The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (14 page)

“You look incredible.”

“Thanks. Unfortunately it’s just a loaner. Angela came to my rescue. She said she couldn’t have me embarrassing myself at the opera.”

I feel myself grinning like an idiot over his compliment.

“Come on. You could never do that.”

I feel my face flush, and divert my eyes from his gaze flirtatiously. Can he really be as into me as I am into him? Am I that lucky?

On the way to our box, I catch at least four women swooning over my guy. As soon as we’re seated, a waiter brings a whole bottle of champagne, which appears to be a big seller here, recession or not. The two other seats in the box are unoccupied when we arrive. Oscar says, “We have it all to ourselves tonight. The firm has these seats and no clients could make it.”

Despite all my years in New York, I’ve only been to the opera once, and that was with a field trip for an art appreciation class in college. We sat in the second to last row of the orchestra, way underneath the first balcony. The music was amazing, but I don’t remember seeing much besides the bald head of the man in front of me. This is totally different. Not only do we have an enviable view of the stage, we can see almost every member of the audience, most of whom are busy checking each other out. From the moment the curtain goes up, I’m riveted, even though I don’t understand Italian. I lean forward against the railing and take it all in. Though part of me feels like a little kid playing dress up, I could get used to living this way. Halfway through the first act, Oscar slides his hand onto my thigh. As his fingers stroke the fabric, little bolts of electricity shoot through me. I can’t wait to be alone with him. It could be the champagne buzz, but I seriously feel like the music is making me want him more. It’s so intense, it’s practically erotic. I cringe inwardly at the clichés my brain has decided to indulge. I need to get a grip. But, God, he does it for me. If he doesn’t come home with me tonight, the frustration might kill me.

The little voice in my head reminds me, in a patronizing tone, that I ought to want more from Oscar than sex. I am too old to let my hormones run amok in this manner. And of course I do want more. He’s fantastic. Maybe he’s even The One. It’s just that maybe, after the summer I’ve had, I feel the tiniest bit entitled to one of those rare, great shags that leaves you breathless and makes you forget your middle name.

At intermission, Oscar asks me to order some more champagne from the waiter, then excuses himself. He returns right after the new bubbly arrives, and when he sets his briefcase down, I register that he took it with him. Which seems odd, and even somewhat offensive. Why would he worry about me rifling through his work? But maybe he just assumed I’d want to run to the ladies’ room. Or maybe he has some hyper-vigilant client who made him promise not to let his files out of sight. I should chill.

By the time the singers come out for their curtain call, it’s all I can do to keep myself from jumping all over Oscar right here. It’s probably a combination of the decadent outing, the Dom Perignon, and the fact that his hand didn’t leave my leg once during the entire second act. After the third or fourth bow, we start to push towards the exits. A couple in their fifties joins the crush from another box and the man smiles at us. “Oscar Thornton,” he says, in a tone that conveys pleasant surprise. He has salt and pepper hair, sharp, fiercely intelligent eyes, framed and magnified by black horn-rimmed glasses, and a slight overbite. We all step to the edge of the corridor to let others pass.

“It’s been ages!” His wife, a slim specimen with an obvious face lift and a royal blue evening gown declares. She has a teeny hint of a Southern drawl, the commonly encountered variety that’s been cowed into remission by years in New York City.

“Bradford. So nice to see you.” Oscar shakes hands and kisses Bradford’s wife on the cheek before introducing me. “Bradford and Trudy Bainbridge, this is Zoë Clark.”

I’m so lost in my thoughts about how much I want Oscar right now, and how little I want to chat with this couple, that I miss the fact that the Bainbridges and Oscar have moved past the obligatory small talk part of the encounter. Trudy Bainbridge is blinking her surgically sculpted eyes at me as if I’m somewhat limited, and I realize she’s asking, for the third time, how Oscar and I met. Oscar is looking at me uncomfortably. After a too-long pause, I tell her, “He works across the street from me, so I suppose we bumped into each other that way.”

Oscar exhales. I can’t blame him for not wanting these people to know the details of his romantic overture. Once the Bainbridges excuse themselves, he leans into my ear and whispers, “Bradford manages one of the largest hedge funds in the world. He’s got more money than almost anyone in New York, and he’s a super nice guy, in spite of it.”

“So you believe that wealth and success are incompatible with civility?” I ask playfully, because it seems, based on his apartment, car, and choices of venue for dates, that my guy isn’t exactly hurting for cash.

He misses the irony. “Yeah. Most guys in Bradford’s position are total jackasses. But Bradford’s still married to his college sweetheart, they’ve got four sons, eight houses, a private jet, two yachts, paintings on loan to the Met, and a family foundation that gives away gazillions of dollars. And he can still talk to anyone without seeming the least bit pretentious.”

“That’s nice.” I’m having a difficult time being interested in anything but the fastest route to Oscar in bed naked. And I really hope he shares that interest.

“Enough about them. Let’s get out of here.” He grins conspiratorially and I’m fairly certain he’s thinking along the same lines I am.

We navigate down the opulent red staircase, under the unreal chandelier, and out across the plaza to Oscar’s waiting car. I slide into the comfortable black leather backseat and think it must be nice to travel in style all the time.

“Where to now?” his chauffeur asks.

Oscar turns to me. “Invite me in tonight.” It’s neither a question nor a statement. It hangs somewhere in between.

“Okay.” I’d be ready to squeal with excitement if the moment to come clean wasn’t upon me.

“Gramercy,” he instructs the driver. I have to tell him. Now. Angela’s not going to play along with this insanity by vacating her place, and even if she would, I have no way to ask her out of Oscar’s earshot.

“Actually, that’s Angela’s place. I live a few blocks away.”

His head tilts to the side and he looks at me like a puzzled puppy. “But I’ve dropped you there twice.”

I decide to go for the whole truth. “I lied, and I’m sorry. I was so attracted to you that I didn’t want to take any, um, chances.” I feel myself blush bright red. “I was going to tell you on Saturday, but then I saw your apartment and I was, I don’t know, ashamed of mine. It’s not even as nice as Angela’s, which would be slumming for you.”

He raises his hand to my lips. He’s smiling. It’s going to be alright. “I guess I’m flattered, but seriously, you have nothing to worry about. I imagine that it can’t be any worse than my old student digs.”

It’s nice of him to say that but my stomach still crunches with apprehension as we emerge from the car outside my building, and I rifle through my bag for the key, since there’s no doorman to admit us. What if he decides we’re socio-economically incompatible? Then again, he already knows I’m wearing a borrowed dress. He must not care that there’s no way I can keep up with him.

I lead him up the shabby stairwell to the landing I share with Kevin. One of the overhead lights flickers at us sarcastically, and as if on cue, makes a buzzing sound and burns out. Kevin’s home, and I can hear he’s watching
The Daily Show
. I hope he doesn’t decide to stick his head in the corridor to say hi. Or to continue our tiff from last night.

When I flip on the lights and close my apartment door behind us, Oscar says, “It’s not nearly as bad as you made it out to be.”

I hang up our coats and ask if he wants a drink.

“Nope.” He pulls me in for a kiss. “I just want the highlights tour. Let’s see your bedroom.”

I have never had sex like this before. During the last couple of years with Brendan, we did it once or twice a month. It was missionary, routine, and I spent a lot of time contemplating the cracks in my ceiling. Even with the inappropriate guys I dated while broken up with Brendan, it was never this good. Maybe Angela’s been onto something all along, with her older men. Though I can’t imagine a guy like Reiner giving me four orgasms in one night. My alarm will go off in forty minutes. We finally drifted off sometime after four, but I don’t feel the least bit tired. Oscar is asleep next to me. He’s got an amazing body. I know he’s a runner, but he has more of a rower’s build, with broad shoulders, defined muscles and a narrow waist. His tux lies in a tangled heap on my floor, along with the gown, which hopefully wasn’t damaged in his hurry to remove it from my person.

Oscar’s briefcase rests on my bureau. The luxe leather sports an unsightly scratch, that I don’t remember noticing before. What a shame. Maybe, if I close Niles Townsend, and scale down to a studio apartment, I could replace the bag for Oscar as a Christmas gift. Although I suppose the more responsible thing would be to buy a more modest present and stick any surplus income into my 401(k).

I slide out from under the covers to slip into the bathroom and remove last night’s mascara and re-apply just enough make-up so as not to horrify Oscar when he rolls awake and sees me. When I slip back under the covers, still naked, he stirs. “Come here,” he murmurs and reaches out an arm to pull me down to his chest. I breathe in his scent and wonder whether I’ve ever felt so content in my life. I feel him getting excited again, pushing against my thigh. He rolls me onto my back and we have another go.

Afterwards, when we’re lying entangled and I’ve silenced my alarm, he says, “This place is actually kind of nice.” As if on cue, someone upstairs flushes and water rushes through the ancient pipes behind the walls, which shake from the onslaught. I laugh and say, “It’s far from perfect, but it’s home for now.”

“You’re planning on moving?”

“I might have to. My ex’s father is my landlord now, and he’s raising the rent.”

“What a prick.”

“You could say that. I should start looking around. Even if I won the lottery tomorrow, it would bother me to write him a check every month. But anyway, that’s not your problem. Do you want some coffee?”

“I’d love some, but I need to get out of here. I can’t exactly show up at work in last night’s penguin suit. What are my chances of getting a cab downstairs?”

I glance at the clock. Not quite 7:30. “Pretty good, if you get out of here within the half hour.” I have a full day myself, seeing as Janice still needs to get into Yale, and obviously Oscar has to get to the office, but I still hate that he’s bolting without breakfast. I tell myself to stop being ridiculous. It doesn’t mean he didn’t have a great time. This is just what adults do. They have responsibilities and careers that they do not blow off for carnal pleasures and coffee and Danish.

Angela calls me when we’re both on the way to work. “So?” she demands.

“The opera was amazing.”

“Obviously. It’s the Met. I only have five minutes. I don’t want a review of the show, I want to hear about the after hours cabaret.”

“We went back to my place and he spent the night.”

“So you ‘fessed up? How’d he take it?”

“Surprisingly well. I think he saw the humor.”

“Or he thought you were a freak, but he still wanted to get in your pants.”

“Hmm. Also possible.”

“So, out with it. I need the details.”

Suddenly I feel uncharacteristically coy. I don’t want to give her the blow by blow while walking with the throngs down Madison Avenue. And I like Oscar. Too much to kiss and tell. Or at least tell
all
the details. I’m so happy about what I suspect is my first truly promising male-female relationship that I don’t want to mess anything up by saying the wrong thing to a third party. Even if that third party is my best girlfriend in the whole world, from whom I normally withhold nothing. No fact has ever been too tawdry. But this feels different. So I say, “Um, I’ll fill you in later. I dropped the dress at the cleaners. You should have it back tomorrow. Thanks again. I finally understand why women who can afford it spend tens of thousands of dollars on clothes.”

“Well at least part of my job here is done,” Angela laughs. “And don’t worry, I’ll ply you with alcohol and get you to spill the dirt later.”

I don’t know if it’s the adrenalin or some other weird happiness-inducing hormone, but I plow through the work day unaffected by my sleep deprivation. Everything falls into place. I even finish Janice’s Yale essays. I’ll proofread everything tomorrow, and they’ll be ready to send a full twenty-four hours ahead of Carol’s deadline. Instead of obsessing about whether I’ll hear from Oscar, I feel strangely Zen and satisfied with the way things went last night. Maybe this is a sign of maturity. I silently congratulate myself once more. Adults don’t make themselves crazy over whether a guy will call, but I feel an unmistakable surge of excitement when Oscar texts me as I’m shutting down my computer. He says he has a business dinner, but asks if he can stop by later. Wow. He wants to see me two nights in a row. He must really like me. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. Easy. Or not. Everyone says guys text for sex and call for dates. Maybe he’s only looking for friendship with benefits, and I’m reading too much into three great dates. I force myself to wait a full thirty-two minutes before writing him back, and then spend another ten composing, “Sounds great. Call me when you’re on your way,” which seems like a feeble effort for a person who’s spent the day trying to dazzle Ivy admissions officers with her prose.