The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (23 page)

“My pleasure, thank you so much for having me. Your apartment is amazing.”

“Thanks. Enjoy, please make yourself at home. . . .”

Lyle took Kiki's hand, and she followed him through the crowd to another room, and then I spied them disappearing through a door into what I guessed was a bedroom. So my supposed wingman was over 'n' out, headed for some holiday hay rolls. Roger that.

Thank goodness for Elliot, who became my new wingman. We stuffed ourselves on a tower of bagels, smoked whitefish salad, turkey, mashed yams, and finally pumpkin pie while watching every float, marching band, and Shania.

Overheard background conversation involved the painter Lisa Yuskavage, where people were staying for the Basel art fair in Miami, and the runs the market had taken in subprime mortgages.

“I feel like the hedge fund world fully feeds the art world right now. This place is hopping with these guys,” I said, craning my neck to see a new hotshot wunderkind who had opened his own shop at thirty-one and supposedly already had a billion under management.

“Yeah, they're definitely linked; that's for sure,” Elliot attested. “Art is a big statement when you walk into these guys' offices.”

“It's so funny how you confirmed that these guys want the hot name-brand painters. If it's not recognizable, it's not worth it. The same way their wives want all the right labels from the big fashion houses.”

“Pretty much.”

“They want their pieces to be recognizable, right? It's not worth it unless everyone knows what it is.”

Elliot smiled. “You got it.”

“Like Shania just sang,
that don't impress me much
.”

“What does impress you, then?” He smiled, looking at me.

“Oh, gosh, I don't know. Humor. Honesty. Generally not being a dick. I used to think nice guys were so boring and I was drawn more to the life-of-the-party types. My friend Jeannie and I used to say “Easy Math: Nice+a MetroCard = a Seat on the Subway. I.e., Nice counts for nothing.” I shook my head at my own stupidity. “But now I've grown up a bit and realize there's something to be said for simple
Sesame Street
values.”

“I hear you.”

He grinned and looked out the window, coincidentally at a Cookie Monster balloon, as two prepster guys moved next to us.

“So, you traveling a lot these days?” asked one to the other.

“Yeah, well, it's all about the BRICs right now; you know how it goes.”

I leaned into Elliot conspiratorially. “That means Brazil, Russia, India, and China,” I told him. Emerging markets. Tim spent a lot of time flying to the BRICs, though in retrospect, I couldn't be sure. Though maybe he was there to visit BRIC brothels, getting
special
massages.

“Hey,” said Elliot, smiling. “You do know your stuff.”

“Well, after a decade married to a hedge funder, I am down with the lingo.”

“Why'd you split up?” he asked gently.

“Our divorce papers say irreconcilable differences. That
difference
was a catalog model in a pencil skirt.” Darn! My stupid mouth. Bitter much? Uh-oh, I hoped this poor guy wasn't going to be bored to tears by my baggage. “How about you?”

“Yeah, my ex-wife and I just kind of woke up one day and realized we were incompatible. I was a Sagittarius and she was a cheating bitch.”

I spat out my cider, guffawing. He was really funny.

“Sorry. That sounds mean,” he caught himself. “I actually bear no ill will against her . . . just her Pilates instructor.”

“Oh, please, don't worry!” I said. “My ex-husband speaks Assholese fluently.”

Elliot smiled. “Funny, I think my wife took that course at Berlitz.” He laughed. “That's why I'm down with your
Sesame Street
values.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Elliot pointed out the window. “Check it out!”

We looked out the window at an approaching humongous hot-air Kermit and Miss Piggy side by side.

“It's us!” I said. “Though those guys are technically
Muppet Show
and not
Sesame Street
.”

“Still Henson, though,” he remarked correctly. “But you are so not Miss Piggy.”

“Are you kidding? After this brunch?”

“Okay, well, you might have her appetite, but you have a much better metabolism.”

“Great,” I said sarcastically.

“That's a good thing,” he said. “There's nothing worse than a woman who eats a lettuce leaf and drinks Diet Coke.”

“Thanks, Kermit.”

“So what's your son's name? I remember when I saw you guys in the park that time he seemed like a sweet kid.”

It was a relief to talk to a guy and not have to drop the mom-bomb.

“Miles. He's six.”

“Great name.”

“You have kids?”

“Nope, sadly.”

We talked about our respective splits and Miles's shuttling back and forth, but it all felt cathartic; we were in the double-divorce safety zone of talking freely. Nearly two hours passed as the crush of the parade slowed to a meek trickle and finally the police barrier came down and Central Park West's regular traffic resumed in lieu of giant Snoopy. I realized we'd been sitting there forever—and that Kiki had not emerged for a while. I looked around the apartment.

“Did Lyle do this all himself? It's unreal.”

“No, he had this decorator, Sheila Davis. She does everything, stem to stern. And, uh . . . well. Never mind.”

“No, what?”

“She gets very close with her clients, let's just say,” he replied diplomatically. I raised my eyebrow. “Okay,” he continued. “She doesn't just install your bed. She climbs in it.”

“Aha, I get it. Daryl Hannah in
Wall Street
.”

“You got it.”

“So are your art collector clients mostly Gordon Gekko types?”

He paused. Maybe he wasn't supposed to talk about his clients? Whoops, I hated to pry. “Some,” he said simply, with a cute knowing smirk. He stood up to go get a glass of hot spiced wine, and the door to the bedroom opened. Lyle and Kiki emerged looking shamelessly un-put together, all mussed hair, wrinkled clothes, and halogen smiles.

They put the “bed” in “bedraggled.” I shot Kiki an
Oh, no, you di-in
look and she did something I'd never seen her do: blush. To a rose hue. My ass-kicking, full-of-chutzpah, big-talkin' pal was suddenly this Jane Austen maiden, radiant with joy, emitting contagious waves of besotted, girlish love.

“Holly, hon, I'm gonna stay here for a while, is that okay?”

“Sure!” I said, leaning in closer. “Enjoy,” I added teasingly. I thanked Lyle for a wonderful Thanksgiving, one that felt festive and fun at a crucial time.

“I'm headed out, too—I can put you in a cab,” Elliot offered.

“I'm on the East Side, just across the park; where are you going?”

“I have a grand commute,” he said. Meaning Staten Island? “Two blocks away.”

“Oh, I love the West Side,” I said. “All these creepy buildings with gargoyles and fancy names,” I added. “Like ‘the San Kenilthorp or whatever.' ”

“Yes, it's all very
Ghostbusters
,” he said.

We exited the grand lobby and went into the chilly air.

“These clouds look kind of ominous,” I said, noticing the dark gray that had eclipsed the sun of a few hours before.

“I know, I think it's going to pour. But I'll get you in a cab hopefully before it starts.”

No such luck. The second we stepped onto the curb from under the canopy, torrential rain began to pour.

The day had started so beautifully, neither of us had brought umbrellas. After a few minutes and zero cabs, I was starting to feel bad about his chivalrous gesture.

“Oh, no, you're drenched,” I said, noticing his hair dripping with rain.

“I feel like Dan Aykroyd in
Trading Places
in the wet Santa suit!” said a soaked Elliot.

I paused. He likes movies. “I was thinking John Cusack in
The Sure Thing
when they're stranded on the side of the road,” I said.

“Good one.” He smiled. His wet hair flopped on his face and his eyes looked bright against his rain-splattered red cheeks.

“You go, Elliot, please. I'm totally okay—”

“No, no, I'll find you one.”

Sweet.

A few minutes later, sure enough, one cab's lit-up medallion number was visible through the thick mist, and Elliot ran up a block to snag it just in time. He opened the door for me and I slid in, drenching the pleather seat. “Thank you so much!”

“It was Kermit's pleasure. Happy Thanksgiving.”

—Jewish Proverb

 

 

 

A
fter an afternoon braving midtown during the biggest shopping day of the year, I climbed into bed at 8:00, which I hadn't done since
The Muppet Show
was on air in the eighties. I would pack in the morning for my minitrip to John's house. I woke up refreshed and renewed, but as I lay in bed, the thought that flashed through my head was not about my upcoming weekend companion in Connecticut, but rather about Elliot. It had been fun talking to him. He didn't exactly show interest in me, but I didn't care. I felt 100 percent comfortable yapping beside him, which was new. The dating thing was so awkward and forced at times. But hey, if you don't throw yourself in traffic, you won't get hit.

The next afternoon John pulled up to my building and we began our drive to the country, two virtual strangers heading out of familiar territory of buildings and bustle. The noises petered out; the clogged streets were replaced by mellow meadows and stark trees set against an electric blue Tim Burton sky that darkened on our drive of twisting turns. John tuned the radio to WQXR, where classical music was punctuated by a soothing DJ whose voice was so relaxing, I thought he was born to read bedtime stories. With the icy air making the windows opaque with frost, it felt even cozier inside the car, a beat-up Volvo with piles of brushes and books shifting in the back, where I was used to having a car seat for Miles. I wondered if he would be able to relate to Miles if they ever met. After an hour or so, we pulled into a driveway set between two old stone pillars covered with frozen moss.

The place was beautiful but kind of run-down, in a shabby-chic, worn-in-by-love way. We settled in and unloaded the groceries John had fetched from Eli's to make a nice dinner, and since there was no TV (for shame!), it was just us, the food, and the fire for entertainment. We were just in time; the second we unpacked the car, I heard an ear-piercing thunderclap and sheets of sleetlike rain started to hail down, making our warm indoor nest even cozier.

After a scrumptious mozzarella and tomato salad, we took the roasted chicken out of the oven and while I started to cut it, John turned me around and grabbed me for a kiss. I kissed him back but was kind of startled by the mid-dinner action and dislodged myself from his grasp to return to the bird.

“John—”

He took the knife out of my hand and threw it on the floor. I was shocked, but definitely turned on by his animalistic need to prey and chuck a sharp knife. I guess the pounds I'd gained from my Thanksgiving inhalation of a massive buffet were not a problem. We stumbled into the living room mid-make-out, fell onto the dusty couch. He grabbed me and ripped open my cardigan, making the buttons fly off, scattering in all directions, hitting walls and the coffee table in a pitter-patter of falling plastic disks. Damn J.Crew. Though I supposed button-down sweaters were not exactly designed to be torn open.

“John—whoa, down, boy,” I said, laughing. But I was a tad weirded out. He didn't smile. He grabbed me and kissed me harder, then bit my neck hard. Ow! Holy LeStat!

I was turned on, but was somewhat alarmed by his heated fervor and quasi-violent sexual aggression. I must admit, it's great to feel so enticing that a man is drawn to animalistic pouncing, but it's sort of another thing to be hickey-marked. I could feel him now, hard through his pants as he moved on top of me. I tried to calm him down with more soothing affectionate moves, my hand through his hair, my fingers slowly moving up and down his back as we kissed, but he was grunting with stormy anticipation, echoing the deluge outside. Lightning sizzled the sky as thunder clapped while he reached between my thighs. I was heated from the fevered kiss and caught in the spell of the moment, his fingers inside me as he unbuckled his belt with feverish intensity. He whipped his belt out of the loops and hurled it across the room. He took off his pants and lunged back toward the couch on top of me, and then he grabbed me so hard, it hurt my arms, and flipped me over, facedown. This was weird. I mean, doggie-style for our first time? Hot, sure, sometimes, but not now—not exactly romantic for our special intimate premiere. No, this was odd. Suddenly, I got a wave of awkwardness mingled with disgust; I felt that I could have been a blow-up doll, or Pam Anderson, or, as Andrew Dice Clay so eloquently said in the eighties, “two tits, a hole, and a heartbeat.” I did not want to have him inside me.

“John, you know what? I'm so sorry, I—let's slow down—”

He didn't. I felt him trying to go ahead as if he'd been given the green light, when I was clearly flashing yellow.

“John, c'mon. Stop.”

He didn't listen. He was pushing harder, ignoring me. And then I got scared, really scared.

“STOP! STOP IT!”

Red light. As in, get the hell off me.