Chapter Twenty
Erin—never got photo o f you; have you gained weight? Am down to 110 and look fab. M
Friendship is about tolerance. It’s also about wearing each other down over time so that there are no hard edges keeping people apart. It’s about joy. When it isn’t about sacrifice.
Each of us had hobbies or interests that not everyone else shared. Like, JoAnne’s devotion to exercise. She went to the gym regularly and when she couldn’t get there for some reason, worked out on a machine of some sort at home. Abby, Maggie, and I wouldn’t be caught dead going to a gym, each for her own reasons. Wisely, JoAnne had never even attempted to recruit us as gym partners.
Occasionally, though, one of us would get interested in something and urge the others to join in, at least to give it a try. Like Maggie and volunteer work for the Women’s Lunch Place. She hadn’t fully brought any of us on board, but she was working on it. Or the time I got into bonsai and dragged everyone out to a class at Bonsai West in Littleton. Turned out no one shared my enthusiasm for severe pruning under the hot summer sun. Not even me.
Or the time JoAnne convinced us to go skiing in Vermont for a weekend. None of us—including JoAnne—had ever been on skis, unbelievable as that might sound. The result was less than successful. After fumbling for twenty minutes with the stupid boots, I finally got myself clicked into the skis, fell facedown, and spent the rest of the weekend doing après-ski by the fireplace. Abby’s fur parka—once her grandmother’s—was stolen. Maggie sprained her ankle while stumbling downhill on the baby slope. And JoAnne? JoAnne—the only enthusiast among us—got called back to Boston two hours after we arrived at the lodge. One of her hospitalized patients had “taken a turn for the worse.”
Now, it was Abby’s turn for a hobby. Somehow she’d gotten interested in scrapbooking and begged us to come to a home class she was hosting for a friend who was a consultant for Life Expressions, a scrapbook company. Maggie, much to my surprise, said yes, immediately.
“You’re worse at crafts than I am,” I’d said. “Remember how we met? At that awful wreath-making workshop? Our wreaths were hideous. Even that eight-year-old made a prettier wreath than ours.”
Maggie had shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it might be interesting. Plus, our being there means a lot to Abby, so ...”
Well, if Maggie could spend the evening being sold scrapbook stuff by a woman sure to be perky, so could I.
“No way,” JoAnne had said. “It’s going to be like a Tupperware party and I’ve paid my dues in that department.”
“Tupperware is a good product,” I said. I didn’t really know that from personal experience but my mother had sworn by it when I was a kid.
“Sorry. You and Maggie have fun, though.”
In the end, JoAnne had come with us. The argument that had convinced her was the opportunity to buy Christmas and Hanukkah gifts for her staff in one fell swoop. JoAnne hated malls.
At seven o’clock we gathered at Abby’s, a total of twelve women—none of whom I knew except for Abby, JoAnne, and Maggie. Talk was light and focused on the weather and the big sale at Ann Taylor. After some flavored tea and sugar cookies, Candace Recklet, the Life Expressions consultant, did her thing.
After the pitch—which I have to admit was interesting and well-delivered—we were each given a blank white twelve-by-twelve scrapbook page and some materials and told to get busy. I’d brought a handful of photos I’d taken of Fuzzer. JoAnne had neglected to bring any photos so I gave her three of mine to crop and we moved off to the far end of the table to work. And to talk.
“Our friend Abigail is suffering from a serious Cinderella fantasy,” JoAnne whispered, pushing aside a plate of cookies.
“What brought that up?” I asked. “Anyway, aren’t we all, to some extent?”
“Speak for yourself, honey. I rescue myself.”
I wondered. “You know, sometimes I think I see myself as the prince. The rescuer, I mean.”
“Nothing good can come of a woman rescuing a man from himself.”
“Who said it’s from himself? Maybe it’s from, I don’t know, a corporate dragon. Pass me a cookie?”
She did.
“Your metabolism amazes me,” she said. Then: “Honey, the story is all about Cinderella being rescued from her own life. It’s about her being relieved of responsibility and the need to earn a living and the need to think on her own. A rescued woman is bad enough. But a rescued man? Disgusting. A pitiable wretch.”
“I see you’ve thought about this before,” I said dryly.
“Of course. Abby is a classic little princess just dying to be swept off her feet and taken care of. And if it happens, she’ll be suicidal by forty. And maybe an alcoholic. Most ex-princesses are.”
“I think you underestimate Abby. She’s not as helpless as she seems. Besides, she is dating my father. That’s a—a good thing. A sign of some maturity,” I argued.
“Maybe,” JoAnne admitted. “Maybe she has the potential to be her own woman. But she hasn’t tapped into that potential yet. Abby should rescue herself from her silly fantasies first, then go out there and find a man. No offense, Erin. I mean, a real man, not a fantasy father-man. He won’t be a prince—he might actually work for a living and so will she—but then she won’t be miserable for the rest of her life, either.”
JoAnne had a point.
“It all comes down to self-respect, doesn’t it?” I said, shuffling my photographs around the page. “If you don’t respect yourself, then how can you expect someone else to respect you?”
“That and independence.”
“Interdependence is healthy.” Or so I’d heard.
“To be successfully interdependent you need to be truly independent first,” JoAnne corrected. “You need to know your boundaries. You need to be able to spot when someone is crossing his own boundaries and getting too close to yours.”
It was beginning to sound as if we were talking about invading armies and international warfare rather than two people in a loving relationship.
“My head is swimming.” I said. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Gladly.”
“You used to be fun, you know that?”
I reached for something called a corner rounder and began to snip.
“Honey, I was never fun. Witty, yes. A smart ass, yes. Fun, no. Now, we’d better start making these pages or the kindergarten teacher over there is going to scold us.”
“Ladies!” the consultant called. “Let’s go around the room and share the work we’ve done so far. Tell us a bit about the pictures you brought with you tonight.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. It did not come from us.
“Nancy, why don’t you start?”
Nancy stood and showed us her page in progress. “These are my two little boys,” she said. “They’re twins, Jason and Jacob. I took these pictures on their first day of nursery school. Aren’t they adorable!”
JoAnne raised an eyebrow at me and whispered, “I’ve seen cuter.”
Maria went next. She had brought pictures of her honeymoon in Barbados.
Maggie passed me a note. It said: “I prefer Europe.”
Rebecca had brought pictures of her wedding.
Abby made a subtle face at me. I knew the look. It meant, “Horrible dress.”
“And what about you, Erin?” Candace Recklet asked. “What did you bring?”
Show-and-Tell should be outlawed after kindergarten.
I remained seated and very quickly said, “Just some pictures of my cat.” What was I supposed to have done? Ask Doug for some pictures of him with his kids and try to pass them off as my own?
“Well, stand up and show us,” the consultant said brightly. “I’m sure we’d all love to see them. After all, our pets are important members of the family, aren’t they? Especially when we have no other special someones at home.”
I felt my face begin to burn. There was no way in hell I would be able to stand up and brag about Fuzzer in front of this group of happy wives and mommies. And how the hell had she known I lived alone? Did I look so obviously lonely?
“Well,” JoAnne said, standing, her voice loud and brooking no interruption. “I didn’t bring any pictures with me. But if I had, they probably would have been of me and one of the fabulously handsome and wealthy men I date. Maybe Martin and me in Cancun. He looked so yummy in that itsy-bitsy bathing suit. Or Wayne and me at the Plaza in Manhattan. No man wears a tux like Wayne. He owns three of his own. Or ...”
“Thank you, thank you,” the consultant said, laughing nervously.
Show-and-Tell was over after that. JoAnne shrugged and sat down.
“I owe you one,” I said, impending tears going back to where they’d come from. Deep inside.
JoAnne grinned. “No problem. It’s what I live for.”
In the end, Maggie bought a baby album and wouldn’t say why. I bought a wedding album because I wanted to torture myself even further. JoAnne bought a travel album, a practical gift for herself, and several small albums and accessories for her staff. Abby bought everything. Candace Recklet gave us each a business card and packed up her many black bags. I tossed the card in my purse and forgot about it for a long, long time.
Chapter Twenty-one
E—rmbr to send b-day card to mrs. cirillo. she’s yr godmother, after all. rmbr respect yr elders. M.
On a beautiful afternoon in late June, Doug and I went to the movies. Our first movie together. I told Terry that I had a dentist appointment and left the office at three. Doug met me in the lobby of the Loews along the Common on Tremont. It was risky; someone we knew might see us. But to the outside world we were simply two friends spending time together, nothing illicit about it at all. Or so I tried to convince myself.
We each paid for our own ticket. That seemed right. Doug asked if I wanted anything to eat or drink. I shook my head no.
We sat in the back of the theater, Doug’s choice. It was largely empty. The tension between us was enormous. It was an entity in and of itself. It was a welcome intruder.
We mocked the pre-preview Hollywood quizzes. We commented on the previews: “I’d see that” or “No way.”
And then the lights went all the way down.
Doug’s knee touched mine and didn’t jerk away. I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, have him think I was sending a signal for him to move his leg away.
His hand took mine. I squeezed his hand gently.
I can’t speak for Doug but I was barely conscious of the movie on the screen, some two-bit comedy we’d chosen because both of us knew our going to the movies wasn’t about the movie. Doug’s touch, the length of his leg against mine, our hands clasped—I felt almost sick with desire.
When the movie was over and the lights came up, Doug finally released my hand.
“Pretty good, wasn’t it?” he said softly.
“Yes,” I answered. “It was.”
Later, alone at home, with the TV tuned to E!—perfect for when you’re in the mood for sound but not for serious listening—I thought about that afternoon. Doug and I definitely had taken another step closer to each other—and closer to a full-blown affair.
Was I really okay with that?
The fact was, I’d never considered seeing a married man. I mean, the notion had never even crossed my mind. How many women, I wondered, actually said to themselves, okay, I think I’ll date a married man for a while. Who would choose that path?
Well, maybe a woman who wanted the minimum of commitment and the maximum of freedom, while still having somewhat regular sex.
Even that sounded—odd. So I thought more about it.
Fact: After a while, two single people in a relationship either broke up or got married. But a relationship involving one married partner pretty much precluded the second eventuality. How many married men having affairs actually left their wives to marry their girl on the side? Not many.
So, what would motivate a woman who said she wanted to get married to get involved with a married man?
There was only one answer, I thought. Well, maybe one answer with several parts. Passion. Overwhelming desire. Intense need.
Obsession? No, I didn’t like that word. Addiction? To what, danger? Was a woman who would sleep with a married man a thrill-seeker? Huh. I’d never thought of myself as a thrill-seeker but ...
So, what was it about Doug Spears that overrode the fact of his being married to another woman? Besides his incredible sexual allure, of course.
The answer: Doug made me feel smart and competent. He regularly asked for my input or advice on everything from what to buy the secretaries for Secretaries’ Day to the wording of an opening paragraph in a proposal. Sometimes it seemed as if he were the only person in my life at all interested in me. Abby had my father; my father had Abby. JoAnne had the pursuit of a new JoAnne. Maggie had withdrawn from all of us with no explanation.
Except for Fuzzer, Doug was the only person I saw or spoke to or got a message from every day. He was beginning to feel like family.
And family is a powerful thing.
Even when they forget that their daughter’s godmother has been dead for over a year.
Still, I held out.
Our conversations—if they merited that term—went something like this:
Me: “I can’t do this.”
Doug: “Why not?”
“It’s wrong.”
“Not everyone would agree.”
“It will hurt Carol.”
“It won’t affect her life. I won’t let it. She’ll never know.”
“What if she finds out?”
“She won’t.”
“What will people say?”
“They won’t know, either.”
“What if people find out?”
“Screw ’em. It’s none of their business. Besides, it would only be a rumor. We’ll be careful. No one will see us when we’re alone.”
“Could I tell my friends?”
“The fewer people who know the better. But do what you have to do.”
“No one at work should know.”
“Of course.”
“What if my boss found out?”
“He can’t fire you because of your personal life. And remember, it’ll only be a rumor. No one can prove anything.”
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. Everything.”
There were slight variations on the theme but the content was always the same: I resisted, Doug persisted; I shied away, Doug pursued; I hesitated, Doug urged a seizing of the moment.
As time passed, my protestations grew weaker, even to my own ears. Doug knew and I knew that it was only a matter of time before I capitulated. Because I wanted so badly to be with Doug Spears. I’d never wanted anything so badly in my life.
I talked to Doug about lots of things. I talked about my father dating my best friend. Cautiously, at first, not spilling the jumble of my feelings about the situation, unsure of the level of conversational intimacy that Doug and I shared. It’s not wise to share family trauma with someone you haven’t yet slept with. Chances are that if you do, the sex part will never come about.
Here’s what he said: “Don’t think about it, Erin. Don’t waste your time on something you can’t control. Think about yourself. Think about me. Think about us. Think about something you can control.”
I couldn’t let it go quite that easily. “So, you don’t think it’s—odd—that my father is sleeping with my best friend?”
“I don’t think anything about it,” Doug said, taking my hand in his. “I think about us.”
Doug and I had dinner at Ginza in Chinatown. We went mad on sushi, which I’ve always found to be a highly sensuous—and visually beautiful—food. Several cups of sake later, Doug walked me to the corner of Kneeland Street and Harrison Avenue, where I could catch a cab home. He put my arm through his as we walked. I couldn’t look at him. Because if I did ...
Just before we reached the end of the small, alleylike street, Doug kissed me. In one swift motion he stopped us, turned me to him, and kissed me. I kissed him back. It was so simple.
“Why the hell haven’t we done that before?” he breathed finally, his mouth at my ear.
There’s no turning back, I thought. I felt his erection against me.
“I don’t know,” I breathed back.
Doug pulled back a bit and looked at me.
“Your lipstick’s gone,” he said.
“I don’t care.”
“I like your lips naked.”
“Good,” I said. “Sake is a good thing.”
Doug laughed. “You think that’s what gave me the courage to finally kiss you?”
I took his face in my hands. “I don’t care what gave you the courage,” I said. “Just kiss me again, okay?”
He did.
Ten minutes later I was sitting alone in the backseat of a cab, biting back a shout of happiness.