I'm Glad About You (32 page)

“Yes, I’ve heard about that.” He swung the door shut and turned to her. “Okay, so what are we going to do for food? Where are the takeout menus? I want Indian.”

“Okay, but no bread.”

“I traveled a thousand miles just to see you, of course I’m allowed to have bread.”

“I’m not kidding, you can’t do it to me. If I eat one piece of bread I’ll blow up as big as a house. And I can’t have it here or I’ll eat it. Order lentils, or rice.”
Why was he here?
All of this too-friendly banter was starting to wear on her nerves. The cheerful indifference to facts. A plummeting guilt racked her for a moment but she ignored it. What’s done was done and for three years it had never come up. But then why was he here?

“I want bread,” he announced.

“Dennis, what did you come here for, to make me fat?” She made it sound light. This bit you had to keep light.

What did he come here for?
Dennis had spent very little time considering that. But he was moving forward now, it was a good mode for him, people generally did whatever he wanted them to when he just pushed a little. His whole life, it had been that way. A little flattery, a little fun, a little alcohol.
Voilà.

“Yes, hi, I want to place an order for delivery,” he informed the Indian voice on the telephone. “We’re going to want lots of bread, what’s that kind of bread that you deep-fry, it poofs up?”

“If you order bread, I’m telling you, I’m going to make you go out into the hall to eat it.”

So she wasn’t going to eat any bread. But otherwise you’d have to say things were going well enough. She had lost interest in the question of how much he was drinking virtually as soon as she raised it. That was the lovely thing about alcohol; everyone really did want to drink it.
The man takes the drink, the drink takes the drink, then the drink takes the man.
That was the mantra of some old lush he’d met at a meeting and he knew every syllable was true, and not just for raging alcoholics. Even so-called social drinkers got taken in the end. The whole human race was nothing but a bunch of drunks. And the ones who didn’t drink were nothing but dry drunks.

“Nice place,” he informed her.

“Oh, it’s awful. It’s not awful. It’s just a bit plain. I haven’t even painted. And there’s not enough stuff on the walls. It’s just, I never have people over and honestly I’m never
here.
I can’t believe you just showed up like this. The odds of me being home on any given night are not good, in general.” She swept through the small living room, clearing magazines off the coffee table.

“What are you reading?” She was so clearly embarrassed by the fact that there were so many celebrity rags lying around that he simply couldn’t let her off the hook without catching her on it, just a little.

“It’s just stuff my publicist sends over. You have to look at it and make sure they’re at least pretending to be accurate, otherwise the whole thing gets too weird too fast. You end up with three-headed babies, shit like that.”

“You’re
in
these? You have to let me see.”

“No. No—Dennis, come on! You’ll just make fun of me, stop!”

“I won’t make fun, it’s so impressive, you’re in trashy magazines, Alison, well done, you’ve made the big time.” And of course she had let him wrest at least a few off the top of the pile. He plopped onto the Naugahyde couch and started leafing through page after page of gorgeous girls in couture gowns, standing on a faux red carpet and smiling inanely at some photographer. “Oh, yes, very nice. Ooo, look at her.”

“I told you it was stupid, you’re the one who insisted on looking at it.”

“I’m looking for you!”

“So, seriously, Dennis. What are you here for?” Dennis glanced up at the sudden shift, but her smile was simple. Which was interesting, considering what a simple girl she wasn’t.

“Kyle asked me to come find you and bring you back to him.”

“Ho ho ho,” she said. “I saw him, and I met his family. He seemed really happy.”

“There you are! That’s a pretty dress.” He waved an open magazine at her; he had in fact found a photo of her on some receiving line. She was wearing a daring black gown with a plunging neckline and a gold cinched waist. “I can’t believe they let you out in public in this thing. You could start a riot.”

“That is generally the idea,” Alison admitted. She took the magazine out of his hands, grabbed the rest of the pile, and carried them all into the teeny bedroom just behind him.

“Aw, come on. I want to see the pictures. I think you look pretty!” Alison reentered and dropped into her chair. He grinned at her. “You know, Alison, I have to say, you really have turned into a looker.”

“Oh yippee.”

“I also have to say, you know very well that Kyle is not happy.”

“He has a gorgeous wife and a gorgeous house and two gorgeous kids and he’s a rich doctor, and my impression, from that dinner party, is that he is
happy
.” This was a colossal lie but so what, human beings lied all the time. “And I have a very hot movie director boyfriend, and I’m happy too,” she lied.

“Tell me about your big-shot boyfriend.”

“Well, he’s really talented. And handsome.”

“Do you love him?”

Alison momentarily regretted having dumped the subject of Kyle, thus opening the door to this line of inquiry. “Okay, you don’t love him,” Dennis said. “Moving on. What do you like about him?”

Alison paused, trying to make it look like she was being careful about choosing her words, instead of just making shit up. “He’s interesting. He’s smart. He knows so much about how this world works, and it’s reassuring, in a way, to have someone like that in your corner.” Dennis wondered for a moment why Alison was such a good actress and such a bad liar. There was probably a reason those two things went together, but he wasn’t curious enough about the intricacies of psychology to run down that train of thought. He just made his face as sympathetic as possible, and let her hang herself. “He’s crazy attractive, he’s like—trust me.” She blushed; that meant the guy was good in the sack. “He’s got a lot going on, so I don’t see him for a while, then it’s like twenty-four seven. And he knows, just everybody. It’s a bit more glamorous than I’m used to. I’ve been to these amazing dinner parties in the Hamptons, they fly you out in helicopters. I know that sounds a little—excessive.”

“Alison, remember who you’re talking to. I did not inherit any Midwestern snobbery about wealth. Far from it.”

“No, I know. It’s just weird for me a little bit.” The blush was back again. He let the silence hang. “Anyway. He’s also famous, you know, he directed these big movies. “

“You mentioned.”

“He’s completely attentive. I get flowers and gifts all the time. Jewelry and dresses.”

“Dresses! You let a powerful man—a movie director—buy you clothing? And then does he dress you up?”

Alison bristled, and Dennis felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, just a little.

“Don’t get mad,” he cautioned.

“I’m not mad.”

“You are definitely mad, and I didn’t mean—”

“You did too, Dennis, of course you did.”

“Okay. You’re ‘dating’ a powerful guy—”

“Don’t put it in quotes.”

“Okay. You’re fucking a powerful guy—”

“That’s not what it is.”

“You’re not fucking him?”

She took the hit. Let it land. The girl had such integrity, in her own fucked-up way. “Yes. I am fucking him,” she said.

“And he sends you things. So that’s cool! He’s rich, he should send you things.”

“I don’t want to talk about Lars,” she said.

“Oh no. Don’t run away from this. Alison—”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m just visiting! I had a weekend off of work and I thought I’d come to New York.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“I took a few days off.” He reached for the vodka bottle. His hand was still steady. “Come on. You were so glad to see me just fifteen minutes ago. I think it’s great this guy is buying you dresses. He
should
be buying you dresses and having great sex with you. This is the way things are meant to be, Alison. The way they were with you and Kyle—that did not work out for a reason. And the reason is, Kyle is no fun.”

“He’s fine.”

“I love him. But he’s a mess. I want to see you in one of these dresses.”

“Oh no no.”

“Oh yes! Come on. Please? Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen a pretty woman in a really pretty dress?”

“I don’t know who you’re dating, these days.”

“I’m dating nice Cincinnati chicks who think ‘couture’ is spelled with three O’s.”

“I’m a nice Cincinnati chick.”

“Alison, you never were before and you most certainly are not now.”

“Whether or not I am, there are plenty of beautiful young women in Cincinnati who know how to wear a pretty dress.”

“There are, but my dad cut me off and I’m living in a shitty little apartment in Clifton, where everyone dresses like starving hippies.”

The tossed-off admission—
my dad cut me off
—did its work. Her heart constricted. Dennis kept smiling at her. “Come on. This director sends you dresses. I want to see one. Come on.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” she sighed. “There’s a new pink one.”

“Well, put it on!” He smiled.

She hadn’t even tried it on yet, but there was no worry that it would fit; Lars knew her body better than she knew it herself by this point. The slightly crazy fuchsia was truly electric, and the fit made it more so. She had to hold in her breath and try the zipper four times before she managed to get it up. In her childhood, that would have meant that the dress was just too small. In show business, it was never possible that the dress was too small. The neckline was gorgeous, a subtle heart-shaped curve, and the skirt was slit with the same subtle touch—three inches, no more. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she knew that Lars was making a point.
Not a saint, not a whore, but definitely a bit of both
, she thought. If this was what she owed to Dennis Fitzpatrick for sins of the past, so be it.

When she swung the bedroom door open, stepping out into the living room, Dennis did not immediately respond. The look in his eye was unnerving.

“Well?”

“Sorry. Oh, sorry. That looks—amazing,” he told her, with a deliberate coolness.

“It’s a bit tight,” she said, making a face and pulling at the side like a ten-year-old. It was a self-conscious attempt to lighten the mood, which had shifted into something decidedly more treacherous. She should have paid more attention before, when they stopped bantering. Humoring him about that dress was maybe not the best idea she had ever had. She didn’t want to think about why, but she knew she had better get out of it.

“Ugh, I’m taking this off,” she told him.

“Oh, come on, you just put it on!” Dennis protested. “You have to at least let me see it with shoes.”

“Dennis—”

“It doesn’t look right! It needs high strappy heels, like they wear on television.”

“I’m not putting on heels for you.”

“Why not?” There was no question anymore. There was a meanness, a demand in his tone. She swallowed.

“I’m just not,” she said.

“Come on, Alison. You just told me, not ten minutes ago, you’ll do pretty much anything you have to.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’ve been saying it nonstop since I got here. You hate being in trashy magazines but you have to do it because that’s what they expect you to do. You don’t really like this Lars character but it’s nice to have a big director in your corner, so you fuck him and take clothes from him.”

“I like Lars a lot.”

“Just put some shoes on! What is the big deal?” He was sitting on the couch, his arms and his legs spread wide, like a drunken despot. Alison let her gaze drop momentarily to his glass, and the vodka bottle. She hadn’t paid enough attention.

“Okay. Okay!” She smiled, her most dazzling smile. “As you may well suspect, I do have a pair of strappy sandals, very high heels, which will look sensational with this dress. I will go get them.”

He stood. Even though he was clearly drunk now, he was steady enough. Which made it worse somehow. The apartment was so small, it only took him two steps to position himself between her and the door to the bedroom. His left hand lifted, letting a pair of black slingbacks dangle from them with an elegant confidence. “How about these?” he asked. “I found them under the coffee table.”

“Oh, God, I’m such a slob,” Alison laughed. She hated this feeling, the knowing that things were getting bad and the only way through it was to keep it light. “Let me put them away and find those sandals.”

He handed her the shoes, that part was easy enough, but then there was no way past him. He considered that pink dress with something resembling hunger, or hostility. This was bad.

“Come on, Dennis,” she said, quiet, placating. “Let me go get the right shoes.”

“You’re just going to go in there and take it off, because you don’t like the way I’m looking at you,” he said. He reached out and touched the fitted waist. She wanted to back up, but she didn’t want to raise the stakes any further, or any faster. Instead, she placed a hand on his chest and feigned the affection she had felt for him years ago.

“Dennis, knock it off,” she said. “You’re drunk.”

“I am drunk,” he admitted. “And you’re beautiful.”

“And we’re going to have Indian food, remember? That’ll sober you up. I should never have let you drink that much on an empty stomach.”

“How much I drink is not up to you, or to anyone, Alison,” he informed her, and there was enough disappointment in his tone to suggest momentarily that perhaps she had mistaken his intent.

“Come on, you got to sit down. Seriously, you need to sit down and tell me what is going on with you. Why you’re here.” His other hand had crept onto her waist as well now, but he was falling into some sort of morose stupor. He actually laid his head on her shoulder.

“You’re a goddess and I’m a mess,” he muttered. And for that moment, it was true, and it was all that it was.

“You’re all right. You’re all right,” Alison promised him. She patted his back, reassuring, and gently began to unwind their tattered embrace. “Sit down, I’ll get you a glass of water.” He didn’t move other than to sway, momentarily unsteady on his feet. She waited and instead of pushing harder, patted him again on the back. “Dennis?”