Plan C (33 page)

“It’s on the house,” she says, looking over her shoulder.

“Good, because I just went to the nearest ATM and my account is overdrawn.”

“You too, huh?” says Kitty.

“But look at the bright side. We have a free apartment to live in,” I say. “So listen, I’ll give you the code to get into the courtyard. There’s a big, red, metal door out front. You call me before you arrive.”

I grab my coat from the chair and head into the street, waving goodbye to the depressing French man who claims his countrymen now use paper cups. He makes a motion to write down my number and I mouth the words, “Non. Merci beaucoup.” I pretend that the French don’t use paper and
pens
anymore either.

And then I watch Kitty, my friend who worked so hard for so many years as a gallerist who believed in Art. Here she was clearing tables in a café like a college kid on spring break, sprinkling loose change into her apron. She looks up and catches me watching through the glass, and gives me the thumbs up. Well, at least Kitty had integrity. More than I can say for me. Look at me… Where’s my integrity now? I ran away from home. I ran away from life. I ran away from responsibility, and I had nothing to show for it but an overdrawn checking account, an over-the-limit Mastercard, and ten extra pounds on my waistline.

Yet there’s a side of me that still believes in the dream. I mean, if you’re going to go broke after years of working your ass of to pay your monthly bills, you may as well blow the money on something you always imagined doing. Granted, in my case, the risk isn’t paying off. But I didn’t regret it. Not just yet anyway…

I turn down a side street as the wind picks up. The sun has long given way to Edgar Allen Poe shadows before going black. Passing a brasserie, I see a man in a
doorway assists a woman with her fur coat. They’re attractive enough together, but I wouldn’t call them “meant-to-be.”

Another cold corner and the wind whips me into a near-collision with yet another couple. But they’ve barely noticed, flying by me undoubtedly to get home to their warm bed, the woman’s nose buried in a bouquet of roses. Only in Paris do they sell roses in odd numbers. Thirteen.

Ben always bought me flowers. Every week…

Okay, bring on the regrets.

Ben had always been my something to look forward to at the end of a long day. Now I feel like I’m in a desert, and the mirage of water no longer shimmers in the distance. Why bother walking to the horizon? Why not just curl up on the sand and die in this very spot?

As I turn the corner of Rue Dauphine, a lone motorbike comes up behind me, startling me. I scurry off to the side, as the biker revs his engine before it’s gone, leaving a trail of sound in his wake. And then it’s quiet. Dead quiet.

Except for the second to last human being on earth - the busboy at Chez Fernand. He nods “bonne nuit,” good night. Then he flicks his cigarette into the gutter. He heads inside, turns off the restaurant lights, locks the door, pulls down the metal cover with a thunderous clatter and walks up the road, turning up his collar tabs and burying his hands deep in his pocket. Before long he disappears into the shadow.

When everybody else has gone home and pulled down the shades, I mount the steps to my apartment, completely and utterly alone except for a tiny mouse I just passed at the downstairs dumpster, outside of Jacques’s restaurant. Even he blew me off,
running into his little mouse house - where his little mouse wife is probably waiting for him.

I hit the send-and-receive button on my email. Nothing. Nobody loves me. But wait. There’s a knock at the big wooden door. I jump up, and pull it open to find Kitty standing there with two suitcases. “Welcome to my apartment,” I say, smiling and stepping back.

“It’s still
yours
?” she says, pushing her way past me and plunking her suitcase on the foyer’s plank floor.

“Hey, in all the confusion I forgot to mention Bebe’s coming.”

“She is?”

“Yes, New Years Eve,” I say. “To celebrate the dumping of – trumpets please - Bernie.”

“She dumped the moron? Oh, there is a God!”

“That’s exactly what I said!” I drag her suitcases against the wall. “And, by the way, it turns out that Bernie was fucking around all this time.”

“Really?”

“Yup. The ole
banging
the babysitter. Among others…”

“Get out!” says Kitty, tossing her coat on the bench seat, which I pick up and hang in the closet.

“Bernie was on a business trip. Bebe hadn’t heard from him in days and she figured he’s either having an affair or lying in a gutter. She hoped he was dead, but he wasn’t.”

“Details please…” says Kitty, plopping on the couch.

“Bebe called the Four Seasons in Chicago and asked to be connected to Bernie’s room. When Bernie picked up the receiver, Bebe disguised her voice. She pretended to be a masseuse calling to confirm an appointment for a Mrs. McCann at the spa. Bernie paused a moment, thought about it, and then said, ‘hold the line’ before he handed the phone to the woman next to him.”

“In bed?”

“Yes. Poor Bebe,” I say.

“Poor Bebe, my ass! That woman is way smarter than she let’s on. Wasn’t she the one who once said, ‘Before you tell a man you love his company, makes sure he owns one?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Then she’ll get over it,” says Kitty. “All’s well that ends well.” Kitty rises from the sofa and begins roaming around. “By the way, this place is fabulous,” she says, swinging the window to fully open and infusing the room with a shot of cold air. She peers out over the banister where I’ve since cleaned the pigeon droppings, then inhaling the city air she spins back around to take in the interior. “It’s
huge!
” she says, glancing up at the fourteen-foot beamed ceilings, then down the toile-covered walls. “Granted, I feel
like I’m drowning in a sea of pink cowmaids, but this is France, so what’s not to love?” Kitty runs her hand along the back of a Louis XV silk moiré chair. “How often does this woman come here?”

“Hardly ever.” On second thought. “Actually, never.”

“Libby, I have a brilliant idea! Why don’t we rent it out? Pocket a few bucks. She’d never know.”

“I’d know!”

Kitty drifts to the burgundy chenille sofa, sinks down and grabs a brochure on the Musee D’Orsay, fingers through it, and then tosses it to the coffee table. She looks up at me. “I know what you’re thinking,’ she says. “I deserve this.”

“I’m not thinking that,” I say, searching her face for some sign of remorse. There doesn’t appear to be any.

“Okay, but I am. Thinking that,” says Kitty. “Clive is a great guy. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“I don’t know,” I say flopping down beside her. “But if it’s any consolation, they say ‘men cheat for lust. Women cheat out of anger and pride.’”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? I have no reason to be angry at Clive.”

“Must have been the pride then…”

“No, it’s me, being a stupid selfish fool part.”

“Okay, wait. Are you off your medication again? You’re being far too nice.”

Kitty drops her head in her hands. “Oh stop it. I’m disgusted with myself. I’m such a sinner I could add a new ‘Shalt not’ to the Ten Commandments.” I’m not sure
what to say because I know everything Kitty’s saying is true. So I reach out and run my hand through her hair, but after five minutes of rubbing her head, the silence feels deafening.

“You know, I almost kissed someone,” I say. “A cute counselor, named Jerome. Younger than me. He works at the shelter back home. We share the same supervisor, Yvette.”

“You said almost. There’s a difference. And besides, you say that like you’re a Catholic school girl at confession.”

“It’s just who I am, I guess.”

“You don’t have to go through life being so honest, Lib. You’re one of those people who probably
pays
to go to the second matinee instead of just sneaking in.”

“You don’t?”

“See what I mean?”

“Kat, I was just trying to agree with you that none of us are perfect. I make mistakes, too.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t have an affair on your husband…”

“I don’t
have
a husband, remember…”

Kitty sighs and lies back on the sidearm. I move to the Louis the XV chair, cross my legs and play therapist. “Miss Morgan, why don’t you remind me – no, remind yourself of all the reasons you married Clive…”

“He was simple. You know. Not complicated like American men. Except he was different than most Englishmen. He wasn’t the type of guy you meet at a pub, shag the first night and move in a week later.”

“Now, Kat…” I say egging her on for more. “Tell me more…”

“Well…” she thinks about it, her mind ticking so hard I can almost hear it. “Okay, you know what I love? Clive owns a tuxedo,” she says.

“Huh?”

“I can’t date a man who doesn’t own a tuxedo. Any man over thirty who still rents a tux is a child.”

“Lovely,” I say. “Just the answer I was looking for.”

“Okay, well, I’m sure it’s my fault our sex life got screwed up,” says Kitty. “I was always talking during intercourse…”

“Men
love
a woman who talks dirty during sex.”

“Depends on what you mean by dirty. I asked him to grout the bathroom tile.”

“No wonder he lost his erection.” I rise and head to the kitchen. “I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

Kitty follows me to the little square opening in the wall that connects the kitchen counter to the living room. She hangs over its ledge. “Helmut’s getting ready for a new show and I’m pissed off.”

“How did we get back on Helmut?” I say turning on the gas burner.

“No more phallic holograms… Now it’s white canvases with a black line up the center. The series is called ‘Crack Addicts.’ All kinds of cracks - sidewalk cracks, plumbers cracks. You got a crack, Helmut calls it art!”

“I don’t get it…”

“He’s doing
assholes
is what he’s doing!”

“Oh,” I gulp, removing the tea pot and pouring it into the cups so the teabags can steep.

“The centerpiece is this huge painting that blends ass cracks with water lilies. Kind of like Monet, on – well, on crack.”

“It sounds just awful,” I say. “I gotta say…ole Helmut Fach really let you down…”

“Helmut
Fuck
.”

Wait. I finally get the name right and now you’re saying Fuck?”

“And that motherfacher is the father of my child!”

“What? You’re
with
child?”

“No I’m
against
child! But I took the damn test. The stick was blue.”

“Wait. You fucked Facchhhhhh?”

“Yes! You knew that,” snaps Kitty.

“And Helmut didn’t use a helmet?”

“This isn’t funny. Imagine me, a mother!”

“I just can’t believe with all his, um, ‘withholding’ that you two actually did it. One time? And you managed to get knocked up?”

“It only takes one time. It was that night back in New York. When I was drunk…”

“The fog…” I whip the teabag out of my teacup and toss it into the sink, too numbed by the news to politely drain it on a spoon and place it on a tea rest. “It was the baby making music wasn’t it?”

“My CD collection?” asks Kitty.

“Yes, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White…”

Kitty shrugs. “The candles and lingerie didn’t hurt either.”

“Wait, aren’t you a little
old
for this? I mean, didn’t we just go through this with Bebe? And she’s younger than you. You’re too old to be pregnant.”

She nods.

“Oh, Kitty Mitty. Tsk tsk tsk. Clive is the least of your worries.” I begin to pace, arms folded. “Okay, and you’re going to actually
have
this baby?”

“I suppose.”

“Oh God. What a mess.” But I have to sound encouraging. The whole idea of Paris was to have wild fun, and I’m not talking about layettes and formula bottles. I grasp at something to say. “Well, at least the father is a great European artist, right?”

“Wrong,” says Kitty, her eyes wetting with signs of humiliation. She places her teacup on the mantel and moves back to the window. She talks to the street, ashamed to face me. “Did you know that his name isn’t even Helmut…”

“What are you talking about?” I say, joining her at the window. This can’t get any worse than it already is. Can it? She stares down at an elegant French woman click clacking down the middle of the street. Kitty’s fingers play with the lining under the drapes, and then she swallows hard, holding back a rush of tears and then turns to me with one big gulp of information. “His name is really Marty Wegner and he’s from Staten Island.”

“Oh…”

“He was a valet.”

“You mean like a valet who parks cars?!??!”

“Yes, brainstorm,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I bet you were the smartest kid in your class.”

“I wonder if Brigeeta knows…”

“Yes, his wife knows! She owns the restaurant where he parked cars!”

“Hey, he had me fooled,” I say.

“He had me fooled, too. Before he was an artist, he was a starving actor. This was his performance of a lifetime. But hell, you know, Libby. We’ve all been there…”

Is she kidding? We’ve all been there? I’m not sure what’s worse, the fact that he’s a fake named Marty, the fact that they’ve broken up, or the fact that she’s pregnant.

“Well,” I say, “he can paint, right?”

“Phallic holograms. All an illusion. Just like you said.”

“Kitty, seriously, I’m not gonna say ‘I told you so’ because I didn’t…” I stop myself. Suddenly there’s an uninvited air of know-it-all floating about us, and I’m not liking it. Kitty needs a real girlfriend now. “Look, being vulnerable doesn’t mean you’re weak,” I say. “And no, I’m not always right.”

“You are this time.”

“Kitty, I’m not going to judge you. I’ve done stupid things. I mean, speaking of British guys named Clive… did you know that one time I had the chance to sleep with Clive Owen…”

“And?”

“…And I ended up in bed with a guy from ‘
The Full Monty
.’”

“One of those chubby strippers from northern England?”

“Sheffield to be exact.”

Kitty casts a look of disdain. “Seriously? Which one?”