Just Friends
Authors: Robyn Sisman
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Women, #General
JUST FRIENDS
ROBYN SISMAN
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK
Table of Contents
For my mother
Acknowledgments
My thanks go to Susan Dull and Maureen Freely for allowing me to pick their brains; to Harriet Evans of Penguin for buoying me up with her effervescent phonecalls; and to my brilliant editor, Louise Moore, who demands the best and always gives it, too.
I owe a huge debt to my family: to my mother for her insight and encouragement; to my in-laws for unstinting moral and practical support; to my children for enduring a famine of holidays and maternal attention; and to my sister Tamie and her husband Paul for a wonderful visit at their Chelsea (NY) apartment.
Last, first and always is my husband Adam—my severest critic and most loyal champion.
CHAPTER 1
Freya peeled off her clothes and stood in her underwear, contemplating her reflection. She wanted to look her best for Michael tonight. There had been no time to go home to change; she must make do with this cramped ladies’ room beneath her office. Her new dress hung from the cubicle door: a cool thousand dollars’ worth of palest pink that shimmered with a tracery of opalescent beads—a Cinderella dress chosen to make her as feminine and delicate as a porcelain doll. That was the look she was aiming for, less femme fatale, more . . .
femme
, plain and simple.
Let’s go somewhere special,
he had said over breakfast on Monday morning,
somewhere we can talk
. Questions had exploded in her head like popcorn in a hot pan. Talk about what? Why not right here in the apartment? Freya had choked them back. Instead, she’d done a lot of shopping.
But all week long she had carried his words around with her, a time bomb in the pit of her stomach, tick-tick-ticking as the days passed. Was this It? Was she about to become Mrs. Normal, grouching about schools and the state of her suburban lawn?
With a hand that was not quite steady Freya twisted the tap and splashed her cheeks with cold water. On with the war paint. She began to make up her face—a pencil to darken the pale arches of her eyebrows, mascara to bring her light-blue eyes into focus. Which lipstick? Scarlet Woman was out, obviously. So, frankly, was Vestal Virgin, a relic of her infatuation with an artist who had left her for a seventeen-year-old. Aha, Crimson Kiss, that was more like it. She slid the color back and forth over her lips, then bared her teeth, satisfactorily white against the red. I floss, you floss, we all floss. God bless American dentistry.
But what if she was wrong? Maybe Michael just wanted to discuss the new service charge for the apartment, or to finalize plans for their trip to England. Freya cocked her head to fix an earring, considering this possibility. No, she decided. Michael was a lawyer, and a man: habit was his middle name. Every January he bought his suits in the sales, always two, always Armani, either navy or charcoal. He called his mother on Sunday evenings (allowing for the time change to Minneapolis), got his annual hay fever shot right after Groundhog Day, and always tipped ten percent on the nose. There was nothing unpredictable about Michael, thank God. If he wanted to “talk,” he must have something important to say.
Balancing precariously on one flamingo leg, then the other, Freya slid on sheer stockings, then stepped carefully into the precious dress and drew it up her body, shivering at its silky opulence. A hidden side zip pulled it snug around her small breasts, miraculously creating a discreet cleavage. She slotted her feet into flat shoes, with the faintest sigh of regret for those strappy four-inch heels she’d seen in a Fifth Avenue store. It was too bad Michael wasn’t taller. She reminded herself sternly that successful relationships were founded on compromise.
A few adjustments, a mist of perfume, and she was finished. Did she look the part? Freya found her brain flooding with words she had never associated with herself:
fiancée
,
engagement
,
honeymoon
,
Mr. and Mrs.
. .
Daddy and Mommy
. She grabbed the sink with both hands and peered close. Narrow pointed face, skin as pale as buttermilk, collar bones you could beat a tattoo on, long arms and legs—too long? She was as tall as many men: “giraffe,” they had called her at school. Could somebody really
love
this person—for ever and ever, amen? She picked at her newly cropped hair (another hundred bucks), so fair it looked almost colorless in this light. “Freya the beautiful,” her mother used to call her, named after the warmhearted goddess of the icy north who was loved by all men. But that was when she was six years old. It was impossible to know what her mother would make of her now.
As she turned this way and that, assessing this unfamiliar self, Freya was reminded of one of those ballerinas that twirled mechanically on one leg whenever someone opened a musical box. She gave an experimental twirl herself, laughing a little as her legs tangled and she almost lost her balance. The movement had dislodged a lock of hair, and as she smoothed it back she caught sight of her left hand, with its bare ring finger. Her expression sobered. It was nice to be wanted, she told her twin in the mirror. It was wonderful to be loved. She wasn’t twenty-nine anymore.
Yes, Michael was the one, she was almost sure.
The restaurant Michael had chosen was a new and very expensive place on the edge of the Village, so confident of its must-go status that Freya walked past it twice before spotting the tiny engraved entryphone. She leaned on the buzzer, and immediately the door was opened by an angelic young man with a peroxide crop. She found herself in a waiting area furnished according to the latest style edict to look “just like your own home”—if you were a millionaire. Voluptuous sofas flanked a faux fireplace. There were Georgian-style urns on the mantelpiece, magazines and “real” books artfully disarranged on low tables, even a chess set, apparently abandoned in midgame. Shallow steps led down into the dining room. From it wafted up fashionable smells and the uninhibited chatter of people utterly at ease with their own tremendous success. The name of the restaurant, she remembered, was Phood.
As the young man led the way, Freya scanned the crowded tables. On one of the plump banquettes, perched somewhat stiffly between lime-green bolsters, was Michael. Sober-suited and serious, frowning slightly as he checked some document with a hovering pen—perhaps, knowing Michael, a checklist of their compatible qualities—he looked so out of place among the flashy media poseurs and Wall Street dudes that Freya’s face melted into a tender, teasing smile. Her anxieties retreated. She realized that his choice of restaurant was a compliment to her, and vowed to keep any sardonic comments to herself. She would be amusing, charming, attentive—the perfect partner. She made her way down the steps, waiting for him to notice her. When he did, he looked startled, almost shocked: very gratifying. Cramming his papers into a side pocket, he leaped up from his chair to greet her with a kiss on each cheek.
“Freya, you look wonderful!”
“I know.” She put her hands on his shoulders and laughed into his eyes, then stepped back so that he could admire her properly. “It’s the new me. Don’t tell me, you thought I was
born
wearing trousers.”
“No, no.” Her exuberance seemed to disconcert him. “I mean, you always look fabulous.” He pulled the table out so she could sit down opposite him, and resumed his position. How adorably lawyerly he looked, with his square, handsome face, serious brown eyes, and wavy hair clipped close. They would love him in England. She wondered if he’d already bought her a ring, and if so where he was hiding it.
A waiter brought them menus and drew a bottle from a cooler by the table. “Champagne?”
“Absolutely.” Freya shot Michael a sparkling smile. “Are we celebrating?”
“Well . . .” He looked bashful. “It
is
Friday night.”
Freya held her tongue. After five months of living with him, she knew perfectly well that Michael’s favorite Friday-night routine consisted of gourmet take-out, a video, and early bed. But then, he did work very hard.
As the waiter filled her glass, Freya was surprised to see that the bottle was already half empty. It was unlike Michael to drink alone. He must be gathering his courage.
“So, how was your day?” she heard herself ask. Holey moley, she was turning into the perfect little housewife already!
“Fine. They’re holding a meeting next month to vote on the new senior partners. Fred thinks I have a good chance.”
“Fred always says that.” Freya popped a couple of char-grilled pistachios into her mouth. Then she saw Michael’s lips purse and quickly added, “But I’m sure you do. King of the divorce courts, that’s you. Hey, look at this.” She pointed to the menu, hoping to distract him from her lapse in tact. “Beggar’s Purse,
seventy dollars
. What can it be? Molten deutsche marks?”
“Some kind of pancake, I think, with caviar inside. Seems a lot to pay for fish eggs, doesn’t it?”
“Not if it’s beluga. My father took me to St. Petersburg once, when he was working at the Hermitage, and we went to this special dinner. I was about twelve, and it was the first time I’d ever tasted caviar, but I’ve never forgotten it. Total heaven. Go on, try it.”
“Fish gives me a bad reaction, you know that. I think I’ll go for the soup.”
“Good choice.” Michael always had soup.
There was an awkward pause. Freya felt suddenly artificial in her expensive dress amid the chic absurdities of this place, smiling at this man who was smiling back at her. It was as if they were in a play and had both forgotten their lines. To prod the scene into life, she launched into a girlie pantomime of choosing what to eat. Was this too fattening? (Of course not, she could never be fat.) Was that too garlicky? (It didn’t matter; he positively liked garlic.) She exclaimed over the restaurant. How had he succeeded in getting a reservation? Wasn’t it original to have feathers in the vases instead of flowers? Michael responded distractedly and blew his nose, saying he thought he might be allergic to feathers. Freya suppressed a twinge of irritation. Michael had always been shy: she must let him go at his own pace.