The One That Got Away (10 page)

“Are you over Bridget yet?” she would ask.

“I don't turn my feelings on and off like a faucet, Dana.”

“Give it up, B.D.. It's never going to happen.”

Erica, on the other hand, had permanently endeared herself to me by advocating cautious optimism. “You never know what's going to happen, B.D.,” she said. “Natalie and Bridget could be together forever, or they could break up next year.”

Recently, Eduardo had confided an uplifting tale. “Honey, I knew Sean for twenty years before we finally got together, and we weren't even speaking to each other for eight of them. Never give up, B.D. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart.”

But Dana told me, “I know Bridget's game, because I've played it. It's very flattering to have someone have a crush on you; it's good for your ego. So you string them along.”

I picked up the phone on the third ring.

“Bambi.” The voice was a drawn-out whisper, almost otherworldly.

“Hi, Renee.” I didn't ask how she was. With Renee that question was guaranteed to spark a thirty-minute monologue.

“Did you know there's a company that arranges trips especially for lesbians?”

“Yes,” I said. “In fact, I'm sure there's more than one.”

“There was an article in today's paper. I had to call you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“The company is called Olivia.”

“Yes, I get their brochures in the mail.”

“Bambi.”

“Yes?”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry.”

“About what?”

“I've only just realized how traumatic my wedding must have been for you.”

Renee had gotten married at City Hall, while I was traveling with my parents. “I was very happy for you, Renee.” I'd always liked Renee's husband.

“You were in love with me, weren't you, Bambi?”

My instinct was to blurt out,
God, no!
, but I tried to think of something a little more tactful. “I've always cared for you as a friend, Renee, but it was never more than that.”

“I understand that you need to see it that way,” Renee said. “Are you dating anyone yet?”

“No.”

“What about that woman you sent me the picture of?”

Bridget's photograph had appeared in one of the lesbian and gay free weekly newspapers. She was scheduled to speak at a meeting of GLIB—Gay and Lesbian Insurance Brokers.

“Oh, we're just friends.”

“She looks very strong, Bambi. Very grounded. You need that.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you want to hear something weird? She only has music on her home answering machine; there's no outgoing message. And the words to the music aren't in English—it sounds like Russian or something.”

“You should read Jung on the trickster figure,” Renee said. Renee didn't go in for light reading. “My Xanax is kicking in. Good night, Bambi.”

I sighed as I hung up the phone. Then I brushed my teeth, put on my Victoria's Secret pink plaid pajamas with the fake boxer short bottoms, and climbed into bed.

The phone rang again. I wondered if it might be Renee, calling back. She did that sometimes. I picked up the receiver almost fearfully.

“Hello?”

“Hey, B.D.!” Bridget's voice was as rich and warm as a cup of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream.

“Hey yourself.”

“Did you get the invitation to my party?”

“Yes, I got it today.”

“You're coming, aren't you?”

“Of course,” I said.

“I really want you to be there, B.D. I don't have many friends.”

“But Bridget, every time we go someplace together you end up running into someone you know.”

“I know lots of people, but they're not my friends. I need you to be my friend.”

You and everyone else I've ever been attracted to, I thought, while I said, “I am your friend.” As I said this, the hand that wasn't holding the receiver to my ear slipped under the waistband of my pajama bottoms and rested on my crotch. “Hey, I saw your picture in the paper.”

“God, that was such an awful photograph. Don't show it to anyone, OK, B.D.?”

“OK,” I said. The chances of Bridget running into Renee or my cousin Sarah were pretty small.

“I should let you go to sleep,” Bridget said. “Good night, Bambino.”

“Good night,” I said.

When I closed my eyes, the screen lit up and the feature began. When Bridget's face appeared, a voice whispered, “It's just a fantasy,” and I lifted my face for her kiss.

Chapter 11

Sunlight washed over the white walls, furniture and rugs of Natalie's apartment, suffusing the space in brilliant white light. I wondered if I had died and was on my way to wherever.

Bridget's birthday brunch was a very exclusive gathering. Besides the hostess and the guest of honor, there were only two other people—Maxine Huff, and myself.

While we were waiting for Maxine to arrive, Natalie gave me a tour of her apartment. She showed me the mini-hydroponic garden in which she grew vegetables and herbs. She demonstrated how she could watch the Food Network while working out on the treadmill that was part of her compact yet impressive set of exercise equipment.

“I have a personal trainer who comes in three times a week.”

“Natalie is very refined,” Bridget said. “She can only sweat around people she really trusts.”

When Natalie ushered me into her bedroom, I tried not to think about what went on in there.

I love looking at photographs—fine art, snapshots, old family albums. So it was natural for me to want to take
a closer look at the large black and white images of nudes that were hanging on the wall, and the contents of the small but tasteful frames placed on the bedside table.

I blushed when I realized the nudes were all Natalie. The two photographs by the bed were of Maxine, and Natalie with Maxine. I couldn't help but wonder if it ever bothered Bridget to have Maxine looking over her shoulder, as it were, in Natalie's bed. But maybe she was so focused on what she was doing that she didn't think about it. Maybe it turned her on. Maybe they only did it in total darkness.

Maxine finally arrived. She was wearing a black leather jacket and mirrored aviator sunglasses. She complained to no one in particular, “Why do they have to come out to me? Why don't they come out to someone else? Today was the third time this month that a student invited me to her apartment for dinner. Do they think I don't have a life?”

“Is that why you're late?” asked Natalie.

“I'm a teacher. I have a responsibility to accommodate my students if they ask to see me. But once, just once, I wish they'd ask me about something on the syllabus. I've been listening to coming out stories for seven years now. The topic's getting old.”

“You're getting old too,” Bridget told her.

“Hey, it's your birthday,” Maxine replied. “Do you know that a couple of students started a zine about me? The Max Zine.”

“Have you seen it? What's it like?” I asked.

“It's a bunch of erotic poems, stories, and cartoons.”

“It's tough, being a sex object,” Bridget said.

“How would you know?” Natalie asked her.

“I think it's an honor to be the inspiration for that kind of tribute,” I said.

“Somehow they found a photograph of me that was
taken back when I was living in the feminist commune—wearing overalls and feeding baby goats.”

“You're just embarrassed about those overalls,” Bridget said. “The baby goats are really cute.”

“You have to give whoever found it some credit for their research skills,” I added.

“Bribery is a more likely factor,” Maxine replied.

“Of an ex,” Bridget said. “You've got so many.”

“Are you going to take off your jacket or not?” Natalie asked.

“The most recent volume is a paper doll book,” Maxine said darkly, hands jammed into her pockets. “With clothes. And underwear. And—accessories.”

“Sunglasses?” I guessed.

“Yes, they had those too.”

Bridget laughed.

I tried to find the joke.

“One of the accessories is a harness with a dildo in it,” Bridget explained.

“Isn't that clever!” I exclaimed.

“No, it's not,” Maxine snapped. “How did you know about that?” she asked Bridget.

“Natalie has a lifetime subscription to that 'zine,” Bridget replied.

“Which you gave me as a present,” Natalie said.

“Which you asked for.”

Maxine shrugged off her jacket and removed her sunglasses, and I had my first chance to really see her eyes.

As far as I'm concerned, the eyes have it. Not that I don't appreciate the other parts of a woman's body, but the eyes—when I looked into Maxine's, my clothes dissolved like cotton candy on my tongue and I believed she knew all my secrets, especially the ones I hadn't gotten around to telling my therapist. But Maxine didn't trade information; she didn't offer up any secrets of her own. Not so much as a hint of one.

Bridget opened her birthday champagne with an ease and authority that I found arousing. We toasted her, then sat down to an appetizer of wild mushrooms and goat cheese galettes.

Natalie asked me if I had ever designed a bridal gown.

“I did study fashion design,” I replied, “and I do freelance occasionally. In fact, I recently did a dress based on one of my favorite Barbie doll outfits, the strapless black evening gown with the net flounce at the ankles.”

“I was only interested in taking Barbie's clothes off,” Bridget said.

“I never played with dolls; I played with real girls,” Maxine remarked.

“I want to hear about the wedding dress,” Natalie said.

“I made the dress in white lamé and netting dotted with brilliants at the ankles and above the breasts. The headpiece echoed the flounce at the bottom; it looked a little like the bride was wearing a lampshade on her head. And she wore over-the-elbow white satin gloves. I almost got mentioned in the Vows column in the Sunday
New York Times
.

“Really? What happened?”

“Oh, that was the week the female CEO of a major stock brokerage house married the man who wrote that bestseller on goddess worship. The ceremony was held in the reptile house at the zoo.”

“I think I remember reading about that,” Natalie said.

“And I was interviewed by a reporter from a bridal magazine who was writing an article about bridal consultants dream weddings,” I said. “I told her I wanted to get married in Hawaii, on the beach, wearing vintage Hawaiian shirts.”

“Well, that was prescient of you,” Maxine said.

“Actually, at the time I wasn't even out to myself.”