A Certain Age (12 page)

"What's wrong with my hair?" She was beginning to suspect her present had misfired. He ran his fingers over his head, brooding, but obviously willing to make changes, thinking it was going to get her into bed.

"Quit blow-drying it. And get a decent haircut."

He looked sulky, but he changed into the clothes she had bought and came out of the bathroom modeling sheepishly.

"Oh, you look good," she said. "A different person." He resembled a dark, skinny cherub now, an artist or maybe a businessman in film, his waist emphasized by the pleated pants and the tucked-in black T-shirt. It was true the items were several sizes too large, but for some reason he didn't look ridiculous. "You need a belt. And don't get some cheap belt either."

He ran his hands over the black sweater held in his outstretched hands. "I don't know. Why did you do this, Florence? Was it expensive?"

"It's cashmere!" she said indignantly. He began to neatly fold the crummy clothes he had been wearing and put them into the department-store bag. "Oh, God. Just throw that stuff away! It's hideous," she said.

"I mean, I could return the stuff and use the money to get a fax machine for my office. Or give the money to someone to take their kids out of the city and go to the country for a few days." But she could tell he didn't mean it; he looked uncomfortable in the outfit but also mischievous—the clothes represented some attachment to her.

He put the bag down on the table and crossed the room. She thought he was going to kiss her on the cheek, but his mouth was aimed for hers. "Come on, let's go," she said, pushing him away. "I'm not in the mood. It was just a present. I can't stay out long. We'll just go for a drink."

Sunday night, the Oceanic Café was nearly empty. She sat down at the bar and gestured to Darryl to do the same. "Hi, Dave," she said to the bartender. "How's it going?"

"Everybody's still on Long Island," he said. "What are you drinking?"

"I'm not sure," she said. "A glass of white wine, I guess."

"Nothing for me," Darryl said.

"Nothing?"

"Okay, I'll have a beer." Why did he have to be so quick to try to please her? It was like having a really dumb Labrador retriever when what she wanted was a rogue Afghan hound, blond, long-legged, scampish and wild.

"What kind?" Dave chanted a long list of the various beers available. Darryl looked nervous.

"How long did you say you were in this country?" Florence asked.

"Always so many decisions," Darryl said. "By the time I am hearing what there is, I have forgotten what I wanted." She didn't find the fake Russian accent amusing. Under the bright track lights she saw that the space between his eyes, just above his nose, was wrinkled and furrowed like a frightened baby chimp, and she wondered what she was doing with him. He made no effort to ask her any questions, just sat staring at her with the expression of a woozy deer.

"So has it been this quiet all summer?" she asked Dave as he handed them the drinks.

"During the week it's unbelievable," he said. "Weekends, it's been like this. Wait till around ten o'clock, though, you'd be surprised how many come in for dinner when they get back."

The café catered to a slightly older, more upscale clientele than many of the other restaurants along the avenue nearby, all of which seemed to be packed with hordes of recent college graduates newly arrived in Manhattan to make it on Wall Street. Just then Max Coho came in. He was with a rather oversized girl.

She waved him hello. "Florence!" he said, coming over to the bar and kissing her. "How are you! Can we sit here with you, or is this some kind of romantic date?"

"Sit down, sit down," she said, pointing to the barstool next to her. There was only one extra stool on this side of the bar— someone was going to have to bring a stool around from the other side.

"This is my friend Tracer Schmidt," he said, pointing to the giantess. "Tracer, Florence." Everything about her appeared large—she was probably close to six feet, neither pretty nor plain, with thin brown hair slicked back under a headband. Max had the shiny good looks—weak, spoiled—of a prep school boy: he had gone to Princeton and was working on a novel, in addition to writing for
Antiques and Collectibles
magazine.

"This is . . ." She had momentarily forgotten Darryl's name. It was embarrassing, but there it was, a blank spot in her head when she looked at him, just as if a portion of a recording had been erased. Fortunately, he turned to Tracer and, introducing himself, began to chat with her, off to one side.

"Ooh, where'd you get this one, Florence?" Max said.

"What do you mean?" Florence said defensively.

"He's really cute. Just my type."

"I don't think he's interested."

"You'd be surprised. Three-fourths of my boyfriends started out saying they were straight. Actually, I've never been attracted to straight men. It only leads to trouble. But for some reason, they take one look at me and decide to change."

"Max, do you know a guy named Raffaello di Castignolli?" Florence asked, changing the subject.

"Yeah," said Max. "I mean, I've met him. He's a count, or something. Or, as Chico Marx would say, he's no-a-count! His family owns a huge vineyard, in Tuscany. I used to hang out with him at the U.S. Open. Why?"

"No reason. I just met him."

"Where?" Max had an exaggeratedly coy way of asking questions, as if he were pretending to be a five-year-old.

"At Natalie de Jongh's."

"He's completely unreliable," Max said. "He screws a different girl every night. I think he's got a coke problem, or something." He looked her up and down. "I'd say you're too old for him. He likes them in their twenties. You're out of your league if you think he's going to settle down with you. You better make your selection fast, Florence, if it's going to happen at all. What's wrong with poor old Darryl?"

"That's just it," said Florence.

Max giggled. "The musical chairs are running out fast, Flossy!"

"Gosh you're vicious."

"Am I?" Max was delighted. "I think I'm just honest."

"Hi!" Tracer said nervously. She had been standing alongside them, shuffling back and forth. "Excuse me for just a minute?" She headed in the direction of the women's room.

"Where'd
you
get
that
one?" Florence said.

"Old Tracer?" said Max. "She's got millions. She's got
sooooo
much money! She just moved here. I knew her from college. I've offered to help her adjust, take her out, you know? She just bought an apartment in the San Remo. She wasn't planning to buy an apartment, but it was only four million and she said it was such a good buy she couldn't afford not to do it. I'm living with her for the time being. There's, like, fifteen bedrooms in the place."

"Tracer," she said. "What a fake name. I'm sure her name was originally Susan. Anybody who has one of those names—a man's name, you know, like girls who call themselves Douglas or Mitchell"—she knew one of each—"or women who call themselves Stockard or Sigourney—you know when they were born their parents didn't hold up a little blond baby and say, 'Oh, let's name her Stevens.' All those girls, their parents named them Susan. They always hated being a Susan, so when they went to college they either renamed themselves or took their middle name, their mother's maiden name, whatever. But no matter what they call themselves, all you have to do is look at them and you can see they're a Susan."

She realized she probably sounded quite nasty. There didn't seem to be any way around it. As soon as she said aloud what she thought, she came across as an unpleasant bitch. Women were supposed to spend their whole lives making themselves sound likable, trying to be liked. They could deny it, but the desire to be likable was so ingrained they no longer knew the truth. They were spending their lives as cunning supplicants. There were various categories: women who wanted to be liked by men and women, women who wanted to be liked only by men and were therefore nasty to women. Then there were the women in New York who considered themselves powerful: they were nasty to women and nasty to men—but only the sort of men who actually enjoyed this, hired lackeys, usually gay, who enjoyed the boot in the face. These men had taken on the role of women, trying to be likable. Being likable took a tremendous amount of energy. Every day consisted of multiple failures. Now, almost certainly, Max would see to it she paid for her words.

Max leaned over and began to whisper to Darryl. Wait until he finds out he's an advocate for the homeless, Florence thought, although she wasn't entirely certain whether this would bother Max or not. When Tracer came back from the women's room, she took the stool next to Florence and looked at her eagerly. "So what do you do?" Florence asked.

"I'm trying to start up a magazine," Tracer said. "On the World Wide Web."

"On what subject?" she muttered.

"It's going to be a sports program," Tracer said. "I've hired Max to help me."

"Great," Florence said. Darryl caught her eye. He was desperate. He had gotten separated from her by two barstools. Max had stopped talking to him. Suddenly she no longer wanted him either. What could she have been thinking of? He wasn't even that good-looking. Maybe she could escape now by leaving him with Tracer. She wouldn't know any better; that would fix Max, too, by dumping him with a sincere midget. Not that Darryl was a midget, exactly, but he couldn't have been much taller than five six. Probably if

Max had appeared interested in him, she might have fought for him. Anyway, it didn't matter—Max wasn't interested, and now she couldn't be. Well, he had all those expensive clothes, at least that was some recompense for her jerking him around. She rose. "Darryl, I've got to go," she said. "It was great to see you. You met Tracer, didn't you? Tracer, it's okay if Darryl stays here with you and Max, isn't it?"

"We were going downtown to meet—" Max named a famous retired tennis player. "We're trying to get him to write for Tracer's magazine." He half whined in despair. Why did he care if he had to take Darryl along? He must know he would be doing her a favor. A sulky expression came over Max's face. "Tracer, Florence said you changed your name from Susan."

"I didn't say you changed your name, Susan," Florence said. "I mean, Tracer."

"Yes, you did." Max smirked.

"No, I said that a lot of women with boys' names changed their name from Susan."

Tracer had turned white. Her nose was even shinier than before. It seemed to Florence that a little powder or foundation wouldn't have hurt Tracer's appearance. She didn't want to think of herself as judgmental—she had always told herself that if some women didn't want to wear makeup, that was fine—but now she found herself doing a private remodeling job on the poor girl. The first thing she would have done if she were as wealthy as Tracer would be to fix that nose of hers. Tracer glared at her with hatred, as if she could hear what Florence was thinking. "We should get going," she said to Max.

"That's okay," Florence said. "Darryl can tag along, can't he?" She grabbed Tracer's forearm. "He's such a hunk. I'd take him home, but I promised some idiot I'd meet him later."

Tracer was baffled, torn between needing to win Max's approval and wanting to bring Darryl. He really was attractive, with a boyish magnetism. She was about to speak, but Darryl interrupted. He addressed Florence. "No, I must see you home."

"Oh, don't worry," Florence said. "You have a car, don't you? Why don't you give Tracer and Max a ride downtown?"

Tracer seemed to have made up her mind. "Yeah, give us a ride downtown, Darryl. At least come in with us for a drink."

Tracer could afford to take on a guy who's an unpaid lawyer for the homeless, Florence thought as she walked back to her building. She's so rich and plain, she'll have to settle for someone poor and good-looking.

And she saw herself, for a split second, living in a huge apartment in the San Remo that she owned, with huge, spacious rooms, beautifully furnished with antiques that were neither too formal and fussy nor too rustic and primitive; some good oriental rugs; a couch covered in rumpled dusty gray-green velvet; herself in a soft Chinese robe, entertaining and impressing a few select friends. The husband—perhaps a talented, successful artist, with a studio downtown—carrying out a tray of drinks. She would have a house in the Hamptons too!

She didn't know why she felt so sick. It wasn't her problem. Darryl's wounded, stricken expression, those intense blue eyes that looked at her so sorrowfully, as if he would go on loving her even though she had broken his heart—she hardly knew the guy! She didn't have what
she
wanted; why did it have to be her fault that he didn't have what
he
wanted.

The answering machine was broadcasting when she walked in the door, a man's voice blaring in the dark little hall, and she ran to pick up the receiver. "Ah, you are home." It was the Italian. "I am back a little earlier than I expected. I was saying, if you are free, to come for dinner. I'm in the restaurant now, with some friends."

She jumped into a taxi and was on her way downtown.

10

East Prussia, the restaurant,
was crowded with people who were stunningly good-looking by virtue of their clean, expensive, fashionable clothes and crisp haircuts—less than perfect facial features were turned to advantage by being subtly emphasized as aristocratic or endearing traits. If men needed glasses, they wore large rectangular frames in black, mocking or reviving the sixties (Peter Sellers, Yves Saint Laurent), or tiny tortoiseshell spectacles identical to those of their great-grandfathers. A woman with a huge nose wore her hair scalped back and held her head proudly,