Just Friends (6 page)

“Write it down anyway. Just in case.”

Minutes later, Jack was standing on the sidewalk watching Candace’s tilting hips as she receded down the street. Sunlight gleamed on the curves of her smooth calves; he caught the flash of a gold ankle-chain. Everything about her signaled availability. Well, why not? he thought—so long as Freya hadn’t ruined the whole thing. Jack jabbed his hands deep into his jeans pockets and scowled.
Thanks, Freya, you’re a pal.

Back inside, Jack looked around for her. She could at least help him clear up last night’s mess. But it seemed she had gone back to bed with her hangover. It was somehow unsettling to think of her lying asleep in his apartment. Jack rubbed a hand across his chest, wondering what to do. He was sorry that Freya didn’t feel well, naturally, but she had already caused him major embarrassment and it wasn’t as if she were
his
girlfriend. Far from it. Michael could take care of her, he’d be good at that. Jack headed for the telephone. Unconsciously, his lips pursed and his steps became mincing as he pictured Michael prissily carrying a pot of tea and plumping up pillows. Then his expression sobered. What exactly was the etiquette of calling up another man to inform him that his girlfriend had just spent the night in your apartment?

Pondering this problem, Jack slumped in a chair by the telephone and flipped idly through his address book. The pages were worn and dog-eared, each one crammed with names and numbers inked in, crossed out, scribbled over, doodled around, mysteriously emphasized with stars, tantalizingly cryptic. “Barbie (C’s sister)”—who was she? “Angelo’s Bar (pay phone)”—what was that? He could remember when the pages were crisp and white and empty, the leather binding a sensuous, glossy tan stamped with his initials—a going-away present from Lauren, his stepmother, “for all the wonderful friends you’ll make.” She’d already partially filled in the personal information on the first page, so that it read “Name: James Randolph Caldwell Madison III. Address: New York City. Occupation: Writer.” Jack recalled how his younger self had swelled at the stark magnificence of this description, though he had sheepishly discarded the page after a couple of weeks of city sophistication.

Now the book was a satisfyingly fat compendium of publishers, movie theaters, girlfriends, favorite bars, magazine editors, libraries, pool clubs, restaurants, bookstores, photocopy shops—and friends, of course. Freya’s name sprouted all over the
F
section, like thistles in a meadow. He’d never known anyone who moved as often as she did. The very first entry, now crossed through, gave the address of that leaky old boarding house in Brooklyn where he’d come looking for a cheap room his very first week in New York. An image flashed up of long blond hair fanning out around her upside-down face as she leaned over a top floor banister to call out to him.

In those days Freya had struck him as an impossibly superior being, a sophisticated twenty-five to his raw twenty-two. She knew where you could fill up on soup and bagels for five dollars, which flea markets sold the cheapest furniture, how to sneak into openings and gorge on canapés and champagne for free, what movie theater let you see the picture twice around to keep warm. She’d introduced him to “the gang”—a loose group of would-be artists, actors, and writers who shivered through the winters, dragged their mattresses onto roofs and fire escapes in summer, gossiped at Ambrosio’s over coffee and doughnuts, borrowed money and clothes, and assured one another they were geniuses. Freya was famed for her Celebration Spaghetti that marked their inching achievements, invariably followed by a disgusting English dessert called Bread and Butter Pudding, which Jack had learned to make almost palatable with a thick mulch of American ice cream. From the first, Jack had enjoyed her sharp wit and independence of mind—even her cool mockery, which was quite different from the flirtatious brand of teasing he was used to from the girls back home. There had even been a time, one particular night years ago, when he’d. . . .

Jack frowned. He did not wish to revisit that humiliating occasion. He was different then, and so was Freya. Returning to the address book, he leapfrogged swiftly from one Freya entry to the next—uptown, downtown, this boyfriend, that boyfriend, this job, that job. Yes, ten years was a long time. They were still friends, would surely always be friends—but he had his own life to lead, and she had hers. He found Michael’s number and dialed.

CHAPTER 4

. . . A wisp of silver strayed diaphonous beneath the moon, suspended in the inky well of night. Watching it, something dark and primitive stirred in Garth’s loins, and he emitted a groan of longing, like the honk of a lonely goose. He felt himself spinning down, down, down, in a vortex of despair. Was there to be no love for him in this cruel world, just because his skin was black?

Jack grabbed the pencil from behind his ear. His hand hesitated over the page. Where to begin? In the end, he contented himself with correcting the spelling of diaphanous, ringed the dangling participle, and gave his pencil a couple of vicious bites before returning it to its resting place.

It was midafternoon. Over the last couple of hours he had done the dishes, cleaned up the living room, left a cup of tea by the bedside of a comatose Freya, and taken out the trash. Now he was lying on the couch under the large window, sneakered feet comfortably propped on the far armrest, a sheaf of papers on his chest.

He checked to see how many pages remained, and sighed. From what he could make out, “Forbidden,” world copyright Candace Twink, was a story of doomed love set in the Civil War, featuring a feminist version of Scarlett O’Hara and a black slave apparently familiar with existentialism. Experience told him that it was not a parody.

What was he going to tell her? Not the truth, obviously. Parts of her manuscript were very nearly not bad; but as a whole it was crap. Privately, Jack was doubtful whether creative writing could be taught. He loathed the word
creative
, which brought to mind women in floaty garments dancing barefoot and pointless artifacts made from sea shells. Good writing was a craft; great writing was an art; creative writing was all too often neither. But he needed the money. He wrote reviews and magazine pieces for the same reason. His allowance simply wasn’t enough to live on anymore. Jack thought resentfully of his father, with his beach house and his mountain house as well as the Madison mansion, his expensive cigars and even more expensive wives. Dad had no idea how much it cost to live in Manhattan. Jack’s allowance barely covered the rent for this apartment; but when he tried to ask for more, all he got was his father’s famous cock-of-the-walk smile and the suggestion that Jack get himself a “real” job. No wonder his novel wasn’t finished. A writer needed to breathe the pure, Olympian air of the imagination, untrammeled by petty anxieties, not to pollute his talent with demeaning hack work.

Still, there were compensations. He skipped ahead through Candace’s script to see if there were any sexy bits; he might pick up some useful tips for tonight—assuming he talked her around, of course. Disappointingly, Candace favored metaphor, though Jack was encouraged by one reference to the “proud swell of manhood.” He leaned his head back against the armrest of the couch and closed his eyes, trying to picture the shape of the evening. First he’d take Candace for drinks at Z Bar, where they could sip cocktails on the roof terrace and spy on any celebs; girls always liked that. It would be important to get the business part over at the beginning, so pretty soon he’d take out her script and give her his critique. He practiced a few phrases in his head: original concept . . . acute observation . . . interesting—no, arresting use of simile.
Excellent
punctuation. Then, over the second cocktail, he’d suggest one ruthless cut—dropping the subplot about the amputee, for example—something to get her emotions going. They’d fight, she might cry, he’d apologize, they’d make up, and afterwards they’d move on to some dark, funky restaurant, then back to her place.

Satisfied with his plan, Jack returned “Forbidden” to its nifty folder. After all that work he was starving; he would make himself a sandwich and refresh his intellect with the
New York Review of Books
—or perhaps a game on TV if the Yankees were playing. He got up from the couch, stretched his arms wide and yawned, sucking in his breath so vigorously that it made a curious noise in his throat. Hark! Was that, perchance, the honk of a lonely goose? He tucked his fists into his armpits and flapped his elbows experimentally.

“Taking off somewhere?” said a voice.

Jack whirled around. “Oh, hi, Freya.” He tried to turn the flapping into a vigorous rib massage. “Uh, feeling better?”

“Fine.” She was fully dressed in last night’s clothes, purse over her shoulder, ready to go. “I just came to say good-bye, and thank you. I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance.”

“That’s okay.”

Her formal manner caught Jack off guard. He scanned her more closely. She looked very pale.

“Can I get you some coffee? Aspirin?”

She shook her head. “I’d better get back.”

“Right.” Jack hesitated, wondering how much he dared question her. Freya always acted as if her private life were a state secret. “Back where?” he ventured finally.

“Home, of course.”

It was the
of course
that did it, uttered with such condescension that Jack was piqued into saying, “Why don’t you call Michael? He must be worried about you.”

Immediately he regretted his cruel impulse. Freya’s face closed tight, like a fragile sea creature poked with a stick. “Oh . . . you know . . . let him stew. I’m not a dog you can whistle home.” She gave him one of her looks. “You know how to whistle, don’t you?”

“You just put your lips together and blow.” Automatically he finished off the quote. It was an old game.

Freya was unzipping her purse. “I’m sure I must owe everyone money from last night.”

“Afraid so. Don’t worry, I paid for you since you were . . .”

“Asleep.” She pulled out her wallet.

“Whatever. The total’s kind of steep—two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Her hand froze. “I don’t seem to have my checkbook on me right now. Is it okay if I pay you back next week?”

“Well, of course it is!” What was the matter with her? “Take as long as you like.”

“Thanks, Jack.” Her face softened, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry about this morning, by the way. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

It seemed to Jack that her eyebrows arched in a knowing way. He did not care for the insinuation. “That was one of my students,” he said reprovingly.

“Really? Are you teaching her the ABCs?”

Jack glowered. “I’ll come and help you get a cab.”

“No! I mean, thanks, but I think I’ll hop on a bus.” She half turned away, hesitated, then stepped toward him in that decisive, long-legged way she had. They kissed cheeks. “Thanks for the game, and thanks for the bed. See you soon.”

“See you,” Jack echoed, following her into the hall. He opened the door for her and watched her walk out to the street. Where she was going? Some friend? Another man? She obviously didn’t want to tell him, and he knew better than to ask. Fine. He shut the door.

Cheese and peanut butter, he thought, with a smidge of piccalilli, corn chips on the side, and an ice-cold beer. Yum. His mouth was already watering. He headed for the kitchen, yanked open the fridge door, and started assembling ingredients. What a mystery women were. He’d known Freya for over ten years, yet she wouldn’t tell him she’d split up with her boyfriend; whereas Michael, whom he’d met about twice and didn’t even like, had told him right away. Men were so straightforward. Jack still didn’t know the exact reasons for the breakup, but it was pretty clear that Michael wasn’t expecting Freya back. When Jack had protested that Freya was sick and needed somewhere to go, Michael had responded, “You’re her friend, you take care of her.”

Of course, that was impossible. He had a novel to write. Jack ran a forefinger round the inside rim of the peanut butter jar and put it in his mouth: sensational. Anyway, you might as well try to take care of a saber-toothed tiger: Freya did exactly as she pleased, and always had. It was her own fault that she’d never settled into an apartment of her own, claiming that she liked to be “free.” Jack flicked a splodge of piccalilli on top of the cheese, pressed a piece of only slightly stale bread on top to complete his sandwich, and took a large bite. The real conundrum was how Freya and Michael ever got together in the first place. What could she see in a nine-to-five lawyer from one of those tight-assed Midwest states? And the guy had no style. He had actually complained to Jack that the bill at Phood had come to 365 dollars, “not including tip.” Jack chuckled, spraying out a few crumbs. He loved that—Michael’s entire character summed up in three words. In fact, it was so good that he wanted to write it down. Taking his sandwich with him, he walked through to his study so he could scribble a note for his “Ideas” file, a cornucopia of observations, bons mots, and scraps of overheard dialogue that was now actually longer than his novel.