Living Single (8 page)

Authors: Holly Chamberlin

BOOK: Living Single

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Chapter Eleven

Erin—Hola! Man and gfriend not leaving country; her family demanding immediate marriage. Sorry; you wld have liked them! Have never been so tan—you wouldn’t recognize your own mother. Stay out of the sun. Mama.

Abby had found herself a man closer to her own age than poor sixteen-year-old Pierce. The guy was a teacher at a private high school for kids with emotional problems. Delinquents. Druggies. Kids who stole Daddy’s car and wrecked it on an average of once a month.

Bob Cleary was either a saint or emotionally perturbed himself to choose such a career.

Anyway, that afternoon he and Abby had gone to a movie. Later, Bob told her he’d like to accompany her to her date with us at Flash’s. He wanted to meet her dearest girlfriends. That was nice.

But we were not impressed.

JoAnne watched Bob Cleary leave the restaurant. When he was out of sight, she leaned in.

“Is he hung?” she asked Abby in a stage-whisper. “He’s so skinny! It looks like there’s nothing there. He looks like a Ken doll, no bulge.” JoAnne considered. “Or like Gumby.”

“Maybe he tucks,” Maggie said.

“I thought only transvestites and cross-dressers tucked,” I said. Mostly for effect.

“I don’t know if he’s, er ... I don’t know what’s down there,” Abby admitted. She leaned forward, eyes wide, voice low. “He’s a virgin. He’s very religious. He’s saving himself for his wife.”

Okay, emotionally perturbed.

JoAnne hooted. “Holy crap! That proves it! He’s a pencil dick. Hung like a raisin. He has a subpenis. He’s going to lure some poor unsuspecting girl, some Born-Again-Virgin, into marriage and she’s going to be all, ooh, I found such a perfect gentleman and I don’t have to deal with ex-girlfriends or STDs, blah, blah, blah. And then, on the wedding night, big anticipation, she’s been burning up with lust, can’t wait to get into his pants. He comes out of the bathroom, she’s sitting on the bed trying to look shy, not too eager. He drops trou ... It’s all over. Right then and there, the marriage is over. Unmitigated disaster.”

“What if the girl was a real virgin?” Abby mused. “What if she doesn’t know any better?”

“She will,” JoAnne said darkly.

“Oh, come on. It’s not the size of the ship, it’s the motion of the ocean.” This from Maggie, who, as far as I knew, hadn’t had a date in at least three years. At least.

JoAnne laughed. “Oh, my God. Are you high? Are you on drugs?”

“JoAnne’s right,” I said. “That’s the biggest pity-lie ever. Of course size matters. Come on, have you ever been having sex with a guy and suddenly you realize, oh, crap, is it in? I mean, you can’t even tell! But you don’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings, you’re a nice person and all, so you decide you’d better make some noise just in case it is in. Thinking, when the guy hears the noise he’ll up the activity, so maybe you’ll feel something after all. Instead of intense boredom.”

“Wait. Back up just a minute.” JoAnne turned to Abby. “You’re not saying you’re a virgin, are you?”

“No! But, well, I just thought that if, you know, things work out with Bob, I could wait. I mean, it’s not like I can’t live without sex.”

“Got that right,” Maggie confirmed with a nod. “I’d rather live without sex than be involved with a guy who is lousy in bed. Or a guy who cheats on you.”

“Sure. Who wouldn’t,” JoAnne agreed. “But what happens if you wait until your wedding night and discover that, A, not only is he a pencil dick, but B, he hasn’t got a clue in the sack. Huh? And how would he have a clue if he’s a virgin. What’s his experience level, jerking off to X-rated videos? Are adult virgins even allowed to do that?”

“I’ll teach him.”

“Better you than me.” Maggie.

“What if he can’t learn?” I wondered. “I mean, what if he has no natural ability. Or what if he thinks you’re a whore because you like sex and know more about it than he does. What if he equates you with the girls in his X-rated videos? What about that?”

“It’s a bad deal all around,” JoAnne confirmed. “Divorced men, fathers, virgins. Cross them all off the list. At least for a serious relationship. Virgins, no use whatsoever.”

“Add postal workers—no, wait, all federal employees. And professional athletes,” Maggie suggested. “They all cheat on their wives.”

Abby looked suddenly indignant. “That’s not true! Look at Lance Armstrong. No way he would cheat on his wife. He’s got three little children and oh, I love their names! Luke, Isabelle, and Grace. And he’s so hot! He’s always so intense and focused and he looks so ... so, ferocious when he rides!”

JoAnne grinned amusedly. “And I bet he stinks to high heaven when the race is over.”

I nodded. “Outdoor Man Smell. OMS. The worst.”

“Well, I’m sure Lance takes a shower before he has sex with Kirsten,” Abby said, somehow hurt. “Lance Armstrong is a gentleman. I can just tell.”

“I’ll say this much for him. He’s cancer’s hottest poster boy. If I were single ...”

There was a moment of stunned silence. I wanted to slink under the table.

Then: “You are single, Erin,” JoAnne said forcefully. “Get a grip. Your fantasizing about a married man doesn’t translate into your being in a relationship.”

Why had I told JoAnne about having lunch with Doug?

“It was only lunch,” I said inanely.

Abby and Maggie each gave me a strange look. The looks said: Erin is strange.

“You’re hiding from the truth, Erin,” JoAnne went on. “You’re hiding from having to build your own future. Is it really better to be someone’s sidecar than to be behind the wheel yourself?”

“Why do you have to do this to me?” I said angrily. “Why can’t you just let me live my life.”

“Because unlike someone whose name I will not mention, I love you. Now, let’s order. I’m starved.”

I asked Maggie if I could walk her to Back Bay station after dinner. I wanted to talk with her, alone.

“You don’t hate me for being interested in Doug, do you?” I said after we’d walked about a block in silence.

“No. Of course not. You’re my friend.”

“But you don’t respect me for it, do you?”

“Erin, I respect you,” Maggie answered patiently. “That doesn’t mean I have to respect or approve of every decision you make. Besides, it’s your life, not mine. Only you know what’s really in your head and heart. Only you know why you need to make a certain decision.”

“Thanks.”

There was something I’d been wanting to ask Maggie about her own life, but had hesitated to do so. It had been a long time since we’d discussed her romantic past; as far as I knew, there still was no romantic present. What I wanted to know about was Maggie’s hope for a romantic future.

“Maggie? We’re always going on about meeting someone special, getting married and all. Do you ... I mean, I know you went through some bad stuff, but it’s been a while. Do you ever think about meeting someone special? Or do you just humor us when we babble on?”

Maggie laughed softly. “Well, that was awkwardly put.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I enjoy babbling as much as the next woman. I love being with you guys. And, yeah, sure. I think about meeting someone special. Who doesn’t?”

“Okay.”

We walked on in silence for a bit. Then, Maggie said, “I guess I just want someone to, you know, catch my drift. Like in the Alanis Morissette song.”

“You even have a drift?” I teased.

“Everyone has a drift.”

“So, what’s yours?” I asked.

Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it. I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your drift.”

“You’re just supposed to—have it?”

“Yes. You have it and you hope that someday, somewhere, someone else catches it. And, I guess, that you catch theirs back.”

“You’re really talking about Abby’s soul mate thing. Right?”

Maggie shrugged again. “Maybe. But I prefer to think in terms of drift.”

As long as we were talking openly ...

“Did you think you’d found someone who caught your drift when you married Vittorio?”

“God, I can’t imagine what I thought at the time! I mean it. That Maggie is a different person. Grad school Maggie. I was so young! I suppose I must have thought he was—okay—my soul mate. I don’t think I would have married him otherwise. But I was so shy, so stunned he was interested in me, this sexy Italian guy, I was so charmed by his stories of Italy and his accent ...”

“Ugh.”

“I know, I know.” Maggie sighed. “You live, you learn. That’s also from an Alanis song.”

“That’s also a big cliché.”

“It’s true, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s true.”

We walked along in silence again for a few mniutes. Then, I said, “So, what if the person who catches your drift is married to someone else. What do you do then?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie said. “Maybe he hasn’t really caught your drift. Maybe you only think he has.”

Okay. Fair enough.

“What if your soul mate turns out to be not at all what you expected?” I said then. “How would you even recognize him? Say, you’re expecting a musician and he turns out to be a dentist.”

Maggie laughed.

“You worry too much, Erin,” she said.

Again: Fair enough.

We’d reached the Clarendon Street entrance of the station.

“Well, good night, Maggie,” I said. “Be careful.”

“You, too, Erin. Good night.”

Chapter Twelve

April, Boston

A
Boston April can be a fine thing. Or not. Happily, that April was sweet and warm. The four of us met at Sonsi on Newbury Street and took a table facing the sidewalk, close to the wall of open glass doors.

Abby was the last to arrive. With a thud, she dropped a stack of magazines onto the table. The stack began to slide, allowing a quick glance at each cover.
Vogue. W. Bazaar. Allure. Elle. French Vogue.
Together, the magazines had to weigh ten, fifteen pounds.

Abby scrambled them together into two shorter piles and sat.

“Welcome,” JoAnne said.

“Do you actually read all those magazines every month?” Maggie asked in disbelief.

“Of course,” Abby said. “Though not every article in every issue. For example, I wear only clear nail polish so I skip articles about the newest nail polish shades though I look at the pictures so that I know what’s going on out there. I like to be informed.”

“And I thought I was being informed by watching CNN,” Maggie quipped.

“And what am I thinking reading all those medical periodicals cover to cover?” JoAnne added, wide-eyed.

“Hey, information is information,” I said. Secretly, I devoured
Allure
and
InStyle
each and every month. I knew where Abby was coming from. Except that I didn’t make it a habit to carry my magazines with me.

Abby shot a glance at a middle-aged woman who’d just passed our table.

“See that woman?” she whispered. “Her hair is far too long for her age. A woman of a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Definitely not below where her neck meets her shoulder line. And it should be worn very neat, not all wild and fly-away.”

“You’re ready to impose that rule?” I wondered.

“It’s just my opinion. When I’m of a certain age I’ll cut my hair.”

“What’s ‘a certain age’?” Maggie demanded. “Who determines that?”

“Well, I think it’s a little different for every woman. You know, depending on her looks—her face and figure, and her style. But I’d say the cutoff is fifty. Absolutely no long hair after fifty. That’s just too horrible.”

“You never cease to fascinate me,” Maggie said. “Where do you get this stuff? From those magazines?”

“Yes. And I just learned it, growing up. From my mother and aunts, you know. You learn the rules and the exceptions to the rules. Erin knows what I’m talking about.”

Leave me out of this, I protested silently.

“Well, knock yourself out,” Maggie said. “I can’t be bothered with the ‘rules.’ I just hope this doesn’t mean that when I’m sixty and have a gray braid hanging down my back you’re going to snub me in public. Does it?”

“Oh, of course not. But I think your hair might be too thin by then for a really nice braid.”

JoAnne groaned. “Can we please change this stupid topic?”

“It’s not stupid,” Abby protested.

“Are you from another century or something?” JoAnne asked. “Next you’ll be saying you believe a woman should hand over her rights as a citizen and all her property to the man she marries.”

“No! Of course not.” Abby considered. “But, I do believe that a husband and wife—or life partners, whoever—should share their finances.”

“I believe in keeping finances separate,” Maggie countered. “I think a woman should always be prepared to get out while she can—and have something to live on. Do you know how many women are totally screwed in divorces, even if the law ‘provides’ for them?”

“Men get screwed, too,” I said. Not because I felt great sympathy for those men—like Doug?—but I did feel they should have some representation.

“Not as often as women,” JoAnne said darkly. “Especially if there are kids.”

“Well ...” Me, again. Lame devil’s advocate.

“Why don’t you buy a place, Abby?” JoAnne challenged. “Renting is such a colossal waste of money. You build no equity, renters’ laws only go so far to protect you, there’s no point in wasting money on great furniture that might not fit into the next place. Half the time if you paint the walls with some special technique you have to pay for them to be repainted white when you leave.”

“I don’t care,” Abby insisted. “I’m not buying a house until I get married. Then my husband and I will buy together.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I said. “What if you never get married?”

“I will get married.”

How could I argue with that logic?

“Why not own property now?” Maggie urged. “Make an investment in your own future. You can always sell the apartment when you get married or have kids and need a bigger place.”

“No. I don’t want to.” Abby flipped open the copy of
W
and pretended to ignore us.

“You’re avoiding maturity,” Maggie pointed out.

“Maggie’s right,” JoAnne said. “A woman should take care of herself and plan for her future. Abby, put the magazine down and look at me. What kind of retirement plans do you have? Insurance? Investments? Who’s your broker? Financial advisor? Or do you handle the research and paperwork on your own?”

“I ...”

The poor thing needed some help.

“Abby, I know it’s scary but we can all help,” I said. “Look, my father helped me through the paperwork when I applied for the mortgage on my apartment. I was petrified. I just didn’t know terms, I didn’t know anything. I mean, when we did the closing I think I paid for about six different kinds of insurance. Who knew you needed title insurance, fire insurance. . . it never seemed to end.”

“Well, you can trust your father,” said Abby.

“Right. And he’s a lawyer and he’s bought houses before, so he knows the ropes. Buying your own home is a very scary thing.”

“I don’t know ...”

“Look, Abby,” I went on. “I’ll admit that on some level I saw buying my own place as sort of giving up the hope of ever getting married and buying a house with a husband.”

JoAnne snorted. I gave her the evil eye.

“I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true,” I said. “Part of me felt elated and powerful and finally totally independent. Part of me felt like I’d finally grown up—which was both good and bad. And part of me felt—alone. Like I’d finally acknowledged just how alone I really was. No husband. No children. No immediate possibility of either. It was just me and Fuzzer. Not that Fuzzer isn’t the best.”

“Well, if I were a man,” JoAnne said, “I’d find a woman who owned her own home attractive. I’d think maybe she wasn’t looking for me to sweep in and take care of her. I wouldn’t feel so much pressure.”

Abby looked worried by this. “Do you really think a man cares so much about whether a woman rents or owns?”

“I don’t know about that,” I said, “but I’ll admit I find a man who owns his own place a lot more attractive than a man who rents. Unless he’s in transition or something. Like looking for the perfect place, or he’s just been transferred and he’s living in corporate housing, or his architect and contractor are taking longer than expected perfecting his two-thousand-square-foot loft.”

“A home is security,” Maggie said.

“It’s power.”

“Your own home is where you can be Martha Stewart.”

“If your husband isn’t sickened by wreaths made out of colored pipe cleaners and smelly potpourri.”

“Isn’t potpourri smelly by definition?”

“Would you own a house with someone you weren’t married to?” JoAnne asked. “If you were living with the guy, would you pool your finances, share a checking account, save for the future together?”

“Never.” Abby.

“Depends,” I said, thinking, what if Doug’s wife holds up a divorce and Doug and I live together before we can marry?

“On what?” Maggie demanded. “How many generations of destitute women does it take to teach the rest of us a lesson about protecting our assets?”

Now, I was depressed.

“Abby?” I said. “Can I borrow your
Vogue?
The French one.”

Erin—hi. please get diamond brooch from s. deposit bx., sell, send money. it’s mine from great-grandma. send to address below. know i promised it to you. take coral beads instead. Mom

Sometimes I think I’m a frustrated party planner. Or maybe my desire to be a hostess has something to do with growing up an only and often lonely child. Either way, it occurred to me that with the early April weather being so unexpectedly fine, we city folk should take advantage. I suggested to about twenty people, mostly from EastWind, that we meet at the Barking Crab for an informal get-together. I’d thought about asking Doug but didn’t have the nerve. Besides, I thought, what if he brought his wife along? What if he met my invitation with coldness?

JoAnne arrived wearing a clingy, wraparound dress in cobalt blue and black, and black strappy sandals. Of course, she looked unbearably sexy. Thank God she didn’t have a thing for older men, I thought later.

I’d opted for low-on-the-hip pants in taupe, a fitted blouse in khaki, and canary yellow strappy sandals. I’ve never been afraid to wear bright and colorful shoes, provided they are beautifully designed and well crafted. And somewhat within my budget. And worn as the splash needed with an outfit in neutrals.

Good thing the occasion didn’t call for the diamond brooch, the last remaining Morelli heirloom. I’d sold it just like my mother had wanted me to do. I was a good daughter. An angry daughter, but a good one.

An impulse I couldn’t understand had made me ask my father to join the party. Much to my surprise, he said yes. Until the last moment I hadn’t expected him to show. I’d expected him to beg off, citing too much work or a crushed spirit still not ready to socialize.

I was wrong.

John Weston appeared at the Barking Crab in a smart navy blazer, crisp white shirt open at the neck, and neat, sand-colored chinos, got himself a drink, and began to socialize.

I watched with some surprise.

“Your father is looking quite handsome these days,” JoAnne said. “Your mother’s—absence—seems to be doing him good.”

“Yeah, who would have thought? I mean, I know he’s sad and I think he’s still in a bit of shock, but ... ”

“So, has he started to date yet?”

“What?” I laughed. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. At least, he hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Honey, you might be the last person he’d tell.”

“Why? We’re close.”

“And you’re his daughter. He might have to get comfortable with the idea of dating before he introduces you to his new girlfriend. It’s a classic recipe for trouble—the two women most likely to hate each other, the daughter and the new woman.”

“Oh, come on, JoAnne! I’m an adult. I want my father to be happy. I’d be very glad if he was dating someone nice.”

“And old and frumpy. No challenge to you.”

“What? You’re insane.”

Is she? Reason murmured.

“You mean to tell me you wouldn’t be—upset—if your father showed up at your door one night with a bombshell on his arm?”

“Well ... I might. If the bombshell was using him or just after his money or something. I mean, what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t want to protect my father?”

“Protect him from what, evil women? Or protect your place in his heart? Face it, Erin, John’s a big boy now. He’s a successful lawyer and he’s not about to be bamboozled by some floozy.”

“You know, you piss me off, sometimes, JoAnne.”

“I try, honey, I try. Someone’s got to be the realistic one in this friendship.”

“I’m walking away now,” I said, haughtily. “I feel the need for a glass of champagne. Maybe a two-pound lobster on the side. With lots of butter.”

JoAnne raised her eyebrows.

“Overindulgence won’t change the truth of my words,” she said.

No, I admitted to myself. But it might help me to forget.