The One That Got Away (5 page)

After Nancy acquired a beribboned peignoir set that was a bit too busy for my taste, and I earmarked a lace bra and brief in a very attractive lilac color for purchase at a later date, we settled down to tea in a cozy second-floor shop.

“What was it like growing up with Bridget as your sister?” I asked.

“Oh, Bridget was always making me do things,” Nancy whined. “I had to do whatever she told me, or she wouldn't leave me alone until I did. She made me ride real horses and go to the Fun House.”

“I never found the Fun House to be much fun,” I admitted. “It was scary.”

“She took the training wheels off my bike and hid them.” Nancy pointed to a scar on her hand. “She used to take my Barbie and Midge dolls and put them in compromising positions.” Though I wasn't a mental health professional, the expression on Nancy's face and the tone of her voice conveyed to me that this mattered.

“I bet she beat up all the kids at school who bugged you,” I said.

“Yes, she did do that,” Nancy conceded.

A woman approached our table and asked if we would like to have our tea leaves read.

“I'd better not,” Nancy said. “You might see something bad.”

I placed my empty cup face down on the saucer and turned it around three times, the way my great-aunt Rose, who'd read tea leaves at Coney Island, had taught me to. The woman returned the cup to its upright position, peered at it intently, and announced, “I see a man, a handsome man with dark hair.”

“Is he wearing a dress?” I asked, thinking that it might be Eduardo.

The woman looked offended. “Madame Roushka does not see such things,” she hissed, stalking off.

I dismissed her vision as limited. But it had brought me back to my second objective.

“Bridget would look great in a tuxedo,” I said to Nancy. “It would be cutting-edge chic. And since she's your maid of honor, your bridesmaids can still wear dresses.”

“If my maid of honor wears a tuxedo, will the best man have to wear a dress?” Nancy asked.

“Not unless he wants to,” I replied.

“That's OK, then.”

I gave Bridget the good news when I met her outside the movie theater.

“Cool,” she said. Then she asked, “So what did Nancy end up buying?”

“I can't tell you that,” I answered. “Client confidentiality.”

As it turned out, Bridget and I both liked to sit toward the back and on the aisle. “What a relief,” Bridget said, as we settled into our seats. “Natalie always insists upon sitting farther down and in the middle.”

“How long have you and Natalie been together?” I asked.

“About three years,” Bridget replied.

“How did you meet?”

“At Disney World, at a tax law conference. Natalie's a tax lawyer. Most of her clients are art collectors.”

From what Bridget told me, it appeared that Natalie had treated the Ivy League as a sort of academic salad bar, picking up a B.A. in Art History at Yale, an M.B.A. at Wharton, and a J.D. at Columbia. But she went slumming at New York University School of Law for dessert—an L.L.M. in Taxation.

“Natalie took me to a client's Christmas party once,”
Bridget said. “It was the only party I've ever been to where there wasn't any beer. The apartment was on Fifth Avenue, with a view of Central Park. And the art was just incredible. I guess I must have looked sort of clueless, because this guy started telling me about the paintings. Natalie told me afterward that he was the head of the Painting Department at the Museum of Modern Art.”

“I've never seen a painting by a really famous artist in someone's house,” I said. “I can't imagine looking at a Georgia O'Keeffe while you're eating breakfast.”

“I never even went to a museum before I moved to New York,” Bridget said.

“Does Natalie get invited to a lot of art show openings and parties?” I asked. “It must be sort of a fringe benefit of your relationship.”

“Actually, she rarely takes me along. That Christmas party was hosted by two older gay guys, real sweethearts—they've been together since they were in their twenties—and I guess Natalie thought I might be an asset. But she never takes me with her if she's expecting to see her straight clients or business associates.”

“Do you live together?”

“No.”

“You mean lesbians can be in a relationship without living together?”

“B.D., the thing about lesbians renting a U-Haul on the second date is an old joke. You shouldn't buy into stereotypes.”

“But don't you think some stereotypes start with a little grain of truth?” I asked.

“Well, I've only lived with one of my girlfriends,” Bridget said. “And we moved in together after we'd been going out for a year.”

“I'm not sure I would want to move in with someone right away,” I said. “I've got a rent-stabilized apartment.
Besides, if I was living with someone, I'd feel like I had to be nice all the time.”

Bridget laughed. “Trust me, B.D., that wouldn't last long. I bet you'd get cranky pretty quickly.”

“Maybe I would. I think it would get on my nerves if someone was always in my space.”

“Natalie and I set aside one night a week as ‘date night.'”

“That sounds like a good way of keeping romance alive,” I said.

“Actually, date night is for Natalie and me to spend time with other people, not each other.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering exactly how this arrangement worked. Did they see friends or date other people? What if the other person was always the same person? Did a date include a good night kiss? Was I on a date with Bridget without knowing it?

Chapter 5

When I thought about it, I realized that my day to day life hadn't changed all that much since I'd come out. I went to work, and most nights I watched television or read a book. Before I fell asleep I'd fantasize about someone who was unavailable and uninterested in me. The only difference was that now I was fantasizing about a woman instead of a man.

One morning Eduardo announced that he had bought me two tickets to the All-Girl Gala, an annual fundraising event for a foundation dedicated to researching lesbian health issues.

It was advertised as an elegant evening of cocktails, dinner, dancing, and dessert, as well as the presentation of awards.

“Thank you, Eduardo” I said, “but I think the All-Girl Gala is for couples, and, as you know, I am still flying solo.”

“B.D., I checked with Wendy over at The Petal Pusher—she's doing the flowers for the event. She assured me that there will be single women there. Why don't you ask your friend Erica to go with you? Maybe you'll each meet someone.”

“As my mother would say, ‘From your mouth to God's ears,'” I replied. “But even if I did meet someone, I can't dance.”

I had a long, sad history when it came to dancing. It began with my great Aunt Rose reading my tea leaves and telling me she saw me as a ballerina, twirling round and round. I took ballet classes, but that didn't last very long. At summer camp I attempted modern jazz dance until the day my bunkmates, who'd been outside the studio watching me, told me how ridiculous I looked.

I loved watching old movies starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, or Ann Miller, or Gene Kelly. I'd imagine myself moving with the music, graceful and light on my feet. But every dance I went to, I sat on a folding chair.

In spite of that, I had recently, on my own initiative, gone to a dance at a lesbian bar. I'd picked up a postcard at the community center for something I'd read as
Inhibited Tuesdays
. I thought it sounded perfect for me. When I took a second look at it, I saw that it actually said
Uninhibited Tuesdays
. Of course, when I thought about it, an event specifically for inhibited people wasn't likely to be much fun. Despite the daunting prospect of a room full of uninhibited women, I went. The room was dark and the music was deafening—no words or melody, just the throb of a bass underneath something that sounded like an artillery range. I slunk out before I finished my drink.

“Do you know that Emily Dickinson poem, Eduardo—the one that goes, ‘I'm Nobody! Who are you? Are you—Nobody—too?' When I go to these community events, everyone seems to be somebody except me. I'm a nobody.”

“No, you are somebody, bebé; you're B.D. Besides, the
All-Girl Gala will be different. It will be elegant, and there will be food.”

“Do you know who the caterer is?” I asked.

“Blissful Bites,” Eduardo replied.

“I'll call Erica,” I said.

As it turned out, Erica was delighted by the prospect of attending. “The tickets are really expensive; I've never been able to afford one. I know you never went to your prom, but don't expect a corsage from me, OK, B.D.?”

Immediately after our arrival, Erica and I headed for the bar. Both of us scanned the crowd as we waited in line. When I saw Bridget, I nudged Erica and said, “See that woman over there—reddish-brown hair, black jacket, white shirt, black pants? That's Bridget, the woman I told you about.”

“I see her—there's a woman bringing her champagne. And now they're toasting each other.”

“Yes,” I said. “That's her. Although the woman who brought the champagne isn't her girlfriend.”

“She's not? Then who is she?”

“I don't know,” I said. We were almost at the bar.

“Do you know what you want?” Erica asked me, as I stared at Bridget and the mystery woman. “To drink, B.D.,” Erica said.

“I think I'll have Scotch again,” I said.

Erica sighed. “Two Glenmorangie with water, please,” she said to the bartender.

As we left the bar, drinks in hand, I headed away from Bridget and the mystery woman, toward a waitress with a tray.

“Stuffed mushrooms?” the waitress inquired. Erica and I each took one, and the waitress turned toward two women on the other side of her. One woman was
bald, and sporting studs and rings in every place that I could see, and, I suspected, some that I couldn't. Her well-shaped naked mahogany head offered a pleasing contrast to the pale curls of her companion, who reminded me of Jean Harlow.
Hell's Angels
had been on Turner Classic Movies the previous week.

“Oh look,” said the blonde, who had an appropriately breathy manner of speaking, “there's Maxine Huff—she's being honored tonight.”

At least I knew the name, even if I hadn't gotten around to reading her book yet.

“I took her course last semester,” the bald woman said. Her voice was as smoky as the fifteen-year-old Laphroaig Single Malt Scotch I'd had the last time I was out with Erica. I took a sip of my drink; there was no comparison with the Laphroaig.

“Sexual Politics and Practices?”

“That's the one. God, Huff is hot when she scowls at you. I used to be late for class on purpose.”

“When I was in her class, her lectures were incredible, but the final exam was a bitch,” said the blonde.

“Don't remind me. Who's the lucky girl with her?”