Living Single (6 page)
Authors: Holly Chamberlin
I stood, grabbed some loose papers on my desk, felt and knew I looked utterly the guilty fool. “Fine, fine. Just, you know, busy. Let me just grab the file ...”
Maureen shrugged and left, closing the door again behind her.
I collapsed into my chair. My cheeks were hot. I panicked and wondered what was running through Maureen’s mind right now. Did she think I was planning to leave EastWind, that I’d been talking to a prospective employer? Doing something to oneself that should only be done in the privacy of one’s own home? Did she think I had been leaving a message for the married man who seemed to be courting me?
The time of deception had begun.
Chapter Eight
T
wo weeks had passed since Valentine’s Day, since Doug had sent me the roses and I’d left a thank you message on his voice mail. Two weeks of thundering silence. I began to feel angry. I began to feel hurt. I began to wonder if I’d imagined the entire thing.
wo weeks had passed since Valentine’s Day, since Doug had sent me the roses and I’d left a thank you message on his voice mail. Two weeks of thundering silence. I began to feel angry. I began to feel hurt. I began to wonder if I’d imagined the entire thing.
Reason had a thing or two to say. Forget him Erin. If it really was Doug Spears who sent the flowers and not some prankster, he’s obviously had time to regret such a stupid move. So you should, too. Move on. Go on a date. Forget the bum.
Romance, of course, did not agree. Oh, Erin, it said, be patient! Let true love take its course. Just trust to the future with your soul mate.
But for the moment Reason won out—or I let it think it had. I’d met a guy named Alan Grey at a small business get-together back in January and he’d called me at the office afterward, suggesting we have dinner. I’d yet to call him back. Now, I would—and I’d apologize for not getting back to him sooner, say I’d been really busy, which wasn’t a lie.
I looked at the remains of the roses in the vase on my desk. A bit sorry-looking, aren’t they, Reason said. Time for the garbage. True. But before I brought them to the kitchen sink to dump the fuzzy water, I pulled one wilted blossom from the dozen, broke off most of the stem and put the wilted bloom in the top drawer of my desk.
Hope isn’t dead yet, Romance whispered. I just knew it.
E.—Have run into a bit of difficulty. Please wire some money to the address below? Promise to pay it back. Don’t tell your father. Five hundred dollars would be good. M.
Date number one of the year. I met Alan Grey for dinner at Capitol Grille on a Thursday night. It was my choice; he’d suggested I pick the restaurant.
I wore a camel-colored wool suit with a brown silk blouse and slender camel-colored pumps with brown piping. I was a class act. Alan wore a navy, two-button suit, conservative but nicely made, and a pale blue shirt. I noticed as we sat that he was thinner than I’d recalled. His wrist was not much wider than mine. Huh. It certainly wasn’t as wide and strong as Doug’s wrist.
Stop it, Erin, Reason warned.
She can’t help but make a comparison, Romance argued.
Okay, okay, I thought. I’ll behave. I’d made a vow to myself to focus on the date and not to let my mind wander to fantasies of Doug Spears. And I was going to keep that vow. At least, I was going to try to keep that vow.
The waiter took our drink order and handed us two menus. I began to peruse.
What I really wanted to order was the prime rib. But I hesitated. The last time I ordered the prime rib it was bigger than my head. And my head is not a small one. I ate the prime rib, all of it. It was delicious. But I was with my girlfriends and though Abby kind of stared in wonder, no one really cared that I could easily consume a piece of beef the size of—well, my head.
Tonight, however, tonight I was with Alan Grey. And on a first date. There were serious implications to every gesture and every word. I would be judged and rated and evaluated on every syllable to come from my mouth, every smile to dawn on my face, every turn of my well-manicured hand. Was I a slut or a potential wife? Mrs. Right or Ms. Right Now?
And there was also this question: What impression did I want to give to Alan Grey? Who was I, at least for tonight? Did I even like this man enough to really care? Well, I didn’t know. It was a first date, after all. How could I know anything more about Alan than that he seemed to like navy suits and parting his hair on the right? Could I extrapolate his entire personality and moral character from these and similar stylistic traits? Of course not.
I wanted that prime rib. And the garlic mashies that came with it.
“Erin? Are you okay?”
“Hmm?” I looked up from the menu. “What? Oh, yes, I’m fine.”
Alan Grey smiled. “It’s just that you were ... Well. It looked like maybe you were in pain. I mean, your forehead was all ... Uh, do you have a headache?”
Was Alan Grey hoping I had a headache so he could end the evening early?
Don’t be ridiculous, Erin, Reason scolded.
I smiled brightly at him. “Oh, no, I’m fine. I just couldn’t decide what to order. But I’ve made up my mind.”
He smiled brightly at me. “Good. I’m starved.”
He signaled the waiter. The waiter came to the table and turned to me. The lady was privileged to order first.
“I’ll have the Oysters Rockefeller to start,” I said. “And then the prime rib.”
“How would you like that done?”
“Rare.”
“Mashed potatoes or french fries?”
“Mashed potatoes.”
“Blue cheese, vinaigrette, or ranch on your salad?”
“Blue cheese, please. And when you have a chance, another glass of wine.”
“Of course. And you, sir?”
The waiter and I turned our attentions to Alan Grey. His expression was—odd.
“I’ll skip the appetizer,” he said. “And have the steamed halibut for an entrée.”
“Mashed potatoes or french fries?”
“Can I get steamed rice with that instead?”
The waiter hesitated. “I’ll check. And on your salad? Blue cheese, vinaigrette, or ranch.”
“Vinaigrette, on the side.”
“And how are you doing with that drink, sir?”
The waiter and I looked at the man’s almost full glass of heart-healthy red wine.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Very good,” said the waiter. He walked off to place our orders.
I wondered. Would it be rude to say to this man, “I thought you said you were starved!” Yes, I decided, it would be, so I didn’t.
“You know,” Alan said, “the prime rib here is very large.”
Was this man afraid I’d waste his money? Did he think I was one of those women who just play with the food on their plate?
“Oh, I know,” I said, with only a trace of annoyance in my otherwise perfectly modulated voice. “I’ve had it before.”
“I see. Do you eat this way, I mean, do you eat red meat often?” he said.
Hold the phone. Back up the train. This man was a virtual stranger. Was it any of his business what I ate and how often? No, it was not. Wait, maybe I was taking offense where none had been intended. That had been known to happen on occasion.
“I guess,” I said, noncommittally.
Alan Grey’s face grew stern. “I take my health very seriously,” he said. “And to be honest, I can’t see myself being with a woman who abuses her body ...”
“Whoa.” I held up my hand. Offense had indeed been intended and now had indeed been taken. “Are you accusing me of abusing my body because on this particular night, the only night, I should point out, you have ever seen me eat, I ordered red meat?”
“Oysters Rockefeller has a lot of cheese. Your meal is loaded with fat. And the blue cheese dressing? You know, once you hit your midthirties, that all settles right around the middle.”
This was not happening. It was my worst nightmare. A man—a virtual stranger!—was trying to control my food intake! It was my mother all over again but with a new and horrid twist. How did this man know I hadn’t eaten a salad for dinner the night before! The fact that in reality I’d eaten three slices of pepperoni pizza was irrelevant. Alan Grey was not speaking out of love and commitment and genuine concern. This man was speaking way, way out of turn.
Ladylike, I folded my hands on the table. I smiled nicely. And I said, “Here’s the deal. You’re going to leave now. I’m going to sit here and eat my dinner. And I’m going to enjoy it immensely. You’re going to cancel your order or pay for your dinner. I’ll pay for mine. I can, you know. And you’re not ever going to call me again. How’s that for a plan?”
Alan Grey shook his head and got up from the table. “It’s your funeral, Erin. I tried to help.”
“No you didn’t,” I said. “No, you’re not about help. You’re about hurt.” I smiled very brightly. “And that’s just not fun.”
“Oysters Rockefeller.” The waiter placed the plate on the table. He did a very good job of pretending not to notice Alan standing with his coat over his arm.
“Thank you. The gentleman will be leaving,” I said. “But the lady is staying.”
Over the waiter’s bent shoulder I saw Alan Grey walk toward the maître d’.
“It was the steamed fish, wasn’t it?” the waiter whispered.
Yes, it was the steamed fish. And it was the five hundred hard-earned dollars I’d wired off to my mother that morning.
And it was Doug.
Date number two, a few days later.
My first impression upon meeting Alex Barry was—okay, this is nice. My final impression differed vastly.
I suppose my first clue should have been the state of his clothes. Neat is far too tame a word for Alex Barry’s appearance. Alex Barry was impeccable. Every hair was in place; there was not one stray hair on the back of his neck. I wondered if he trimmed his hair every day.
His shirt was starched—obviously so. His trousers boasted a perfect, blade-sharp crease. His shoes shone. He smelled—fresh. His nails were professionally manicured, no doubt about it. Alex Barry was squeaky. It was a pleasure after some of the slobs I’d known, guys who couldn’t keep their fingernails clean for five minutes, guys whose shirttails were stained with pee.
We met on neutral turf, in the Oak Room of the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel. A nice choice on Alex’s part, a civilized, quiet room. It was too early for the jazz trio’s first set so we chatted about nothing in particular over a drink. We’d made no plans for dinner but thus far the conversation had been so pleasant—if not exactly stimulating—that Alex suggested we get something to eat.
We could have stayed at the Oak Room. We should have stayed at the Oak Room.
Ordinarily, I don’t bring a man to my apartment until the third or fourth date. But Alex Barry was someone my colleague Hank at EastWind had vouched for and the weather was so lousy, and Thursday nights are notoriously busy nights for South End and Back Bay restaurants, so I figured there wasn’t great harm in suggesting we go back to my place and order in.
Alex seemed slightly taken aback but okay with the plan.
The trouble began when I put the silverware on the table. Alex eyed it warily.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Alex gathered the silverware carefully. There was an odd look on his face.
“I’m just going to give these a quick wash.”
“Why? They’re clean.”
Alex said, “Oh, that’s okay, I don’t mind,” and took the silverware to the sink where he proceeded to vigorously scrub away the nonexistent dirt.
I don’t claim to be the world’s greatest housekeeper but neither do I admit to being a slob. The silverware was plenty clean when I’d placed it on the table. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or excited by the dim possibility of a husband who enjoyed housework.
When Alex had finished his task, we went into the living room with our glasses of wine—glasses also freshly rewashed—to wait for the delivery guy from Appetito.
“Sit anywhere,” I said, settling into my favorite chair, the one in which I liked to spend rare precious hours reading.
Alex hesitated. He peered suspiciously at the cushions of the couch.
“What?” I said.
Alex murmured, “Nothing,” removed a very white handkerchief from his back pocket, and proceeded to dust—yes, dust, with a flicking of the wrist—the couch.
Now I was insulted. Mr. Clean was very close to riding my last nerve.
Dinner arrived. We’d ordered two pizzas and a salad. Alex cut his slices of pizza with a fork and knife. Okay, nothing wrong with that, Italians in Italy do this. But do they blow on each and every bite, long after any possibility of the food being too hot to eat? And do they wipe their mouths after each and every bite, from left to right, from right to left, ending with a pat in the middle?
I thought of offering Alex a steel wool pad but resisted the temptation.
Other books
High Stakes by Kathryn Shay
Not Until You: Part VI by Roni Loren
Concrete Island by J. G. Ballard
White Light by Alex Marks
Ghost Dance by Carole Maso
Summer With My Sister by Lucy Diamond
Kusanagi by Clem Chambers
From Here to Maternity by Sinead Moriarty
Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton