Just Friends (26 page)

“It was my own mistake,” Michael admitted. “That first time I saw her, she looked so beautiful and lost. I had this . . . fantasy, I guess, of making her happy.”

“You’re a romantic,” Cat told him. Suddenly, she felt indescribably happy herself.

“Am I? No one’s ever called me that before.” But he looked rather thrilled. “Actually, I think I bored her sometimes. She’s so quick-witted and reckless. Do you know she once lost
fifty dollars
in a poker game?”

“No!” Cat widened her eyes, teasing him.

Michael acknowledged his own stuffiness with an abashed chuckle. “I guess lawyers
are
kind of boring.”

“Well, thanks!”

“Not you, of course. You could never be boring, Caterina.” He smiled with such warmth that Cat’s defenses melted further. It wasn’t disloyal just to
talk
to Michael. She decided that she’d tell Freya that the two of them had met—but that’s all. There could be no virtue in troubling her with a more detailed confession that might, quite unnecessarily, throw a wrench into their long friendship.

Michael and Cat began to talk about law—where they had each studied, how they liked their jobs, that pig of a judge who always made their female clients cry. The conversation caught fire, and before they knew it they were vigrorously debating the relative merits of the botanical gardens in Staten Island and Minneapolis, by way of New York politics, Cat’s relatives in Calabria, and the appropriate use of truffle oil. Michael didn’t seem to be having any problem whatsoever with words. He leaned across the table, eager and bright-eyed, completely transformed from the man she’d encountered with the Blumbergs two days ago.

“What happened to your cold?” Cat asked suddenly.

“Gone! I went to that place you recommended, and they gave me some amazing stuff.”

“Really? You went there?”

“Of course.”

Cat felt ridiculously flattered.

“You know, it’s so funny we never met before,” Michael said. “I used to hear about you all the time: Cat this, Cat that.”

“And I used to hear about you. Michael, Michael, Michael.”

“Maybe Freya didn’t think we’d get along,” Michael suggested.

They looked at each other. Neither said a word, but the truth rose warm and palpable between them. They got along just fine. Cat felt she could sit here with him forever.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, looking at her watch. “I have to go.”

Michael’s face fell. “Already?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Oh.” He looked completely crushed. “Of course. I see.”

No, he didn’t see, the great lummox. “I’m meeting my kid brother,” she told him. “Well, he’s almost thirty, but you wouldn’t believe the messes he gets himself into.”

“Brother,” Michael echoed, cheering up.

“Youngest of five and spoiled rotten. I’m going to read him the riot act tonight. Now, where did I put my briefcase?”

“It’s here.” Michael reached down for it. “I wish I’d had a big family,” he said. “They sound such fun. I’m the only one.”

Another door opened in Cat’s perception. She had the sense that Michael had been on his best behavior all his life—devoted son, good grades, solid job, decent citizen. Yet there were other, more passionate impulses straining to break free. His wooing of Freya, fervent if wildly misguided, had been one example. Cat thought—in fact, she very much hoped—that lying in wait outside her office today was another. But what if she was mistaken? Michael hadn’t suggested another meeting, and any minute she’d be gone. She stood up reluctantly. “Time to catch that subway.”

Michael jumped to his feet and asked politely if he could walk her to the station. He opened the door for her and insisted on carrying her briefcase. Oh, this was so regressive! Cat loved it. And she loved the way he used her real name.
Cat
was the pugnacious lawyer, the dependable friend, the upfront city girl;
Caterina
was someone much more feminine and mysterious. She could see this other self reflected in Michael’s ardent face every time he glanced at her, though still he said nothing aloud. Unconsciously she began humming a tune that had been playing in the coffee shop—the duet from
La Boheme
.

Michael stopped dead in the street and turned to her. Speculation leaped in his eyes. “You like opera?”

“Of course I like opera. I’m Italian.”

“Even . . . Wagner?”

“Especially Wagner.”

He gave a great sigh, as if a weight had slid from his shoulders. “That’s good. Because it just so happens that I have an extra ticket for the Ring Cycle.”

CHAPTER 17

Jack:

Called Cat today, but she was in a meeting and couldn’t talk. Says she’ll ring me back. Please explain the situation if she calls when I’m out.

Messages:

1. Ella wants you to call her a.s.a.p.

2.
Voila
says you’re late with your review of
Dumb Beasts.

3. The newspaper guy wants you to pay your bill.

For the second time this week I’ve come home to find a plate of melted butter on the kitchen table. After breakfast PLEASE remember to put it back in the fridge. (That’s the big white thing in the kitchen.)—F

Freya:

So that’s the fridge. No wonder my laundry never comes out clean.

Trust you’re using “home” in the purely temporary sense of the word.

No word from Cat. The meter’s running . . . —J

Jack:

Spoke to Cat at last. She’s dying to have me stay with her, but there’s a problem. She’s catsitting and her neighbor’s cat puked on her fold-down bed. She’s having the mattress cleaned. So I can either stay here until Wednesday, when I’d be leaving anyway, or move into a hotel. Let me know which.

Ella called again. She wants to set up a meeting. PLEASE ring her back.

Message on the machine from that creep Leo Brannigan, too. What’s going on?

By the way, Michael is NOT suing me about his trousers. Cat ran into him at some law thing and asked him straight out. So screw you. —F

PS. Did anyone call?

Freya:

So Cat’s cat opened the bed all by himself! Smart pussy—or the least convincing excuse I’ve ever heard.

Since you ask so prettily, okay: next Wednesday LATEST. And you can pay the newspaper bill.

No, anyone did not call. Actors are busy fellows: all those yodeling classes and hair workshops.

Is it you who bought that indigestible white stuff in the cellophane wrapper? Found it in the fridge and tried some in my sandwich today. Not a success, even with Hellman’s and dill pickle. Must be some English delicacy—tripe??? —J

Jack:

Ha ha. Lots of women chill their underwear when the weather’s hot. Leave it ALONE.

Your father rang—what a charmer! I understand genes often skip a generation. He wants you to go over to his hotel for cocktails at 6:00 on Sunday—call his “usual suite” to confirm. He invited me too—said I sounded “a delightful young lady.” Can’t wait to meet him. —F

PS. See giant cockroach (trapped under glass). I knew this would happen.

Freya:

Don’t get excited: Dad will flirt with a baked potato if there’s nothing better around. Besides, you’re way too old for him. But thanks for passing on the invitation, which Candace and I will be delighted to accept.

Garbled message on machine from Tash—about bridesmaids, I think. Laughed so hard trying to picture you in pink satin I missed most of it. Is there something you feel you should tell me?

Took the cockroach back to JBJ Discount. The assistant confirmed it was a Madagascan Hissing Roach,
not
indigenous to Manhattan, bought yesterday by a “tall blond lady.” I explained that my wife had mental trouble and we’d decided on a dachshund instead. Good joke, though!

Oh—almost forgot. Your young gentleman caller called. B-R-E-T-T (though I understand the final
t
is silent). He wonders what you’re doing Saturday night. I said you’d probably be washing your hair, but I’d put in a good word for him. Here are a few favorites: discobolus, crapulent, prestidigitation, sesquipedalian, hippogryph, polyanthus.

Or was it Bernard?

No, Brett, I’m almost sure.

Anyway, it began with B. —J

Jack:

Here’s my rent money. Thanks for another wonderful week. —F

PS. Steven Spielberg called—wants to buy movie rights in
Big Sky.
He left a number, but I didn’t have any paper so I wrote it on my hand. Then I washed your dirty dishes . . . Silly me!

PPS. It was Brett.

CHAPTER 18

Strawberries? . . . Or raspberries?

Freya barely hesitated before adding both to the mounting pile in her shopping cart. She gave a happy sigh. It was Saturday morning. Seven hours from now Brett would be picking her up at the apartment for a night out—their first real date.
Hubba hubba!
as they said in America.

She had woken early, wound tight with anticipation. By eleven she had worked out at the gym, eaten breakfast, spied a fabulous dress in the window of a Village boutique and bought it, and returned to find the apartment silent and Jack apparently asleep. Still brimming with energy, she had decided on a trip to the food stores, to stock the apartment with goodies. It was not, after all, impossible that Brett could still be around tomorrow, or for some days (and nights) to come. A healthy young man like that needed feeding. Jack could have the leftovers for his sandwiches.

Freya pushed her cart over to the pastry section, wondering if Brett liked
croissants
for breakfast. Or would he prefer muffins? Or pancakes? Or eggs? Maybe he ate that superhealthy cereal stuff that looked like gravel chippings. Freya decided to buy the lot, and threw in some organic goat’s yoghurt for good measure. She was tasting salamis at the deli counter when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Hello, Candace,” she said, surprised. “How are you?”

Candace stuck out her tongue.

Freya flinched. “Yeuch! What’s that?”

“A tongue stud.” Candace looked smug. “It’s a surprise for Jack.”

“Yes . . . I imagine it might be.”

“He wouldn’t let me see him all week because of the teacher/student thing. So I thought, why not seize the opportunity? It takes a few days for the swelling to go down.”

“Wasn’t it horribly painful?” The silvery chip was embedded like a gob of fat in Candace’s purplish tongue. Freya decided to forgo the salami.

“Jack’s worth it. Actually, I came in here to buy him coffee and stuff for breakfast. You guys never have anything to eat in your apartment.”

“We do now.” Freya gestured at the cart. “In fact, I’m very glad you turned up, Candace. After I’ve bought some cheese, you can help me carry everything home.”

Candace responded to this request with surprising enthusiasm. She was a good-natured girl, Freya realized, even if her elevator did not quite reach the top floor.

“How’s Jack?” asked Candace, while Freya fretted over the ripeness of the
Torta di San Gardenzio
. “I didn’t want to call him because my tongue made me talk funny.”