, composition.

“Let’s take another picture,” he said.

“Are you sure you have time?” I asked.

He nodded, placing his hands on my shoulders and guiding me onto the balcony. He was silent, setting up the shot. I leaned against the wrought-iron rail, watching him choose which camera he would use. They hung from his neck, lenses of varying lengths pointing out. He found the one he wanted. Raising it to his eye, he began to twist the lens. He focused on me, lowered the camera to look at me with his bare eyes, raised the camera, then lowered it again. The declining light had turned the hotel’s facade golden. I stood there, squinting slightly. He crossed the balcony to me, then gently pushed back my hair. It fell into my eyes again. He gazed at me, then pushed it back.

Can’t you imagine how it feels when someone with six cameras around his neck, all pointed at you, walks across the balcony to brush the hair back from your forehead? Feeling faint, I closed my eyes. I wanted him to kiss me. But then I heard the shutter click; he was just taking another picture.

I opened my eyes and smiled. He took a few more shots, then put his cameras away.

“Maybe this is strange, asking you this,” he said, standing at the door. “I know you’re married, but would you like to have a late dinner tonight?”

“Tonight? Oh, I can’t tonight,” I said, thinking of how I had wanted him to kiss me.

“That’s too bad. I would have liked that. Well, it was nice meeting you,” Mark said, sounding disappointed. We shook hands, and he left.

Closing the door after him, I imagined the kiss that never happened: he would brush the hair out of my eyes, and his hand would slide to the back of my neck. Strong, but tender, he would stare into my eyes, then both of us would tilt our heads, our eyes would close, our lips would touch. I leaned against the door, thinking of his soft lips, and my eyes flew open.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” I said, beginning to pace the room. I felt knifed by the agonies of loss, of betrayal; on one hand, I had betrayed Nick merely by wishing that Mark would kiss me. Like Jimmy Carter, I had lusted in my heart. On the other hand I agonized because Mark hadn’t kissed me, and I had really wanted him to. I still did. If he knocked at the door, I would welcome him to my lips with open arms.

Madly I tore to the telephone and dialed Clare’s number. “Hello?” she said. I heard Eugene singing in the background.

“Clare, I’m in deep trouble. I need to talk to you.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding alarmed.

“I feel something for . . . another man.”

“You mean another man than Nick?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I mean.”

“Georgie, you only left the Point yesterday. What could have happened?”

“A lot. I feel attracted to someone else.”

“You do? Hold on.” I heard her telling Eugene to put water in the birdbath. She came back on the line. “Describe the feeling.”

I had to close my eyes to get it right. “It’s like, I’m wishing he would kiss me. I can just about feel his lips on mine. I think I’ll die if he doesn’t.”

“Georgie, he’s not right there, is he?” Clare asked in a low tone.

I opened my eyes to make sure. “No. But the feeling is very strong. His name is Mark Constable—he’s the photographer who took my pictures.” I described the photo session to her, and when I was finished, she laughed.

“What?” I asked, offended that she wasn’t taking me seriously enough.

“It sounds like you had a fabulous time together, and you’re just feeling a little carried away. Don’t take this wrong, but you lead a very isolated life, and you’re confusing ordinary, everyday fun with desire. Get your hormones under control.” She laughed some more.