The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (23 page)

Before I can say any of this, Niles hisses into his phone, “Susie’s ovulating.”

“Again?” It comes out before I can stop it.

“I guess it happens every four weeks or so. And I need to be there this afternoon at three.”

I feel like asking him why the hell he didn’t take care of this, err, personal matter, and resign this evening
after
their doctor’s appointment. But of course I don’t. Instead I say, “I’m going to hold off on telling the Cutler folks you’ve resigned until this afternoon. They’ll either send the movers tonight or first thing in the morning, but probably tonight. That should give you plenty of time for your appointment, and your secretary can take today off to recover from the shock, or have her nails done, or whatever.”

“You make it sound simple.” Niles Townsend, a hotshot securities litigator who could have gone to work at almost any firm in the entire United States, suddenly sounds like an unsure little kid.

“That’s because it
is
pretty straightforward. And I do this for a living,” I say brightly.

“I’m not so worried about the movers, actually.”

“Then what is it?”

“When I get anxious, or have a stressful day, I can’t, well, you know...”

Oh, God. Don’t say it.

“...perform.” He says it. Out loud.

And then, because I am a moron, I say, “I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion.”

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, “You did not just say that.”

“You did not say that to the poor bastard.” Oscar pauses with his wine glass midway between the table and his mouth and looks at me with an expression that manages to convey both amusement and disbelief.

“I’m afraid it came out before I realized what I was saying.” I swirl my own wine, taking care not to swish red stains over the rim and onto the white table cloth. True connoisseurs twirl their wine to bring out the bouquet. In my case, it’s more of a nervous habit that I’ve come to view as the adult version of peeling the labels off beer bottles.

“What did he say?” Oscar leans in across the table. It’s a louder than usual night at normally serene Anissa. As much as I want to be out with my guy, I desperately want to get home and tear into
Surplus Boys.
I thought about starting it at lunch, but I decided I want to read it in one, or at most two, sittings.

“Silence. For like a minute. Then he changed the subject. But the worst part was that he called me back a few hours later to say that he couldn’t perform this afternoon, and that he had to go back tonight because his wife had already taken the trigger injection, or something like that, and she had threatened to castrate him with an ice cream scoop if she stuck herself again for nothing.”

“Thank you for sharing that lovely image. I have to say, I feel for the guy.”

“People wish they had his problems. He’s sniveling about making $1.2 million dollars and having an orgasm in a cup, when his poor wife is half insane on hormones.” This latest bit of perspective came from Marvin, whose sister is doing the IVF thing. It sounds like about as much fun as being stranded at some Godforsaken Midwestern airport on a layover with Carol. On a Friday night. Of a three day weekend.

“That’s colorful,” Oscar says, and I immediately regret phrasing my thoughts so crassly. I forget he’s still sort of new. I should have my interview manners, and vocabulary, in use. Or should I? We’re sleeping together more nights than not, and he just presented me with an entire apartment, which hardly qualifies as a normal early-in-the-relationship gift. I know I’m a dating novice, but shouldn’t we be letting our real selves shine through at this stage? I’m starting to feel a bit pathetic about not knowing how to proceed. It’s as if we’re simultaneously settled down and newly dating. To an objective observer, our arrangement must seem a bit unorthodox.

But it appears to be working for me and Oscar, so instead of steering into dangerous terrain by introducing a potentially toxic topic, I do the cowardly thing. “Sorry. I was just repeating the way Marvin, my colleague, explained his sister’s experience with the fertility medicine ordeal. So, anyway, because of Niles and Susie’s treatment schedule, I had to do a tap dance and explain to the increasingly anxious recruiting director at Cutler & Boone that the firm’s newest partner would report for duty tomorrow, bright and early, instead of today, as originally announced. I justified the delay by calling a friend who works in the hiring department at a firm downstairs from Niles’ old one. I explained the whole tawdry situation and asked her to book all the service elevators for the afternoon so Niles’ movers couldn’t start until later.”

“Ingenious, my darling.” Oscar laughs out loud. The skin around his eyes crinkles like it always does when he’s smiling, and I can’t help thinking that my guy is so much more attractive than the emaciated underwear models Marvin bedded at the Feminist Majority fundraiser.

I accept his compliment graciously and don’t add that I must really be learning something from Carol. As recently as a year ago, such a ruse would have never crossed my mind.

Oscar tops off my wine just as the waiter returns with our fabulous looking,
Gourmet
magazine cover-worthy food. He presents my swordfish, a perfectly grilled steak balanced on some potato creation and topped with grilled asparagus, and the woman to my left, who looks about my age and isn’t dressed like the type who eats in Manhattan’s finer restaurants on a regular basis, makes a loud and snide remark about my dinner being “a complete environmental disaster.”

“I thought that was sea bass.” Oscar doesn’t look up from his plate, but he says it loudly enough that there’s no mistake he means for her to hear. She says nothing, and feigns fascination with her poached pear salad. Oscar prods, “Isn’t it sea bass that’s over fished?” Still no response. The woman reaches for the pepper as Oscar asks, “And Atlantic cod, if I recall correctly?” I can’t decide if I should be happy he’s sticking up for me, or worried that he’s escalating a scene.

The woman’s face starts to flush. I sit frozen and hope Oscar shuts up before she notices his veal, which honestly bothers me a little, too. Just when it appears he’s about to needle our dinner neighbor into an unseemly confrontation, something across the room catches his eye. I turn around to see whatever he sees and there’s Olivia, looking gorgeous in a fabulous green wrap draped over a simple black sheath. With thousands upon thousands of eateries in this city, she has to be here? She’s with a slim blond man slightly her senior, and she hasn’t noticed us watching her. Oscar stiffens as the hostess marches them towards our table. The former couple greet each other tersely and Olivia introduces her new husband, Jean-Luc. She looks so enamored of him, that I want to jump for joy. I may not be the most perceptive person ever, but it’s obvious Olivia has no designs on Oscar.

Oscar stands halfway up to shake hands. “Congratulations,” he offers gruffly. “This is my girlfriend, Zoë Clark.”

“We’ve met, as you probably know. How lovely to see you again, Zoë.” I’m not sure whether Olivia means to sound patronizing, and in the moment I don’t really care. I smile, offer my hand and get through the so-nice-to-meet-you with Jean-Luc before the emotional side of my brain hijacks control from the rational side, and the little voice in my head loses her head and starts gushing at me. “Girlfriend! Oscar called me his
girlfriend
! So we’re official. No dating others. That’s what girlfriend means. The apartment was a grand gesture, and now he’s publicly introducing me this way. To his ex-wife. This is
huge
.”

I’m so lost in my private moment of jubilation that it takes me a second to catch up to the fact that everyone else looks uncomfortable and ready to move along.

“We’re meeting the Bainbridges,” Olivia finally announces, as if it’s important for Oscar to know that.

“How nice for you,” Oscar says, acidly. I study my plate with too much interest and wonder why Olivia seems hell bent on lingering when it’s clear neither half of the former couple is enjoying the interaction. Jean-Luc looks to the hostess for an escape route, and she leads them to a table out of our line of sight.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t realize she’d suddenly be everywhere. It’s like no place is safe,” Oscar says. He stabs at his dinner. “I’m better off without her, but it still feels weird that she’s just installed her new guy into
our
old life, like he’s version 2.0 or something.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

I’m trying to find a tactful way to phrase the question of whether “girlfriend” means no sleeping with other women. I’m ninety-nine per cent sure it does, but it would be awfully nice to be certain.

Oscar, however, has warmed to the theme of his past. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised she’s seeing the Bainbridges. We met them at a cocktail party at Seiji Takamura’s house five or six years ago. Trudy and Olivia hit it off. Trudy sort of adopted Olivia as a daughter she’d never have, but the four of us used to get together once in a while.” He pauses for a second, and I can tell he’s visualizing this snapshot of domestic contentment from a life he’s lost. He catches himself. “Anyway, Olivia kept them in the split. As you can see.”

He pauses for a bite of his dinner. I’m wondering how to steer the subject to monogamy when Oscar starts telling me about his first golf outing with Bradford Bainbridge. He tells me he felt out of place because he wasn’t wearing plaid pants. But I’m only half listening. Instead I look into his eyes, as if transfixed on whatever he’s saying, and try to memorize my boyfriend’s features. It seems so weird. While I haven’t exactly led a chaste and pure existence, it’s been ages since anyone but Brendan held the boyfriend moniker. Only when the waiter returns to clear the plates do I realize that I’ve once again allowed Oscar to duck an obvious opportunity to share more about his past. I tell myself that’s an issue for another day. Tonight, I’m going to enjoy this milestone in our relationship. As the dessert menus appear, I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room, which turns out to be an orchid filled oasis that features incredibly flattering lighting.

I’m touching up my lipstick when Olivia appears beside me at the marble sinks. I feel every muscle in my body stiffen as she steps closer and pouts at her reflection in the mirror. I notice we’re both wearing Amarige, which has been my default perfume forever. Is it possible my new boyfriend likes me because I smell familiar? The little voice in my head snaps at me to stop being ridiculous. I’m about to ask Olivia to excuse me and slip out of the restroom when she says, “You seem like a nice girl.”

Okay. What am I supposed to do with that? Thank her? Why does she think I need her approval on my niceness, or any other trait? She evidently takes my silence as license to continue talking. She pulls a small hairbrush out of her bag and asks, “Did Oscar tell you why we separated?”

“Because you dumped him for Jean-Luc.” I try to say it plainly, but there’s an edge in my voice.

“Not exactly.” She brushes her brunette mane. “Oscar became successful beyond his wildest dreams.” Olivia replaces the hairbrush in her bag and starts touching up her eyeliner.

“You expect me to believe you left your husband because he got rich?” It’s not that I want to converse with her, but this is so weird, I can’t help myself.

“No. I left my husband because his personality changed after he became wealthy. At first I thought the money was wonderful. It gave him confidence and a degree of freedom to take risks in his career. But something snapped inside him. He wasn’t the same man I married. He started seeing call girls. I gave him a pass the first time. I told myself it was a boys-will-be-boys thing, as women say when they wish to excuse the infantile behavior of their men. But the second time I caught him, I left. I realized he has too many issues because of his past. You should ask him about his family, by the way. He’s running away from who he is, but he can’t shake his demons and he will always deal with them by acting out. Or at least that’s the conclusion I reached. You’re of course free to judge for yourself.”

She pouts at her reflection and reapplies her burgundy red lipstick.

I feel my cheeks start to burn. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, like I said, you seem like a nice girl.” She snaps her alligator clutch shut and blithely wishes me a pleasant evening before slipping out of the restroom.

I stand there for at least five minutes and panic silently. She’s lying. She wants to punish Oscar for some reason, and she thinks turning me against him is an easy means to that end. Or maybe she feels like an idiot for leaving Oscar, and she’s making up nasty stories to make herself look good. That must be it. Oscar has everything going for him. He can’t possibly need to pay for sex. It’s preposterous.

When I return to the table, Oscar asks if I’m alright.

“Something’s not agreeing with me.” This is, strictly speaking, not a mistruth.

“Let’s get the check and go home, then. I’ll make you some tea and tuck you in.”

Half an hour later, I’m sitting up in Oscar’s king size bed with my hands curled around a mug of chamomile tea, which does not seem like the kind of thing a guy with a seedy second life would have on hand. He settles in next to me and grabs the remote, but before aiming it at the TV, he asks, “So what did Olivia say in the bathroom that spooked you?”