Just Friends (2 page)

It was his shyness that had caught her attention in the first place, that evening at the gallery. Michael had come to an opening with his boss and the boss’s ghastly wife, one of those pampered Manhattan ice queens who liked to think of themselves as patronesses of the arts when they weren’t having their nails done. Freya was supposed to be checking out the competition, but it was as much as she could do to stay upright. Still recovering from her latest disastrous relationship she felt shaky and listless. No one spoke to her; she knew she exuded misery and defeat. From her vantage point in a corner, the cold concrete wall at her back for support, a glass in her hand for cover, she had watched the pantomime of Michael’s superpolite behavior as he was alternately patronized and snubbed, dispatched to fetch wine or to deposit a fur coat. She was impressed by his good humor. She liked the way he bent carefully to read the titles and descriptions beside each painting, then stood back to give them his serious, slightly perplexed consideration. Romance was the last thing on her mind; she was done with all that. But observing his open, masculine face, free of cynicism, the thought had occurred to her:
Why can’t I fall for a nice man like that?

Later Michael confided that he had dared approach her only because she looked as lost and alone as he felt. Galleries were not his scene; he had no talent for social chatter. When it turned out that the boss’s hospitality did not extend to dinner, Michael had asked Freya out instead. She couldn’t remember what she’d replied—nothing, perhaps. But he had found her coat and drawn her out into the snowy street, then into a steamy restaurant. She was too thin, he said, and he’d made her eat pasta and drink red wine until he could see the color return to her cheeks. He’d asked nothing of her, just told her about his home and his family and his job—soothing, undemanding talk about normal people and normal lives. Afterwards, he had taken her home in a cab, wheels hissing through the slush, and made it wait while he accompanied her right to the door of that miserable walk-up off Lexington. He hadn’t pounced on her, hadn’t even asked to come in, just made sure she had her key and said goodnight.

It had been a slow, old-fashioned courtship, especially by Manhattan standards—flowers, exhibitions, walks in the park, tea and muffins at Bendels. Michael treated her almost like an invalid, and she had liked the attention. Fifteen years in New York had taught her the art of detachment—from the drunks and crazies, from filth and noise, from the loneliness that came in the small hours and the men who said they’d call and never did. It was nice to feel attached. Michael’s apartment on the upper West Side was blissfully warm and comfortable. Freya spent more and more time there until one day—and it was shaming to admit that she couldn’t remember the exact details—they became lovers. Soon afterwards Michael persuaded her to move in altogether. And she had liked that too. The simple domestic pleasures of shopping and cooking, that relaxed moment at the end of the day when they would exchange news of what had happened since they parted in the morning, made her feel that she was at last having a grown-up relationship. It was comforting to have someone who wanted to listen to this sort of personal trivia, and it felt special to be entrusted with someone else’s, even if it wasn’t always that interesting. Michael was patient and kind, and in due course she had bounced back, as she always did. They bickered, of course—once she’d accused him of preferring that pathetic wreck he’d picked up at the gallery to her real self—but bickering was normal, wasn’t it? Now they were almost like a married couple. Very like a married couple, Freya realized, for Michael had been talking to her for some time and she hadn’t heard a word.

“. . . so I said, ‘Okay, we’ll shut you down.’ That shut him up.” Michael looked up triumphantly; Freya wanted to ruffle his hair. He was so sweet and straightforward. He would make a wonderful father. Not that she wanted children right now, of course. But it would be reassuring to have some quality sperm on tap, as it were.

“But that’s enough about me. How about you? How’s Lola?”

“In Milan, thank God. At least the time difference means the phone calls peter out by the afternoon.”

Lola Preiss was Freya’s boss, a woman of unspecified Central European origins and legendary reputation, whose gallery on 57th Street attracted gamblers with a million or so to spend on big hitters like Howard Hodgkin and Frank Stella. Three years ago, after years of dogged drudgery in half the musuems and galleries in New York, learning about everything from framing and lighting to printing techniques, publicity, and U.S. Customs forms—while simultaneously developing her own “eye”—Freya had been rewarded by an offer to set up Lola Preiss Downtown, a brand-new gallery in a beautiful space in SoHo. Her brief was to seek out and develop younger artists who might one day feed into Lola’s megabucks machine. Freya loved the work, and it would have been a dream job but for Lola’s monstrous ego, which made her interrogate Freya over every decision she made, castigate her for her failures, and publicly claim Freya’s successes as her own. Fortunately Lola was nearing seventy and spent increasingly more time visiting the homes of her wealthiest clients (known uniformly as “dahlink”) along the seaboards of America and throughout the moneyed cities of Europe. But her influence was palpable and oppressive even from afar.

“So, has it been a good week?” Michael persisted. “Sell any big ones?”

Freya rolled her eyes. “Michael: you don’t measure art by the square yard.”

“I know that. You’ve told me often enough. I was just taking an interest.”

“Sorry.” Freya bit her lip.

The waiter brought wine and food. Over her truffle salad, Freya told Michael about her appointment this afternoon with a client sent by Lola, one of “my dear old friends,” who had arrived an hour late and turned out to be a complete time waster. “All he did was give me a pompous lecture on the inner meaning of each canvas—total art catalog crapspeak. In the end I had to throw him out so I could get dressed. Otherwise I’d be here looking like a grunge.”

She paused, in case Michael wanted to comment on how ungrungy she was. He didn’t.

“I hate that type, don’t you?” she burbled on. “All Rolex watches and phony European accents, and leering at you as they talk about the role of art in breaking sexual taboos.”

“Not a lot of leering goes on at Reinertson and Klang, I’m afraid.”

“Glad to hear it! I wouldn’t want you running off with Mrs. Ingwerson.”

“Mrs. Ingwerson is fifty-four years old.” Michael’s tone was cool. “And the best secretary I’ve ever had.”

“Joke, Michael!” Freya gave her fork a humorous little flourish. He certainly was slow on the uptake tonight.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Anyway,” she continued brightly, trying to smooth things over, “we don’t want to talk about work, do we?”

“No,” he said uncertainly. “Here, have some more bread.” He grabbed a basket in front of him and held it out to her. “You never eat enough.”

To please him, Freya took a piece and crumbled it onto her plate. Over his shoulder she caught sight of a couple leaning close to smile into each other’s eyes, their faces lit by a glow of candlelight, their legs entwined under the table. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? She felt a tremor of disquiet. Why didn’t Michael get to the point? She was beginning to lose her nerve.

The waiter cleared their plates and brought the main courses while Michael began telling her, at some length, about an article he’d read in the
Times
about the mayor’s controversial policy on underage crime. Freya nodded at appropriate moments while her mind raced along its own track. Romance wasn’t everything, she told herself. By Monday morning that couple probably wouldn’t even be on speaking terms. Or he’d say he’d call, but he wouldn’t, and she’d wait by the phone for a while, then go out and buy a new dress and start again. Freya knew the routine well. It was juvenile to expect to be swept away by passion. Mature relationships were founded on companionship and mutual respect, not to mention cash flow and a nice place to live. You had to take the long view.

Michael rambled on. It was almost as if he was marking time before—before what? Freya pushed her fish nervously around her plate. One man—
this
man—for the rest of her life, “till death us do part”: it was a scary idea. She told herself she was lucky to have the option, in a city where a single woman was ten times more likely receive a dirty phone call than a proposal of marriage. And people changed when they got married . . . didn’t they?

But when Michael finally finished his steak and laid down his knife and fork neatly, Freya’s heart began to hammer. Uh-oh, was this it? What was she going to say?

Michael cleared his throat. “Freya. I’ve brought you here tonight for a special reason. I have something to say, and something to give you.”

“Really?” She gave an inane laugh.

“Please. I’m serious. I want you to listen.”

“I will, I will.” Freya felt herself flapping helplessly like a fish in a net. “But, you know what, I’m still hungry. Isn’t that amazing?” she gabbled. “I’ve just got to have one of those irresistible-looking chocolate things.”

“Okay,” Michael said curtly. He waved over a waiter.

“What about you? The berry pie sounds good. Or the sorbet. I always think sorbet is so—”

“I don’t want to eat. I want to talk.”

“Oh. Right.” Freya grabbed her wineglass and drained it.

Michael smoothed his tie down his shirtfront. “These last few months we’ve been together have been some of the best of my life,” he began. “You’ve opened my eyes to so many new things—art, and interesting food, and parts of the city I never knew existed. I want you to know that I think you’re a terrific person.”

“You’re a terrific person, too,” Freya responded chirpily.

He plowed on as if he hadn’t heard. She realized that he’d rehearsed this speech. “I’ve been thinking about the future. I’m thirty-six now, and I know what I want. I’m ready to settle down soon. If I get the partnership, I’ll be able to afford to move. A house out of the city, Connecticut maybe, or some place upstate. Who knows, I might even take up golf.”

“Golf?” squeaked Freya, beginning to panic.

“And I want someone to share that life with me.”

Freya suddenly saw herself trapped behind a white picket fence with a frilly apron glued to her waist.

“Home. Stability. Shared interests,” Michael intoned. “And kids, one day.”

Behind the picket fence there now appeared a mob of yowling toddlers with jammy faces, freighted by bulging diapers. Freya could actually feel her biological clock whirling into reverse. A hand placed her dessert before her—brown goo in a creamy lake. Her stomach heaved.

“These are the things I see happening, things I’m looking forward to, things I want to share with another person.” Michael stared at her intently, almost fiercely.

Quick! Head him off at the pass. “Could we order some coffee?” she croaked. “I’m feeling kind of tired.”

“In a minute. What I’m trying to say—” He broke off in exasperation as she gave an enormous fake yawn. “God, you’re making this so difficult. There’s something I want to give you.”

Now he was patting his pockets. Any minute he was going to produce the ring!

“I don’t need anything. Really. It’s not my birthday.”

“Please stop interrupting. I’ve got something important to say to you.”

“There’s no rush. Let’s leave it to tomorrow.” Freya was now giving her hair careless little flicks and grinning like a Disney chipmunk.

“You see, I think you’re wonderful,” Michael continued.

“Hey, I think I’m wonderful too. So why don’t we—” Freya cast around wildly for inspiration and caught sight of the canoodling couple. She leaned low across the table, clenching her forearms to her sides to give herself a Grand Canyon cleavage. “Why don’t we go home,” she cooed, “and make mad, passionate love?”

“You don’t understand.” Michael had now taken whatever it was out of his pocket. He held it hidden, cupped between both hands, and was looking down solemnly, like a small boy about to show her his live pet toad.

Freya tried a different tack. “It’s too soon.” Her voice was redolent with untold tragedy. She nudged his hand. “Please, put it away.”

Instead, Michael pressed the object into her fingers—a small, square box.

Freya hesitated. She might as well see what he had picked out. Did she rate diamonds? Or the predictable sapphire, “to match your eyes”?

She opened the box. Inside was a gold signet ring engraved with the monogram MJP. The initials stood for Michael Josiah Petersen. She knew this because she had bought him the ring herself. American men liked that kind of thing. It had been a gesture, to show her gratitude to Michael when he first gave her shelter.

“Wow.” She was completely at a loss. In American high schools, girls and boys swapped “class rings.” Maybe this was a grown-up version. “I—I don’t know what to say.” She took out the ring and turned it around in her fingers, then looked into Michael’s face for guidance.