Liar's Guide to True Love (4 page)

Mia met David on a photo shoot that she went on—as the account manager she was babysitting her client, and he was the photographer. They have been together about eight or nine months now, but come to think of it I haven’t heard much about him lately.

“Oh, you know, he’s always traveling, and I’m always working. He’s in Miami this week.”

“Do you ever wonder about him hanging out with gorgeous models that have been giving him their sexy gazes all day, all in the name of ‘work’?”

She glares at me. “Cass, he’s a
still life
photographer.” Then she smiles. “Unless he’s getting off on brown rice and quinoa while he’s shooting that cookbook, I’m not that worried.” See what I mean about Mia? You can talk about weddings, about her boyfriend hanging out with models, and nothing fazes her. She is way too mature for a person our age. Maybe that’s why she is the only one of us who has had relatively normal relationships that last for more than a few dates.

Two bottles of champagne later (first the Veuve, and then the white-label stuff that a couple personalized with their names and wedding date—always save the cheap stuff for when your guests are drunk enough that it doesn’t matter), we are lying on the floor side by side with our legs on the sofa. We each have another bottle of Moet tucked under our arms. Mia is starting to make shadow puppets with her hands when she says to me, “So Cassandra,” (I know she’s tipsy when she starts using my full name), “what’s your dream bedding—I mean wedding—like? You must have it allll planned out by now.”

Mia and I have known each other for too long, and I am too drunk to lie and say the socially acceptable answer of “I haven’t really thought about it/God,
marriage,
I’m a long way off from
that.
” And please, I plan events for a living, how could I
not
have an opinion on what I would and would not do? I take a swig, “Well, first of all, it would be in Napa Valley. I know destination weddings aren’t the trendiest thing anymore,” Mia shrugs, as if she knows or even cares what’s trendy in weddings, “but I couldn’t get married in New York. I know too much about how all the venues work, and I’d be too tempted to take over every detail. I would do Napa, at the Beringer vineyard. You know, the one where they filmed
A Walk in the Clouds.
”

“Mmmm, I still love that movie.”

“I would do all yellow flowers, maybe with a little purple. Tulips are my favorite, but I guess I’d have to see what time of year it is.”

The phone rings. I am too much in my element to answer, so I let the machine get it. (And yes, I still have a landline
and
a traditional answering machine—though at least it’s digital and not those ridiculous tapes that my parents still have). My professional voice comes on the outgoing message. Early in my event-planning days I convinced myself that a land line with a 212 area code meant that I was a Legitimate Business and it would make or break my career. “Thank you for calling Cassandra Hanley Event Planning. Sorry we missed your call, but please leave your name and a phone number where you can be reached…” (Yes, that’s right, “We” because I had also convinced myself that I needed to sound like a Big Business, even though as soon as I met with potential clients I touted the benefits of a one-woman show with personal service).

“Hey, Cass, it’s me.” Oh God, I know that voice, as if I had just heard it whisper in my ear yesterday. Mia sits straight up. Even she knows that voice. “Oh, I guess I don’t qualify for ‘me’ status anymore,” he chuckles, “so in case you didn’t know, it’s Kevin.”

In case
you
didn’t know.

“I ran into Suzanne the other day,” he continues, “I’m sure she told you.”
Pompous ass.
His voice lowers, “Well, I’ve been thinking of you ever since.” He chuckles again, like he’s snapped out of any sentimental state he might have been in. “Guess you’re out. It’s Saturday night after all. Here’s my number. 646-555-1234.” The machine disconnects.

“Oh. My. God.” Mia looks at me wide-eyed, and when she swigs more champagne without breaking eye contact in order not to miss any sign of emotion I might betray, I can’t help but laugh. And it gives me just enough time to recover any loss of composure.

“He does that every once in a while.”

“Does what? Call you? Or
miss
you?”

“He doesn’t miss me.” Before she interrupts, I say, “Trust me on this. He misses the
idea
of me.” I can tell she’s waiting for me to explain the difference. And of course I have spent so many hours dissecting our relationship in my head that I have a ready answer. “He loves the idea of having a serious girlfriend, but not the actual relationship. When he moved to Boston we had the perfect relationship for him—he could play with the boys and live the single life during the week, and I’d be the sure thing for the weekend whenever I went for a visit.” I try not to sound overly bitter.

“Do you think he ever cheated on you back then?”

“I know he did.”

“What? How?” Mia is genuinely shocked. I don’t know how, since she witnessed all the drama of the Kevin years. I suppose back then it was easier for me not to talk about it, and it was easier not to talk to Mia who was busting her butt as an account coordinator.

“I was never really sure while we were going out. He admitted it later—a couple years ago, I think, when he first moved back. It was when we were pretending like we could be friends, and he was telling me about that girl he was so in love with and planned to marry.

“I kind of said something snide, like, why go for monogamy when you’ve cheated on every girlfriend you’ve had. And his response confirmed it.”

“He’s cheated on
every
girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I started off as Girlfriend B, don’t you remember?”

“Girlfriend B?”

“You know, Girlfriend A is the one a guy is publicly attached to. His friends know about her, maybe even his family. Girlfriend A is The Girlfriend. Girlfriend B, also known as The Other Woman, but not as serious as that because there’s no marriage involved, knows about Girlfriend A, but not vice versa. Girlfriend B is just waiting for the relationship with A to end. And it
will
end eventually, because like I said, at that point there are no vows or divorce court or kids involved. Gets really sticky when there’s a Girlfriend C. Otherwise, it’s really just Serial Monogamy with some Overlap.”

In Kevin’s case, Kathleen was Girlfriend A, but she went to Barnard, which was too inconvenient in our college days, when no one went above 14
^th
Street. So I became Girlfriend B, and eventually became A. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that I was Girlfriend B, since Kevin swore they had broken up and were just friends. When he went to Boston, I have no doubt there were at least a
few
hookups. But I was the one he brought to his little firm gigs whenever he needed to show his colleagues that he was a well-rounded heterosexual.

“And he probably scored points with his coworkers for being such a ladies’ man. Nothing fits in better with the Good Ol Boy network of Law—except maybe golf.” Ever since taking a Women’s Studies class in our Junior year, Mia has carried a chip on her shoulder about glass ceilings. Of course, working in the corporate rat race hasn’t helped. “So are you going to call him back?”

“Probably not.”

“Not even to tell him off?”

“Tell him off for what? All that stuff happened years ago. Eons ago. I’m over it.”

“I guess you’re right. It’s just news to me. Maybe you should call him back. See what he wants. Aren’t you curious?”

“Not really.” I’m not curious because I already know what he wants. But the message has sobered me up, and I am
not
going to tell Mia about my, ummm, previous transgressions. Mia is no prude, on the contrary, she would probably try to milk me for every lewd detail, and I am not drunk enough for that. I get up to grab a couple of bottles of water. “Here, drink this, so you’re not hungover tomorrow.”

“God, we really are old when we’re thinking about preventing hangovers. Remember when the whole point of drinking was to end up puking by the end of the night?” I am thankful that she is drunk enough to drop the subject of Kevin so readily.

“Remember when thirty seemed
so
old?”

“Hey, these days forty is the new thirty.”

“And thirty is the new twenty-one!” Mia takes another swig of champagne and lets the bottle of water roll away.

“So speaking of forty-year-olds, how are things with David anyway?” Mia is in a good enough mood that cracks about her boyfriend’s age won’t bother her.

“He is turning forty-
one
next month. You wouldn’t know it by the way he acts. He must be the most immature forty-year-old I have ever known.” Her tone gets a little more serious. “I really love that we’re so comfortable with each other, you know? Like, he leaves the bathroom door open all the time—even when he’s, you know—going. He says my little studio apartment makes him claustrophobic so he hates having any doors closed.”

“Nothing says romance like taking a whizz in front of your partner.”

Mia laughs, and then looks at me. “No, but moving in together does.”

“What?!” I spill my bottle of champagne, thank goodness for light-colored liquids. It didn’t take watching too many tipsy brides for me to avoid red wine in as many aspects of my life as I could. “You’ve been here for like,
four hours,
and
now
you’re getting around to telling me your news?”

She laughs again. “It’s not like I’m getting married or anything.”

“This is
huge.
”

“Well, yeah, it’s a major step. It just didn’t seem to make sense anymore for us to live apart. We spend every night together whenever we’re not traveling for work, and our clothes are just a mish mosh between our places. The other week I spent an hour looking for my black silk Calvin Klein top, only to figure out I had left it at his place. David’s place is so much bigger.”

“Wait, you’re going to move in with him? You’re not going to find your own place together?”

“We haven’t completely decided yet. We just started talking about this a couple weeks ago. My lease is up next month—”

“But his apartment is in
Queens.
It’s practically another state.”

She looks at me with mock indignation. “Astoria is hardly Jersey. The subway goes there, and it would probably take me less time to get to work than it does now from the Upper East Side. And I wouldn’t have to break the bank every time I pay the rent. Just think—I could have Disposable Income.” She gasps, mockingly.

“I had a friend from high school who moved to Queens. I haven’t seen her since.”

“We’re just talking about it, Cass. Don’t worry.”

“You could move near here. The market is great for renters these days, and with both of you splitting it you could afford something nice.”

“He has all his photography equipment.” As if sensing my anxiety, she adds, “But we’re going to look in Manhattan, of course. You never know what we might find!” She’s trying to sound optimistic, and I feel guilty for being a downer on her big news.

“If I hear about any openings in my building I’ll let you know.”

“And maybe it’ll be the one huge apartment that’s never been renovated, and is asking way below market value.” She’s smiling, so if she was angry about my reaction to Queens, it’s blown over.

“Or maybe it’ll be rent stabilized.”

“Or even better, an old lady will kick the bucket and sell a roomful of antiques with it.”

“There
are
a lot of old people around here.”

With some friends whom I haven’t known as well or as long, I can be a bit sheepish about having this apartment all to myself. But not with Mia. “I’m thankful every day that my parents gave me the money for this place.”

“Hey, when one person gets lucky, those closest to her benefit too!” Before David, Mia had spent the night at my place often enough after we had been out with friends and she didn’t feel like trekking back to 113
^th
Street. “Speaking of which, when’s our next party?” Oh yeah, whenever there is a social gathering that warrants staying in, like watching the Oscars, or bridal showers, etc, by default they are held here due to my relatively large living room, and event-planning inclinations.

“My next weekend off is the Fourth of July. Couples know better than to plan weddings on a long weekend when everyone wants to head out of the city. So I guess we’ll do the annual rooftop party?”

“That is perfect. David will be in town, and it’s been way too long since I partied.”

“Oh? Your ‘comfortable’ life doesn’t include ritzy PR events?”

“Well, he still gets invited to plenty of stuff. He just doesn’t want to do that scene anymore. He had to schmooze a lot to get jobs when he was younger, and now he’s sick of it.”

“He
does
sound old.”

“Cass! He is not old!” Mia really is indignant now. “I love that we don’t feel like we need to go out all the time. Look at us right now—we are in our comfy casual clothes, at home, and having a great time. I don’t miss being twenty-two at all. And it’s exactly the same with David. Neither of us is trying to impress anyone with our knowledge about the latest club scene.”

“I guess you’re right. When did that kind of stuff become so much work?”

“Right around twenty-five, I think. When work became a career, and not just a job to afford the drink tab. Being an adult is a bitch in its own way, but I don’t miss all that
drama
all the time. I don’t know how we functioned. It really makes me happy that I found someone like David. You really can’t overestimate emotional stability in a relationship. Who needs the petty jealousies that come with bar flirtations, and the games of who emailed who last? Wondering what to wear, and dissecting every minute of every date to analyze whether or not he likes you. No, thanks. That kind of life is strictly for the spoiled princesses who don’t have anything more important to think about.”