The Friends We Keep (20 page)

54

 

What had I been thinking when I asked Eva to spend the evening with me? Well, I know what I had been thinking, but why hadn't I had enough sense to back away from such an insurmountable challenge?

Because you're an idiot, John. That's why you didn't have the sense. Idiots don't have sense. They're idiots.

Every conversation with Eva degenerated into a squabble. Back in college our repartee had been fun and good-natured, if sometimes a bit stinging. Underneath the elaborate insults had been laughter and a sense that, somehow, we were actually pretty much the same person, Eve and I. Or so I'd thought. Maybe I'd been wrong back then. Maybe Eve had never really liked me. Maybe I'd been under a delusion those four years, knowing for sure that she didn't want to date me but falsely believing she appreciated my friendship.

Well, there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that at this point in time, Eva hated me.

We sat moodily through the show. I tried to pay attention to the supposedly stirring dialogue but all I could think about was the furious woman sitting next to me in the darkened theater. At one point my arm accidentally, I assure you, touched hers on the armrest. She yanked her arm away as if my touch was poisonous. At another point I snuck a quick peek at her, in an effort to determine if she was at all enjoying the show she'd been so eager to see. Her posture was rigid; her profile betrayed a frown.

We parted that night with barely a nod and not one word. Eva hailed a cab and was off before I could raise my hand to hail a cab of my own. But then I decided to walk. Exercise can help work off frustration. So can alcohol. On the way back to my apartment I stopped for a nightcap at the Oak Room. But even a shot of smooth, one-hundred-year-old whiskey did little to budge the dark mood that sat heavily on my shoulders.

55

 

God, I can be an idiot. No theater experience could ever be worth the agony of spending time with that man.

56

 

“It's official. I'm a licensed real estate agent in the state of Massachusetts. So, can I interest you in a ranch in the lovely town of Winchester?”

Ben laughed. “No, but thanks, anyway. And congratulations, Sophie.”

We raised our glasses of Prosecco (Ben had brought a bottle for our celebration.) in a toast. I felt happier than I'd felt in ages. Okay, a bit nervous, too, starting out on this new venture, but also very excited.

“So,” Ben said, “tell me all about your first day.”

I did, every little detail. Ben was a good listener. And he asked questions. He wasn't dismissive; he didn't talk down to me the way Brad used to, as if he was an all-knowing father and I was his unknowing child. Ben's attention and respect meant a lot to me. That and the fact that his kisses made me weak in the knees.

“I really feel committed this time,” I said finally. “There's nothing to stop me, is there? I can make this career as big as I want to.”

Ben squeezed my hand. “I'm glad for you, Sophie. It's always good to set yourself a goal.”

Yes, I thought, I guess it is. Moving back to the East Coast had made me realize that I needed to matter to someone other than my family and my friends. I needed to matter to me. I needed to have expectations of myself.

“Where do you want to have dinner?” Ben asked. “We have to continue the celebration.”

Yes, I thought, we did. “How about we order in?” I suggested, sliding closer to Ben. “Let's celebrate, just us two.”

Ben stayed over that night. He didn't have class until eleven so we spent most of the morning together as well. I learned that Ben had a banana and black coffee for breakfast every morning except Sunday, when he liked to go to a diner for a big, greasy egg feast. We made a date for the following Sunday at the diner of my choice. (I made a mental note to ask one of my new colleagues about local diners.) Before he finally left we shared another long and passionate kiss.

My life, I thought, is wonderful. Everything is falling into place. I have a lovely man (and getting him had been pretty easy!), a new career, a loving son, and two dear friends. The future, I thought, looks very, very bright.

57

 

Really, the entire thing was my fault. Or, if fault is the wrong word, then let's say the entire thing was a result of my poor choice.

What made me say yes to Jake's suggestion that we go out to a club on a Saturday night? Where there was loud music and overpriced fluorescent drinks. Where there was bound to be a big, smelly splash of puke on the sidewalk outside. Where there was sure to be backed-up toilets in the ladies' room.

What, indeed? Maybe I was trying to prove that I could still stay up past eleven o'clock. Maybe I wanted to throw the kid a bone; after all, he wasn't allowed in my apartment and I wouldn't be seen in public with him during normal business hours or in places where I might run into people I knew. And, okay, I did feel a tiny bit bad about having “cheated on him” with Sam that time he was so hurt about my not taking him to my company's boring charity auction.

Whatever the exact motivations behind my agreeing to go to this club, they were wrong and stupid.

I didn't even go to clubs when I was of club-going age. Sophie would beg that I accompany her but I never relented. I just couldn't imagine a worse way to spend several precious hours of my life than being butted around by a drunken mob, most of whom—and here, I was English-major prejudiced—had probably never even heard of Thomas Carlyle.

“What are people wearing to clubs these days?” I asked Jake, ever so casually.

He shrugged. “I don't know.” Jake might have his sensitive side but it didn't include a knowledge of women's fashions.

In the end I wore slim black pants, a white fitted T-shirt, and a black leather blazer. I don't believe a forty-two-year-old should dress in styles meant for women half her age. I don't believe in setting myself up for derision. If I turned out to be the only female not baring her stomach or her butt crack, fine. At least I would have my dignity.

The dignity of the middle-aged woman.

The evening was a disaster from the moment Jake and I, hand in hand (He took my hand; I tried to pull away; he wouldn't let go.) squeezed into the jammed, gyrating club. We made our way to the main bar and after being jostled and elbowed by guys who reeked of testosterone and girls who reeked of cheap perfume, we finally got our drinks. It was the worst martini I'd ever had.

We stumbled away from that particular throng and found a relatively safe space to stand. Real conversation was, of course, impossible in such a place, so we drank in silence until a slightly bulbous guy about Jake's age, wearing a baseball cap turned backward and a black T-shirt proclaiming I
BRAKE FOR BABES
, loped over and slapped Jake on the back hard enough to make him stumble.

“How's it hanging, dude?” the guy bellowed.

Jake looked distinctly uncomfortable. His eyes darted from the guy to me, and back again. Finally, he said: “Uh, Phil, this is Eva. Eva, this is my friend Phil.”

I put out my hand. “How do you do?”

Phil looked at my hand as if it was covered in boils before taking my fingertips for a bare second.

“Hey,” he said. He did not ask me how I was doing. He turned immediately to Jake.

“Dude, did you see that girl I was talking to over by the couches? Damn, she's hot.” Here, Phil made a crude gesture that even I, jaded as I am, found offensive.

Jake froze. Really, it looked as if someone had injected ice into his veins he got so stiff and dumb. Even his pig of a buddy noticed.

“Oh,” he said, darting a look at me. “Sorry. I, you know—”

“Of course,” I said. “No offense taken.”

Lamely, Phil patted Jake's shoulder and mumbled something and then he was gone.

Jake began to thaw, but slowly. I should have kept my mouth shut. But I didn't.

“What is his problem?” I spat. “He could barely look at me. He acted as if he were afraid of me, or like I had a giant open sore on my face.”

Jake's tone was apologetic. Was he apologizing to me or for Phil? “He just doesn't get, you know, what we're doing.”

“What is it, in fact, that we're doing?”

Jake's eyes darted around, as if what he was about to say was somehow shameful. “You know,” he said quietly, “being a couple.”

“Ah,” I said. “He thinks I'm a heartless, powerful woman who is only using you for sex until an even cuter model comes along?”

“No, that's not it. He just”—Jake frowned and seemed to be searching for the right words—“he doesn't share my interest in older women. He's kind of turned off by the whole thing. It's like he thinks women over thirty-five are, I don't know, monsters or something.”

“I see,” I said.

I wasn't entirely sure I needed to be privy to Phil's extreme prejudice. What did Jake expect me to do with that nasty bit of information? Invite the kid out to dinner with us? Bake him a pie just like his mommy used to make? Or kick him in the nuts?

Then again, I had asked to know why Phil had acted like a jackass.

“I'm sorry about all this,” Jake said when I'd been silent for too long. “This was a bad idea. Do you want to leave? We can go back to my place and hang out.”

My pride, though shaken, would not allow me to retreat.

“Don't be silly, of course not. The night is young. Besides, do you really think I would allow a narrow-minded little prick like your friend Phil to bother me?”

I smiled falsely, brightly. Jake frowned. Maybe he didn't like his lover calling his buddy a prick.

I made my way back to the bar. Jake followed. I shouted to the bartender for another lousy martini. The bartender asked Jake if he wanted another beer. Jake shook his head. He had a test the next morning. Good boy that he was, he wanted to have a clear head.

“Hey.” I looked toward the sound of the affected female voice. “You want to dance with me?”

Wedged between Jake and me stood a girl, her shiny head tilted up to Jake.

“I'm sorry,” I heard Jake say. “I'm here with my girlfriend.”

The girl turned. She looked me over from head to toe and back again. And then, she laughed. “You're dating her?” she asked, turning back to Jake. “I thought she was, like, your aunt or something.”

She hadn't even tried to lower her voice. She probably assumed I was old enough to be hard of hearing.

Jake's face went ashen. I knew he would never hit a woman but I would have enjoyed watching him knock her off her candy-pink heels. But Jake just stood there, staring at nothing, and with another disbelieving laugh the girl walked off, her ass twitching in a pair of skintight stovepipe jeans.

Uncharacteristically, I could think of nothing to say. Neither, it seemed, could Jake. He mumbled, “I have to go to the men's room,” and turned away.

When he was out of sight I grabbed my bag—a Hermes that little bitch could never afford—and pushed through the throng. At the door I waited impatiently for a gaggle of giggling girls to tumble in and then I bolted out onto the sidewalk.

Barely a second later, I heard Jake's voice.

“Wait, Eva, where are you going?”

I kept my back to him and strained to spot an empty cab.

“Home.”

“But you can't go home alone.”

“Why not?” I whirled around to face him. In the deep blue light of the club's marquee his face looked alien to me. “Because I'm a pitiful old lady who needs protection?”

Jake grabbed his hair close to his scalp. Who knew I could be so frustrating? “No, God, Eva—”

“Look,” I said, suddenly immensely weary, “I know none of this is your fault. But I just—” I shook my head, unable to go on.

“I'm sorry about what happened back there, with that girl. I should have said something. I should have done something. Please, please come home with me.” Jake's eyes were dark with concern. “Let me make it up to you.”

A cab swooped to the curb and I grabbed for the door handle. “Not tonight, Jake,” I said, tightly. He reached for my arm but I slipped into the cab before he could make contact. Jake stood there, waiting for something from me, but I kept my eyes straight ahead.

I gave the driver my address. He pulled out into traffic. And then the tears began to trickle down my face.