Just Friends (3 page)

“We’ve had such great times together.” Michael’s voice was thick with emotion.

“Yes . . .” She hung her head.

“I so much want you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“But—”

But?
Freya’s head jerked up. But what? She’d lost the script. What was going on here?

“—but I think it would be better if . . .”

“If what?”

“Well, you know . . .”

“No, Michael, I don’t know.”

“If we could be . . .”

“Yes? . . .”

“I think it would be better if we could be . . . just friends.”

“Friends,” she echoed.
“Friends?”
she repeated loudly.

There was a dull splat. It was the ring, dropping from her lifeless fingers into the chocolate torte.

CHAPTER 2

Walk. Don’t walk.
Signs flashed. Headlamps dazzled. Traffic revved and roared. There was the
whoop-whoop
of a police siren, a percussive strafe of rap music from a passing car. Freya strode up Broadway, heels clacking, long legs scissoring in leather trousers. A piece of crushed material dangled from one swinging fist. From time to time she swished it angrily, like a lion tamer with his whip. People got out of her way.

Bastard! How dared he ditch her like that? He’d led her down the garden path, then pushed her headfirst into the muck heap. “I think you’re a terrific person,” she mimicked to herself, waggling her head like a crazy. So
terrific
that he’d made her spend over a thousand dollars, just so he could ask her to be “friends” with him. So
terrific
that he’d taken her to the most fashionable restaurant in town for the pleasure of dumping her in public. Her eyes blurred, and she stepped out into a cross street without seeing that the lights had changed.

A clash of car horns made her jump. Automatically Freya responded with a rude gesture and kept walking. She sniffed fiercely and swiped the heel of her hand across her cheeks. She was
not
crying. She began to sing loudly in her head to drown out the voice that told her she was alone, that she would always be alone, that no one wanted to be with her if they could help it, that she’d been a vain, ridiculous fool to think Michael could want to marry her. It was always the same tune, she couldn’t have said why. She didn’t even know the words.

Land of hope and glory, mother of the free

Dum dum dum-dum dum-dum dum

Dum dum diddle-y dee . . .

Sure enough, as she marched up the street in time with the music, Freya felt the steel reenter her soul. Tough, tough, tough, she reminded herself. She hadn’t cried in front of anyone since she was fifteen years old, when her little sneak of a stepsister had peeked through the keyhole of her bedroom door and run to tell the household that Freya was a crybaby. Well, not anymore. Freya had chosen this city
because
it was the toughest in the world. Manhattan wasn’t like a European city where people wandered hand in hand, stopped to kiss in the middle of sidewalks and bridges, and took their children and grannies to restaurants. This was a place where you walked fast and avoided eye contact, where you got your Christmas tree delivered already decorated and threw it out on Christmas afternoon, where you told your cabdriver he was a fucking cretin, and developed that don’t-mess-with-me glint in your eye. Freya liked it; it suited her.

Okay, so she was back to square one. So what? She’d been alone before. She was used to it. It was better than staying with a man who didn’t love her. She wasn’t doing that, not even for one night.

For after itemizing the reasons why she wasn’t right for him—psychobabble about mutual trust and compatible life goals—Michael had been insensitive enough to suggest that she stay on in his apartment until she found a new place, and then accused her of being “emotional” when she refused. That’s when she’d gotten up and left the restaurant—just cut him off in midsentence. There was no way she was going to let anyone see her get emotional. Anyway, she didn’t need Michael’s charity. There were alternatives to hanging around like Little Miss Grateful, sleeping on Michael’s couch and demurely passing him the skim milk at breakfast time. “I have plenty of other
friends
,” she’d told him pointedly.

The bad news was, they were all out. She’d made some calls from the gallery when she returned to take off that stupid dress and change back into her work clothes. But it was still only ten o’clock on a Friday night. Most normal people were out having a good time—even Cat, her best friend, who had complained to her this very week that she hadn’t been on a date in months. So, where was she? Freya shrugged. It was no big deal: she would try later from her cell phone. If the worse came to the worst, she could check into a cheap hotel. Freya pictured the desk clerk’s leer as she arrived in some seedy, ill-lit foyer, a lone woman with no luggage. Her scorching pace faltered. Where was she?

Union Square opened up ahead of her. Instinctively she crossed Fourteenth Street to get away from the traffic, climbed the steps into the square, and began to circle it aimlessly. It was a warm night, the first of June with the first promise of real summer, and the place was bustling. People streamed out of the subway, some pausing at the news kiosks, others heading for the trendy restaurants that ringed the square. On one of the benches a group of teenage girls rocked back and forth, helpless with giggles, while two boys on in-line skates swooped around them in complicated patterns, showing off. An old man was leading his big collie from tree to tree, softly urging it to perform. By the fountain in the middle of the square some guys had set up an ad hoc band—saxophone, double bass, guitar, a singer in a worn top hat, a cardboard box laid on the grass containing a pathetic sprinkling of coins. Behind them the city reared into the night sky, sparking like a perpetual fireworks display. The husky voice of the singer drifted out across the square: “. . . but I’m broken-hearted/’Cause I can’t get started/With you.”

Freya came to a halt and wrapped her arms tight, tight across her chest. Under her fingers, she could feel the delicate beading of the pink dress. New York might
look
like the most romantic city in the world, she thought; just don’t go there expecting to find love.

Abruptly she turned her back on the music and the view. Her eye fell on a large metal garbage container on which someone had crudely painted, “Jesus loves you.” She strode over to it and in a sudden, savage gesture stuffed the dress inside, between newspapers and crushed Styrofoam cups and cigarette butts, pushing it deeper until the delicate chiffon began to rip and red goo from pizza cartons smeared across the fancy beadwork. So much for her foolish female fantasies. She brushed her palms clean and stepped back to survey the mess. It occurred to her that certain art dealers she knew would transport that garbage can straight to their gallerys and display it with a five-figure price tag, as “Study with pizza carton No. 25.” Hmm, pizza. Now what did that remind her of?. . .

Twenty minutes later she was in Chelsea, standing outside the basement door of one of the seedier-looking town houses, a paper bag clasped under her arm. The window overlooking the narrow front yard was barred and curtained, but a light shone from inside and she thought she could hear the hum of voices. It was the first Friday of the month, right? Some people never changed. Freya pressed the doorbell.

She heard an inner door open, a casual male shout, the sticky tread of sneakers on bare tiles. A shadow loomed behind the panel of colored glass. Then there was the click of a lock, and light streamed onto her face. Standing in the doorway was a tall, loose-limbed man with a haystack of blond hair, holding a drink in one hand.

Freya pointed two fingers at his chest. “Stick ’em up,” she said. “It’s a raid.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. Had she done the wrong thing? What if he was holed up with some babe? Then he shouted, “Freya! I don’t believe it!” and drew her inside with an easy hug. He smelled of bourbon.

“Hiya, Jack.” She stepped back from his embrace. “You’re still running the game, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Come on in.” He grinned at her. “We can always use another sucker.”

“Sucker yourself!” She followed him across the checkerboard floor, squeezing past a bicycle propped against one wall. “Who tricked you out of a full house that time with a lousy pair of nines?”

But Jack was already pushing open the door to the living room with his foot. “Hey, everybody, look who’s here!”

The scene was so familiar she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. In the center of the room was a big round table covered with a stained cloth and littered with beer bottles, cigarette papers, pretzels, colored poker chips, dollar bills, overflowing ashtrays, and—yes!—pizza cartons spattered with dried tomato and coagulated cheese. Smoke hung in a visible cloud below the globular ceiling lamp. And there they all were, the old crowd—Al, sitting backwards astride his chair, rolling a joint; Gus, doing his fancy double-shuffle; Larry, counting his chips and totaling the amount with a pocket calculator. There was another man, too, a stranger in a black shirt, with dark eyebrows and a challenging stare. The tableau held for a split second, then jerked into life as if her entrance had broken a spell.

There was a general hubbub of greeting. Someone went to the kitchen to get more ice. A glass was pressed into her hand. Larry bounded over and gave her a bear hug, his springy hair tickling her chin. “My, how you’ve grown,” he teased. Everyone asked her how she was and where she had been all this time, and she thought of Michael with a fresh burst of resentment. How dared he try to trap her in his persnickety routines and domestic demands! These were her real friends.

“I didn’t know you let women play.” A sardonic voice cut through the chatter. It was the stranger, still sitting at the table, tapping ash from his cigarette with a restless finger.

Jack gave his rich, disarming laugh and hooked a heavy arm around Freya’s shoulders. “ ‘Women,’ no. Freya, yes. This here’s my oldest friend, Leo. Freya’s one of the boys.”

“She taught us Cincinnati Spin, for chrissakes,” added Gus. “She’ll clean you out if you aren’t careful.”

“But I’m always careful.” He got up to shake Freya’s hand in a formal manner introducing himself as Leo Brannigan.

“So, you’re the famous Freya?” He scrutinized her with interest.

“I suppose so.” She laughed.

“Jack used to talk about you. You’re English, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you live in New York.”

“Yes.” What was this—an inquisition? He was still holding on to her hand.

“Are you married?”

“No.”
Freya withdrew her hand and glared. “Are you?”

“Of course not.” He gave an amused half smile. Freya wasn’t sure if this was a put-down or a very slimy pickup. “And you’ve played poker before?”

“Since I was eight.”

“Well, well.” His eyebrows rose. “May the best man win.”

“Okay, Al, your deal.” Jack’s voice was suddenly brisk. “Freya, you know the rules.” He brought her a chair and counted out a pile of chips at her place. “One-dollar ante, fifty-dollar limit, dealer’s choice.”

Freya knew the rules: number one was no girlie chitchat. That suited her fine. In one swift movement she reached into the paper bag, drew out a bottle of Southern Comfort and plonked it on the table. Then she tossed her purse and jacket onto the big couch, flipped her thumbs through the straps of her singlet as though they were braces, and sat down. “Hit me,” she said.

They started with five card stud. As soon as Freya gathered her cards into her hand she felt focused, alive, confident. She loved this moment, when her world shrank to a pool of light and there was nothing but the clack of chips, the whisper and snap of cards, the clink of a bottle against glass. Outside the world went about its business; everything here depended on the flip of a card and the intensity in her head. “Poker isn’t a game,” her father used to say, “it’s Greek drama: man against Fate. Never crow, and never whine.” Well, she wouldn’t. She poured herself three fingers of Southern Comfort, took a deep slug, and blanked out Michael and the whole disastrous evening.

Lady Luck was with her and she played like a witch, finessing winning hands out of the air, varying her play to fox the opposition. Every time she remembered Michael’s pitying eyes, or the fact that she had no place to sleep tonight, or that her life was a mess, she simply took another little drink. It worked a treat.

Male conversation washed over her—companionable, familiar, relaxing. The happiest years of her life had been spent in male company. There was none of that sly innuendo you got with women, no prying questions, no edgy competitiveness; just sports, jokes, news stories, media gossip, sex. At one point, a spirited debate on whether a certain talk-show hostess was sexy or not led to a general discussion of the kind of women they each favored. Lots, said Jack. Big bazoomas, Al gestured widely. Loaded, said Leo. Larry didn’t care, so long as they weren’t taller than him.